THE MYSTERIOUS MISS MARY BUCKINGHAM.

By Bob French

Hatfield Paverel Station

It was late Thursday afternoon as James Clayton stood staring out across the village playing fields of Hatfield Peverel.  It had started snowing and people around him seemed to be hurrying home to prepare for the New Year celebrations, but James ignored them. He just stood staring out over the slowly changing countryside. It was New Year’s Eve, 1885 and he felt glad that the year had ended. 

Minutes passed before he turned, brushed the snow from the bench and sat down, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets. His eyes never leaving the now, snow-covered playing field.

His concentration was interrupted by an elderly woman who had walked past him, stopped, and returned to stand in front of him.

“Ay love, you can’t stay here.  It’ll be dark soon and the wind’ll pick-up.  You’ll catch your death.  Do you want me to give you a hand home lad?”  But James smiled and quietly thanked her.

The snow slowly started to cover his cap and overcoat as he began to go back over the days and weeks he had met and courted Mary; a dark haired, rather beautiful young woman who had been out shopping in Chelmsford, where he worked as a bank clerk. 

They had met by chance, well he thought so, on a Friday.  He had just delivered the days mail to the Post Office, when a motor bicycle back-fired, causing everyone to turn and look. At that moment they had collided on the pavement and after helping her to her feet, apologized to her and asked after her health.

“My sincere apologies Miss, please forgive me, I was not looking where I was going.”

She thanked him and explained that she was not hurt.  But James, not used to encountering young women panicked, and blurted out that “after an accident, one should drink a sweet cup of tea.”

It was her large brown eyes that suddenly made James feel strangely different. 

“There’s a tea house just around the corner on Duke Street.  I would be honoured if you’d allow me to make sure that you are alright Miss.”

They stood in the middle of the pavement just staring at each other, then she seemed to come to a decision, smiled, and took back one of her packages James had picked up. 

“Thank you, Sir, I would like that.”

They sat in the crowded tea shop for nearly an hour and talked about nothing and everything until a rather grumpy serving maid asked if they wanted another tea in a tone that suggested they had overstayed their welcome. 

James suddenly realized that his boss back at the bank, would be wondering where he had been.

“Look, I am so sorry Miss, but I must get back to work, but would you think it impertinent if I asked to see you again?”

“I’d like that very much.  Thank you.  When?”

“Would this Sunday be suitable, say 2 o’clock in the grounds of the cathedral here in Chelmsford?”

He remembered how, as he held open the door for her. He had blurted out that he did not know her name.

She seemed to hesitate at first.  “Mary Buckingham, and yours Sir?”

“James, James Clayton Miss, and I very much look forward to Sunday…. Mary.”

The temperature in October was near freezing but it did not bother them. They met outside the cathedral's West Door and held hands as they strolled through the grounds and out into the town.  This time he recalled they spoke of where they lived; their families and what they did for a living.

“Papa works in Whitehall, and I have two brothers and two sisters.  Sadly, I’m the youngest and so must keep Mama company.”

James, realising that his newfound lady-friend was part of the gentry and if things become serious between them, it may become a problem, but said nothing, allowing her to tell him her past, rather than bombard her with questions.

“And you, my love?”

“I work in a bank and have a sister who is five years older than me.  She used to care for me until I reached the age of twenty-one, then she moved up north, Carlisle I understand, and married a farmer.”

“And what does your Papa do?”

“He was a librarian.”

“Was?”

“Yes. My Ma and Pa were killed in a train crash six years back.”

It dawned upon him as he sat on the bench covered in snow, that their relationship had grown quickly, as did the questions about where he worked and the daily routine of the banking staff, but realized that when you were in love, the obvious didn’t always become clear.

They would always meet in Chelmsford, and after spending three or four hours enjoying the town and each other's company, she would insist that she would take a handsome cab back home after seeing him safely on the train back to Hatfield Peverel. 

Sometimes they would meet on a Saturday, when she would visit various shops to pick-up parcels for her Mama.  James didn’t mind, as long as he spent time with his Mary.

He gradually became aware of the cold wind that had picked up around him as he sat on the bench.  His thoughts settled on Saturday 17^th November.  They had decided to go to the music hall on Waterloo Lane. To watch the 2 o’clock matinee.  When the matinee had finished, Mary explained that she had to pick up a package from a tobacco shop, about a hundred yards down from his bank. 

When they turned the corner, they were stopped by a police constable and after questioning the officer, discovered that his bank had just been robbed and the area was cordoned off.  James quickly explained that he worked at the bank and demanded that he be permitted to pass, but the constable refused. 

Mary had insisted that as he could do nothing, they proceeded to the tobacco shop to pick up her mother’s parcel before it closed. 

Mary became concerned that the shop would be closed and that her mother would scold her, but as they approached the shop, the tobacconist quickly opened the shop door, handed her two parcels, and then closed the door, without saying a word.  James thought this behavior strange but didn’t question it. Then, as they walked to Liverpool Street station, he noticed that she kept looking over her shoulder, and again, though strange, didn’t question her.

It was as they approached the barrier to the platform that things became confused.  James, who had been carrying the two parcels was stopped by one of the station masters and asked where he and the young lady had been.

As James started to answer the man’s questions, the whistle blew on their platform.  Instantly Mary grabbed the two parcels from James and ran for the moving train. The station master and James stood bewildered at Mary’s behavior, then a police constable came rushing up.

“Was that her Fred?”

“Could be, but don’t worry, we can board the train at Hatfield Peverel.  Excuse me while I make a telephone call.  I’ll get my boys to call your chaps and they can board the train and arrest her and her ill-gotten gains.”

The police surrounded the train as it pulled into Hatfield Peverel and stayed on it until they had searched the train, but they never found her.

At an inquiry, it was discovered that the thieves had a thorough knowledge of the layout of the bank and what type of safe it had.  Then the damming indictment came out, that James had been identified as an accomplice to the robbery. Even though he pleaded his innocence, the inquiry still found him guilty by association.  He lost his job and the woman he had fallen in love with.

The snow was falling heavier now, and the bench he sat on was totally covered in a deep soft layer of snow. As James slowly glanced around at his surroundings, a figure moved in front of him.  Thinking it was the kind old woman returning, he looked up at her and realized that it was Mary.

“Mary my love, what are you doing here?”

“I had to come and see you.  To explain what happened.”

“It’s alright. I’m fine, but the police could not find you.  The newspapers said that you simply vanished. What happened?”

“Not a lot of people know, but just before Hatfield Peverel, there is a private stop for the folk who work at Boreham House. That was where I got off the train, met Mama and gave her the money we stole from your bank.  That is why they never found me. I’m so sorry I got you into trouble.”

He tried to reach out to her but found that he could not move his arm.

Mary realized that he was close to death, sat down next to him took his hand, and held it.  “Don’t worry my love, I will stay with you forever.

The following morning, James was found dead on the bench.  Frozen to death.  Beside him was an imprint where someone had sat with him for most of the night.  After an extensive search, no one could remember seeing this person, who seemed to have simply vanished in the night.

Copyright Bob French

 The Year is 2224

By Jane Goodhew

 

No-one thought this year would come because back in 2024 the world was in a deeply sorry state. Most countries were at war blaming religion when usually it was greed for more land, oil, minerals, or plain power. Those that were not at war had to let in the refugees who poured in like water through a sieve, but resources were becoming short as were the locals’ tempers. There seemed to be no end to the grief as those that just wanted to have a better life flocked like sheep across the sea heading towards Europe and the soft centred or guilt-ridden UK. They were not all from war torn countries some just jumped on the band wagon hoping to better themselves and escape a life of poverty. In the UK the weather was changing and winters were now milder than records had ever known and that meant rain and floods as greed had allowed people to build on flood plains and too close to rivers or streams so they could have scenic views instead of overcrowding and being overlooked like those in the city.  Over the years the government and local councils had stopped draining the rivers or cleaning out the ditches, drains over filled with debris, leaves, and obstacles that should never have been put into the system. Meetings took place throughout the world with each leader promising this that and the other as they discussed global warming and ways to combat it but still the winds grew stronger, and the USA had more snow than they had ever seen, the UK was blasted with gales and heavy rain that caused more flooding and destruction.

The councils kept on building more even on green belt and uprooting woodlands to make room for homes to keep the refugees from living in tents and shanty towns and to house those who could no longer live in their beautiful homes for fear of more floods or insurance companies refusing to cover them. Certain areas were becoming overcrowded and civil war broke out between the have and have nots. Looting was commonplace and homes were more like fortresses with bars at the windows and so many locks and bolts that Fort Knox would have been easier to enter.

People were becoming ill with flu like symptoms that went on for months; mothers were giving birth to deformed children as Zika adapted itself to live happily in the mosquito and therefore spread rapidly throughout South America and beyond. Young women were asked not to get pregnant but Brazil where the latest outbreak had been found were mostly Catholic so were you going to tell the Pope not to pray? Pharmaceutical companies desperately raced against time to produce vaccines but none were found and soon it became a pandemic and it looked as if the world would come to an end if they could not find a cure as the babies being born would not be able to look after themselves as their brains were too small and many would die soon after birth.  Those that lived were dependent on others to survive but worse was to come as all childhood illnesses returned with a vengeance.  Diseases that they thought had been wiped out began to reappear but this time there was no getting rid of them, measles, typhoid, smallpox, diphtheria, polio, even the bubonic plague. Those that did not die often wished they had as gigantic size rats roamed the streets living off rotting corpses as the undertakers could not keep up with the demand.  The crematorium was stock piling bodies and working 24/7 trying to cope with the ever-increasing flow. There was extraordinarily little land now as everything had become a concrete jungle of roads and houses or offices, the rivers were polluted, the air filled with smog and people who had to venture out gasped and struggled to breath

The government sent out warnings for those with health problems to stay indoors but by now that was the majority.  Death suddenly seemed preferable to life and as if in answer to their prayer the earth was hit by a meteorite which set off a tsunami that destroyed everything and everyone in its path.  Volcanoes that had lain dormant for centuries began to erupt;  earthquakes killed thousands as the land shook and buildings that had stood for centuries toppled, nature was finishing off what humans had begun.

Total annihilation of planet Earth or so it would appear but as I am writing this in the year 2224 there were a few that had survived and began again.  Life is simpler now, we no longer have all the utilities that you all took for granted, no labour saving devices to help keep the house clean or cooking easier.  We own small holdings and grow our own fruit and vegetables and keep a few animals for milk and eggs.  We work by bartering with the neighbour for what we want and have done such as building or making clothes, each putting their own skills to good use.  People seem to be happier now that the stress of modern living is gone and unlikely to return as much of the earth is uninhabitable now and travel virtually a thing of the past.  No aeroplanes certainly no space ships.  We thought that by now instead of holidays in the Caribbean we would be zooming off to Venus or Mars and robots would be doing all the work whilst we just swanned around enjoying our freedom of the planets.  So much for progress and futuristic dreams of living like the Jetsons or even going to the Caribbean.

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD 2

 THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD (part2 & Last) 

By Richard Banks

Kevin walked up the garden path closely followed by O’Shea who insisted on carrying his rucksack. The front door was ajar and on Kevin tentatively pushing it open a few inches they peered into the gloomy interior of a hallway lit only by the open door and the skylight above. Three interior doors that might, if open, have provided further light were firmly shut.

         O’Shea gave the door knocker a rap to make clear their arrival and, when no one appeared, called out, “anyone at home?” The silence that followed seemed proof that no one was. “Strange,” muttered O’Shea, “he’s expecting you, he can’t be far.”

         “Who?” Said Kevin.

         “The odd fellow. The one I told you about who paid me to drive you. Surely you know him?”

         Kevin didn’t know him, any more than he knew O’Shea, who he regarded with increasing suspicion. Perhaps, he thought, this is what he did, attach himself to people coming-off the ferry on the pretence of being sent to meet them. If so, he was definitely up to no good, or was he deranged? 

         “Perhaps we should go in,” said O’Shea. “An open door’s as good as an invitation around here. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

         By way of encouragement, O’Shea eased his way past Kevin and set down his rucksack on the floor beside a wickerwork chair on which there was an envelope. Finding it addressed to himself he wasted no time in peeling it open and finding the bonus he had been promised. “Good man,” he murmured, slipping the bank notes within into an inside pocket of his jacket. It had been a long drive and the young man had been little company during that time. What’s more he was soaked through, with rain or sea he knew not. At least he didn’t smell of piss. Nevertheless he had ponged out the car, filling it with dank, smelly air that misted up the windscreen. He was glad to be rid of him. Only the expectation of his bonus had prompted O’Shea to come into the house, and now that he had it he couldn’t wait to be off. He sensed his fare would also be glad to see him leave, so leave he did, making his exit with as much bonhomie as he could muster.

         Kevin shut the door behind him and took a deep breath. An empty house, with no one to welcome him, was the last thing he expected. He decided to check out each room, one by one. In the absence of the ‘odd fellow,’ he might at least find an envelope addressed to himself. Thank goodness it was daylight, how much worse this would be if it were dark. He began in the front room in which there was a settee, two armchairs, a table and chairs. He took a deep breath. Old fashioned stuff to be sure, all of it much older than himself, but nonetheless the normal stuff of normal people. There was also a wall unit with smoked glass doors through which could be seen glasses and tableware. Around the carpet was a broad corridor of something he thought was called lino which he had once seen in the house of a great-uncle. There was no TV. An open fireplace laid with logs appeared to be the principal, if only source of heating. Everything was clean and tidy, nothing out of place, the brass railing around the hearth almost gleaming in the sunlight now streaming through sash-cord windows.

         He moved on to the next room further down the hallway and found it as antiquated as the first. But this one he liked better, two of its walls taken up with shelves overflowing with books. He glanced at the titles on their spines and found much on music: academic critiques, biographies of composers - some great, some less so, some he didn’t know - and the music itself in hardback volumes. There was also a piano, a Steinway, and on the lid that folded down over the notes an envelope with his name on. He took another deep breath and with fingers all of a quiver extracted the single sheet of paper within. On it were less than ten words, ‘Be back soon. Make yourself at home,’ followed by the writer’s name, ‘Desmond Bonner’.

         Kevin’s heart already pounding skipped a beat; he felt strangely exhilarated and at the same time apprehensive as to what was to follow. His intuition, his ridiculously optimistic intuition, had been right. The man who was his father was still living within the bounds of the parish church where, eighteen years before, he had married his mother. She had never admitted to being married, had never once spoken his name but he had found a copy of the certificate among her papers. Of his father’s life before or thereafter Kevin could find no trace but one clue was better than none and what choice did he have but to give it a try. If anyone had the answers he wanted surely it would be his father.

 

                                                  *****

 

Desmond observed the young man exploring his house. His courage, such as it was, had deserted him and the event he had been longing for now seemed fraught with difficulties. Nevertheless, he had never lost hope that this day would happen. That’s why three years ago he had struck a deal with the man called Badger, who worked on the ferry, that if ever they had a passenger by the name of Kevin Bonner he was to let him know right away on the telephone he had fitted for that purpose. He had promised him fifty pounds for that call and although there was no guarantee that the boy would come he knew that if he did it would be between his fourteenth and eighteenth birthdays. That’s when his own changeling powers had shown themselves, just as it had with his father and the fathers before.

         Of course he should never have taken up with the boy’s mother, he should have contented himself with Aileen or Coleen. They were like him. But he couldn’t help himself, had eyes only for the big city girl from across the sea. He never told her what he was, was too scared of losing her. Then she came to be with child and of course he had to do right by her. That’s when he should have told her what he was, but he delayed, and procrastinated as he always did. Best to tell her after the marriage, he told himself, maybe after the child was born. After all they were to be married for better or worse, that’s what the vows would say. It was the warts and all agreement that all married couples made. And anyway, did he not love her more than any other man. He would make her happy, so happy that when he did tell her it would make no difference. He was a man, above all else a man, surely she would see that, and all would be well. But he never did summon up the courage to tell her and when, three months later, she saw him let slip and for a few seconds morph into that motor cycle, the one he wanted so much but couldn’t afford, the marriage was as good as over and she disappeared to lord knows where with their unborn son, never to return.

         What, he wondered, had she said about him to their child? Not much, he thought. She had said little to him, her husband, before she left; the look of revulsion on her face saying more than words could ever do. So what now was he to say? The young man would have questions, many questions. Probably best to let him ask them and answer as best he could. But some questions he had no answer to, the how and why questions. All he could tell him was that it came down through the generations, that it was a gift as well as a curse and that they were not the only ones. Yes, that was important, he would need to know about the others; there were at least forty of them in the farms and villages nearby. Some of them Bonners, others Leary or O’Brien, two Patterson's and a Riley. They were good folks and when the lad met them perhaps he would be minded to stay for awhile, maybe longer. Aileen and Colleen both had daughters now, pretty girls, clever too. He might take a shine to one of them and they to him. He was not a bad looking boy, as most Bonners were. A chip off the old block, no doubt about that, and judging by the way he had lingered over his books and piano they might have more in common than just their looks.

         But before all that could happen he had to pluck up his courage and stop being the proverbial fly on the wall. Of course he was nervous, this was what he had been waiting for all these years; maybe his only chance to make things right. He would fly down to the front door, change into himself, and pretend he had just come in. What then? Would a handshake be sufficient? Should he call him, son? He had rehearsed all this, and thought he had it right; now he wasn’t sure. Perhaps best just to go with the flow. If nothing else he must show he cared.

         The lad was in the kitchen now. A good place, none better, he would be needing a warm drink, a good meal, and a tot of whiskey afterwards. Was he old enough for whiskey?

         His son! At last he had his son. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks

THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD 1

 THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD  (part 1 of 2) 

By Richard Banks 

When Kevin Bonner left his home in the early evening of the summer solstice no one knew where he was headed or why. That he took his passport spoke of his intention of travelling abroad. But when no trace of him was found on the passenger lists of airports and cross Channel ferries the search for him went no further than Cromer where the family had a holiday home. His mother feared that he had been abducted but the orderly manner of his departure indicated that this was not so. He had packed his rucksack with over forty items of clothing and toiletry, plus his wallet which - it was assumed - contained the three hundred pounds he had withdrawn from his bank account. His debit card and mobile phone he had not taken. As the use of these would have revealed the places through which he was bound it seems likely that the leaving of them was no oversight.

         Had he been younger than his seventeen years the police search for him would have been more thorough and details given to newspapers and TV, but as the police sergeant said, he was almost a man and had evidently left of his own free will. Perhaps, he surmised, the young man was anxious about the exam he was due to take, or upset by the lovers tiff that seems to have happened.  Whatever the reason he would likely be back home in the next few days or weeks. The three hundred pounds he had would not last long. If he was still missing by the end of the week his photograph would be added to the police database of missing persons with a request that if located he should be approached to ensure his physical and mental well-being.

         Mrs Bonner was far from pleased. They could at least have spoken to Leila. That girl knew more than she was letting on, and wouldn’t even admit that they had fallen out, but they had. Of this, Mrs Bonner was more than sure. Why else had he returned home early that evening with a face as long as a kite and an expression on it that she took for grief; but not just grief. Did she also see fear and confusion? She wasn’t sure.   

                                           *****

Leila sat on her bed and shuddered. On a warm summer’s evening her body felt as cold as ice. Even now she struggled to believe what she had seen, but what choice did she have? After all, she wasn’t on dope. She saw things as they were, and besides it wasn’t just a matter of seeing, there was also what she had heard and felt. Perhaps what happened was a punishment from God. She didn’t believe in God, but something unearthly had happened and given a choice she would rather that God was the reason for it than Satan. A third possibility occurred to her, that Kev was an alien undertaking biological research on the human race, but even for her this was a stretch too far. She had known him from kindergarten, and anyway, he played violin and piano and aliens don’t do that kind of thing, at least not the ones she had seen in films. Anyhow, it stood to reason he would look different, and having observed him in his entirety Kev was as human as all her other boyfriends. So that left God or Satan, Kev being the human conduit through which one or the other worked their magic - like the turning of him into a violin.

         That this was as much a surprise to him as it was to her was plainly evident from the expression on his face when the music stopped and he went back to being Kev. “Get off me!” she screamed, and he did, falling over the side of the bed onto the floor, where he hastily retrieved his clothes before leaving, his lips quivering as though attempting to say something, but he was too stunned to make it happen. An hour later her parents came back from the cinema and she had to act as if nothing had happened. This she was well use to doing but this time it was different; no one but no one must know, not even the girls at college. Of course, if Kev chose to spill the beans there would be nothing she could do to stop him but it was his word against hers and she would deny all, make it sound as though he was deranged. After all who would believe him if he said what really happened. That would be a one way ticket to the funny farm. No way would he risk that. Best she say as little as possible, even to the girls. They would be wanting to know everything that had taken place but would soon lose interest when she said he was no better than a six. Not worth bothering with she would say dismissively and hopefully none of them would.

 

                                            *****  

 

Kevin’s mood was as black as the clouds filling-up the evening sky; the east wind chasing them along stirring up the sea now buffeting the Pride of Birkenhead. At least it wasn’t raining, he thought, then it was, and he reluctantly joined the other passengers on-deck taking cover in a crowded mall in which there were two fast food restaurants, a pub, and a gift shop. This was the last thing he needed; his nerves were at breaking point. There were too many people, too much noise. For a few moments he was almost overwhelmed by it all, then he saw the toilets and took refuge there locking himself into one of the cubicles.

         The sea was getting rougher, the ferry shifting one way and then another, sending him tottering against the partition wall. He sat down on the toilet lid, peeling-off his rucksack and pushing it against the door. Outside, too close to ignore, the rest of the toilet was rapidly filling with his fellow passengers, who having eaten or drunk since leaving the mainland were now regretting that they had. The cubical doors were opening and banging shut as they either vomited or defecated the half digested food within them. Never had he felt more in need of an aerosol. He pictured the one at home that sat on top of the lavatory system and emitted an odour called Blossom Delight. But no, this he mustn’t do; he had to repress his thoughts because if he didn’t his thoughts sometimes became him and everything got weirder than weird.

         He remembered the first time it had happened. He had been walking in the woods, bird spotting, when he saw a Crested Lark, four hundred miles north of where it should have been, sitting on a tree stump as if offering itself for a photo opportunity. But he had no camera, had inexplicably left it at home. He berated himself for doing so. He always took his camera with him when bird spotting. How could he have forgotten it?  At that moment he wanted that camera so badly that he became it, saw the bird through the viewfinder, but without fingers to manipulate the controls could only watch it fly away. That had been a month ago. He told himself that this transformation had never happened. How could it have happened? No, it was nothing but his imagination, a hallucination, which while worrying in itself did at least make sense. He had been studying hard for his music exam, not sleeping well. It was a warning that he needed to ease off a little, and if he did, all would be back to normal. At least, he hoped so.

         Then it happened again. He was watching Top Gun 2 in his bedroom wishing he could be as cool as Tom Cruise when suddenly he was Tom Cruise, glimpsing him in his bedroom mirror through eyes very much connected to Kevin Bonner’s brain. He tried to keep the moment going but was glad he couldn’t when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of his mother with his laundry. But that was as nothing compared to the catastrophe with Leila. Had he turned into Tom Cruise on that occasion the change would, no doubt, have been much to her approval, not that she seemed unappreciative of his energetic, if inexpert, efforts to open his account. He was almost there when his passion for Leila became strangely confused with his love for the violin and the concerto he had been practising. The look of horror on her face he would never forget. Life as he knew it was over, maybe for her too. What came next, he had no idea. There were different rules now and he needed someone to explain them, someone who had been there, done it, a father figure like the father he had never known, whom mother never spoke of. By the time he got home, he had a half-baked plan verging on the crazy, but any plan was better than none.

         Someone was hammering on the cubical door almost pleading to be let in and Tristan’s overloaded brain was vibrating like a bomb about to explode. He took a deep breath. He must be in control, think nothing mad, no thoughts of bombs, he must concentrate on everyday doing things, like getting out of this awful place. No matter how bad the weather he was better off on deck. He needed to be alone.

 

                                           *****               

 

 

It was raining again, and after parking up in the free car park at the back of the library, O’Shea was now in the Old Port Inn looking out through a bay window at the harbour below. He was to meet a passenger off the overnight ferry and drive him to the old mill house by the river just off the Mundon road. It was an odd sort of place, a brick-on-stone patchwork, a mile from town, and no one knew much about the fellow who lived there and worked the fields nearby.

         He had come knocking on his door the previous evening with a job for the morning. “How much to the ferry and back?” he asked, without so much as a word of introduction. He was, thought O’Shea, a queer fellow to be sure, but on being given a price he paid-up in advance and promised him a bonus if all went well.

          It was not the first time that O’Shea had picked up someone from the harbour. Normally the arrangement was to meet the fare by the lifeboat station, but this one had no idea he was to be collected. He was a young fellow, he had been told, name of Kevin, carrying a rucksack and dressed in a khaki jacket and jeans. It was not much of a description, there would be other young men like that; he would need to be sharp and spot him on the pier or in the terminal building. Once out of there, he could well disappear into the press of folk waiting to meet people off the ferry or board the trip back. This had happened to O’Shea once before and he was determined not to let it happen again. He had written Kevin’s name on a piece of cardboard and would hold it up, shouting out his name just to be sure. The bonus that had been mentioned might be a generous one, no way was he going to risk that.  

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

ALEXA Part One By Peter Woodgate

 ALEXA Part One

By Peter Woodgate

Guilty!

I have fallen in love with Alexa

Her voice is so sublime,

She does whatever I ask her

No matter what the time.

Even though I’m slightly deaf

She’s able to consume,

My frustrations dealt with

When turning up her tune.

She has tremendous knowledge,

Plays music from my list,

Reminds me of deliveries

So that I do not miss.

Despite my constant asking,

She doesn’t get annoyed,

She’s just pleased to help me

I am so over- joyed.

She doesn’t ask for anything,

As long as she’s plugged in,

And should I fail my daily tasks

To her it is no sin.

In fact, she is, just perfect,

Relieves me of all strife,

I think I’m gonna marry her,

Once I’ve divorced my wife.

 

PS If she sees this I’m in trouble.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Haunted House 3

 Aspirations 

By Janet Baldey 

As they rounded the bend, Mr Osmond stopped gratefully and gestured towards the house, visible for the first time.  He opened his mouth.  

          “There we are. Isn’t it grand?” The words came out as a chesty wheeze but sensing,  rather than seeing, the couple exchanged glances, he carried on regardless, his voice gaining strength.  “I know what you’re thinking but visualise it as it could be. With the gardens tidied up and the ivy stripped away. Now look again, at its beautiful lines.  I assure you; you won’t get a better bargain in this part of the country.”

Emily Farquerson glanced at the brochure, refreshing her memory….six bedrooms, two large sitting rooms, a turreted library on the first floor and a south-facing façade. Looking up, she narrowed her eyes and suddenly the unkempt garden with its shaggy rhododendron bushes, faded away and a trim, emerald lawn with islands of rose bushes took its place. 

“But why is it so ….” She was about to say cheap but stopped herself, just in time…” reasonable?”

               The agent shrugged, “the owner specifically asked that it should go to a family.  I think he was remembering his own time as a husband and father and wanted the house to ring with the sound of childish laughter again.”  He sighed, dramatically.  “Sad really.  He never wanted to leave but circumstances….”  He shrugged, leaving the couple to imagine those circumstances.   “Come, I’ll show you the inside.  It needs freshening up but it has bags of potential.”

A gentle smile softened the lines of anxiety on Mrs Farquerson’s face as she tucked her hand underneath her husband’s crooked elbow.  House hunting had been exciting at first but after a while, it became a chore; how wonderful it was that now their search was over.  At last, they’d found the perfect home.  She glanced back at the red-brick Victorian villa with its pointed eaves, watching as the evening sun painted it with amber.   Her smile widened as she imagined the lunch parties and soirees, she would be able to host in its airy sitting room.  On fine days she would open the casement windows to allow the sound of teacups and silvery laughter to spill out onto the lawn. It was fit for the cream of society and what was even better was that at last, she would be the hostess and not a mere guest. She preened at the thought. 

“Isn’t it lovely my dear.  So spacious, a piano will fit well in the main sitting room and the turreted room will make a perfect library.”

Henry Farquerson grunted and his wife shot a look at him, anxious for him to agree with her.  After all, thanks to the legacy he’d been left, they could well afford it.

“Is anything wrong dear?  Just think how good it will be for the children to live in a house like this.   They’ll be able to have their friends around all the time.”  Reading Mr Farquerson’s expression, she realised she’d made a tactical error and added a softener.  “And because the house is so large, we won’t be able to hear a thing.” Her voice quivered, surely Henry wasn’t going to be difficult.

“It’s the smell.” He said at last.  “There must be  a problem with the drains.  We’ll have to get them checked.”

There was no problem.  The drains were fine and after his wife had promised to air the place thoroughly and use a judicious amount of Glade, the sale went ahead.

Mrs Farquerson, was not idle during the wait to move in.  With the help of a fat brochure from Liberty’s, she picked out fabric and colour schemes for all the rooms, paying special attention to Tom’s room.  She decided on light blue figured wallpaper and a walnut bedroom suite.  She half toyed with the idea of art deco before discarding it in favour of something plainer and more masculine.  She thought fondly of her eldest.  Such a fine boy, sturdy and athletic with rosy cheeks and a mop of dark brown hair, he was a son to be proud of. Captured In a moment  of maternal pride, she added a glass-fronted cabinet to hold all the trophies he would be bound to acquire. 

As for Sophie, pink would do.  A gentle, feminine colour as befits a daughter who would surely make a good marriage in due course. 

 

Three months later, Emily Farquerson gazed out of her bedroom window at a mournful drizzle soaking the garden.   Her spirits matched the weather as she ruminated that since they’d moved in everything had gone wrong.  Primarily the smell. No matter how hard their charlady scrubbed, it had deepened.  It now permeated the whole house forcing both herself and Sophie to go around with handkerchiefs soaked in lavender water pressed against their noses.   The expression on Henry’s face grew thunderous and the stench, nauseating at times, put paid to Emily’s dreams of rising in society. There  was no way she could invite anyone to a delicate tea or musical evening, not even, according to the charlady as she gave notice, a stray cat.

She dabbed at a teardrop and watched the rain flood the lawn. At last, it lessened and Emily stirred.  She decided to take herself off for a walk.  Perhaps it would cheer her up. She would stroll to the pier and back, maybe she would see one of her friends and take tea in a café.

Hours later, refreshed in both body and mind Emily returned.  Her friends had convinced her that her problems were mere teething troubles and would soon be forgotten. Her spirits rose even further as she looked at the house outlined against the backdrop of a charcoal-coloured sky. What a fine place it was. 

She noticed that Tom’s room was in darkness, and smiled.  He was obviously in the games room downstairs playing Ludo with his sister, or maybe in the main sitting room, practising scales on the piano.  How lucky he was to have a choice.  But as she grew nearer, her smile faltered.  There seemed to be a strange orange shape bobbing in the window.  From a distance, it looked a bit like a face, except that it had no features.  She stared harder and her smile disappeared completely.  Why, it didn’t seem to be Tom’s room at all!  Glossy, dull brown paint had taken the place of the blue wallpaper, and the shape of the furniture was different, blockier, and more old-fashioned.   Suddenly, her heart started to beat faster and she began to run.  Bursting through the door, she raced up the stairs and threw open the door to her son’s room. 

“Eh, what’s up Mum?”

Confused, Emily froze.  She blinked at her son, who  lay in bed blinking back at her.  She looked around.  Everything was as it should be. The new furniture gleamed in the glow of a rosy fire flickering in the grate,  the dark blue curtains were drawn against the night and pictures of Tom playing sport adorned the walls.

At last, she found her voice. 

“Nothing dear, I just wondered how you were?”

“I’m OK.  Just a bit under the weather and I felt like an early night.”

She crossed over to him and caressed his forehead.  It was quite cool but she thought he was a trifle pale.

She smoothed his covers and tucked him in securely. She would like to have kissed him but didn’t want to turn him into a cissy.

“You have a nice rest dear.  I’ll bring you up some hot milk when I go to bed.” 

Months later, Emily sat at her desk playing with her pen and staring into space.  She was wondering if she really wanted to arrange the first of her soirees.  She was sure the smell had disappeared, she hadn’t noticed it for weeks and both Sophie and Henry had stopped, complaining. She ruminated on the  fact that she hadn’t seen either of them for days. Maybe Henry had disappeared into his study and Sophie was probably in her bedroom. 

Emily thought back to when she’d last spoken to her. It was just after breakfast last Tuesday.  “Mummy,” her daughter had said, “have you noticed how thin Tommy has got.  Is there anything wrong with him?”

To her shame, Emily hadn’t but just at that moment, Tom’s bedroom door opened and he appeared.  Sophie was right, she decided.  He was much thinner, and seemed to float down the stairs rather than bound as he usually did. 

Emily wasn’t worried.   She decided she liked the shape of the new Tom. Before he’d been carrying too much weight and she hated fat boys.  Now he looked more interesting, a bit like a young Lord Byron.  So, she’d reassured Sophie and had gone back to her dream of rising in society.

Since then, she hadn’t seen any of them but didn’t mind at all.   She found that she liked being alone and decided it was because of the house. She had been kept so busy, tending to its needs, and making everything just so. What’s more, she felt and appreciated it.   She didn’t know why she felt this but it was a nice feeling and one that made her want to melt into its walls and become part of it.

 

Once more, Mr Osmond laboured up the drive to the front of the house.  He stood staring at the front bedroom carefully counting the orange-coloured globes bobbing against its panes.

“Good,” he grunted.  “Four of them.  It’s time to produce another brochure.”

He looked again at the house, especially appreciating its new layer of windows.  To think, that once it had consisted of just one storey. Now, he could truthfully describe it as a mansion in the brochure.   He smiled and tipped his hat at the house giving credit where it was due. It was, as they say, a good little earner.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

          

          

 

         

          

 BEDLAM

By Peter Woodgate

Dark the night, so too his thoughts,

ghastly visions and loneliness combine,

then dawn, with all its glory breaks

alas, this fails to calm the mind

of the soul locked in a detached sphere,

just why? The doctors are unsure,

the diagnosis is not clear.

And so, the patient sits and stares,

a blank expression on his face,

sometimes he stands and walks the room

a slow and melancholy pace.

Scrambled numbers on the door

like prison bars restrict the soul,

the body too and will ensure confinement.

Twenty years, to date, I’m told

and find it hard to understand

whilst looking at the world today

I’m fearful, in profound dismay.

I guess this crazy soul, like I

cannot understand just why

mankind is heading into Hell

to leave miasma in the sky,

what fate we face? Just time will tell.

Since Adam first walked on this Earth

mankind has chosen war, not peace

for greed consumes the heart and mind

forgetting that this world we lease.

We have been warned, some will ignore,

it matters not, for rich or poor.

This chap, without a shout,

has shown me what it’s all about

I find, that now, I am like him

and can’t accept the state we’re in.

So, lock me up, think I am mad,

I’ll think of you and will be sad

For this asylum knows the truth,

and all outside are crass, uncouth.        

Copyright Peter Woodgate