A haiku to fill a void.

 

By Robert Kingston 

 

pillow talk 

 

a heartbeat walks

 

through my ear

 

Decorating 2

 Decorating

Jane Goodhew

 Decorating must be one of my pet hates as it is never ending rather like ironing.  No sooner have you finished when another room needs doing or the immaculately ironed shirt gets creased the minute it enters the wardrobe.  This was a necessity as mother-in-law was coming to stay and no way could she be expected to go in there as it was.  Peeling wallpaper pre-war edition and paint that was that dingy brown that seemed so popular back in 1930s. 

So off she went to Perfect Homes in the hope that inspiration would go with her for right now she had not the slightest clue of what she was looking for.  Floral always seemed to brighten up a room with white paint on the skirting board and maybe a plate rail for all those ornaments that she had accumulated over the years.  Volunteering at a charity shop didn’t help because there was so much temptation, and she was very weak when it came to saying ‘No’.  Anyway, she had arrived and so went straight to the books with various designs and textures, and it was then that a voice boomed’ Emma’.  Just her luck an old school friend who she hadn’t seen in years, nor did she really want to.  ‘Hi’, she said in her most cheery voice, ‘fancy seeing you here’.  Without a chance to protest she had been whipped off to the coffee shop and Esther was gushing forth 20 years’ worth of useless information of her life in the Sussex countryside.                                   

After what seemed like an eternity Emma said her goodbyes and went back to the wallpaper books. The page had been left open at a rather catching floral design and Emma decided that was the way to go, so next stop the paint section.  That was much easier and so with tins of white satin and enough brushes so others  could assist her she made her way to the exit.

Once the car was unpacked and the decorating material in the spare room she went to the kitchen to make a much needed cup of tea.  No sooner had she sat down when the phone rang. It was her mother-in-law saying she was arriving a day or two earlier and would that be okay.  It seemed it was a fete accompli as she had already booked the train tickets.

It was going to take a miracle to have everything ready in time especially if the phone kept ringing.  This time it was Esther, but what she had to say bought a huge smile to my face and an even bigger sigh of relief.  Esther was an interior designer, and she needed a blank canvas to show off her talents at transforming a room into something spectacular. So it was, the next day a gang of workers appeared and set to work, within 2 days the room was finished, even the plate rail. All I had to do was put the ornaments in place and make up the bed and all would be fit for a queen. Her husband could not believe the completed and totally renovated room. He was more than happy and knew that even his mother could not find fault, though she would try.

D-day arrived and Cecelia was shown to her room, her face was a picture for she could not contain her delight at such a charming room for her to spend a few days, in fact it was so lovely she may be tempted to stay longer.

 

Of course, Emma did not let it be known that the room had been decorated by a team of professionals, after all the wallpaper was her choice and the colour coordination of the bedding had finished it off to perfection.  Tea was served in the conservatory and congenial chatter made the time fly past till her husband came home.  Tonight, they were going to the theatre to see A Midsummer Nights' Dream and then a meal so it would be late when they returned. A cup of hot chocolate and bed. Emma slept soundly satisfied that the day could not have been better and even Cecelia had nothing but praise. So, the day drew to an end, and suddenly decorating did not seem so bad ater all.

 

                                           

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 2

 THE CHIMING OF THE BELL  [Part 2 of 4]

By Richard Banks

Reasoning that the bell may merely have malfunctioned Sebastian departed at 8am to his near neighbour, Mr Watts, the owner of a firm of electricians, who was only too happy to dispatch his best workman, Bert, to conduct a full MOT of the bell from the point of pressing to the box of chimes over the under stairs cupboard. His employer’s confidence in him was fully justified when within minutes he located the fault. On enquiring of Sebastian how long he had had the bell and receiving the answer, “five years,” Bert sighed wearily, stating that it was a sad reflection on the makers of modern bells that their products seldom gave good service beyond four years. Indeed, at worse, they sometimes overheated causing fires. In his opinion, the only safe and sensible thing to do was to fit an entirely new bell, a Bexo Elite, that they not only had in stock but could fit that very afternoon.

         The offer gratefully accepted, Bert returned as promised and after twice sampling the delights of Margo’s premium blend tea departed in the early evening with a cheque for £400. The Elite was indeed a wonderful bell with a choice of one hundred ring tones and an illuminated bell press that although limited to a choice of fifteen colours could be programmed to flash on and off, like the lights on a Christmas tree. Deciding on a non-flashing pink they further decided, at Margo’s insistence, that the ring tone should be the Alleluia Chorus in honour of St Vera, their rock and protector, who had now restored to them the gift of undisturbed slumber.

         While Sebastian was grateful for St Vera’s help in the threshing of the bushes he had not forgotten the unkind blow she had inflicted on his toe. Nevertheless, if Margo wanted the Alleluia Chorus it was all the same to him, as long as he didn’t have to listen to it in the early hours of the morning. Convinced that this would not be the case he climbed the stairs that evening to their bedroom where Margo was already sleeping. Placing head on pillow he had no sooner closed his eyes than he too was asleep and resuming his journey up the Thames.

         On a tranquil summer’s evening the becalmed river was reflecting the moon and stars above. The world was a wonderful place, and he was about to burst into song with Louis Armstrong when either Louis’s mobile or Hopkins’s began to play another tune that, although in keeping with the general mood of celebration, contained worrying echoes of the waking world. To make matters worse the boat he was in hit a mermaid who was now shaking him vigorously by the arm. “Wake up,” it was saying and, as he opened his eyes, the mermaid, who was the spitting image of that new girl at the Bank, turned into Margo. The transition although not pleasing, was as nothing to his horror at the sound of many voices alleluia-ing.

         “Do something!” screamed Margo.

         Sebastian tumbled out of bed and tried to decide what he should be doing about what. Was the new bell also malfunctioning or, as first thought, were they under siege from malevolent bell ringers? Or could it be that he was still dreaming and that St Vera was now exacting her revenge for the indignities of the previous night. If so she was certainly giving it a good go but as his head cleared and the bell rang again it was the threat of intruders that caused him to charge over to the window and peer down onto his driveway. As before there was nothing to be seen and, after descending the stairs to assess the situation at ground level, he returned to bed.

         “Is everything all right?” asked Margo, more in hope than expectation.

         “It is now,” said Sebastian, “I’ve turned the damn thing off.”

         After a fretful night’s sleep, Sebastian departed again to the home of Mr Watts to complain that the new bell was no better than the last one. He was about to turn the corner out of the Mews when he almost collided with Mr Watts who declared that he was on his way to see Sebastian. It had happened to him, he spluttered, who could believe it, but seeing was believing and what he had seen he never thought possible on the law abiding streets of their dear town.

         “What’s happened?” asked Sebastian, struggling to keep pace with the rush of untoward events.

          Mr Watts attempted to reply but was assailed by a sudden breathlessness, apparently brought on by the events he was unable to describe, Sebastian insisted that he return home with himself for a restorative mug of strong brew tea. Having downed two mugs and three cream cakes Mr Watts found himself sufficiently recovered to tell all. His doorbell had also been rung. It was midnight and he had just finished his accounts for the week when the sound of Cliff Richard singing ‘Congratulations’ discordantly coincided with the striking of his hallway clock. Being only a short distance from the door he quickly opened it to find four burly figures, dressed head to foot in black and brandishing pick-axe handles. On issuing threats, in language that he would rather not repeat, they then seized his cash box, making their get-away in a car, even blacker than themselves. There was a bang that was surely a gunshot and Mr Watts had slammed shut his door which he dared not open again until this morning, when he had set out to warn Sebastian that they were both under siege from a dangerous gang of malignant bell ringers. As to their wider remit he had no certain knowledge, but could only speculate that it involved the total overthrow of law and order. He had, of course, phoned the Police who promised to send someone ’round the following week, but clearly, this might be too little too late. If they were to remain safe in their own homes they had no choice but to fend for themselves and, if necessary, take the fight to those who oppressed them.

         “What do you have in mind?” asked Sebastian, who was beginning to acquire some of Mr Watts’s former breathlessness.

         Mr Watts, who was now recovered to the point of cheerfulness, wasted no further time in announcing  ‘Operation Makesafe’ involving the fitting of burglar alarms and closed circuit television. Fortunately, he had exactly the right equipment in stock and, putting all other work aside, would install it in both their homes no later than the following evening.

          “But will that stop them breaking-in?” 

         Conceding that they were only a deterrent Mr Watts thanked Sebastian for drawing attention to the need for additional measures. As he was no doubt about to suggest they would also be needing electronically operated grills for all ground floor doors and windows. These were more difficult to procure - present waiting times being three months or more - but because of his many contacts in the trade he could guarantee their delivery and fitting within a week.

         “But how much is all this going to cost?” said Sebastian struggling to take in the new reality of life in the outer suburbs.

         Mr Watts assured him that it would not be as expensive as perhaps he feared. As Sebastian was a valued customer and dear friend he would, of course, do the work at cost price. Sebastian should view his very reasonable charge as an investment that in an increasingly lawless age would enhance the value of his house by 50%, if not more. Anyway, to be discussing cost was almost an irrelevance when what was at stake were the lives and well-being of older householders like Sebastian and Margo who would surely be robbed and murdered by those who, once in, could be expected to show no mercy.

         Margo who had left their front room to make further tea returned at the mention of her name and, on Mr Watts repeating his dystopian vision for suburban life, she implored her husband to act without delay and give Mr Watts the down payment he would be needing to commence operations. Interpreting this as a command he dare not disobey, and, further advised by Mr Watts that, “sixty thousand would do it for now,” Sebastian abandoned all belief in a rational world and inserted his debit card into Mr Watts’s machine.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

        

 

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