INDECISION

By Richard Banks 

Elections are not for the indecisive. For the afflicted - me included - they are a multi-choice torture equivalent to being stretched on the rack or roasted over a red hot fire. It’s bad enough when the choice is between one or the other but there are at least six of them, parties I mean, saying different things and appearing not to get on. If only it was a matter of deciding which party has the best policies – whatever they are – but it seems that should you get it wrong you’re not just guilty of voting into office a party less suited to govern but one that will wreck the economy and bring civilisation crashing to an end!

         It’s all too difficult; I shouldn’t be asked to decide. Nevertheless I will do my democratic duty and endeavour to make an informed decision. So, that’s why I’m sat in front of the TV for the first of the candidates’ debates.

         My first sensation is of relief. It seems that all I have to do is choose between a weaselly looking man who intermittently morphs into a Rottweiler or one who could be a body double for Fozzie Bear. There is a studio audience who ask questions and a lady who tells off the candidates  when they keep on talking after she has told them not to. But at the start it’s all sweetness and light, the candidates smile ingratiatingly at the audience and when one of them asks a question they call the questioner by his or her first name like he knows them and wants to be their new best friend. The audience stare back like parents meeting an unsuitable young man who wants to marry their daughter.

         The candidates are of the opinion that although they are no longer young they are, at least, suitable and attempt to convince the audience of this by telling little stories about themselves. They both have parents who were [and hopefully still are] paragons of virtue who brought up their sons to be the fine upstanding chaps they are today. The bear discloses the information that his father was a toolmaker which in less salubrious company might not be considered a recommendation. Perhaps fearing this to be a tactical error he endeavours to give the impression that his father was so unsuccessful in this endeavour that he was unable to pay the family’s telephone bill. The weasel sensing the odium of unpaid bills tells the audience that the bear man and his party want to increase everyone’s tax by thousands and thousands of pounds and make them so poor they won’t be able to pay any of their bills. The bear man at first looks thoughtful as though he hadn’t quite realised that this would be the effect of his policies but later gets really narky with the weasel who he says is making it all up.

         At this point they not only talk too much but also at the same time which really gets the goat of the lady, who nonetheless manages not to turn into one. When it calms down the weasel decides to tell everyone that he has a plan. He says this in a jubilant way reminiscent of Prince Monolulu, a racing tipster, who use to appear at the Derby each year proclaiming “I’ve gotta horse.”  Sartorially the weasel is much less colourful than Prince Monolulu and not so much fun. Indeed, no fun at all according to the bear who since their disagreement over tax is more Grizzly than Fozzie. At the end of the debate the bear walks over to the weasel and just when I think they are going to fight to the death and make all choice between them unnecessary they smile and shake hands.

         So, it’s one out of two I’m thinking, that shouldn’t be too difficult but then it is; the programme’s not over, there are four more candidates waiting to make their pitch – three dogs and a bird. This time the format’s different, they are interviewed separately which doesn’t stop them talking too long as well as answering their own questions instead of the ones they’re been asked.

         First up is a sparky Jack Russell who would much rather be having fun falling-off surf boards or riding fairground attractions than sitting in a TV studio talking serious stuff about politics. Nevertheless he smiles throughout his interrogation and just to prove he’s not barking mad explains that the cost of his policies - having less elastic budgets than those of the last two parties – will definitely put-up taxes. However, if he should be at the helm when the ship of state goes down we will all have lots of fun frolicking in the sea.

         Next on is a Dobermann Pinscher whose leader is this blokey self-made man who, when not at home, is often to be found in his ‘local’, or someone else’s local, sampling the real ales on offer. The Dobermann is a self satisfied sort of a dog who is convinced that the world would be a much better place if everyone was just like him. Global warming doesn’t exist and all that is necessary to ensure prosperity for the nation is to allow dogs like himself, and chaps like his master, to make as much money as they can with a minimum of regulation. He growls in unfriendly fashion at the next dog who is a Border Collie representing a party you can only vote for in Scotland. Quite what he’s doing south of the border on a show watched mainly by Sassenachs not even he is too sure but he submits to the experience with the indulgent good humour of a missionary in a far off land who’s been invited to take part in a bizarre, but harmless, ritual. He plays along with an easy charm that suggests there are rituals north of the border more important to his political aspirations. Long gone are the days when his ancestors crossed the border to help steal sheep and crack a few heads. Today he has come in peace and not even the appearance of a turtle-dove, who wants to sit on the seat where he is now sat, is sufficient provocation to make him growl.

         The bird, whose turn it now is, does believe in global warming. He wants to save the Earth and everything in it, even if this does include the Dobermann. He is a dainty bird, with a distinctive livery who speaks in a gentle purr. Despite the cats and humans who have made his kind an endangered species he will continue to persuade all those with ears to listen that only his party can turn down the thermostat and heal the world. True to the instincts of his party it is co-led by himself and a lady turtle-dove.

         The programme ends and I am left to ponder on everything that has been said, which has been much, and as all the animals are equally insistent that they are the best I am as undecided as before. However, there is a body of people much wiser than myself who will, I’m sure, be able to advise me so I will put off my decision until seeing them again at the next meeting of Rayleigh Writers.   

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 THE NIGHT SHE WENT MISSING

By Peter Woodgate 

Tom woke up from a fitful sleep. He had been dreaming about his wife Kate and immediately turned over and reached out to the other side of the bed.

It was where Kate should have been, but it was empty.

He jumped out of bed whilst calling her name but was met with silence. Where was she, he asked himself, and began to panic. A quick look in the other bedrooms gave him no answers and he went downstairs three at a time. The rooms downstairs were empty too and Tom began to shake.

He suffered with his nervous disposition and Kate was his rock. He worried just about everything and it was Kate who would calm him down and sort out the problems he seemed to think were gigantic. ”Well, this was super gigantic," where was Kate? If he didn’t find her the world would end, of this, he was sure.

It was 6am and Tom decided to ring the police. They told him not to panic and said it was too soon to treat this as a missing person and told him they would contact him later in the morning.

This was no good to Tom, he needed answers now and thought of Nosey Nicki from number nine. She had one of those spy cameras, you know shows a range of 50 yards in all directions from the front door. She knew everyone’s business and she, almost certainly, knew something. It was only 6.30 but Tom couldn’t wait and marched over to her door and rang the bell.

The usual trumpet sound blasted out 'And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England’s mountains green'. Within 30 seconds Nicki had answered the door, “What the bloody hell do you want?” She grunted.

She was wearing a flimsy night dress and Tom was surprised and embarrassed thinking, 'she must have had a boob job'. Nicki pulled her nightdress under her chin in order to avert Tom’s gaze as he stuttered the words, “can you have a look at your camera, as Kate seems to have vanished into thin air.”

“Don’t need to have a look at the camera,” Nicki had a wry smile on her face, had enough of you, mate, probably with her fancy man at no 51.

Surprised if you find her there though,” Nosey Nicki was now milking the situation, “I’m sure I heard them talking about a holiday abroad, evening flight if I’m not mistaken.”

Tom returned home and sank into his armchair. He'd had suspicions about Kate for awhile but refused to accept that it was true. She was his rock she wouldn’t leave him now, would she?

It was about 8am when the police arrived and Tom could only explain that Nosey Nicki at number nine seemed to have all the information they needed. Following the visit to number nine the police returned and explained to Tom that they could not take this any further as it appeared to be a domestic break-up. Tom acted heartbroken but thanked them for their visit without mentioning the two patches of disturbed earth by the side of the shed in the garden. Shortly the shed would be extended.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Night she disappeared

 The Night she disappeared

By Christopher Mathews

“The captain who thinks he is master of the sea is a fool. She is a cruel and fickle mistress who cannot be trusted. But once she has cast her spell, holds men in her net of wonder forever." *

Distress flares were seen around midnight somewhere off Old Hobb’s Point. Another ship in trouble was battling a frozen angry sea.

In the year 1859, fierce winter storms battered the Dorset coast, claiming many lives.  A severe storm will snare a weary crew who long to be stowed away at home with his family after a rough Atlantic crossing. An impatient captain, hoping to make for safe anchorage in Poole or Portsmouth may regret pushing his crew too hard. Better to have made for Falmouth and wait the storm out in safety. But a gale can last several weeks and that would cost the captain much of his bounty prize. 

Late in the evening a farmer was searching for lost sheep on the clifftops in spite of the gale. Sometimes, frightened sheep are driven over the precipice in panic during a storm. The stark white outline of the floundering ship was caught as the lightning flashed above Old Hobb’s Stack. The awful sight of the beleaguered ship fighting to keep herself from being gored on the rocks, was forever branded on his mind.

Her shredded sails were useless, as she was being driven before the wind and surf. There would be little chance to tack out to the relative safety of the open sea. It would mean certain death to send his weary crew aloft to set new canvas.

If she could only run before the wind to the safety of Falsehaven Cove, just two miles beyond the point, they may be able to save her. If not, she would be gored on the reef of Old Hobb. Once in his teeth, Old Hobb does not let go.

Falsehaven is no place to overwinter but “any port in a storm” is no metaphor along this rugged coast. Falsehaven is not named thus for no reason.

Leaving his sheep, the farmer ran down into the small fishing village calling,

“Shipwreck, off Old Hobb,” to the small fishermen’s cottages scattered along the street.

Nothing forges such strong bond in a small community as fishermen whose very lives are repeatedly in one another’s hands. The sea calls to each of them for their livelihood, but they each call on one another for their lives.

Branok was the young skipper of his great granfer’s old Dorset fishing Lugger the Henryetta, and crew in the Falsehaven lifeboat.  He was also a brand-new father, just that day. The townsfolk were all celebrating with him in the Luggerman’s Rest. The storm shutters of the tavern were battened down against the gale, it was long after licencing hours. The fishermen of Falsehaven supped on their ale deep into the night.

After midnight, above the sound of the men singing, the chapel bell rang out, a clear and piercing sound, cutting through the gale and the fog of pipe tobacco. It called the Lifeboatmen to trespass once again into the sea’s treacherous domain when she is most angry.

As soon as Branok’s wife heard the bell toll she knew what it could mean for her. Her newborn baby cried, and she nursed her, wrapped in her strong warm embrace. More than ships are dashed on the rocks of Old Harry in a storm. But it would be no use pleading with her husband, she knew him too well. All the wives knew that the fishermen of Dorset are bound to the sea with bonds far stronger and deeper than kin.

On leaving the warmth of the tavern, the men all touched the sign above the inn’s door for good luck, some muttered a prayer, or snatches of a hymn. The sign read, “God save our souls.” Each would need whatever courage God will supply if they were to see their loved ones again before the Great day of Judgement, “when the sea shall give up her dead.” Branok thought of his young wife Endelyn and new daughter Rosenwyn,

“What would become of them if...” But it does not do to dwell on such things before a rescue.

But there were others too, whose greedy eyes were on the floundering ship. They light beacons along the beach, but not to guide her home to safety. They are not intent on saving souls, they have a different prize in mind.

The Wesleyan Chaple, at the high end of Ratline Street looks reproachfully down on the tavern. They stare at one another along the length of that street with unspoken distrust. Both calling the town’s sinners to come and take their very different libations. And so, the words, “God save our souls,” are written above the doors of the chapel too.

The tavern is a conveniently short stagger from the harbour wall, where the boats tie up to unload their catch. But the chapel is a slow, hard climb up the long steep hill of Ratline Street.

On a bright, cloudless, day you can look down on Falsaven Cove from the clifftops, with a score of fishing luggers drying their sails and nets in the gentle summer breeze, mirrored in the surface of the deep azure sea. You may catch scraps of a sea chanty as the men haul the boats up the stony beach.

The farmer who ploughs the soil may believe the sea is just water, but the fishermen who ploughs the ocean knows not to trust her, even when she is in this mood. On such a day the rugged weatherbeaten cliffs are the only clue that the sea is a fickle mistress who does not yield willingly. She gives up her wriggling, glittering jewels reluctantly and demands a high price from those who would forage in her deep waters.

The fishing boats of the town are often crewed by three generations of men. Their faces, hands and temperament reflect the weatherbeaten crags, with tufts of thick wiry beard like the tussock grass which grows among the rocks. Boys must become men the day they leave school. Every family in Falsehaven has lost someone to the sea, some have lost several generations.

On this night the whole town gathered on the quayside to watch their menfolk row out through the relative safety of Falsehaven Cove and on into the pounding surf and treacherous waves heading towards the reef of Old Hobb’s Point. The little boat looked like an insect, a water-boatman in a maelstrom.  To the small children, their fathers are mighty men who can battle the fierce seas, their wives know better. “Come, my little ones, the chapel bell is calling us to prey for your pappa and granfer.”

The skipper of the Sir William Hillary knew there was little hope if the stricken ship did not clear the Point. That night’s catch would bring little joy to anyone.

Rowing hard, they approached under the sheltered lee of the cliffs, which stood landward of Old Hobb’s Stack. On rounding the point, there she was, broken in two on the unyielding rocks. Three of her four masts were gone, the aft deck smashed by the surf and her inners spilled out from the rip in her side. Branok, who was at the helm gasped at the site, “Poor souls”

Men could be seen on the foredeck clinging to the bow sprit and shrouds, some torn between jumping into the surf or staying with the ship until her inevitable ruin. On seeing the lifeboat, the crew all cheered with a new sense of hope rising above their despair. The stranded sailors quickly rigged a Bosun's chair from the stump of the foremast and shot a line down to the lifeboat. Once the line was secure, the crew were rescued one by one. Seven of her crew were saved that night. Two who had jumped, were plucked directly from the sea itself, but the rest were lost, swept from her deck like bar skittles. Branok thought of what Jesus had said to St. Peter the fisherman,

“Come follow me, and I will make you a fisher of men.”

Just seven souls were saved from a crew of about twenty, and what had become of her captain, the sea make not such distinctions.

By morning the worst of the storm had blown itself out. That day’s low tide would be a grim harvest of worthless cargo among infinitely valuable lost souls.

Every man and boy on that lifeboat knelt at the alter rail of the little chapel to give thanks for bringing them home safely. Their womenfolk had spent the night on their knees on that same spot. The small congregation, including the seven men who were rescued, spontaneously broke into Horatio Spafford's hymn It is well with my soul. Stafford had lost all four of his daughters to the sea.

The following afternoon was bright and clear although the sea was still rough. From high up on Old Hobb’s Point nothing could be seen of the ship, but the grim flotsam on the beach.

© Christopher Mathews, June 2024

*Adapted from a work by Jacques Yves Cousteau.

THE HIGH LIFE [Part 6]

 THE HIGH LIFE   [Part 6] 

By Richard banks         

         Frampton is in darkness. The live-in servants are asleep after another long day. Their Master and Mistress also sleep, but less soundly. As before they are in separate rooms. Despite it being an hour past mid-night this is going to be a traditional sort of haunting, think gothic - Frankenstein, Dracula, The Premature Burial! And who could be more susceptible to all this fright than a man half asleep and befuddled with drink.

         I find him lying on top of the bed, minus a shoe but otherwise fully dressed. In his monkey suit he reminds me of a beached whale, but unlike the whale he’s red faced and wreaking of port. His mouth opens and closes and he mumbles aggressively at someone or thing that, having entered his dreams, is filling them with thoughts he would rather not think - discordant, troubling thoughts. But they will be as nothing compared to what’s coming next. When he awakes he will find himself in the company of William Perry, the third Earl, whose ill-gotten treasure, so legend has it, is hidden somewhere on the roof. I announce his presence in the deep, guttural voice I have been practising out of earshot on the estate. In addition to my new voice, which is really rather good, I appear to him as a whirl of white mist that often takes human form but never quite comes into focus.

         This would be alarming to anyone capable of logical thought, but right now that’s not Neville, and, when he wakes up, he’s too scared to do anything but obey the spectre hovering over him. He’s there for the taking, and, after identifying myself as his ancient ancestor, I spin him a story he’s unable to resist. Not only do I know where the treasure is but the purpose of my visit is to show him where to find it.

         Neville manages to look both terrified and greedy at the same time. To his surprise the spectre’s saying something he wants to hear and, on being told to follow on and do exactly what he’s told, Neville stumbles out of bed only to see me squeeze under the door. He pulls it open and totters after me, clutching at the bannister as I lead him up three flights of stairs and into the fourth floor corridor where, having nothing to hang onto, he bounces off one wall onto the other and back again, like a pinball in an arcade machine. How he’s still on his feet not even he knows, but he is, and on being told to exit through the fire door, throws himself against it and crashes out onto the roof. This time he does hit the deck but he’s up like a jack-in-a-box and peering back at the swirl of mist that he’s somehow overtaken.

         “What now?” he splutters, and I point a ghostly arm at the walkway on the inside of the battlements. There are steps that lead up to it, and he almost crawls up them before straightening up and staggering towards the spot I continue to indicate. “Here?” he bawls, staring down at the flagstone on which he’s standing. “No, back one,” I tell him, almost forgetting to use my dead Earl’s voice. For a moment he looks uncertain as though he’s beginning to smell a rat, but he steps back anyway towards a gap in the wall where a merlon was once removed to accommodate a cannon that’s now in the Armoury.

         For the first time I use my own voice. “Neville!” I snarl, letting out all the rage and loathing I have for him. “Neville!” I bellow, in a louder voice, just as angry, that causes him to back off another step. Then I turn into myself and fly at him, shrieking as I do. For a moment I have the satisfaction of seeing the look of horror on his face as he realises who I am and that he is powerless to keep me from rushing at him. He panics, takes two more steps back, pedals air and plunges down towards the delivery area outside the kitchen, narrowly missing the only vehicle parked there. He hits the tarmac with a heavy thud, flips over and lies motionless as little rivers of blood form a pool around his head and shoulders. “What now?” he had said, and now he is finding out. For a few moments I imagine his spirit rising up like mine had done, but this is no time for wool-gathering, my night’s work is only half done. I hurry back through the fire door and down the stairs to the first floor bedroom I once shared with Neville.

         Tonight only Mildred is there. She lies on the same side of the bed that I once filled. Maybe this is in her thoughts as well as mine. She is restless, turning towards the centre and then back towards the edge where, but for the sheets she is clinging to, she might drop down onto the floor. Behind closed lids her eyes twitch, she too is dreaming. Once she had happy dreams, those days are gone; those ahead may very well get worse.

         “Mildred,” I say, nestling on the pillow beside her head. She stirs, but doesn’t wake. “Mildred!” I hiss, and she recoils away from me onto the nogo area that once was Neville’s side of the bed. She’s awake now, very definitely awake and never more afraid, but worse is to come. It’s show time again and I appear to her as myself, but this is the new me, scary, demonic me, long hair swirling, my face horrid with hate.

         Her body shakes with fear and she passes out, as I thought she would. When she comes to I am kneeling on the bed next to her. “How could you?” I say. She reaches out towards me but withdraws her hand before making contact with my aura.

         “This is not a dream,” I tell her, and she nods her head to signify that she understands this only too well.

         “Maddie,” she gasps. “How?”

         “You mean. How is it that I’m dead?” my voice angry and accusing.

         This, needless to say, is not what she means.

         “I’m sorry, Maddy, I’m so, so sorry. I should have said no. I wanted to say no, but I’m not as strong as you. He was going to abandon me and the baby, to turn me out of Frampton with nothing but my clothes and a train ticket back to London. And, if it was ever discovered you had been poisoned, he said he would put the blame on me, that I had done it because I wanted to be the next Lady Frampton.”

         “But that’s true, isn’t it? You had got used to the high life, couldn’t bear to be parted from it especially when the alternative was a council flat or hostel for unmarried mothers; definitely something to steer clear of, even if it did mean being an accessory to murder, and not just any old murder, the murder of your sister who always did good by you.”

         “But, Maddie, I had the baby to think about. Once it was born how could I have coped? No money, no home, no job, and worse still no baby. They would have taken it from me, Maddy, I know they would, and nothing I could have done would have stopped them. Please try and see that.  What I did was wrong, very, very wrong, I know that, but please understand how desperate I was. Oh lore, will I go to hell, Maddie? Tell me there’s no such place. You forgive me, don’t you, please say you do. It wasn’t me who wanted you dead; it was Neville, he gave you the poison, not me.”

         She is contemptible and my aura flares up as though someone has doused it with petrol. She deserves to die but that is not my plan. She is my sister and our mother, who awaits us, should not be denied another grandchild. So, I tell her what she must do and that if she doesn’t I will haunt her every night for the rest of her life, and that it won’t just be me. There will, I assure her, be demons and devils who will enter her head and never go away in this life or the next. Of course, all this is totally beyond my capacity to deliver but she doesn’t know that and judging by the way she’s shaking, and the wetting of the bed, she believes every word.

         “Up,” I command, and out of bed she gets up. “Follow!” and we go along the corridor to Neville’s study where I point her at the picture and tell her to open the safe. She looks bemused as well as terrified. “What safe?” she asks, unaware that there is one, so I tell her what she needs to know, including the numbers I saw Neville dial.

         With the safe open it’s time to tell her more. “The money inside belongs to Neville,” I say,  “at least it did until I tipped him off the battlements.” Her mouth droops open as she struggles to take in what I’ve said. “Now it’s yours, every penny of it and in that box there’s diamonds, take those too. You’re rich now, very rich, set-up for life rich, and the only thing you need to do is disappear and never be found, because, if you’re found, your life, and that of your child, will be a living hell. You’ll need some clothes, so get packed.”

         She nods her head and returns to the bedroom where I watch her dress and pack a holdall with everything she needs to see her through the next few days. “Money!” I screech and she dashes back to the study for the money and diamonds. She’s ready to go but doesn’t know where, so I tell her where and what she must do to get there, my six point plan which I have her repeat six times before allowing her to creep out of the house and into her car. She unlocks the entrance gates and on opening them is away to Folkestone where she abandons the car near the ferry terminal.

         And that’s where the trail ends for those pursuing her, which includes the police and all the Fleet Street dailies. Of course they think she has fled the country on a no passport trip to Boulogne, but she is elsewhere and remains in that elsewhere place until she isn’t. Of this I will say no more, except that this is only step two of my rather longer plan.

         Ten years on and her life continues in a part of the world far from Frampton. When she speaks of the past it is a construct of her own making. She has wealth enough to live in comfort for the rest of her life and, being out of reach of the police who wish to question her about Neville’s unexplained death, her only concern is not to antagonise the fearsome spirit that was once her sister. Her prematurely white hair is a constant reminder of our reunion of which she still has nightmares. Her son knows nothing of his aristocratic descent, or his five cousins who are happy and prospering under the guardianship of Neville’s brother. And me? What about me? Well, let’s just say that when the Guardian Angel returned I had quite a lot of explaining to do. But, pending the conclusion of several inquiries, two appeals and a judicial review, I’m still up high rubbing shoulders with the righteous. Long may it continue. They won’t be getting rid of me in a hurry, so, when you’re ready - "come up and see me sometime."

The End.

 Copyright Richard Banks

THE HIGH LIFE [Part 5]

 THE HIGH LIFE   [Part 5]

By Richard Banks

With Neville on his way to the station and Mildred back downstairs, reading a book in the conservatory, there’s next to nothing going on, so I take the tour with Joe Public who are allowed in two days a week at £10 a head. It’s all very entertaining although I suspect the man hired to do the guiding is making it up as he goes along. According to him Wellington planned the battle of Waterloo in the room named after him and Richard the Lionheart was a frequent visitor to the house which, I know, wasn’t built until fourteen-seventy something. However, no one seems to know better and, unchallenged, he concludes the tour on the roof where there’s a tea room and a gift shop.

         “Are there any ghosts?” I hear someone ask, and he comes up with some baloney about a long dead Earl who walks the battlements in search of a treasure that’s been hidden there. That’s a yarn I’ve heard before and Neville has too because he spent most of last summer hunting for it. But for now the only ‘treasure’ to be found is in the gift shop which does a surprising amount of business before our guests depart and things are made ready for the afternoon tour.

         Neville would make a very good ghost. He glowers with a malevolence that few other men could match, and given a few chains to clank and reason enough to moan and groan would be a star turn at any seance he chose to attend. Mildred, on the other hand, could only be an insipid ghost, hardly worth a mention, but that’s not the point, my children’s fate depends on her unborn child not being a boy.  

         I go for a long walk around the grounds and by the time I return to the house I know exactly what I’m going to do. But for now there’s nothing I can do but wait for Neville to return from London with his briefcase full of bank notes and a self satisfied look on his face that, given present tensions, is unlikely to last past dinner. But that’s not until Sunday. Until then I’m at leisure with my girls. Nurse takes good care of them and they seem happy enough. I too will do my best for them. I want to tell them that everything will be alright, but don’t. Best they neither see nor hear me. So, I quietly observe Huberta trying to stand, Lizzie chasing pigeons, Isabel crying for no obvious reason and Cassie returning from school. On Saturday all five of them play ball in the grounds, have a picnic and stray further than they’re supposed to. On Sunday it rains, and all except Huberta depart for Sunday school. They return, have dinner before Cassie goes to a birthday party and is driven back to the Gatehouse by someone in a Mini Cooper. 

           An hour later Neville’s car sweeps past the gates and continues on to the house. I follow him there and arrive just in time to see him on the stairs en-route to his study. He opens the door and I’m through it almost before he is. There’s just one more thing I need to be sure of and, once I am, it’s back to the Gatehouse where the children are at their tea. They chatter animatedly to each other, and while the others watch TV Cassie belatedly does the homework she was suppose to do the previous day. I see them put to bed and watch them sleeping until nearly 1pm. With a heavy heart I whisper my goodbyes and return, one last time, to the house.

 

  [to be Continued]

         Copyright Richard Banks                                        

A Junicho (renku)

 A Junicho (renku)

 

Started July 2023

Complete October  2023

 

Campsite Magpies

fragrant breeze

campsite magpies gather

around a bin bag                rk

 

a flash shower

tops the water bucket         pc

 

checking off

another thing to do

before I die                        lmp

 

an evening of blues

and table clank                  db

 

the harvest moon

pops up between lotus leaves

in a temple pond.              ak

 

clock work orange

in the midst of Autumn's first chill    db

 

a car trembles

with the weight of two

in the parking lot.              ak

 

Casanova scarfing down

a plate of oysters               lmp

 

crushed shells

form a path through

The Mar-a-Lago Club.         rk

 

cancer cells

limited within the gland.     ak

 

until sunset

we dance in fields

of daffodils                          pc

 

as far as the eye can see

hilltopping butterflies.          lmp

 

Sabaki - Robert Kingston

 

rk - Robert Kingston

pc - Pris Campbell

db- Don Baird

lmp - Linda Papanicolaou

ak - Amoolya Kamalnath

 

Campsite Magpies” —Frogpond 47:2 Spring/Summer 2024

THE HIGH LIFE [Part 4]

 THE HIGH LIFE    [Part 4]

By Richard Banks        

         The front door opens and shuts and Neville enters the hall and continues up the stairs, followed twenty minutes later by Mildred who’s looking less than pleased to be back. She too ascends the stairs and for a moment the sound of their voices can be heard as she enters their bedroom.

         It’s only half an hour until dinner so I await their arrival in the dining room where the servants are preparing the long table that this evening has only two place settings, one at both ends.  When I was around, Mildred sat in the middle which was very useful for passing the condiments. Today they both have a set each, plus a bottle of claret for Neville. As there’s no glass at Mildred’s end she is evidently on the wagon in the runup to the big day. They arrive in full evening dress and take their seats without exchanging a word. They are definitely not getting on. Could their consciences be troubling them? I do hope so; it's unusual for marital bliss to be fading this soon.

         For now the chances of them saying anything about me while the servants are in the room is next to nil. Their conversation, about the places they have gone and people met, is stilted, an unconvincing attempt to give the impression that all is well; it would be bad form to do otherwise in front of the servants. Coffee is served along with a bottle of brandy for Neville. The servants withdraw. Left to themselves they are even less talkative than before. Neville stares down the table at Mildred and enquires after the baby. On receiving the reply that, “it’s OK, why shouldn’t it be OK,” his face bristles with annoyance.

         “Haven’t been overdoing it, have you?” he asks in a tone of voice that suggests he would rather Mildred had stayed at home.

         “Don’t worry about me,” snaps Mildred, “but then you never do. All you care about is yourself and the baby, and if that turns out to be a girl she’ll get the Gatehouse treatment like the rest of them. And how’s your other sprog, the one you’ve started with that whore at the kennel club. When is that due, five, six months? Well don’t think you’re going to get rid of me as easy as you did   Maddie. I’ll see you in prison before that happens!”  

         Neville looks anxiously towards the door. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in Holloway, because that’s where you’ll be going if you carry on like this.” He abandons his seat for one further down the table, and speaks in a quieter voice. “No one must know about that, it’s our secret, and as long as it stays that way, and you do what you’re told, the worse thing coming your way will be divorce and a decent settlement. That’s what I offered your sister. If that ever happens I trust you’ll be more sensible than she was.”

         Mildred looks scared out of her wits and I’m almost sorry for her. She signifies her compliance with a terse nod of her head and announces she’s off to bed. She lingers only long enough to say that if Neville intends finishing the bottle she would rather he slept in one of the other bedrooms. Neville replies that it’s all the same to him and watches her leave the room. He returns to his end of the table and pours himself another brandy.

         “Fool!” I say without meaning to, and his head and shoulders shake like they’ve just had an electric shock.

         “No!” he stutters, “it was nothing, you heard nothing. Get a grip, you’re getting as bad as Mildred.” He downs his drink and takes a deep breath before refilling his glass. He’s already the worse for wear. By the time he finishes the bottle, as no doubt he will, he may be too drunk to get up the stairs. Perhaps the same thought has found its way into his addled brain for after a few minutes he snatches up the bottle and staggers out into the hall where he stands at the foot of the Grand Stairway like a mountaineer about to undertake a perilous ascent. With one hand clutching the brandy and the other tight on the bannister he reaches base camp on the first floor landing, but, instead of turning into one of the bedrooms, he continues along the corridor to his study. I follow him in.

         I have always wondered what he did in his study. Not studying, that’s for sure, unless it’s the Racing News; as for estate business, that’s handled by the office staff in one of the cottages. So, now the great mystery is to be revealed. But mysteries, once known are usually disappointing and the sight of girly magazines on his desk are no more than I expected. However, he hardly glances at them, so that’s not why he’s here. Behind his desk is a sideboard on which he leans before reaching up to the painting above it depicting a number of under clad nymphs cavorting by a waterfall. A first I think he’s trying to grope the one left of centre, but then he steadies himself, takes a firm grip on the frame and swings it and the picture away from the wall to reveal a safe. It has a dial which he twiddles back and forth, and, after a good deal of cursing, the safe is opened. It’s full of money, fifty pound notes, and a metal box which he takes back to his desk. Inside there’s more diamonds than days in a month. These are good quality diamonds and I should know; being a former Lady Frampton I’ve seen plenty, both around my neck and those of other titled Ladies.

         So why are they here instead of in the office safe where my own jewels are kept? Could they be connected to Neville’s trips to South Africa? His explanation that he visits an old school friend was never very convincing, especially when friend Kevin sometimes became a Keith after a drink too many. He’s definitely up to something and, as Neville thinks that the normal rules of life don’t apply to him that ‘something’ is likely to be on the wrong side of the law. He separates out five stones and places them in a small, linen bag that he puts in the briefcase he takes to London.

         All this is giving me food for thought. I have the glimmer of a plan but if Neville’s off to London tomorrow he’ll be missing until Sunday evening. But no matter, that still leaves me two days to do what I must. He will get everything he deserves but Mildred, I’m not so sure. The bitch is as guilty as Neville, but she is my sister, my flesh and blood, and what’s more she’s expecting a baby who’s never done me any harm. Suddenly, a few days thinking time and two for ‘the doing’ seem about right.

           Neville returns the rest of the diamonds to the safe which he closes and locks by scrambling the dial. He puts back the picture while leering drunkenly at the nymphs. Then he’s off, along the corridor and into one of the guest rooms.

         I leave him to it and visit my darling girls in the Gatehouse. They’re asleep of course and I watch their shallow breathing until I too fall asleep. Being a spirit, especially one on a mission, is a tiring business and by the time I’m awake they’re up and being readied for school. I watch them go and want to follow but can’t; there’s an invisible barrier I can’t breach. I have the run of Frampton and its grounds but not one step beyond.

         So its back to the house where Neville and Mildred are having breakfast during which he announces that he’s off to London and will be staying at his club. Mildred asks if he will be taking his whore with him and Neville says don’t be ridiculous and that he will be back on Sunday. Mildred says she can’t wait, and on gulping back her coffee hurries out of the room. She’s scared, no doubt about that, but also jealous, and if she’s not feeling guilty about what happened to me she darn well should be! As she passes my picture on the stairs she shudders and almost stops before hurrying up the last few steps that right-turn into the first floor corridor. She’s in tears. Too late for that, I’m thinking. She must be punished, she deserves to be punished, indeed her punishment seems to have already begun. But I won’t feel sorry for her, it’s not just my life she has blighted.

        

[To be Continued]

 

Copyright Richard Banks