I can’t say I knew her, even though she travelled
through my body as if there was some kind of cosmic allegiance. Often on nights
of insomnia, I would don my earphones, lay back on the sofa, and let her flow.
Mandinka drifting through
the undergrowth
RIP Sinead
By
Robert Kingston
THE CHIMING OF THE
By Richard Banks
“An extension?” he asked, fearing that
this was the start of home improvements likely to last for many weeks ahead.
Informed that it was only the fitting
of CCTV and burglar alarms, Mr Pry was at first relieved and then puzzled. “Had
a break-in then?” The thought of this happening sent an icy shiver racing down
his back, and regions further south. He stared down at the crazy paving about
his feet, half expecting to see it coated with frost.
On learning that he had not been
burgled, but that, “it was far worse than that,” both men visibly paled as Sebastian
informed them of the impending tidal wave of violent crime about to be
unleashed on their previously tranquil street.
“But what about the Police?” said Mr
Sharpe, struggling to remember when he had last seen a policeman.
Sebastian described Margo’s unavailing
attempts to summon assistance before proclaiming, that like the ancient Britons
abandoned by
Taking his leave of them Sebastian
continued on to Mr Patel’s shop where he filled up both of his bags before
returning home. To his surprise, Mr Sharpe and Mr Pry were now part of a larger
group, and another, still larger, had gathered outside his house and, grim
faced, were deep in discussion with each other and Fred. Walking swiftly past
them so that his purchases of frozen foodstuffs should not spoil he entered his
side door to find Margo and half a dozen ladies of the Mews gathered around
their kitchen table. Noting that Sebastian had been stocking-up on foodstuffs
and loo paper the ladies on their leaving lost no time in hot footing it to Mr
Patel’s shop, within a day he'd sold his entire stock, despite raising his prices
by 200% and selling his last pack of ‘Comfort Tissue’ for thirty pounds.
In the week that followed Greenacre
Mews was a hive of activity as Mr Watts and his expanded workforce readied
house after house for the onslaught to come. On work finishing at dusk, the
street’s residents locked their doors and apprehensively settled down in front
of their TVs to view CCTV footage of their front gardens and the road beyond.
Although not as action packed as the average Tom Cruise movie they were
understandably perturbed by the sight of masked desperadoes running up and down
the Mews shouting and setting off car alarms that often rang throughout the
night.
After a week of such disturbances, the
sleep deprived residents of the street were seldom seen before midday when they
would emerge timorously from their houses for a quick dash to the High Street
shops and back. To their surprise they found the streets beyond their own to be
surprisingly normal with no sign of civil disorder beyond a crack in
Concluding that the situation might not
be as hopeless as first thought Mr Dyson from number 36 delivered a leaflet to
every house in the street announcing the formation of, ‘The Greenacres Action
Force’. Echoing the sentiments previously expressed by Mr Watts he announced
that it was now time to take the fight to the enemy. Only when they had driven
their tormentors back to
Warming to Mr Dyson’s message of hope a
large crowd assembled in the Hall with at least thirty more peering in through
the windows that lined each side. Addressing his audience in Churchillian
fashion he revealed his plan for the setting-up of a machine gun post at the
top of the street on the roof of Mr Simpson’s garage. The gun and ammunition
had been secured from an undisclosed source along with searchlights that would
be used to illuminate their assailants before their shooting. Asking for a show
of hands from all those wishing to volunteer, Sebastian was the first to do so,
although he had only intended to scratch his head. Emboldened by his example, a
dozen more volunteers raised their hands and ‘Operation Lethal Outcome’ became
the worse kept secret in Greenacres Mews.
(to be continued)
Copyright Richard Banks
By Robert Kingston
pillow talk
a heartbeat walks
through my ear
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
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
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
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
By Richard Banks
When
the doorbell rang Sebastian was in a rowing boat somewhere between Maidenhead
and
“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
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
By
Jane Goodhew
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
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
