Sweyne Park

 Sweyne Park

By Janet Baldey 

Early one morning, decades ago, I remember lying sleepless in my bed.  A momentous event lay ahead, one which I hadn’t planned for and my happiness lay in the balance.  Knowing this, I had tossed and turned all night and now lay exhausted, staring into space. As daylight crept into my room, I heard a single cheep and turned to the window, where my curtains were now rimmed with gold.  That first chirp was rapidly followed by others until it seemed that every bird in the universe was shouting out their joy at the start of a new day.  Back then – in what is now called the past - this full-throated explosion of birdsong was taken for granted and either delighted or exasperated and I’m sure there were those who, with muffled curses, pulled their pillows over their ears and tried to get back to sleep. As for me, as I lay surrounded by a symphony gifted by nature, my woes receded and lulled, I was able to sleep.    

          In the past there were many occasions, like this, when one could experience moments of wonder without having to spend a penny.  On many a rose-tinted evening my husband and I would walk down to Southend’s sea-front and stand spell-bound watching as thousands of starlings looped and plunged in smoky arcs across the sky.    While at harvest time, the formerly green hedgerows near our cottage were transmuted into shades of brown as a twitter of sparrows descended, each anticipating a meal of scattered grain as combine harvesters rolled their dusty way across the fields. 

              Then, there was the magical event that happened in Leigh-on-Sea every October when the Brent Geese arrived from Siberia to overwinter on the Eel grass.   On one particular morning, I’d spent the night on my father’s barge and as the mist dissipated and the air warmed, I decided to drink my morning cuppa on the deck.  As I sipped my tea and thought of nothing, I stared into the distance, past the mudflats and the yachts, their masts at odd angles as they lay at anchor, towards the horizon where a black line separated the sky from the sea.  As I watched, the line thickened and very soon a dark stain was spreading towards us.  I felt my heartbeat quicken.  Dad must see this.  I turned towards the hatchway.

          “Dad,” I called.  “The geese are coming.”

          I heard a scramble of movement from inside the barge and a few seconds later up he popped like a genie out of a bottle.  He raised his binoculars towards the moving cloud and I knew that he was smiling even though most of his face was obscured by binoculars and beard.

          “I thought it might be today,” he announced.  “You can almost set your watch by them.”

          But that was yesterday when the mud flats were covered by hungry geese and their music filled the air.  I haven’t been back to Leigh recently.  The last time I did, the geese had arrived but in patchy numbers and it broke my heart to see them so depleted.

These days, the place that’s special to me has no soaring ice-tipped mountains, no far-flung purple moors filled with the sound of silence, no coves with golden sand beaten flat by the ebb tide, it’s just the place that I walk the last dog I shall ever own, and as such, it’s very dear. 

Formerly 57 acres of wartime agricultural land, Sweyne Park has been transformed by Rochford Council into a leisure park for the local population.  It has two ponds, islands of twelve species of tree, Willow, Oak, and Alder to name but three, and is surrounded by four km of hedgerows.  Stitched cross-wise by paths, it’s a popular place for dog-walkers and I’ve seen it in all its moods.  In spring time, the branches of the hawthorn are cocooned by sweet-smelling blossom of the purest white, that could transport me back to the snows of winter, were it not for wind that has lost its power to scour the skin.  In summertime, the sun blazes down from cloudless skies for days on end, baking the earth and shrivelling the Timothy grass.  On days like these, I seek shelter in the cooler parts of the park by following the path over a small bridge, underneath which the remains of a stream, a sluggish relative of its former winter-lively self, feeds into the lower of the two ponds. Here Willow trees flourish, planted especially to help to drain the marshy soil and their shade is a welcome relief.  However, respite is short and soon sweat is stinging my eyes as I plod up a hill that seemingly has the same power to exhaust as Everest.  But however long the days, time passes at an ever-increasing speed, soon the nights are drawing in and it’s autumn again.  Autumn has two faces.  At first the leaves of the trees change from differing shades of green to shades of burnt orange, amber and scarlet, their colours burning against the sky like brands held by Olympic athletes.  Their beauty is breathtaking but it is a doomed beauty and soon the leaves relinquish their hold and spiral down to earth where they form a frayed jigsaw of colour.  As the days pass more follow disintegrating with their fellows into a uniformed mulch leaving the bare bones of their mother- trees shivering against the skyline with no defence against the raw winds of winter.  And so, the cycle starts afresh.

          This is as it should be, it is expected and comes as no real surprise.  But what does worry me is what I haven’t mentioned.  When the park was first created forty years ago, it was home to at least ten species of birds – blue tits, long-tailed tits, greenfinches, black-caps, starlings, blackbirds, collared doves, whitethroats, green woodpeckers, and sparrow hawks.  There was no mention of magpies, those strutting bandits with their harsh cackling cries, or of crows, their gangmasters.  Now these thugs seem to have taken over and I suspect have subjugated the smaller birds who may still be seen but in rare and fleeting moments.  But where are the sparrow hawks and the starlings who used to be so infinite?  Sadly, we humans have sucked the life out of our natural spaces and not enough people care.

 

          But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe in times to come folk will tear their eyes away from Facebook, or TikTok and maybe even the internet will bore them.  They’ll look around and realise there are empty skies to fill. Books will remind them of all the wonders that once called planet Earth their home and we will pine for all we have lost.  But our species is very good at making demands and maybe, for once, our demands will be for the good of the planet.  As in the film, extinct species will be brought back to life and once more wolves, tigers and bears will roam the forests.  Science will have found a cure for plastic and the seas will be cleansed so that sea creatures can flourish.  We will learn to cherish all natural life, not just for its sake but for ours.  And wouldn’t that be lovely?

 

Copyright Janet Baldey        

            

Riddles 11

 Riddles 11

 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has only one puzzle for us today:

 

    You are captured by a sadistic terrorist group that loves playing mind games with their victims.

You are told:

 

a)           You will enter a Unit with two rooms in the first there are three switches, A B C.

 

b)           In the second room there are three light bulbs, 1  2  3.

 

c)           You can enter each room only once!  If you re-enter either you will be blown to bits.

 

d)           The door locks as you enter, but there is an exit pad at the door ~ 1  2  3.  The correct exit code is dependent on which switch is connected to which light bulb.

 

e)           So, how do you discover the code?

 

f)             You have only 30 minutes to enter ABC ~ BCA ~ CAB ~ CBA ~ BAC ~ ACB.

.  And exit the Unit safely.

 

g)           Warning!  A wrong guess will result in your death…

 

h)           So how do you work out the correct code?

 

Have Fun!  

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

FRIDAY NIGHT IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

 FRIDAY NIGHT IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT 

(Based on the words of Herman’s Hermits 1965 song ‘Silhouettes’ (on the shade.)

By Bob French

Frank stood in front of his full-length mirror and admired himself. He had just been given a pay rise and with his savings had gone down to Burtons, on the high street, and bought a Beatles suit, a high collar white shirt, just like that worn by Paul McCartney, and a pair of two-inch-high-heel boots worn by the Beatles.

He stood there for nearly five minutes admiring himself, then spoke to his image with confidence. “If this doesn’t catch Jenifer’s attention, then I give up.”

The Saint Benedict Youth Club in Romford, just behind Woolies, was the place to be on a Friday night. Ever since he, and all his mates, had left school, a year or so back, they had kept their promise that no matter what, they would meet up at the Friday night dance at the club.

He straightened his tie as ‘Love, Love Me Do,’ by the Beatles, burst into his bedroom via the small Japanese transistor radio his dad had bought him for his eighteenth birthday, and he smiled to himself. “This is going to be the night.”

Frank and Jenifer had, what one would call, a casual friendship.  Whenever they met, they were always accompanied by their friends; even when he asked her to dance, everyone would get up and join in.  So far, he had never been alone with her, well, not really, not since he had bumped into her at the library, and even then, he’d sat next to her and never spoke a word for fear of the dreaded Miss Hetheringay giving him one of her looks you only saw in horror films.

Frank had gone over in his mind a hundred times, the words he wanted to use to ask Jenifer out on a date, and would regularly berate himself at the last minute for the lack of courage when a rare occasion presented itself.  To ease his frustration, he would convince himself that, ‘It’s just that there were too many people around, or it wasn’t the right moment.’

They could hear the music before they even entered the club.  Mrs. Miller, the ancient caretaker, and unofficial bouncer, gave Frank the once over, then smiled as he handed her his ‘half a dollar’ coin. As she stamped the back of his hand, she leaned forward and quietly spoke in his ear “Jenifer is over by the Jukebox, love.”

Once inside, Frank and his mates mingled with their mates.  But Frank’s eyes were searching for Jenifer.  He wanted to impress her, but just as he caught sight of her, the beat of Cliff and the Shadows filled the hall and the dance floor was suddenly filled with screaming, jiving, and, twisting dancers. 

Frank watched as Butterworth casually sauntered up to Jenifer and joined her circle of friends. He watched to see her reaction and was pleased that she appeared not to like what he had done, then smiled as Fay, one of Jenifer’s friends, danced in between them.

As he stood with his back to the wall watching Jenifer dancing, several of his female friends asked him if he wanted to dance, but Frank was saving himself for his girl.

Half an hour later, the music stopped for snacks and Jenifer and her friends moved towards the table of sandwiches and squash. Butterworth had given up trying to muscle in on Jenifer and was messing about with a couple of his mates on the far side of the hall. 

Frank took a deep breath.  “This was it,” he told himself, then straightened his tie and moved slowly towards Jenifer and her friends.  As usual, he felt his hands go clammy; he started to sweat and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  Then he froze.

He suddenly became aware that Mrs. Miller was standing beside him. He felt her hand touch his elbow as she spoke quietly to him.

“Listen, love, just take a deep breath and go up to her.”

“What do I say to her?”  He could sense panic starting to set in.

“Just say, hello Jenifer, you look nice this evening.  Fancy a dance?”

“No…. I can’t”

Without warning he felt himself being gently propelled towards Jenifer and her friends. He tried to wriggle out of it, but before he knew what was happening, he was standing in front of Jenifer.  Everyone was now staring at Frank.  No one moved, and then he suddenly came to his senses.

 “Hello Jenifer.  You look nice tonight.  When the music starts, would you mind if…”

Before he could finish, Jenifer stepped forward, took Frank by his shoulders, and leaned into him.

“Frank, I’d love to dance with you, all night, if you’d let me.”

Several of her friends started clapping and some even said out loud, “About time.”

That evening Frank walked her home. They talked about everything and nothing as they strolled hand in hand towards her home.  Frank noticed as they started to walk down Jamerson’s Drive. everyone seemed to have the same blinds and how, when the light shone on the blinds you could easily make out the silhouettes of the people who lived there. They began to laugh as they made up stories and jokes about some of the silhouettes.

Every Friday night, Frank would walk Jenifer home and after a while, he stopped remembering which turns to take, as long as he ended up at her red door with a bronze number 58 on it.

After three months, they were viewed by many of those who frequented the club, as the perfect couple, except Butterworth who had become jealous as he watched the love affair unfold and begun to plot to split them. He started to spread rumours about the two of them, and when confronted, he’d denied ever saying such things.

Then, on the first Friday of September, Phillipa, one of the girls who flat shared with Jenifer told him that Jenifer had gone down with the flu and was confined to her bed. For some reason, Frank felt a little let down.  Why hadn’t she told him herself, he thought.

During that week Frank tried telephoning her, but her line was always engaged.  Frank started to fret for her and on the following Friday, Frank, on entering the club sought out Phillipa.  He needed to know if Jennifer was alright.  As he approached, her on the dance floor he noticed that Phillipa was in the arms of someone.

As he tapped her on the shoulder, he noticed that the boy kissing her was Roy, and not Mike, her boyfriend.  Phillipa lazily glanced at Frank and realized that he wanted to know about Jenifer.

With a guilty expression on her face, she quietly said. “Not now Frank, I’m sorta busy.

Frank now felt rejected, and confused.  It was then that Max, one of his friends approached him.

“Listen Frank. It’s probably nothing, but that fat slob Jenkins, you know, he hangs around with Butterworth. Well, he’s just told me that Jenifer is fine and that Butterworth and her have been shacking up together for the past two weeks.”

Frank suddenly felt cold. He recalled the guilty expression on Phillipa’s face and that the two weeks Jenifer had been ill, were the same two weeks that Butterworth had been missing from the club. It all made sense now.

Something seemed to snap in Frank’s mind and he hurried towards the club door.  The cold night air brought him to his senses, as he turned and started to run towards Jenifer’s flat.  After twenty minutes, he realised that he wasn’t sure of his bearings, then he saw the street with the blinds at all the windows.

By now Frank’s imagination was running wild as he sprinted down the street until he came to the red door with the brass number 58, and stopped. His mind was all over the place.  Standing in the cold wind he saw the silhouette of two people come together on the blind.  His heart was pounding in his chest as they slowly embraced each other and began kissing slowly and passionately.

Frank screamed, then ran up to the red door, and began hammering on it, demanding that it be opened immediately.

The door was wrenched open and there, standing in front of him, was a tall ginger-haired man who, judging by the expression on his face, was not best pleased.

“What the hell do you want son?”

“I want to see Jenifer, right now!  I saw you kissing her.”

“Who is Jenifer?” As the man spoke, a woman appeared beside the man.

“Who is it darling?”

“This lad is looking for some girl called Jenifer.”

“Does your Jenifer work in Barclays?”

Frank was suddenly taken aback with the question and nodded.

The woman laughed. “Sorry love, but this is 58 Jamerson’s Drive.  Your Jenifer lives at 58 Jamerson’s Road, two streets down.

As Frank sprinted down the street, the woman yelled after him. “You can’t miss it, love, It has a brass number 58 on a bright red door.”

When Frank reached Jenifer’s flat, he stumbled up to the front door and rang the bell.  He seemed to wait for ages and began to wonder what he would do if Butterworth opened the door.  

Very slowly the door opened and there stood Jenifer, wrapped up as if she was about to go hiking in the Antarctic.

Frank just stood there admiring the girl he loved.  Jenifer smiled and he could see the love in her eyes, then she frowned as she realised that she must look a state, and went to close the door.

Frank stepped into the foyer, reached out and gently held her in his arms until he felt her respond. They stood there for a while, just holding each other.

“Jenifer, my darling, I was so worried about you.  I tried calling but your phone was always engaged.”

“I’m alright my love, just a really bad cold and didn’t want to be bothered.” 

Frank thought for a bit, then gently kissed her forehead.

“Darling, I love you so much and want to spend the rest of my life with you. We can be the silhouette on the shade.”

Upstairs in Jenifer’s bedroom, Butterworth lay listening to the conversation, then grinned.

 Copyright Bob French

Riddles 10

 Riddles 10

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.   TWT ~ FSS ~ MTW ~ ??? 

 

No 2.   A man goes into a lift, presses 5^th floor & walks up to the 6^th floor.  Going down he calls the lift to the 6^th floor.  Why doesn’t he press for 6^th floor on his way up?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 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