BILLY CROMPTON’S WAGER 

By Bob French.

It was Friday the 11^th of November 2011, a special day for Billy Crompton, a veteran of the Korean War and the Suez Crisis, who like many of his pals, quietly stood at the war memorial at 11 o’clock in the rain to pay homage to those who did not return.  It was a good turn out and Billy was pleased to see a few of his pals from his old regiment had turned out. 

It had stopped raining by the evening, as he pushed open the door to his local, The Duke of Wellington, in Hatfield Peverel. After raising his hand in appreciation to the many who called out his name, he took his seat at the end of the bar.

          “Usual Billy?”

“Thank you, Harry.” 

The chatter and the sound of music grew as the night went on, until eight o’clock, when Harry rang the bell, informing those who had paid their five pounds, that the buffet was ready. 

Billy was looking forward to his evening meal and as he queued, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned.  There, standing in front of him was his old platoon commander, Mr Hawthorn Jarvis-Bollthrop, wearing his old regimental tie. 

“God, what are you doing here?” Billy’s tone was disrespectful to his old boss, but he didn’t care.  Ever since the man, who was a second lieutenant during the Korean war, had deserted him and his platoon leaving them stranded in no-man’s land, to fight their way back to their lines.  From that moment on, the lads from the second platoon refused to recognise him as their platoon commander. 

Billy ignored him, took his meal and sat down with some of his old pals and began chatting.  Much to Billy’s annoyance, Javis-Bollthrop joined the table where Billy sat and started to tell everyone how he had grown in status and wealth after the war. 

“What happened?  Did daddy give you lots of money?” 

“No, as a matter of fact, I started to work for Lloyds in London.  After a while, I began to work on stocks and shares, then moved to trading in foreign assets.  Have to say I made a packet. 

“So, what do you do now then?” One of Billy’s friends asked? 

“I trade on the stock market these days, having made a killing on the foreign assets desk. I also like to gamble at the Grosvenor Casino in Russell Square. It’s a very select establishment you know.” 

On hearing this, Billy put down his fork and stared at his old boss. 

“So you think you’re a good gambler then?” 

Jarvis-Bollthrop gave Billy a smug look, then nodded 

“OK, I bet you 50 quid, that I can lick my eyeball.”

Laughing, Jarvis-Bollthrop agreed.

Billy then carefully removes his false eyeball and licks it.

The people around them suddenly started to cheer as Billy extends his hand, ready to accept 50 pounds.  Jarvis-Bollthrop reluctantly takes out a 50-pound note from his wallet and hands it to Billy.

“Fancy getting your own back?”

Jarvis-Balthrop grins and immediately accepts the challenge.

“OK, I will bet you 500 quid that I can bite one of my ears.”

          Jarvis-Bollthrop doesn’t trust Billy, so he leans across and gives each of Billy’s ears a tug.  Happy with his inspection, he agrees to the wager.

Billy then leans forward and carefully takes his complete set of false teeth, and proceeds to bite his ear.  The people who had started to gather around the group erupt with laughter and cheers as Jarvis-Bollthrop hands over ten crisp 50 pound notes.

Billy, with a straight face, turns to Jarvis-Bollthrop. “Fancy winning your 500 quid back then?”

Jarvis-Bollthrop thinks for a minute, then stands up. “No thank you,” and makes his way to the exit, followed by jeers and shouts of “chicken.”

In his frustration, he turns. “I shall return tomorrow and we shall see who is the better man.” 

Billy smiles.  “Be here at nine and I shall be waiting.”

Jarvis-Bollthrop nodded then left.

Saturday night The Duke of Wellington pub was heaving and as usual, Billy was chatting with Harry at the end of the bar.

“How many do you reckon you’ll get in tonight then?

Harry thought for a minute. “Saturday night…um....  I’d say 70 to 80, it could be more, say 95, if there is no football on the telly.”

As expected, at 8:50, Jarvis-Bollthrop enters the busy pub and makes his way towards Billy at the end of the bar.

“Glad you could make it. Fancy a drink?”

After some small talk, Billy brings the conversation around to the wager. 

“Right then.  Are you ready to win back your 500 quid?”

Jarvis-Bollthrop studies Billy’s face.  “Are you confident Corporal Crompton?”

Billy paused for a second to give the impression that he was not totally sure of the outcome of the wager, then says slowly, “Sure. Let’s get on with it.” 

Jarvis-Bollthrop seeing Billy’s reaction, smiles.

“Look, let’s make it worth my while.  Shall we up the stakes to say, a 1000 pounds?”

Suddenly those who had gathered around Billy’s table fell silent. Billy saw the flash of the challenge in Jarvis-Bollthrop’s eyes and realised that he may have bitten of more than he could choose.

“Right then.  Let’s make it really simple.  I bet you a 1,000 quid that you are wearing maroon underpants.”

“Haha, I’ve got you.  I’m wearing white underpants.”

Billy looked shocked and a little downcast, then asked to see the proof.

Jarvis Bollthrop grinned and feeling elated that he had finally beaten Billy, turned to him.

“What do you mean. “Want some proof?”

“Simple really. I want to see you wearing your white underpants.”

Javis-Bollthrorp considered what Billy was asking and seemed to come to a decision, then nodded, and with a grin on his face undid his belt, and dropped his trousers.

Everyone in the pub cheered as Billy glanced at the clock, then handed Jarvis-Bollthrop the 1000 pounds which Harry had arranged from the till earlier that night.

“I don’t understand. Why are you and everyone cheering?  You’ve just lost 1000 pounds?”

“Simple really. I bet every person here tonight 50 quid that at exactly nine o’clock I would get you to drop your trousers in front of everyone in the pub. Aint that right Harry?”

1060 words July 2024

Copyright Bob French

  

 THE NIGHT SHE DISAPPEARED

By Richard Banks

It was in 2002 that I lost her. It was all very sudden. One moment she was as right as rain the next she wasn’t. Sepsis they called it. The doctor at the surgery tried to explain it to me, but I was too shook-up to take it in, told me I had done right in phoning 999. Nobody could have done more, he said, but I knew, deep down, that wasn’t so.

         It was around teatime that Mary started to feel unwell. She thought she had caught a chill, was feeling a bit hot and bothered, but nothing, she said, that a couple of aspirins and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. At nine she went early to bed but by eleven was still awake and even more unwell.

         “I’m going to call an ambulance,” I said.

         “What, at this time of night?” she said. “Best wait until morning, I’ll be better in the morning.” But half an hour later she was even worse so I dialled 999 and although the paramedics arrived only ten minute later she was gone her hand slowly cooling and become cold in mine.

         “Better than a lingering death,” said Jenny, desperately trying to find something to say that might console me. I agreed - cousin Jimmy was not long dead from Parkinson’s; I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through what he did. Nevertheless, we both knew that Mary had left us too soon and too quickly; no time to say goodbye. After forty years together we should at least have had that.

         And, so it was that me and everyone else said our goodbyes at the funeral. Kenny flew back from New York and Mary’s brother took the train down from Dundee. There were fifty other folk who said they were coming so Jenny booked the large hall at the crematorium and arranged a reception at the WI where Mary was a member.

         The service was to be a celebration of her life, and the good times we shared with her, of which there were many. Jenny said we should all dress in something colourful because her mother had always liked bright colours and hated black. She was right up to a point but, like me, Mary was ‘old school’ about funerals and would have thought it disrespectful not to wear black. So, in the end we agreed that it should be a black suit and tie affair but that everyone coming should wear a red rose. Mary would have liked that being a Lancashire lass - at least she was before she came south to marry me.

         Anyway it all went as well as could be expected. Kenny did the eulogy and Jenny said a prayer and everyone I spoke to tried to say the right things or didn’t because they were too upset or unsure what to say. Their faces told me all I needed to know. Of course they were sad, and after the reception they all went home no doubt glad they weren’t me.

         The kids were great, as I knew they would be. Kenny paid for me to go to the States and spend Christmas with him and his new wife, and Jenny, who only lives a mile away, was in and out several times a week. It was tough to begin with, especially when life settled down into the new norm. I had never done the shopping before beyond driving Mary to the supermarket and loading and unloading the car. Cooking I learned through trial and error. Housework I hated and all the jobs I was use to doing, like decorating the house and keeping the garden trim, seemed utterly pointless. But after a year everything began to fall into place. I paid for a cleaner to come in twice a week and made full use of a long, dry summer to paint the outside of the house.

          Keep busy, take consolation in friends and children, that seemed to be the best way forward, and on a warm March day, in whatever year it was, I saw the first daffodil burst into bloom and realised that the worse was over. I had my memories, my children, two grandchildren and the best kept house and garden in the street. What’s more Spurs were riding high in the league, and as a seventieth birthday present Kenny brought me a subscription to Sky. Blimey - football, cricket and tennis every day of the week!

         But what Jenny got me was even better. I wondered what she was up to rummaging through the junk in the spare room. It was full of stuff I scarcely looked at but couldn’t bear to throw away, including packs and packs of photographs which Mary and I intended putting into albums but never did. But what we didn’t do Jenny did. Not all of them, of course, but enough to fill three books, not only with the original prints but also with ones made better by a photographer who took the best parts of some and made them as clear as clear could be.

         What a story they told: me and Mary before we were married, our engagement, our first holiday together, the wedding at St Jude’s and then the children, Kenny born only seven months after the ceremony - what a furore that caused – and two years later, Jenny. Had we been better off we would have had more kids – at least one - but we weren’t, so we stuck at two and what a grand little family we were. Too hard-up to go on holiday, my first snaps of us were taken in the garden of our maisonette or the local park, but no one was happier than us, we had each other and that mattered more than anything else. Anyway it wasn’t long before I got a promotion that enable us to put down a deposit on a house and, a year later, we put-by enough money to go self catering in Bognor, followed the next year by a B&B in Scarborough and then a hotel in Torquay.

         We were going up in the world and with the kids now at Primary school and better able to travel, we ventured abroad to Madeira. What great times they were, so many wonderful memories, and the album captured so many of them: more holidays, school sports’ days, Kenny in the team photograph before the football final they lost – no photographs after that!

         Jenny, not the sporting type, took to acting and was in the school play; Twelfth Night it was. Didn’t understand a word but by all accounts she did really well and toyed with the idea of becoming an actress until coming back to earth and opting to go to the City & Guilds where she  trained to become a dressmaker. By this time Kenny was at university studying economics. He was not a kid any more and neither was Jenny. There was a certain sadness in that, but also a sense of pride that Mary and I had brought up two children to be so full of promise and keen to get on in life. Inevitably both flew the nest. Within a year of leaving Uni Kenny accepted a job in America, where he still lives, while a few years later Jenny moved into a flat near the London fashion house she worked for. Kenny married and we flew out to San Francisco for the ceremony along with |Jenny and the young man who later became our son-in-law. Briefly reunited we again went our separate ways. Kenny’s job sometimes brought him back to Europe and from time to time would stay with us for a day or two before jetting off again, while Jenny, also busy with her work, was also an infrequent visitor.

         It might have continued so, especially when Jenny and Harry finally got round to tying the knot. Then suddenly it was all change and Jenny phoned us to say that we were to become grandparents. It was not what two career minded wannabes were intending but they decided to keep their ‘little surprise’ and reorganise their lives in a way that kept their dreams alive. They sold their flat in north London and bought a semi only a mile away where Jenny set-up an on-line business selling dresses that she not only made but designed. Harry, who worked for Nat-West, commuted into London before becoming Chief Clerk of a branch he could drive to in less than an hour. And, of course, Mary and I were nearby and able to look after baby John when needed, which I suspect was all part of their cunning plan. Unlike those of Baldwick in Blackadder it worked a treat and the years that followed, in which a second child, Emma, was born were among the happiest of our lives. Far from being put upon grandparents we took to the role with a relish that gave new purpose to our lives. Even more photographs! Many, of course, were of the grandchildren but I always made sure that there were plenty of Mary. Despite having the best daughter and grandchildren in the world no one was more important to me than her.

         Apart from myself, who was largely behind the camera, Kenny’s residence abroad meant that there were less photographs of him than seemed fair; something I did my best to put right when in 2014, on my eightieth birthday, I flew out to see him again, this time with Jenny, Harry and the grand-kids. What a fine time we had staying with him and wife number three in their holiday home in Martha’s Vineyard. I liked number three, a sweet girl, twenty years younger than himself with an odd sort of name I could never get my tongue around. Was there, I wondered, the possibility of another grandchild? Three years later they divorced and when wife number four came along it became obvious, even to me, that Kenny was more interested in acquiring wives than children. Well, it takes all sorts. At least he wasn’t short of a bob or two, and having no children of his own became increasingly generous with his money giving much of it to charity and setting-up trusts for his nephew and niece, who, I suspect, will have further reasons to be grateful to their uncle.

         So, I suppose, that pretty much brings the story up to date. It’s the big nine-o tomorrow. How fortunate I am to have lived so long and not be too much of a burden on my children. My only regret is in losing Mary when I did.  Could I have done more? I will always regret not calling out the para-medics sooner. Would it have made any difference? People tell me no, but they’re just being kind. Nobody knows for sure, but at least the album has kept her memory alive. In the first two books Mary features on nearly every page.

         They say you should never dwell on the past, but when so many good things have happened it’s hard not to. It’s amazing how many recollections a photograph can conjure: Kenny, age eight, in his new trousers, the one’s he chose himself which a week later he put his knee through playing football; Jenny’s magic cottage birthday cake which Mary stayed up half the night icing so it would be a surprise on the day. We didn’t have the money to buy one, as some parents did, but none of Jenny’s friends had a better cake, of that I’m sure.

         There was a time when the past seemed as solid and real as the present, but not now. It started a year ago when I was looking at this photograph of Mary and me with friends at this posh London restaurant. There was Bob and Hazel, Steve and Anna, ourselves of course and this woman sitting by herself because her husband was taking the photograph. He was George but what was her name? She was no stranger, I knew her face alright, but her name had gone and despite many hours of trying to remember it I never did. She was the first one in the album to become a memory forgotten. Since then there have been others, far too many, and the album has become an unwanted test of memory which I fail only too often. Gradually the number of people I am able to put a name to have become less and less. Worst still I have almost forgotten the faces. Did I ever know these people? Logic tells me that once I did; if not, why on earth are they in the album!

         Even photographs of Kenny began to look unfamiliar although thankfully when he turned-up unexpectedly, with Jenny and the kids, it was only too obvious, even to me, who he was. Even so, I faltered once or twice with his name and everyone went a bit quiet, although nothing was said - at least not while I was around. Since then the number of people who I once knew and can still recognise have dwindled to close family. Mary would always be in my thoughts; how could I forget her, but one night in the early hours of the morning I wasn’t so sure. Only by getting out of bed, there and then, and finding her in the album could I be sure she was still in my head. So, that’s what I did. There were six weddings in the album, six faces that could have been hers and six faces that could have been mine. I had lost her a second time, disappeared without a trace, except for a feeling that I had loved someone very special and that our time together was the happiest of my life.

                                                *****

          Some days are better than others. This one has started well. Could I be getting better? But no, there is no cure, only moments of clarity that can last for minutes, sometimes longer, but never long enough. If I don’t try to force them, if I just let it happen, a few precious memories may return tomorrow, if not tomorrow then sometime soon. Just one more time, I plead - let me always have that hope.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                   

 

 The Night She Disappeared

By Jane Goodhew

It seems unlikely that she would have just up and left without a word of goodbye? Lucy was a polite, sensible young woman who hated to see people upset, so this was out of character. I just had this feeling that something untoward had happened to her. She had been incredibly quiet of late as if she had to think things through and wanted to do it for herself. Whatever the something was we have yet to find out, but we will and bring her home, to Lace Wood Hall.

The family gathered in the drawing room and each one in turn recounted the last time they had seen her, what she wore, what she said, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed. I took it upon myself to make notes and put them into some sort of chronological order. Anything to make myself feel less useless than I did.

Outside the sun shone in a bright blue cloudless sky and the birds sang to one another, it seemed the perfect day but inside was a different scenario, it was doom and gloom. Each one had the expression of someone who had lost a diamond and found broken glass. After about an hour we recapped and it would appear she had been wearing her dark blue dress with the dainty golden heart pattern, a hat, ballet style shoes and had her handbag with her. Her blonde, shoulder length hair was loose, and she had a strange smile on her face as if she had a secret that made her happy but would keep to herself.

 

That was 3 years ago and so far, nothing, not a word from her and no-one seemed to have seen her, it was as if she had disappeared without a trace. The police had been informed and photos put up in the places she used to go. Friends had rallied round and been out looking but drawn a blank. No money had been withdrawn from her account since the day she walked out the door, her mobile charger was still next to her bed so her phone would eventually run out. Whatever had happened was not planned and everyone was fearing the worse. I thought of all the other families who had been in this position and wondered how they coped without driving themselves mad with the what-if's. Going over and over the last thing that was said to her, what type of frame of mind she was in.

Her computer had nothing out of the ordinary on it, she had not used dating sites or written to strangers, in fact for a young woman she was remarkably 'some would say' boring. To us she was a loving, thoughtful young woman with a tremendous sense of humour and a generous heart who was always there for everyone and anyone.

The papers had stopped mentioning her as there was no evidence of her being missing in suspicious circumstances, no ransom note or call. I often wondered what it would take to make it a suspicious disappearance, as far as I could see, there was nothing normal about it.

Alas, there is nothing more I can say on the night Lucy disappeared or why she chose to leave the house never to return. If anyone out there sees her or hears from her, please contact us. If you see this Lucy remember you are loved by all of us and when you are ready either come home or at least contact one of us. We are just so lost without you and not knowing if you are dead or hopefully alive is unbearable?

According to statistics on the internet a person goes missing every 90 seconds, 170,000 per year, of which 70,000 are children. The most common reasons are:

Diagnosed/undiagnosed mental health issues 8 – 10.

Dementia 4-10

Financial problems 1-10

Escaping violence         Homelessness       Relationship breakdown

Problems at home       Risk of suicide.  

From what we all think we know of you Lucy, none of these are relevant and in your own time you will come home. We will never give up on hope for that is all we have now and we all hope you are happy wherever you are.

 

                       

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 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