THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 1

 THE CHIMING OF THE BELL    [Part 1 of 4]

By Richard Banks 

When the doorbell rang Sebastian was in a rowing boat somewhere between Maidenhead and Henley. He had been exploring the upper reaches of the Zambezi but having turned a bend in the river he was now on the Thames rowing side by side with Hopkins from Accounts. He had never liked Hopkins. Was it him responsible for the ringing? Yes, of course, it was. Typical of Hopkins never to be separated from his mobile. But worse was to come! The cad had no sooner pulled it from the inside pocket of his suit jacket when he used it to prod him spitefully, in the ribs. He was about to hit back when a voice that was not Hopkins’s demanded that he wake up. As he did so, the same voice asked him if he had heard, “that.” He was considering his reply when he realised that the voice belonged to Margo and that she was unlikely to be reassured by any explanation involving his former colleague. As if to clarify the situation Margo switched-on her bedside lamp and they both peered up at the ceiling, their eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden dazzle of light.

         “Well?” she said.

         “Well, what?” replied Sebastian. 

         “Aren’t you going to answer the door?”

         Sebastian stared peevishly at his alarm clock and considered who might be calling at 2.30 in the morning. A number of scenarios passed swiftly through his mind: it might be a gang of desperadoes ready to burst through the door the moment he opened it; or the police with dire warnings of a major incident requiring their evacuation of their house, or perhaps nothing more alarming than a practical joker who having rang their bell, and possibly several others in the street, was now beating a rapid retreat. Then, of course, there was Tamsin, their daughter, but she was backpacking in India and wasn’t due back for a month. 

         Margo was also thinking of Tamsin and had devised a scenario of her own in which she had been captured by bandits who were now at the front door with a ransom demand. “For gourds sake,” she shrieked, “get down there, and take your debit card with you.” 

         But Sebastian had now settled on an altogether more agreeable explanation in which a bird or squirrel had inadvertently brushed against the bell, a one in ten thousand chance, unlikely to be repeated. He had opened his mouth with the intention of communicating this hypothesis to Margo when the bell rang again and she responded by pushing him towards the edge of their king-size double bed.

         “Quick now!” she urged, fearing that the kidnappers might interpret the delayed opening of their door as meaning they were not at home and therefore unavailable for hostage negotiation. 

         Sebastian staggered out of bed and flung on his dressing gown only to find, when halfway down the stairs, that the cord that should have fastened the garment about his waist had escaped from the loops that kept it in place. He had envisaged opening the door with one hand while leaving the other one free to defend himself, if necessary, with the brass figurine of Saint Vera that stood on the hallway table next to the telephone. But to do this now would inevitably cause his dressing gown to flap open revealing the words, ‘Sexy Seb’ on the vivid red pyjamas that Margo had brought him for Christmas. It was a dilemma that Sebastian attempted to resolve by thrusting Saint Vera head first into the waistband of his pyjamas while clutching the dressing gown to his chest and, with his free hand, swinging open the door with a boldness that he hoped would be disconcerting to those outside. 

         He peered out into the darkness at the gloomy outline of the bushes that bordered all three sides of his front garden but whoever it was who had rang the bell was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the perpetrator might be hiding nearby. If this was a joke he, or they, would surely be wanting the satisfaction of seeing him on the doorstep in his night attire. If so, they now had the unexpected bonus of seeing him cry-out in anguish as St Vera breaking free from his pyjamas, slid down his left trouser leg to administer divine retribution on his big toe. As Margo was later to say, the cry of anguish that escaped his lips was perfectly understandable given the trying circumstances, but to shout out that dreadful word, the very worse of words, that was surely heard by everyone in Greenacre Mews, was a blot on their good name that might never be expunged. Had she witnessed the spectacle of Sebastian hopping up and down on one foot, in danger of exposing more than the words on his pyjama jacket she would have had further grounds for complaint, but having not ventured from their bedroom she was never to be aware of this further transgression. 

         On hearing the door slam shut and Sebastian muttering angrily to himself she deemed it safe to venture down the stairs and take command. This was clearly a matter for the Police but on dialling 999 she found them surprisingly reluctant to dispatch a police car. This they explained was something they did only when someone had been murdered or when they had certain knowledge that a robbery was in progress and likely to continue so for at least fifteen minutes, which was the Force’s average response time. If that should ever be the case they would be delighted to send one of their two patrol cars, subject to their availability within the County, but until then she was best advised to phone 101, their call centre, which had all sorts of useful advice including the latest locks which, he felt sure, would deter all but the most persistent of housebreakers. Indeed they recommended that she make the call now, without delay, as daytime calls normally had a waiting time of two to three hours.

         “But that’s not good enough,” protested Margo, “I demand to speak to your superior officer.” The emergency service voice repressed a yawn before imparting the information that Commissioner Parker was not available for comment but that his views on various topics of concern could be found on his countywide blog, ‘Don’t Blame Me’. Margo did not know what a blog was, but surmising that it was unlikely to be of any practical assistance, registered her dissatisfaction by replacing the receiver with a sharp rap that she hoped would be unpleasant to whoever it was she had been speaking to. 

         She had no sooner done so when the doorbell rang again. Sebastian, ready for action now that he had fastened his dressing gown, executed an upward motion reminiscent of a high-dunking basketball player before snatching up St Vera and charging towards the door. On pulling it open with a violence that caused their sunflowers print to come crashing down from the wall he peered out again at the same deserted scene. Convinced that the perpetrators had taken refuge in the bushes he rushed at the nearest one determining that St Vera should deliver a blow every bit as painful as the one she had inflicted on himself. Having flushed out nothing more than a protesting sparrow he moved on to the next bush and then the next until halfway along the front border he sunk to his knees exhausted by his vigorous, but unavailing, onslaught. 

         Fearing that he was now vulnerable to counterattack Margo rushed out pulling him upright and pushing him back into the house. On slamming the door shut they now took turns in peering through a gap in their front room curtains. After an hour in which they saw a prowling cat and several foxes, they retreated into their kitchen diner where they drank strong brew tea and listened to news bulletins on Radio 4 in case the bell ringing was part of a widespread outbreak of civil disorder. On finding this was not the case, or that it had escaped the attention of Radio 4, they finally took courage with the return of daylight. 

(to be continued)

By Richard Banks          

 Trinity Fair

By Jane Goodhew

The sun shone from early dawn in a clear blue sky.                 

The birds sang. Families rushed to be there early.                                         

While a parking space could be found

As the streets were cordoned off

So, the festivities could begin.

 

Stalls lined the street.

Music blared from either end.

Colours bright and gory

Old ladies sat on benches telling stories.

 

Time passed and the sun beat down.

The children, whose faces had started with a wide, wide grin.

Began to fade and look grim.

Red faced and hot they wanted to go home.

But the parents had other ideas.

For the men drank beer and looked at vintage cars

The women at dresses and bags and thought of what they could have.

 

 

Whilst the children continued to whinge and whine

A death-defying scream was heard.

And a young girl with ashen face ran down the street.

Her flowing summer dress covered in crimson blood.

 

The fair was brought to a sudden end as the crowd ran in all directions,

in fear that they would be next, even though they did not know what had happened.

Sirens could be heard in the distance and then the police were rounding them up like cattle and telling them not to move until they had been questioned.

It was like a scene from a bad movie, only it was for real, and no-one knew what to do.

The young girl was not a suspect, as she, through loud sobs, told the story of how she had entered the main entrance of Trinity Church and walked towards the nave, to light a candle in remembrance of her fiancé Sebastian, who had died under tragic circumstances. It was as she bent forward to light the candle that she noticed the streak of red flowing over the wooden floor. Her first thought was that someone had knocked over a tin of paint but then she saw the body of Reverend Brooker, his eyes staring directly at hers.  She had held his hand to reassure him she would get help, but she realised it was too late, for he was already dead.

The local paper ran the story as did the nationals, Trinity Fair had made the headlines but not for the fun and laughter or the usual mediocre occurrences but murder. The locals had tried to delude themselves by hoping it would turn out to have been a tragic accident, that he had tripped and hit his head on the solid gold lectern but that was not the case.  As although a postmortem had shown blunt force injury to the brain, a large amount of air injected into his neck which had caused an air embolism had hastened his death.

 

Looking into the life of the Reverend did not seem to give any clues as to why anyone would have wanted him dead.  He had appeared to be a pillar of the community or at least whilst he had lived in the village. His wife was so distraught and unable to understand what had happened that she had been admitted to the psychiatric unit as they were worried, she would take her own life.

Weeks passed and life continued, eventually no one even mentioned the event and then it all came out. The young girl had handed herself in as she could no longer cope with the guilt and hoped that it might make life easier for the Reverend's wife who was still detained in the hospital if she knew the truth and realised that he was not who she thought he was but a cruel and heartless paedophile. The Reverend had worked for several years at a private boys’ school teaching Latin whilst also mentoring to the young boy’s spiritual needs but had left mid-term due to rumours of inappropriate behaviour. 

Unfortunately for him, the young couple had chosen his Church to marry in, and it was when they met for the dress rehearsal that Sebastian recognised him. That meeting would result in the death of two and the incarceration of a third, there are those that might say four, as Mrs Brooker remained trapped within her own mind as she could not accept the man she loved and spent most of her life with had been a sham.

 Trinity Fair and the Church are forever remembered but for all the wrong reasons.

THE END  

 

 

                                 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

DECORATING 1

DECORATING

By Richard Banks 

It was in ’61 soon after Grandpa’s op that my mother and her sister decided that the living room of their parents’ house should be redecorated and that their husbands were to be the main component of the unpaid workforce. While it is unlikely that my father and uncle were part of the decision making process they went along, willingly enough, with a project that was clearly important to their wives. 

         The room was very much in need of redecoration and as Grandpa was not long out of hospital after the removal of a kidney stone he was in no condition to do the job himself. Indeed at eighty-five years of age, kidney stone or no kidney stone, his decorating days were probably long gone. So, it was that my grandparent’s annual holiday to Westcliffe became the window of opportunity in which the redecoration was to take place. They departed on the first Saturday in September, as was their custom, unaware of what was to take place. 

         “It will be a surprise,” said my mother, “they’ll be so pleased.”

         The latter statement was said more in hope than expectation. My grandfather had very definite views on most subjects and it seemed unlikely to me that he would be entirely approving of his daughters’ choice of wallpaper and paint. However, he was unlikely to tear the wallpaper off the wall and, although surprised rather than pleased, would no doubt be quietly relieved that he did not have to do the job himself. Had he attempted to do so there was every chance he would have fallen off his rickety, old stepladder, with another spell in hospital the likely consequence. No doubt this was very much in the minds of his daughters, as well as their husbands whom both got on well with their in-law parents.

         As both my mother and aunt had keys to the house there was no problem in gaining entry and the men immediately set to work removing furniture into other rooms. The woman departed to the shops to buy the wallpaper and paint, along with myself who had been delegated chief paint carrier. We returned to find the room stripped of all its fittings except for the dinner table, which was to become a vital prop in the decorating process. My grandparent’s Axminster carpet, a gift on their Diamond Wedding anniversary, had also been taken elsewhere and the linoleum which surrounded it covered with old sheets and newspapers. 

         The wallpaper stripping once commenced was almost immediately abandoned when the first attempt to remove the old ’paper resulted in the crumbling of the plaster beneath it. To continue on would, almost certainly, have inflicted further damage requiring much replastering, but this setback became a positive when the decision was taken to paper over the existing wallpaper. This was something neither man would have considered when decorating their own homes but if the job was to be done over the weekend, which was the plan, it was a necessary shortcut that hopefully would not be too obvious to those viewing the end result.

         Work now shifted to the whitewashing of the ceiling, both men standing on the dining room table, their broad brushes splashing paint in all directions, When a blob alighted on my aunt’s face and another on her blouse everyone not engaged in the painting withdrew into the back garden where the women discussed a forthcoming shopping trip to the West End and I read the football news on the back pages of the Daily Herald. Thus occupied on a warm summer’s day in Grandpa’s well tended garden we were definitely better off than those inside, but on hearing their cries that they had finished, the women declared lunch and departed inside to make tea and unpack the sandwiches they had brought.    

         However, lunch was not allowed to significantly slow down the decorating process and having provided their husbands with the sustenance they would not have expected to provide for themselves, the women returned indoors to wash down the paintwork on the door, picture rail and skirting board. They re-emerged an hour later with their own lunches, and the men, who had been reading the latest news on the Berlin Wall from the front page of the Herald, dutifully re-entered the house to apply a second coat of whitewash to the ceiling. Job done they now began the undercoating of the woodwork, the Berlin Wall still very much in their thoughts. Both men had served in the armed forces during the war and the idea that they should now feel sorry for the Germans attempting to flee to the West was one they had mixed feelings about, even though neither had any liking for the ‘Ruskies’ as my uncle called them. Work was beginning to take second place to politics when the women, lunch break over, returned to the fray and with all five of us in action the pace of more rapid progress was resumed.

         At 4pm work came to a halt while we waited for the undercoat to dry. An early tea was had and the radio turned on for second half commentary of a First Division football match involving Tottenham Hotspur, my uncle’s team. As soon as the match was over the men were iching to get back to work but the instructions on the undercoat specified a drying time of four hours before the top coat could be applied. However, the men eager to make progress insisted that it would be time enough when the undercoat was touch dry. At a quarter to six it was duly touched and work restarted. This, the final task of the day, was completed with the house lights on and the last pale strands of daylight dropping down behind the roof of the garage that backed on to my grandparents’ house. We returned home weary but well satisfied with our day’s work; my aunt and uncle by bus to their two bed semi in Chingford and my parents and me on foot to our first floor maisonette a mile away, along Leyton High Road.

On Sunday morning we returned to the fray to find ourselves first on the scene. This was not entirely a surprise as my aunt was notorious for her late entrances. As their presence was not essential for the wallpapering to begin, my parents wasted little time in getting started. This was something they did well together. Indeed their subtle, well rehearsed interactions would not have been out of place on the dance floor. Dad would do the pasting of each strip, carefully placing it against the wall, and with my mother’s help, ensuring that the pattern coincided precisely with that of the previous strip. Mother would then trim the top and bottom of each strip so that it precisely met with the picture rail and wainscot while my father stood ready to wipe dry the cutting edges of the large scissors she used. Her skill in this department was no more than to be expected; as a trained dressmaker she was well practiced in the precise cutting of dress materials. 

At a quarter to eleven, my aunt and uncle arrived, forty-five minutes late, due - so they said - to the late running of the Sunday bus service. Excuses proffered and accepted with good-natured resignation they soon set to, my uncle standing on Grandpa’s tool chest in order to reach up the wall. My aunt was also a dressmaker so she too was well suited to the trimming process. However, as a wallpapering combo they did not have the smooth, almost seamless cohesion of my parents who I regarded as the doyens of paper hanging. 

A development that the hangers were unprepared for was that the pink roses on the otherwise white wallpaper were far from colour fast. When the paste was applied only to the reverse side of each strip all was well, but if the rose side inadvertently came into direct contact with even a small amount of paste the red colouring smeared. The problem was mainly a consequence of the repeated pasting of strips on my grandparents’ table which inevitably caused the newspapers covering it to become damp and then wet. Problem identified, it was largely resolved by the addition of a new layer of newspaper after each paste, slowing progress but reducing usage of our dwindling supply of wallpaper. 

In the late afternoon, the wallpapering teams who had started from opposite corners of the room converged on each other and my father ascended the stepladder to hang the last strip of ’paper. This moment of triumph was, to his horror and all those watching, snatched from him when yet another pink rose smeared beyond recognition. My father snorted in frustration and was about to wrench the strip from the wall when it was pointed out to him that this was the last one left. After a necessarily brief discussion, the decision was taken to go ahead with the hanging of it. By doing so the job would be brought to an end and the room’s furniture restored to its normal positioning before we left for home. The temptation to do this rather than buy a new role of wallpaper and finish off on a weekday evening proved too much for the tired decorators whose faces nonetheless indicated that their consciences were not entirely at ease with the decision taken. 

My father, red faced with annoyance, vented his irritation by stamping on the floor only to find his heel plunging through a floor board and coming to rest on the concrete foundations some six inches below. Despite falling over backwards and landing with a bang that shook the room father was uninjured, which could not be said for the floor which now sported a hole the size of tea plate. 

My aunt wisely chose this moment to declare a tea break during which the errant hole was ruefully observed and diagnosed as suffering from dry rot. This was not the first time it had been discovered in the house and the same can of ‘Rot Kill’ that had been used before now came in useful a second time. My uncle was about to apply brush to wood when he caught sight of a dark shape a few inches from the hole resting on the concrete base. He thrust in an arm and pulled towards him an oblong metal box in which was a much corroded key in an equally corroded lock. While thoughts of buried treasure were, I suspect, not confined to myself, the grown-ups in the room took the pragmatic decision to disregard this distraction and concentrate on the job at hand. The ‘Rot Kill’ was liberally applied, the hole covered with grandma’s breadboard and the room’s carpet and furniture put back as before, including their radiogram, its wheeled feet conveniently straddling the breadboard and hole beneath.

 

Job done we returned home beneath a harvest moon that seemed to be smiling down on us with a benevolence I was not sure we deserved. But at least we had the box with the intriguing prospect of treasure within, a box I couldn’t wait to open. But wait I had to. It was school next day and once supper was over I was hurried off to bed, half an hour later than my normal time. 

No doubt my parents were as curious as I was to find out what was inside but to their credit they delayed opening it until I was home from school the following day. The lid was soon levered off by father and its contents revealed. Disappointingly there were no gold or diamonds within, nothing but ten unremarkable items and a letter from one Ivy Bembridge, the soon-to-be wife of Henry Potts, a builder, who was building a terrace of six houses, one of which was to be their first home together. Indeed Ivy had already decided which one she wanted and to assert her claim had placed a time capsule beneath the floor boards that were then being laid. 

Her letter, dated 23^rd June 1886,  addressed to those, ‘in centuries yet to come,’ says little about her past life beyond the fact that she was now twenty-one years of age and ‘free to marry who she pleased.’ From this we might infer that her parents had opposed her union with young Henry. If so, there was no stopping her now, and Mr and Mrs Bembridge had evidently bowed to the inevitable by announcing their daughter’s engagement in the Leyton Gazette. Whatever doubts they still had were not shared by Ivy who declared herself, ‘the happiest person in London or any other place’. 

The objects she enclosed were: a lock of fair hair intertwined with one of brown; a pressed flower from the meadow on which the house was being built; a postcard of Buckingham Palace; a china plate commemorating General Gordon’s death at Khartoum; a theatre ticket for the Adelpi; a silver watch chain belonging to her father; a ribbon that was once her mothers;  a calling card from Henry; the newspaper cutting announcing their engagement and a picture of themselves taken on the promenade of a yet to be identified seaside resort. 

                                        ***** 

My grandparents returned from their week in Southend and were, so they assured us, delighted at the changed appearance of their living room. Grandma proclaimed that professional decorators could not have done a better job, which, of course, was far from the truth. My grandfather was less fulsome in his praise. No doubt he saw much that was not quite as it should have been but one defect he may never have noticed was the smeared rose above his armchair that was now hidden beneath a framed photograph of Ivy and Henry Potts, the first occupants of number 11 Newland Road in 1886. 

Ivy’s letter and the other items in her treasure trove were delivered into the care of my grandmother who had her own box of keepsakes. On her passing, we gave them all to the Vestry Museum in Walthamstow (now part of Waltham Forest) where some of them can still be seen today. 

If anyone reading this is wondering whether the hole and the breadboard covering it were ever discovered the answer is no, at least not while my grandparents were in residence. Needless to say Grandma was much puzzled by the disappearance of her breadboard which my aunt eventually felt obliged to explain by saying she had, “lost it out shopping.” While this raised more questions than answers she purchased them a new board, and no more was said about it, although I’m sure much was thought. 

The house that Harry Potts built still stands, although much has changed; central heating has now been installed along with an indoor loo; a satellite aerial juts out from the wall and the front garden, once home to Grandpa’s hedge and flowers, is now paved over and used as a car park. One thing that hasn’t changed is the name on the stone lintel above the door, ‘Ivy Lodge.’ 

There can be little doubt that Ivy had many fond memories of the house in which she and Henry lived until their deaths within a few months of each other in 1934. The house had three more owners before the arrival of my grandparents and after them another six. All of them will have told tales of good times and bad, most of which are lost in time. But this one is written down and will, I hope, last longer than most. It deserves to. Good memories should never die with those who remember.  

     

Copyright Richard Banks     

 A Swift Encounter

By Christopher Mathews                         
                  

Isaack is such a clumsy, hand-me-down sort of a name, left over from a great uncle who died long ago.  But, almost as soon as he could remember he chose the name Jack. Jack Swift the explorer, Jack Swift the mountaineer, or best of all Jack Swift the pilot. He was fascinated with flying and would sit for hours watching the starlings like smoke above the treetops rhythmically forming and breaking their hypnotic murmuration.

Swallows, martins and swifts gathered waiting for just the right moment to leave home. His mother had shown him the swifts which flew around the garden and through the thin fringe of trees, skimming the lake behind his house.

“Just like you, Jack Swift, my little bird.” He longed to fly like that and often could be seen running with arms outstretched lost in a world of his own.

His father taught engineering in the town where Jack was born, but he hardly remembered the Fenlands of Cambridge now. Mr Swift had been seconded to a university in Germany in 1928 when Jack was just seven.

Jack felt it rather than understood it, that gloomy approach like a thunderstorm on the distant horizon which creeps into every conversation. But what is politics to a carefree 7-year-old? He found a new language difficult at first but soon made friends as he settled into a new life in a small university town in Germany. Most important to him was the fact that their house backed onto Woodlands and down to rivers and eventually a beautiful lake. Unlike the open Fenlands, this was a world of hills and forests, heavy with the scent of pine resin and leaf mold. Jack had not lost his love of flight. By night he could hear the soft hooting of owls, and by day the woods were alive with bird song.  His father gave him a pair of binoculars through which he could see the nesting birds. And here he learned for the first time that, in the bird world, like the human, there are those who oppress and feed on the weak. Among his school friends, only Hans shared his passion for birds. Jack’s surname was Swift, and Han’s surname was Martin. On ropes they would fly through the treetops which overhung the river, letting go and landing with a great splash in the water. But, for one brief moment, they knew the joy of being a bird in flight.

As the adult world outside became darker, so the two boys’ friendship grew. Hans became the brother Jack never had, and the wood became a safe place to escape into. They made treetop Hides, their own secret language of bird calls and drawings in chalk on a tree or a wall where they had each been. The thin pointed winged outline of a swift for Jack, and the fantail of a martin for Hans. Soon the town was covered with these strange drawings, but Jack and Hans understood their meaning.

Birds can tell when a storm is approaching. So too Jack knew that there was trouble, he felt it at school. Bullies seemed to grow more confident strutting around picking on the weak. One day Hans told him that his father had made him join the black shirted Boy Scouts and could no longer be his friend.

“It will make a man of you,” Herr Martin told his son,

 For some reason, Jack was never asked to join.

The storm eventually broke in the early hours of the morning. His mother scooped him up out of bed. Her gentle words and smile could not conceal the fear in her eyes. His father could not speak. Taking no possessions, they crept quietly out through the back door, on through the familiar garden, and into the dark and silent wood. They were greeted by men carrying dark lanterns, giving brisk direct instructions. To Jack, German is such a harsh and threatening sounding language, even if spoken kindly. They were taken deeper into the forest than Jack had ever been, occasionally they were met by other families who wore the same fearful expression. Some carrying small crying children others with worried elderly grandparents. Eventually, they arrived through the wood into what looked like a disused railway goods yard. Jack could hear the distant screeching of train wheels and the click-clack of rusty wagons. Small knots of people gathered under the pale gloomy gaslights waiting for instructions. Jack and his family were bundled into an old cattle wagon, it had an abandoned smell of neglect. A knot of a dozen pail frightened faces stared at him through the gloom. He sat on a straw bale held between the tight grip of his mother and father. Candlelight made ghastly shadows danced grotesquely on the wagon walls behind them. The last thing he saw was his forest through a crack in the rough wooden walls.  Rocked by the gentle motion of the wagon, fretful sleep overtook him.

Hours later he was surrounded by the faces of his fellow passengers bathed with a red light of the morning sun. But gone was his forest. He was now rumbling through snow covered mountain passes, this was Switzerland, and had he known it, freedom and safety.

Years later back in England a scholarship gave him an opportunity to go to university to study physics. But his real passion was to learn to fly, and his college had a flight school. It is true most of their planes were clapped-out veterans of the Great War. Just patched canvas and sticks held together with string. But the thrill of exhilaration was wonderful. The childhood memory of being a bird came flooding back to him, but now it was real. The airplane responded to his very thoughts. Flying came naturally to him as if inside Jack had always been a bird.

But finally, the dark storm clouds he first felt in Germany spread over all of Europe and threatened England. 

The King’s call came at last as everyone knew it would. In his final year immediately after exams, he signed up to join the RAF. He and several others were shipped off to Scotland to be trained. Flying over the forests and locks was so reminiscent of his time in Germany, bringing back the joy of his childhood.

“Whatever happened to Hans, did he ever think of me?”

His natural ability made him perfectly suited as a fighter pilot. After gaining his wings he was posted to the east coast of England.

Although he had the ability, he did not have the temperament. He lacked the sense of invulnerability, that doubtful gift of youth, that mix of skill and folly that drives the daredevil, the risktaker of a fighter ace. The Spitfire is the kite for these short-lived heroes.

The Hawker Hurricane was a sturdy, reliable machine that could take appalling punishment and still get you home.

His first combat mission was escorting Lancaster bombers. It was an utter disaster, within minutes of taking off they were ambushed by a group of Messerschmitt 109s, every RAF pilot’s worst fear. His wing commander was shot down almost immediately.

“Enemy aircraft encountered at…” …followed by radio silence. Jack and most of the others were too inexperienced to organise a proper counterattack. Two Lancasters and half the Hurricanes were shot down over the Channel.  But he was a fast learner and did not lose his head.

But that day, the joy of flying died in Jack Swift.

On his next mission, it was replaced by the instinct to survive. But Jack was not a killer, if he shot down the enemy, he hoped they bailed out in time.

Pilots were not encouraged to paint mascots on their planes, but of course, they did. The base commander understood that:

“Chaps need every bit of luck they can get, and if putting a lucky charm on the side of their plane helps, then so be it.” Most painted famous pin-ups or sharks’ teeth and some comic heroes. But Jack painted the symbol of his childhood, a swift.

Fighter pilots who survived, particularly those who could keep their heads in a dogfight far too soon became the senior flyers the younger pilots looked up to.

He was leading his squadron in another bomber escort mission when he was attacked by three 109s coming out of the sun, one descending from above and two below preventing him from diving.  Hurricanes are good planes but slower than the 109, a pilot’s only hope was to go into a steep dive, and an experienced 109 pilot knew it. A burst of gunfire ripped through one wing and the fuselage just behind him, as the planes engaged in the elaborate and graceful dance only shared by birds.

He managed to shoot down one and another cut away to engage a Lancaster, but the one who bore down on him out of the sun was a brilliant pilot. He was right behind him, closer than flying in tight formation. Bullets whistled past him ripping canvas and splintering wood. Whatever Jack did he could not shake him off. Finally, his engine caught fire. Losing speed and altitude, this was an encounter he could not win. If he was lucky, he could ditch in the sea off Clacton. It was a miracle he was not killed by bullets as again the 109 circled round in a blur, coming in for the final death blow. But suddenly there was silence. His engine was still. He was now gliding in a slow descent, the 109 had stopped firing, it was right behind him, and it could not miss. But still, he did not fire.  Time behaves very strangely when flying, and seconds stretched on into what felt like minutes. Old fighter pilots say that they “lived far more in those few seconds of flight than at any time in their lives since.” And still, the 109 did not fire. Jack was now over land, skimming the treetops and peaceful village rooftops of Essex.

“Don’t attempt a crash landing with the undercarriage down!” he was told in his flight training. And still, the 109 did not fire. Jack chose a field to lay his plane to rest. And still the 109 did not fire.

Seconds before he hit the ground the 109 banked tightly right in front of him, and there blazing in the morning sun, painted on the wings was the image of a martin.

© Christopher Mathews – June 2023

The Other Woman

 The Other Woman 

By Jane Scoggins 

They were standing by the kitchen sink washing up the dishes after their evening meal. Lisa stacking the dishwasher and rinsing their glasses before cleaning the sink. Chris drying the glasses and wiping the table. A routine they had enjoyed companionably for years. The children were staying overnight with her Mum and they had the evening together to look forward to. Lisa was happy until he cleared his throat and out of the blue said quietly.

“I’ve met someone else”

  Of course she thought she had misheard him, so turned to him with her hands dripping with soap suds and said quite simply.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I’ve met someone else” he said again looking her in the eye.

  She didn’t know how she didn't fall down dead with shock and disbelief when the reality of what he was saying hit her. Standing stock still by the sink as he expanded on the brief cruel, hard hitting statement. His voice was gentle but every word cut like a knife. He eventually managed to persuade her to sit at the table with him. After silent shock came floods of tears and then came anger and distress. Not towards him, whom she had loved since she was eighteen, and thought he had loved her back all these years, but HER who must have schemed and cajoled to take him away.  She must be some sort of wicked temptress; someone from his office of course. Where else would he meet another woman? He was a home loving man who loved his wife and kids to the moon and back he had led her to believe. Their relationship had always been solid and they had never had any doubts about each other. They did everything together and she could hardly remember an occasion of a cross word. They were settled as a family in a nice house, they had two lovely daughters and a Disney holiday planned. How could this all have fallen apart in an instant without her having any clue? She thought of the children. It would break their hearts. She realised now that it had been Chris who had suggested they spend a night at Grandma's. He had engineered this evening to be alone with her so he could break the devastating news. With no resolution to be had from more talking Lisa eventually took herself off to bed and cried herself to sleep. Chris slept separately in the girls room. In the morning nothing had changed, it was all still the same nightmare as last night. Puffy-eyed and exhausted Lisa didn't know what to do. She wanted to fight back but didn't know how. They struggled through the morning together, agreeing that he would wait till their daughters were back from Grandma’s and then explain that Daddy had to go on a working trip while they worked out the details of a possible separation. Although Chris had refused to tell her the name of the woman Lisa quite quickly worked out who it must be. She thought she would confront her and tell her to back off from ruining her life and that of her children. If that didn’t work she would appeal to her conscience and plead with her to give him back and find a single man. If that didn't work she would have to think of something more drastic. She was not going to give up easily on the man she loved. When her mother offered to have the children on a Friday night after school Lisa took the train to the city and waited for the attractive woman she knew to be her rival to come out of the office at 6pm. She had renamed her Jolene like in Dolly Parton’s song. She was joined by another woman and they made their way to a nearby wine bar. Lisa followed pulling her scarf over her head. It would be tricky to confront her there so she would bide her time. They were laughing and Lisa felt anger and hate. It was dimly lit in the wine bar and Jolene and her friend were near the bar at the back of the room. Lisa went to the Ladies room to consider her next move. Putting her hand in her bag for her comb she felt the packet of pills she had been taking to get her through the nights. They knocked her out for hours and blocked out her unhappiness. If only that woman knew what she had done to her. Going to the bar she ordered a glass of white wine. The room was busy already with local office workers and gradually more men and women began spilling in through the door laughing and chatting, looking forward to the start of the weekend. Lisa saw their joy but felt none for herself. Although Jolene was clearly in her sights Lisa still did not have the courage to approach her, so she finished her glass of wine and watched. She wanted to do something that would have an impact. That woman needed to experience her anger and distress. And then she had an idea. She accidentally but on purpose knocked into Jolene as she walked behind her and spilled her drink as she was about to take a sip. Lisa insisted on getting her another drink, inwardly smiling with a feeling of malice as Jolene tried to dry the contents of her wine glass from her skirt and silk blouse with a tissue. After buying another glass of wine for her enemy Lisa left the bar with a feeling of great satisfaction.

 

   Two days later Chris was in contact asking for forgiveness. The affair had not lasted. In fact, it had never started, and he had been staying with his mother. She had urged him to put things right with Lisa. He was distressed and asked her if she would have him back. The woman had been someone who worked in the sandwich bar where he bought his lunch. Under pressure at work, she had been so kind to him and he had been grateful for her support. A mutual attraction had developed. They had been meeting after work for a drink. He had totally misunderstood his feelings. Lisa and Chris met the following day. Upset by their short period of separation Lisa wanted reconciliation. She thought about her trip to the wine bar and how she had got the identification of her rival completely wrong. She felt horribly guilty about what she had done there. She asked Chris to come home and flushed the rest of the tranquillisers down the toilet.

 

 Lisa listened with shock when Chris told her what had happened to a female friend and colleague at the office. She had had a terrible accident outside a wine bar near their office. Apparently, she had somehow toppled from the pavement onto the road, hitting her head on the curb, and was badly injured by a passing vehicle. She was in a coma, maybe with brain damage. A friend who had been with her at the time had said she had become drowsy while in the wine bar and had gone outside for air. It had been shocking news for Chris. But even more so for Lisa. She had got it all so terribly wrong. That poor innocent woman. Lisa knew she would never be able to erase from her memory the events and consequences of that evening.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 Kintsugi

 

By Robert Kingston

 

We enter the towpath at Papermill Lock. Passing the houseboats, we walk for about a mile in light drizzle, before a left turn takes us into a glistening field of green barley.

 

sucking water

from the crop

our blue jeans

with tide lines

at groin height

 

Reaching the edge of the field, we pause for a moment at the graveyard fence, as I point to the nest box at the top of the bell tower I’d spotted on an earlier visit.

 

looking out

a baby osprey

poised to fly 

stumbles back in

to its safe house

 

Continuing on, we rise and fall as we cross fields of wheat and corn, pass through a lane lined with varied trees, including Yew, Willows and Oaks, and properties to die for, before arriving at the midway point.

 

retiring early

the weight of his cancer

not yet ready

to give way

to the sun

 

 

Copyright Rob Kingston

 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