Wrong House

By Jane Goodhew

As she approached her home, she knew intuitively that there was something amiss.  She went to put the key in the door but there was no point as the door was already open but that would never happen because she suffered from OCD and had not just checked and double-checked so many times that the door was locked.  What should she do next, go in or first call the police and tell them there had been a break-in?  She decided against the latter as if she did not go in, she could not be certain that there had been anything stolen and perhaps she had checked it so many times she had in fact unlocked it?  That was a possibility.

She took out her personal alarm and went inside.  What she saw was not what she had been expecting; it had not been a burglary in fact far from it as nothing was the same as when she had gone away.  Absolutely nothing!   She went from room to room and not one was even to her taste or even from the 21^st Century but more from an age long gone.

Thick or floral floor-length curtains hung from each window, lamps were strategically placed on highly polished half-moon wooden tables, and wall holders held candles some by the doors so they could easily be reached in case the gas was cut off?  What was she thinking, gas light, she had electricity!    The carpets which were in the centre of a parquet floor were also heavily patterned the type she would never be seen dead with in her ultra-modern home.  There were also ceiling-to-wall bookcases, numerous hard-backed and very dull looking not quite the Mills & Boon or Agatha Christie that she was used to reading.  She kept pinching herself thinking it must be a dream and eventually she would wake up in the shower like Bobby in Dallas.  No, she was already awake, and nothing was making the slightest sense to her what could she do, phone the police, and say what.

“Well officer my house has either been taken over by the disgusting taste brigade or has become a stage set for the latest film.”    She would solve this mystery herself, she had yet to fathom it, but she would.  It was then that she remembered she had given permission for her house to be used for the remake of yet another Dickens novel as she had been away for some time.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

                                                             

WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 2 of 4)

  

 WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 2 of 4) 

By Richard Banks       

Faisal drops me off at the Presidente and, hey presto, on the stroke of ten next day one of the Mercedes pulls up outside the hotel and off we go to the marina. Faisal’s yacht is the biggest one to be seen. There’s not a sail in sight. This is an ocean-going motorboat wider and longer than a bus. I’m the first one on board, apart from the crew, but ten minutes later Faisal arrives with the same company as the night before.

         The Captain who’s welcomed me onboard evidently feels I need to be told about my new friends. Faisal, he says, is first in line to the throne presently occupied by his father, King Abdul; Asad and Karif are close family and Government Ministers, while Princesses Fidelia and Honora are Faisal’s wives. He advises me not to talk to them unless the Prince indicates that I may do so. The men, I may speak to, and will, while the Prince wishes it, treat me as an honoured guest. “You’re one lucky bastard,” he whispers, “play your cards well and you’ll be made for life.”

         I can’t help thinking that there must be a downside to all this but as the day unfolds things only get better. We’re off to Gibraltar, through the Straits and then back again, and when we’re not shooting through the waves we swim, or eat and drink at a buffet that never closes.

         The guys are in vests and shorts while the women, who the previous evening were modestly attired in dresses that covered their shoulders and legs, are now sunbathing in one piece swimming costumes on loungers at the rear of the boat. When they join the men out front they have on opaque, silk shifts that somehow make them more alluring than the scantily clad girls on the beach. There’s plenty of talk about the Villa, of course, and after another bottle of champagne Faisal and myself are more than convinced that they will finish the season in the top four. When he is King, Faisal says, he will buy the club and install me on the Board of Directors. The day ends only too soon and we’re back in Montura.

         The fun’s over I’m thinking, but no, it’s just begun. Tomorrow they’re going on safari to hunt wild pigs and sample the local wine, and Faisal insists I come too. This is better than great, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m not paying my way, so the next day I take along my Ollie Wilson shirt and present it to Faisal. He couldn’t be more pleased because he thinks it’s a shirt that Ollie actually wore in a match, which is pretty much what I led him to believe. He whips off his own shirt and replaces it with the one I bought in the club shop.

         “How can I ever thank you, my friend, this is too much, how can you bear to part with something so precious.” He’s almost overcome with emotion.

         “No worries,” I say, “it’s the least I can do after all your hospitality.”

         “Nonsense, nonsense, that is my pleasure, my duty as a host, it is nothing compared to this. No, my friend, you must allow me to show my appreciation by giving you something. Now, what can it be? No, don’t say a word, I know just the thing, it will be a surprise, something you will really like, but today we go hunting.”

         It’s the usual crowd. We pile onto a people carrier and off we go to this swanky place in the country that calls itself a ranch. The pig hunting’s done with rifles and we bag a dozen or so before going riding. We return, early evening, to find the pigs we shot roasting on spits above a log fire. Any sympathy I had for them evaporates as I devour the meat and vegetables in front of me. There’s wine, Bacardi and the obligatory champagne and after that, there’s singers and dancers to entertain us. In the early hours of the morning, we get back on the people carrier and return to Montura where we bid each other good night and stagger off to our hotels.

         I’m hoping Faisal will invite me to somewhere else the next day, but nothing’s said, so after breakfast, I sun myself on the beach in the company of Sharon from Basildon who’s an eight out of ten in the looks department but talks like Katie Price on helium. She’s in need of someone to spread sun cream on her back; her friend’s gone off with this guy called Santi and left her, “all alone.” This is my cue to invite her out, but after the last few days, a date with her is less appealing than the prospect of a third place play-off in the Euros.

         I return to the hotel for lunch and treat myself to the most expensive bottle of wine they have followed by drinks at the bar. Suddenly I’m like Bambi on ice and any thoughts I had of returning to the beach are shelved for another day. I pull myself together and get back to my room where I lie down on the bed and fall asleep.                                                                                                      

***

 

         I wake up to find the day fading and someone knocking on my door. When I open it there was a girl there who says she had a present for me from a Mr Aziz.

         “Mr Aziz?” I ask.

         “Mr Faisal Aziz,” she says.

         “Oh him, sure, come in.”

         She does and, instead of handing me something from out of her shoulder bag, unbuttons the denim jacket she’s wearing and hangs it over the back of a chair on which she has already placed her bag. This is rather odd coming from someone who’s only here to deliver a present but all comes clear when she kicks-off her shoes and invites me to unzip the black cocktail dress she’s wearing. “Lucky boy,” she purrs, and indeed I am.

         It’s not until later, when we’re in the jacuzzi, that we get round to introductions. Her name is Irina. This is not the name her parents gave her, she says, but it’s easily remembered and pronounced which is more than can be said for her real name; everyone should have at least one secret, she tells me, and this is one of hers. She comes from an impoverished region of Dalgaria and one day when she is very rich she will return there and become its Mayor. No one, she says, will starve when she’s in charge. Everyone will be happy. Her eyes sparkle and I get the feeling that for her this is more than another day at the office. She likes me, of that I’m sure, which is just as well because I’m head over heels, and trying not to show it.

         She departs just after mid-night but not before giving me some good news, in fact two pieces of good news, one, that Faisal has invited me to go deep water fishing with him the next day, and, two, that she will be returning the following evening and any other evening that I’m wanting her company. “You have a very generous friend,” she says. “What a pity you’re not here for the season.” She smiles and pecks me on the cheek, and a minute or two later I look down from my balcony as she steps into the taxi she has ordered. Can life be more perfect? No way.

         Next morning the Mercedes arrives on the stroke of ten and we’re off to the marina again. It’s another wonderful day and Faisal is still hungry for news about the Villa. Fortunately there’s been talk on Sky about them signing Jervinho from Barcelona. It’s rubbish, of course, as is most transfer speculation, but I relay it to Faisal as though it’s a serious runner.

         “But where will he fit in?” exclaims Faisal, “surely not in place of Ollie?”

         I reassure him that this is most unlikely and that they will almost certainly play as twin strikers in an attacking 3-5-2 formation. “Won’t that leave us light at the back?” he says, his genial expression giving way to thoughtful concern.

         I tell him no, and that with the emphasis on attack we will have little need for defenders. I sense that I may just have blown my credibility as a football pundit, but after a few seconds of reflection Faisal nods his head in agreement. As the boat heads out into open sea we are happily contemplating the many goals to come. With a good day’s fishing also in prospect our mood couldn’t be better.

         The same, however, cannot be said for Faisal’s first wife, Fidelia, who’s got a face as long as a kite. And, as the day unfolds, it’s only too obvious why. Faisal is favouring his second wife above her. Another person less than happy about this is Asad, who, nevertheless, is managing to force a smile. When Faisal and Honora step down into the private quarters below he wastes no time in sidling over to number one wife and muttering fiercely in her ear. What he says I don’t hear but with Faisal and Honora back on deck Fidelia puts on the widest and most unconvincing smile I have ever seen.     

         However, that’s her problem, not mine, and when I catch a large carp the only problem I have is that I can’t bring myself to touch it. I have an allergy to fish which causes me to break out in a rash, and, when I explain this, even Fidelia can’t help laughing.

         We return to the marina late afternoon and arrange to meet up next evening at nine. This leaves me free to sun myself all day on the beach and, after dinner, make out with Irina until she leaves me for her nine o’clock. When I get to Roscoe's two things are immediately obvious, one, that Faisal and Honora aren’t there and, two, that Asad has just become my new best friend. He takes me to one side. An unfortunate situation has arisen which he hopes I can help resolve. If I can, he will be most grateful. How grateful I’m thinking? He must be reading my thoughts for the next moment he’s telling me about this lucrative post at their Embassy in London that would only require my attendance several days a week. This sounds like a better option than Fareland so I’m all ears.

         “How can I help?”

         He’s not slow in telling me. Fidelia has displeased Faisal by falling out with Honora. “It’s the usual thing, he says, first wife syndrome. They always resent number two and, indeed, all the numbers that follow. They should be like sisters, but they seldom are.” He shakes his head at this sad reality and consoles himself by taking a swig of the lager he’s drinking. Faisal, he continues, has taken Honora to Barcelona to see their opening match of the season. When they return he will likely banish Fidelia to a remote part of the country where she will play no further part in his life.

         “Poor gal,” I say, but I’m thinking it might also be a case of poor Asad. What does he have to lose? He’s not keen on telling me, but when I ask the question he decides to open up. Fidelia is his niece and whilst she is in the good books of her husband, so is he, and likely to become one of the richest and most powerful men in the Kingdom. If this is to happen Fidelia must not only avoid banishment but, again find that special place in her husband’s heart.

         I’m about to tell him that marriage guidance is not my specialist subject when he reminds me of what is. More than anything else, he says, Faisal loves football, nothing would he like better than to make love to a woman who can simultaneously engage him in conversation about his favourite team. My task, if I choose to accept it - and there’s money, as well as the job if I do - is to turn Fidelia into a walking encyclopedia of all things Villa. I have two days in which to do this and Fidelia, who is only too aware of her options, will he assures me, be a most willing pupil. My tuition is to begin the following morning and conclude in the evening of the following day when Faisal and Honora are expected back. There is, he sternly says, to be no hanky-panky. He will, on both days deliver her to me at 8am and escort her back to her hotel room in the evening at eleven.

         This is two days out of my holiday, but if I’m successful Asad assures me he will extend my stay at the Presidente by another week. Well, how can I refuse, especially as Faisal can surely have no objection to a football savvy wife.

         I hire the conference room in the hotel and, on our first morning, give her a potted history of the club: how it was formed in 1874 by cricketers from a Methodist church; how they were founder members of the football league; and all their major honours since then, concluding with their recent friendly win over AC Milan. Then there’s past and present players and a review of English football, from the mixed fortunes of the national team to the recent and much lamented introduction of VAR. At 12.00 we take a working lunch, and then we’re off to a little used beach at the far end of the bay where, with the help of a beach ball and several small boys, I teach her the off-side rule and the tactical formations likely to be used in the forthcoming season by Villa and their main rivals for the league.

         We are on to Villa songs and chants when who should I spot but our honeymooners, Rita and Gemma, emerging from the sea and running back to their beach towels which are drawn up close together beneath a large umbrella. They’re not, I’m thinking, be wanting to be bothered with us but being in clear sight and singing ‘Villa Through and Through’ we’re too conspicuous to ignore. They’re wearing nothing but their briefs and I’m fearing that Fidelia will be shocked out of remembering everything I have taught her but, to my surprise, she’s all smiles and taking it all in her stride. We sit down beside them, intending only to stay a few minutes, when Gemma lets on that she’s a keen supporter of the Lionesses. This is like manna from heaven, and not only is she a font of knowledge on the subject but Fidelia is clearly taking in every word. The conversation has moved on to the 2023 World Cup when my mobile rings and I have a text from Irina saying that she can’t make it this evening but will, if I’m free, drop by my hotel at 3.30.

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 Riddles 07

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

No 1. What is taken before you can get it?  

 

No 2.  You enter a room.  Two dogs, four horses, one giraffe and a duck are lying on the bed.  Pigeons are flying over a chair. 

How many legs are on the floor?   

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 ZEMBLANITY

By Jane Goodhew

ZEMBLANITY is the inevitable discovery of what we would rather not know. “As she pushed open the door, she knew that she would discover him in flagrante and herself in zemblanity.”  William Boyd

In a world full of information, it seems strange not to have heard the word Zemblanity before being asked to write a story about it.  The opposite serendipity is popular for the way it sings from the tongue and conjures up all that is beautiful and wondrous to life.  Now try to imagine the very opposite an event which brings misery and gloom, disaster, distress but instead of turning away, you embrace it as if it were serendipity!

That is exactly what we all did and each in turn laid bare our soul as we recounted the tale of our very own Zemblanity moment.  For me it was just the other day, the weather had been bizarre, to say the least, one moment hot sun and the next torrential rain, hailstones, wind that would knock you off your feet and so cold but nothing could have stopped me that day, not even the weather as it was my fate, I  had seen it in the stars and in a dream and I needed to know if it would be fulfilled of if I could alter destiny.

The skies grew darker and anyone with sense had remained indoors but with a bright yellow raincoat and shocking pink wellington boots looking more like something out of a candy store than a geriatric perhaps I should have worn purple, I put my best foot forward and left the house into the oncoming storm.  My heart was beating so fast I thought it would leap out of my chest or come to a sudden halt before the allotted hour.   Then hot tears began to stream down my face as I realised that this could be my final walk not just along this road, the last time I would see my neighbours not that I knew many of them.  I put my head up, wiped away the tears that had become intermingled with the raindrops and a strange smile crossed my face as I imagined it was a beautiful summers day which as it were August it should have been and as I turned I realised too late that I should have looked right instead of left before stepping off the kerb into the road straight under the wheels of the oncoming bus.  The driver would not have had time to see me and certainly not to stop, the sheer horror on his face filled me with guilt, what had I done to him let alone myself?

People rushed out of their houses as they heard the sickening thud and screech of tyres, but nothing could be done.

 

Zemblanity therefore was true.  When people entered my home, they would have found an envelope and in it this story which one of you has kindly read out for me, you see I thought I could defy the gods and if only I had looked right, I could have.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 WORST HOLIDAY EVER  (Part 1 of 4) 

 By Richard Banks 

It’s 7am, the sun’s shining and I’m packed and ready for the taxi that’s coming at a quarter past. Could anyone be more ready? I doubt it. The sooner I’m out of Drislow the better. No disrespect to the folk still living here but the town’s a dump and always has been. It was a dump in the 1800s when the first ironworks were built and now, twenty years after the last one shut down, it’s still a dump.

         The old timers say that the air’s never been as clear as it is now, that the smoke from the chimneys used to make blue skies grey and every cloud black, but with the mills went the jobs the town depended on. No wonder half the people who once lived here have left. As for those who remain, most are unemployed while a fortunate few, including myself, have work at Fareland’s new packaging and distribution centre, made possible by Government grants and low business rates. ‘A hundred new jobs,’ was the headline in the Gazette, ‘a major step in the regeneration of the town’. What they didn’t mention was that the company only pays minimum wages on zero hours contracts.

         I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining, it’s better than nothing, and because the firm never seems to have enough staff there’s always plenty of work for those ready to turn up at any hour of the day and do long shifts. And no one puts in more hours than me which is how, for two weeks in the fifty-two, I get to swop Drislow and Fareland for the Spanish Costa’s or the Algarve.

         The front door bell rings, two sharp blasts. It’s Ross, an old mate from our school days. He use to be Bar Manager at the Blackbird before it closed. Now he drives a cab, his own car. He does most of his business in Brum where he also picks-up and delivers packages. What’s in them no one knows, not even Ross. It’s cash in hand, so no questions asked. When you’re struggling to make ends meet that’s the way it is. 

         I put my suitcase in the boot and we’re off past the old back to back factory houses and into the High Road where the closed down shops are beginning to outnumber those still going. Ross says that the bank will soon be closing. For him this is good news. The nearest branch will soon be five miles away. For those without a car it will be him or the bus that will get them there. I close my eyes as we near the old factories on the edge of town, windows long broken and stripped of anything of value, including the lead in the roofs. The rain pours in which is bad news for the dossers that sleep there. I count to thirty, that should do it, and sure enough we’re past them and out into open country. I’ve escaped, the holiday’s begun and I couldn’t be more chuffed.

         This year I’m in a four star hotel in Montura. It’s not far from Torremolinos where I was a few years ago, but Montura, so the travel agent says, is better, classier. I should be paying twice as much as I am, but the guy who did, cancelled only a week ago so I’m his last minute, cut-price replacement. It’s full board and cheap drinks for guests, so I won’t be short of spending money in the bars and clubs of which, I’m assured, there are many.

         Ross drops me off at the airport where I check-in and wile away the time to take-off in MacDonalds. It’s a good place to check-out the unaccompanied talent. By the time the plane’s ready to board I’ve sussed out two going to the same resort but a different hotel. This is the third time that Kerry and Ella have been to Montura. It’s a great place, they say and there’s this really cool club called Roscoe’s where they go most evenings. “Sounds fun,” I say, “see you there.” Whether we do depends on who else we see and speak to in the next day or so. Even if we don’t meet up none of us are likely to be short of company.

         The plane takes off on time and lands just after mid-day. The holiday rep greets us in the arrival’s lounge and we’re bussed-off to our hotels in Torremolinos, Fuengirola, and finally Montura. The girls get out at the Alfredo while the rest of us are taken on to the Presidente where we retrieve our cases from the luggage compartment and form a line in reception. There’s a dozen of us and I’m at the back of the queue. Well, why rush, especially if it puts me behind two platinum blonds who are definitely worth some serious chat-up time. But I only have five minutes at most, so there’s no time to be lost. As a conversation starter I give them a hand with their cases. The one with Rita tattooed just beneath her shoulder blades tells me her name is Gemma. “Not Rita?” I say. “No,” she replies, “that’s Rita.” She giggles and points to the other girl who has Gemma etched on her shoulder.

         I’m confused, and it’s showing. Worst still they’re laughing now and it seems I’m the butt of their joke. Gemma hastens to reassure me. “Sorry, no offence,” she says, “but we’re an item; actually we’re on honeymoon.” She holds up her hand so I can see the gold band on her ring finger. I say congratulations and do my best to make small talk until they reach the reception desk. They collect their key card and follow the porter to their room.

         The receptionist turns her face towards me and I hand her my booking form and passport. She looks surprised and after staring blankly at the form tries to find my name on the list she’s been ticking off. “One moment, sir,” she says. “I need to speak to the manager.”

         This is not looking good and sure enough when she returns with said Manager it doesn’t take them long to decide that there’s been a mistake. Not only am I not on the list but their last four star room has just been allocated to Rita and Gemma. The Manager proffers his apologies and when I tell him that’s not good enough he agrees and upgrades me to their only five star room. He regrets that it has a double bed and not the single I requested, but hopes it will otherwise meet with my approval. He summons a porter who shows me into the Executive lift and we zoom up to the sixth floor where we step out onto a deep pile carpet that seems too good to walk on. I can’t wait to see my room, and when I do, I’m not disappointed, it’s got a fridge full of booze, Sky TV, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom and a balcony with a view across the bay. If this isn’t paradise it’s the next best thing and all I need now is to meet that special someone for the best holiday romance of all time.

         The porter’s evidently a thought reader. “There’s a pair of binoculars in the cupboard,” he tells me. “Very useful for locating friends on the beach.” If this was a three star room he might also be giving me a wink and telling me about a young lady he knows who would very much like to make the acquaintance of a young man like myself. But this is a five star room and, in keeping with my new found status, he assumes my sights will be set higher than the local pro. I give him the equivalent of a tenner and he departs looking less than impressed with my generosity. Who cares. If that’s not enough I don’t want to see him again. The next time I shell out that much it will be on someone a good deal better looking than him. 

         It’s still only 3pm. Time enough to shower and get down to the beach. The girls with the deepest tans are the most appealing but they’re the ones who’ve been here the longest and will soon be back home. Best to check out the pastier ones before the competition gets there first.   

         It’s always difficult to know whether to stick or twist on the first day and after meeting Abby from Manchester and Lorna from Leicester I return alone to the hotel intending, after dinner, to go to the club that Kerry and Ella were telling me about. But when I get there they’re nowhere to be seen. There is, however, this red head in a mini whose girlfriend is getting more than friendly with one of the local Romeos. It’s looking like three’s a crowd so I’m guessing she won’t be saying no when I offer to buy her a drink. But before I can take a step in her direction a voice shouts, “Up the Villa,” and this guy comes shooting over and grabs me by the shoulders like I’m his long lost friend. It turns out that his name is Faisal from the Arab Fed and he’s a life long Villa supporter. He tugs at the football shirt I’m wearing and almost twirls me around so he can see the name on the back. “Ollie Wilson,” he roars. “My favourite player. Good old Ollie! How many goals will he score next season, twenty at least. What do you think? No, don’t tell me here. Come, you join me and my friends. We’re over there by the window. I want to know everything you can tell me about the Villa. Did you know that they are one of the oldest clubs in the world? Yes, of course you do. You’re a number one fan, just like me.” He has me by the arm and evidently isn’t going to take no for an answer so I let him usher me over to his table where he introduces me as Ollie.   

         “Actually, it’s Dean,” I say, but it’s evident, even at this early stage, that if Faisal says my name is Ollie then that’s what it is. Anyway, what the hell, all I’m going to do is have a drink with the guy, talk some football and get back to that red head.

         Faisal’s friends consist of two young women in their mid twenties, two older guys in expensive white suits and another two who say nothing and seem to have no other function than to block off each side of the bay seat where we’re sat so that no one else gets in. Another ‘friend’, who’s clearly a lackey hovers nearby ready to do anything his master bids. Faisal is clearly an important man and when someone addresses him as “Your Highness” I cotton on to the fact that I’m in the presence of royalty.

         The men in suits introduce themselves as Asad and Karif. They’re polite, but not, I’m sensing, over keen on making my acquaintance. If it wasn’t for their leader they wouldn’t be giving me the time of day, but as long as Faisal finds me interesting I’m part of the in-crowd - my fifteen minutes of fame has finally arrived! The two women say nothing, silently taking in everything that’s going on, but making no effort to communicate their thoughts. It’s not until Faisal has dispatched the lackey to the bar for champagne, that he thinks to introduce them as Princess Fidelia and Princess Honora.  He swiftly returns to the subject of his beloved Villa.

         “Will there be any new signings? I’ve heard they’re after Perez. Can this be true?”  I tell him what I have read on the web but make it sound as though I have informants within the club. After a bottle of champagne, I’m also the bosom buddy of Ollie Wilson and half the team. Faisal laps it all up and at 2.30 in the morning is still going strong, which is more than can be said for the Princesses and guys in suits who look more than ready to call it a day. Fortunately for them the Bar Manager announces that Roscoe’s is closing and we troop out onto the pavement to find two Mercedes waiting for Faisal and his entourage.

         “My friend,” he says, engulfing me in another bear hug. “We can not part like this. We have so much more to say. Tomorrow we are going sailing. It will be good. You come too. I will send a car to pick you up at ten. We will have a wonderful day, yes?” This sounds like one heck of a good plan as many things do when you’re pie-eyed, but for once I know that come morning I’ll be more than pleased I said yes.

 

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 We are running out of Time!

 

Sis Unsworth

 

We are running out of time, is what I hear them say.

The ice caps are all melting, pretty soon they’ll slip away.

The forests are diminishing, the wildlife’s going too.

Some say that it’s apparent, and there’s not much we can do.

We are running out of time, and Brexit’s still not done,

just like headless chickens, we’re forever on the run.

The roads are always packed, with people in a hurry,

We are running out of time, the meter needs more money.

I’d like to write much more, and continue with this rhyme,

But I have a writer's meeting, and I’m running out of time

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

THE CURSE OF THE HENDERSON FAMILY

 THE CURSE OF THE HENDERSON FAMILY

By Bob French 

Ann Henderson sat at the foot of her grandmother, spellbound, as she listened to her mumblings.  It was the first time she had heard the story that most of her relations, thought was an old wives’ tale.

“Be aware of the curse, I tell you.  If it wasn’t for Henry, none of this would have happened to us.”

Ann looked up into the wrinkled old face.  “Sorry Grandmama, what do you mean, ‘if it wasn’t for Henry?  What did this Henry do that was so terrible?”

“He was a British cavalry officer who, in the confusion of the
battle of Waterloo, rode down and killed a group of Irish nuns who had been helping the wounded. Once he realized what he had done, he dismounted and tried to help them, but it was too late. It is said that he knelt down beside one very old nun and tried to give her water, but she pushed his hand aside and asked him his name.  When he told her, she put a curse on him and his family: ‘that the eldest child of each family that bears the name of Henderson, and those who followed would be taken at the beginning of Sow-in Samhain.”

Ann not knowing what she had said frowned, “what is Sow-in Samhain?”

“Tis the same as Allhallowtide child.  The Days of the Dead.”

It was just before Ann’s twenty-fifth birthday whilst sheltering from the rain in Rayleigh Library that she picked up a book about ‘tracing your ancestry,’ a subject that had pricked her imagination many times since that time, eighteen years ago, when she had listened to her grandmama talk of the curse placed upon the Henderson family. 

She found a seat made herself comfortable and started to read.  Within a few hours, she was hooked; borrowed a few books on the subject, and she made an appointment with one of the family history researchers who operated in the library. As she went to leave one of the ladies who had also taken up the hobby explained that she should get in contact with as many of her living relatives as possible as it would save her hours of unnecessary work.

It didn’t take her long before she received replies from many of her relatives who made up the five branches of the Henderson family.  As she consumed this information, she started to build up the family tree.

Even after four weeks of raising false hopes and coming to dead ends, she concluded that she was still a novice. It also became clear that she was impatient and easily frustrated, something her mother had told her on several occasions. Some evenings she would be glued to her laptop searching for past relatives well into the early hours and coming up with nothing.

Her mind was invariably preoccupied with the research she had done the night before, and sometimes she would arrive at work, not knowing how she drove down the busy A12 to Colchester.

In time, the family tree started to take shape and after a grueling six-hour stint one cold, wintery October afternoon, it suddenly dawned upon her that nearly all the eldest children of three branches of the Henderson’s had died before their time. 

She stared at the screen for a while, trying to understand something that was nagging her, but she was exhausted, so closed her laptop and decided to have an early night.

Early the following morning, she was woken by a phone call from her mother to say that Cousin Mary had passed away during the night from alzheimers. She was fifty-two. Ann had never known Cousin Mary, so thought nothing of it, but made a mental note to update the family tree, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Lengo Stomerwitch, a 35-year-old Polish heavy goods driver had just landed at Harwich, having driven across Europe during the night, and decided to stop just outside Colchester to grab a McDonald's breakfast, before he continued on down the A12.

Driving in the opposite direction was Ann.  She was tired and running late having gone back to sleep after her mother’s dawn phone call.  As she moved quickly along the outside lane, her mind drifted back to the moment when she thought she had an epiphany. She tried to recall what it was, but weariness and frustration quickly took over her. Then it began to rain.

Lengo Stomerwitch, swore at the English weather as the rain increased and his visibility started to fade.  He was tired and needed to rest, but he knew that if he did not reach Chelmsford in time, he would lose his bonus, so increased his speed.  He was approaching the Witham turn-off, a known trouble spot on the A12, when he first felt his eyes close, but quickly took a deep breath and regained control of his huge truck.

Ann, was deep in thought.  Something was there, staring her in the face, but what was it?  Then it came to her.  She was the last eldest child of the fifth branch of the Henderson family.  As she changed up and accelerated to overtake, she shook her head; there was something else that bugged her.  She felt it on the tip of her tongue, but what was it?? 

As the rain thundered on the roof of her car, the noise around her increased. She leaned forward and turned up the radio.  All around her horns were starting to blare; large trucks and cars were slowing down, but Ann kept her foot on the pedal. Then she heard the DJ wish everyone, “a happy Trick or Treat or Allhallowtide if you are into old witch’s tales.”

Then it came to her as the bright lights of something very large came crashing towards her on the wrong side of the road.

It was the last day of October; Halloween. She was the last of the eldest children of the Hendersons.’ In a blink of an eye, everything made sense and she screamed, “Oh God! it’s me.”

Everything around her shook; her windscreen shattered; her seat belt wrenched at her neck and shoulder and she felt the car start to tumble through the air, then a cold still silence settled around her.  After a few seconds, the light in her eyes started to fade.

Copyright Bob French