Haibun for Christmas Day

 

  48 a very Good Year. 

By Len Morgan

  I have fond early memories of 1948, and my childhood, just after the war.  The production of munitions stopped and the production of cars resumed at Dagenham.  So after demobilisation, Dad got a job in the River Plant at Briggs Bodies, soon to become a subsidiary of the Fords Motor Company.

 Rationing was still in force and shortages were the norm.  There were four hundred houses in Western Avenue, where we lived, but only two cars.   One belonged to Doctor Smithers, the other to Bill Roach a neighbour.   Bill had been in the RAF, as aircrew, and lost both legs when his plane was shot down.  He drove a Ford Prefect that had been converted to operate with hand controls.   At that time the streets were still safe for children to play in, and that was where I first discovered I had a sense of humour.  In 1948 I was an ancient three-and-a-half-year-old.

.-...-. 

 It looked like a tea cosy but it was a hat.   Grass green inside, orange, red, green and blue outside, with a large blue pom-pom on the top.   Mum religiously planted it on my head whenever I went out to play.   But, as soon as she went in, I removed it and stuffed it up the drain pipe.   When I returned I would retrieve it and nobody was any the wiser.   One blustery day I returned but forgot to retrieve the hat.  When mum asked where it was I said the wind had blown it away. So she bought me a brown French Beret (see photo). 

 That winter we had a series of heavy rainstorms and the gutters overflowed.   Dad decided to clean them out, but first, he checked the downpipes, where he discovered the remains of my hat.   He solemnly announced, to Mum and me, that a small furry creature had got trapped in the pipe and died.   He made us turn our backs whilst he extricated it and buried it with full ceremony. 

“Heh heh heh!

.-...-.

    In the spring of 48, Dad told me off for calling our next-door neighbour Arry!

“You mustn’t call him Harry, that’s disrespectful.   Call him Mr Thomas!” he said.

Next morning, I was in the garden when out came Mr Thomas to do some gardening.

“Hello Lenny,” he said with a smile.

“Ello Arry.   Mustn’t call you Arry, aye Arry.   Mr Thomas aye Arry?

Dad looked as if he would suffocate attempting to stifle his laughter.   Harry had no such inhibitions. 

Here I am, good job they didn't know what fiendish plots were hatching behind that cherubic face.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 HaikuKATHA

By Robert Kingston

This one was published in the haikuKATHA journal. India.

 

Have a merry Christmas and new year.

See you in 2024

 

time warp

telling the youth

I was young once

 

Copyright Rob Kingston

 

 Miracle Child

By Len Morgan

At a time when women were shorter than men, shy, pretty, and demure, Ivy Melsom was none of these.  She was 6’ 2”, a plain, slim, swarthy, woman with four redeeming features. She had kind brown eyes that drew people in; she was a shrewd businesswoman and a good judge of character.  She owned and ran a successful General Store and when times were hard she knew who she could extend credit to, which endeared her to her neighbours.   

  But, what she most desired in all the world was a child of her own. At 54 she knew she was long past childbearing but she retained her hope and prayed.

.-…-. 

Michael Cambell owned a truck in which he hauled goods and disposed of rubbish.  He also worked on building sites, did odd jobs, anything to buy a few pints.  At 42 he employed his good-natured blarney to get work, or to charm the pants off of women.  He was homeless by choice but seldom slept on the streets or in his truck.  His Irish charm always seemed to get him a bed for the night; sometimes with willing female company.  He moved around the country, often with regular stopovers where he was sure of creature comforts. 

.-…-. 

Patrick Cambell, Michael's son, possibly the result of one of his many dalliances was 10 years old; old beyond his years. He had become the ace up his father's sleeve.  More so now that Mick was on the wrong side of forty, Patrick became his foot in the door.  Sympathy was just one of the many tricks he used to gain entry into the lives of unsuspecting women.

.-…-. 

And so it was that young Patrick was delivering fliers advertising his father's business.  He entered the ‘Melsom Emporium’ and delivered a flier, then on his way out he snatched a couple of mars bars. 

Ivy saw it and grabbed his arm.  “That will be a shilling or, you could work it off?” 

“What would ye be wantin of me missus?”

“Well, in my backyard, there's a pile of rubbish that needs moving outside the back gate.”

“Sure I’ll do dat fer ye missus…”

“My name is Ivy, call me Aunt Ivy, or just Aunty.”

“I’m Patrick, Da calls me Paddy, aunty Ivy.” He held out a grubby hand, she was surprised at his politeness but shook it anyway. She led him out back and undid the latch on the gate, half expecting him to run…  But he began picking up the boxes and carrying them out the gate forming a neat pile. 

“Are you hungry Pat?” 

“Famished. I scrumped some apples on me way here but dey wuz cookers sour as lemons, urgh!” 

Ivy smiled, “Did your Dad not give you breakfast?” 

“Nah he says workin on a full stomach makes ye lazy.”

“Well, we can soon fix that my lad.  Finnish up out here and be sure to lock the gate. I’ll see what I can rustle up.  Do you like eggs bacon and crusty buttered rolls?” She smiled when she saw the hungry look in his eyes. “Wash your hands at the sink, don’t want you catching food poisoning…” she hurried back inside and set a table for two. 

“Thanks, Aunty, dat was scrummy…” he was interrupted by the jingle of an old school bell, “Dats Mick me Da, drummin up business. He’ll take your rubbish to the tip fer a few shillins?” 

“Go call him over, then you’d best get off to school.”

“Uh?  I don’t go to no school, me an Mick belong to da University of life.”  He left the shop to hail the truck.

“Where’ve ye bin Paddy, I’ve had to drive as well as ring da bell …”  Ivy followed him out to the storefront. 

“Aunt Ivy has a pile dat needs shiftin Mick.”

“Aunt Ivy is it?  Mmm, dats quite a pile ye have der miss-aunt Ivy if I may be so bold.  I’d say ooh ten bob…” 

“Well, Mick you’re a businessman like myself, with a family to feed?  So I’ll make you an offer.  Five bob to take it to the tip; won’t take more than a thimble full of petrol or half an hour of your time.” 

“Ah! You’re a hard woman,” he spat in his right palm and offered his hand. She shook her head and smiled. 

“Right, get it onto the truck Paddy, then ye can take de bell.”

At that moment two customers arrived, so Ivy handed Mick two half-crowns and followed her customers into the store. 

.-…-.

A few days later, at nine o’clock on a cold drizzly evening. just as Ivy was closing up, Pat entered the store. “Ten Senior Service please Auntie,” he said offering her a ten bob note, then seeing the look on her face said,  “Dey’re fer Mick, not me.”

“I should think not, you’re far too young to be smoking.”

“Would ye know of a nearby lodgin house aunty?  We need somewhere to stay…”

“Open the back gates and tell him to drive his lorry in, it’s much too late to be knocking on doors, I have a spare room.  You can stay here for the night.” 

“Thank you, Aunty.”  While Pat let Mick in she finished locking up.

“Tanks missus, you're full of de milk-o-human-kindness,” Mick began… 

“It’s only for one night you understand?”

“Oh, we do, Dat’s grand.” 

I’ll show you to the room, but there’s only one bed so you’ll have to share, and no smoking.” 

“It’ll beat our leakin cab on a night like dis, so it will.” 

“I’m up at six to open the store, I have breakfast at seven so I’ll want you out by eight, don’t want tongues wagging.”

.-…-. 

The alarm clock went off at six, Ivy got up, and Mick stirred beside her.  “Come along Mick time to get up!  Patrick starts school today and I don’t want him to be late. You’ve been here a month now, so you should know the routine.  You came in at eleven last night, drunk as a Lord and you woke us both up…” 

“I was totin fer business, and I got offered a job fer six months makin' muck at a site in Barnsley, So Paddy will not be goin ta school here in Barkin, he’ll be comin wi-me!”

“ I think Patrick is old enough to make his own mind up about that…” 

“Make me mind up bout what?” 

“We’re movin to Barnsley, I got a job der, so ye can ferget about schoolin!”

Pat looked at Ivy, and at the new school uniform she'd purchased, “I’m stayin here wi Aunt Ivy, if she’ll have me? ye can go to Barnley or Timbuktu if ye like, I'm stayin!” 

“She’s not your Aunt ye know, she’s nothing to ye Paddy, I’m yer Da…”

“Are you?” Ivy asked, “so, where’s his mother?”

“She’s dead!  Died in childbirth halfway down the A1, she thumbed a lift then went into labour beside the road.  I ran to a call box, the amberlance arrived half hour later, took her to the hospital, and I followed em…”

“So do you have his birth certificate?  Did you even register his birth?” 

“No…” Mick said stony-faced. He dressed, packed his grip, and stormed out of the store, without saying another word. He grabbed a box of two hundred cigarettes, and a bottle of whiskey as he went! His truck roared off in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Neither to be seen or heard from again…

.-…-. 

Seven years later Patrick Melsom received 6 ‘A’ grade GCE passes and his application for a place at Oxford has been accepted.

“I’m so proud of you son, you came into my life as if in answer to a prayer,” said Ivy.

“Thanks, Mum, what I’ve accomplished is all down to you.  I could never repay you for what you’ve given me.”  He put his arms around her and gave her a hug.  

She smiled through her happy tears and squeezed him affectionately, 'my miracle child' she thought.

Copyright Len Morgan 

Riddles 09

Riddles 09

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1. Multiply all the numbers on you phone.  What is the total?  

 

No 2.  3 1 2 8 ? 5 2 ?  What Number is missing?

 

                                                                                                         Keep em coming Riddler 

A few more haiku

 A few more haiku  (read at last meeting)

Have a lovely Christmas and a happy new year everybody.

From Rob Kingston

 

world famine

the billionaire’s loose change

rattles the bucket

 

bee hive

each cell

its own summer

 

Blithe spirit, Museum of literature award (runner up) December 2023 

post football

rain soaked scars all over

the pitch

 

And one for Christmas. 

Christmas morning 

a trail of paper follows 

the dog

 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 2

 THE HAUNTED HOUSE 2

By Bob French 

He stood in front of the old decrepit three-story Victorian house where he'd grown up with old Uncle Bill and Aunty Milly.  A flickering street lamp cast shadows across its facade, telling those who wanted to know, that its days as a grand house were over.   

"Is this place haunted dear?" 

John gripped his wife's hand. "Of course not, it's just old." 

They stood very still in the cold evening wind for a minute or two, then she asked the question. "We sold our lovely house in the suburbs for this?  Are you sure it's not haunted?"

"Of course not."

"Then can you tell me who that faint white face in the top left window belongs to?" 

“I don’t know, but let’s get inside out of this cold.”

As they approached the front door, it suddenly creaked open, causing them to stop.

After a while, they slowly climbed the steps into the dark interior of the house. The sound of the door slamming behind them sounded like thunder.

“Oh God John! what the hell is going on?”

They stood perfectly still allowing the dank smell of age to surround them. 

A door slammed up-stairs causing them to jump.

“Come on Brenda, we have to find out who’s in here?”

Holding hands, they hurried up the stairs and along a dark corridor.

“Look!” At the far end of the corridor, a dim light shone under the door.

The silence was shattered as the muffled sound of several police and ambulance sirens sounded outside.

Then the door at the end of the corridor slowly opened allowing a faint light to illuminate a figure that moved forward them.

“John, Brenda, welcome.  We have been waiting for you.”  The figure seemed to fade back into the door.

John and Brenda followed it until they became aware of others in the room.

“Dad, Mum, Uncle Bill, Aunty Milly. What are you doing here?”  Then he heard Brenda gasp, “Mummy, oh my god, Mummy.” 

A hundred yards up the road from the old Victorian house the emergency services were surrounding a badly smashed up BMW which had left the road at speed.  A Medic approached the police sergeant.

“Sorry, but they are both dead.  They were John and Brenda Coventry from Billericay.

 

Copyright Bob French