Robert
Kingston
I am pleased to let you know that the following pieces have been
accepted for publication within Issue #111 of Failed Haiku.
foundry floor
steelworkers dance about
the overspill
bonfire night
the Roman candle finishes
with a puff
by Richard Banks
[Written in 2017, a
year after the publication of Essex Tales V, this spoof history mentions
present and past members of the Group but, regretfully, not those who have
joined us in the last eight years.]
Article from The Times Literary Supplement, published on 15th July 2124
At a hastily convened press conference the British Library
yesterday stunned the literary world by announcing that a small blood stain on
their copy of Essex Tales, Volume V, is that of Richard Banks, a founder member
of the legendary Rayleigh Set.
The book, which is one of only three surviving copies, has
the further distinction of being signed by Banks and W.R. French, the First
World War novelist. Their signatures appear below a brief dedication to someone
called Linda to whom the book was presumably sold. Judging by its pristine condition
the book appears to have been little read by Linda, or anyone else. Remarkably
there are no finger prints on the inside pages beyond page eleven.
Discovered five years ago by a second hand book dealer in
the loft of a terraced house awaiting demolition, it was purchased by the
British Library for a fee believed to be in the region of £25m. Now worth over
£40m the blood stain, previously regarded as a minor blemish, is likely to
double or treble the book’s value.
The suggestion, first mooted by art historian Julian Gray,
that the blood may once have flowed through the veins of one of its authors
prompted the RSS (Rayleigh Set Society) to oversee DNA tests on two of W.R.
French’s descendants. When these failed to match his blood with that on the book
a worldwide search ensued for descendents of Banks which eventually located his
two times great grandson, Wang Hai Lei, on a tea plantation in the Chinese
protectorate of Sri Lanka. Blood samples taken from him confirmed beyond doubt that the blood stain was that of the author.
Although the copyright on the stories and poems of the Rayleigh Set expired in
2097 Wang’s new found fame should soon enable him to develop revenue streams
that in the case of Tobias Lewis- Woodgate, the 2x great grandson of Peter Woodgate
(Poet Laureate In Aeternum) has earned Lewis over thirty million pounds from
endorsements and public appearances.
Sadly none of the original authors benefitted financially
from the five volumes of Essex Tales produced in the first two decades of the
last century. Published by the Rayleigh Set in print runs totalling no more
than 600 copies, the authors sold their books at fairs and bazaars, donating
their profits to charity. This might have been the extent of their fame had it
not been for an employee of Penguin Books who, coming across a copy of Volume
III at a jumble sale, persuaded her employers to publish. Its instant success
in the early years of this century sparked a nationwide search for other
volumes which so far has failed to uncover the first book in the series.
Credited with reawakening public interest in the short story
the books have now been published in over eighty countries selling 200 million
copies. Their success has spawned a commercial bandwagon which at the present
time includes seven major films as well as theme parks in
In less than twenty years the literary creations of the
authors have sometimes blurred the line between fact and fiction. In a recent
poll to identify the ten most famous Britons, Pitsea Pete, the comic creation
of Bob Watson, was voted into third place narrowly behind Elizabeth I and Sir
Winston Churchill. Had there been a poll for the most famous dog this would
almost certainly have been won by Jack, Jane Scoggins’ WWI messenger dog, the
number one visitor attraction at the
Another animal creation of Essex Tales, the injured fox of
Leonard Morgan’s story ‘Foxy Magic,’ is commemorated in the fox sanctuary at
Hullbridge, Essex on the banks of the river Crouch. Yearly enactments of the
classic story attract more visitors than the Summer Solstice at
Undoubtedly the place profiting most from the tales of the
Rayleigh Set is Rayleigh itself which in recent years has doubled in size with
the building of over twenty high-rise hotels. The flood of visitors, which
during the summer months threatens to gridlock the pedestrianised streets of
the town centre, have no shortage of attractions to visit. The High Street now
mainly given over to souvenir shops and cafes still contains a number of
buildings with known connections to the authors. The library where they met is
probably the most photographed building in the world, while the branch of
Further attractions include the Post Office which issues
commemorative stamps bearing the heads of individual authors, and the former
home of Dorothy Chiverrell, now at the centre of the ‘Sitting Tennant’ visitor
attraction featuring interactive 3D images of Jan and Betty and other
characters from the eight stories she is known to have written. The recent
opening of
As we draw close to the one hundredth anniversary of Banks’
death we may well reflect on the moment in time when a drop of his blood
splashed down onto the book purchased by Linda. How this happened is an Essex
Tale that may never be told. Should it appear in a yet to be discovered copy of
the fabled volume VI it
will have no shortage of readers. The world waits and hopes.
Copyright
Richard Banks
Sleep is not something I am good at.
Listening to yet another dawn chorus is a commonality I share with the birds.
Today is no different to yesterday as I read and tune into noise from others
around the globe
whale song
weaving my way back
into a dream
Robert Kingston,
First published, Pan Haiku review 5
2025
We
awake to find the window wide open and the sun streaming in between curtains we
have neglected to draw. It’s ten thirty and after a half hearted attempt to
clear-up we begin the journey back to
On Wednesday we read about us in the
on-line editions of the Chronicle and Echo, and by Friday we have reporters
from the
A fire engine departing the scene pulls
up on the other side of the tape and the policeman lets it by. We, however, are
informed that the road is closed and that we can not pass. We turn around, find
a parking place several streets back and return on foot to find the tape back
in place but the policeman missing. A trickle of people are taking advantage of
his absence to slip by unchallenged. We join them and on arriving at the
entrance to the Gallery stare across the car park at the charred remains of the
gutted building.
The wrought iron gates at the entrance
to the car park are closed and one of the two policemen standing there tells us
that the road is shortly to be reopened and that, for our own safety, we must
stand on the far pavement. Any hope of this happening is thwarted by the
arrival of further sightseers who finding no space on the pavement have no
choice but to spill out onto the road. Among them is a familiar figure who, is
walking boldly down the centre of the road. On being saluted by one of the
policeman he addresses them in the genial fashion for which he’s now well
known. It’s Callow who takes it upon himself to address the crowd and request
their dispersal. The fire, he says, is as good as out and the embers must be
left to cool. An official statement will be made later that day, until then
there is nothing more to be said or seen. The crowd evidently agree and after
taking the usual selfies begin to drift-off in the direction they have come. As
the crowd thins he spots us and saunters over.
“Thought I would find you here,” he
says. “As you can see your 2 o’clock has been cancelled. I’m afraid you will
have to make do with me instead. Why don’t we have a bite to eat at that nice
restaurant we were at last Monday. I’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”
“What’s happened?” asks Ally whose
initial bewilderment is beginning to give way to panic. “Has everything
been destroyed?”
“You mean has your precious picture
perished in the flames. Alas, the fire spread too quickly, for anything to be
saved. But before we get on to that, and while there’s no one within earshot,
let’s talk about that letter informing your uncle of his lottery win. You might
have got away with it but for the fact that criminals like the Beale’s know
many other criminals and once they decided to check-out your story it didn’t take
too long before they came across the forger who did it. Unsurprisingly, this
led them to believe that the picture had been purchased by your uncle with
money they regard as belonging to themselves. A subsequent meeting with Carew
was more than enough to confirm their suspicions. Sadly it appears that he was
still in the building when the fire took hold.
“You mean, he’s dead?” Says Ally
struggling to get the words out.
“No doubt about it, I have it on good
authority.”
“You mean the Beale’s? Was it them who
did this?”
“Let’s walk. There’s someone I want you
both to meet - the reason why we are having this conversation. Mr Kovac is his
name, not his real name of course, but it will do. Mr Kovac is an art dealer on
the black web, with clients in the far east, who is keen on adding your picture
to the many others he has sold into private collections. While he is not
adverse to a fire sale he is less than convinced that what we are offering him
is what was in the Gallery until yesterday. We thought that if he was to meet
you, the present owner and hear you say that we’re acting on your behalf we
would then be able to agree a deal.”
“And why should I do that?” I say.
“Why not. It’s win, win. You receive
the insurance money for the picture while the Beale’s get to keep the money Mr Kovac will be
giving them. Anyway, what’s the alternative? Do you really want to get on the
wrong side of the Beales? You know what they can do. Why put yourselves at
risk? No, better if you meet Mr Kovac, tell him that you are willing
participants in our little enterprise, then we all walk away much better-off
than we were before. Come on now, you know it makes sense. Indeed, given the
circumstances, the Beale’s have been unusually generous.”
It was an offer not to be refused, so
we said yes, what else could we do? Our meeting with Mr K, his accountant and a
large, muscular man with a boxer’s face lasted little more than thirty minutes,
and on eating next to nothing of our meals, we returned to Petherdale.
UNCLE GEORGE [Final Resolution]
The
prospect of remaining in
We invested our ill-gotten gains in a
When my firm decided to set-up a new
office in
It did not take us long to realise that
if Carew was ever to be apprehended by the police what he had to say might well
invalidate our insurance claim and send us to prison. Did the Beale’s know he
was still alive - they who were supposed to have murdered him? Was there
anything that made sense and might not, one day, become a danger to ourselves?
It was with a sense of things unravelling that we returned to
*****
This document, relating mainly to the
events of April 2015, has been lodged with the
HSBC bank along with our separate wills which Ally insisted we make following
the birth of our son, David George. It is to be handed to him, or his guardian,
on the passing of both his parents.
Having set out the circumstances by
which we acquired our fortune my intention has been to both inform and
forewarn. If read many years from now, its only function will, I hope, be to
entertain - a ripping yarn in which his parents had the starring roles. As
outcomes go there can be none better.
Phillip Jones
14th March 2024.
[This paper handed to Mr Joseph Jones, executor of Mr
Phillip Jones and guardian of his only child, David George, at the reading of
the testator’s will on 12th February 2025 – Caldow & Brent,
sols.]
Copyright Richard Banks
Riddles 27
By the Riddler
The Riddler has two
puzzles for us today:
No 1. What is the fewest number of coins you can pay
99p with?
No 2. What digit has
appeared in every date since 30.11.1999?
Keep em
coming Riddler
By Sis Unsworth
I am sure I heard the trees sigh, as I gazed up at
the darkened sky
The flowers seem to bow and pray, in hope the rain would come today.
All the earth was parched and dry, I heard the seagull’s eerie
cry.
What they needed now had come, as angry clouds
blocked out the sun.
The rain fell with sheer delight, continuing
throughout the night.
Following the summer storm, lightning flashed till
early morn.
The world became a different place, the trees stood
tall & full of grace.
The grass revived began to grow, and mother nature
seemed to glow.
The ponds and lakes so full of pride, now
complement the country side
The rain cascading from the leaves, make music of
the summer breeze.
I know how long we had to wait, but when it came it
sure felt great!
I’m glad it rained, I really am, it saved me from a
hosepipe ban.
Copyright Sis
Unsworth
By Richard Banks
We
arrive back to find John vacuuming his car. He’s the first to receive the good
news. “We’re celebrating at the Wheatsheaf I tell him. He’s invited and
everyone he knows, the more the merrier, I say. I phone Fred Cummings who, I
discover, is now Editor of the Norfolk Chronicle. I have a story for him, I
say. It’s not the one he was hoping for but nevertheless it relates to my uncle
so maybe of interest. Cummings declares that it’s the best good news story he’s
heard in years and that every paper in
“And you’re quite sure it belongs to
you and not the gallery?”
“Oh yes. My uncle was the sole owner
and there are legal papers confirming this. He wanted the picture to be on
display in
“That’s very generous of him, but why
didn’t he tell you what he had done?”
“My uncle was a very private person and
towards the end of his life increasingly eccentric. The publicity of being
identified as the gallery’s benefactor was something he would have found very
difficult to deal with. It was a secret he was content to share only with Mr
Carew, knowing that he would contact me on my uncle’s demise.”
“But you contacted him?”
“Yes, Mr Carew was unaware of my
uncle’s decease until we informed him of it. They met every other month in
Swaffham and it was their firm understanding that if Uncle failed to turn-up at
one of these that Mr Carew would drive over to his house to check if he was OK.
As they last met only a month ago he assumed my uncle was alive and well; he
was, of course, very upset to find otherwise. Is there anything else you would
like to know?”
Mr Cummings thinks that will do for
now. He will see me later at the Wheatsheaf.
Call over, we shoot off to the
solicitors’ office where Mr Wells reluctantly agrees to see us. After a few
minutes he’s very glad he did; we have become clients of note, our value to his
practice much increased. “And you say
that the owner of the Gallery has confirmed your uncle’s title to the picture,
and that there are legal papers confirming this and the loan arrangement with
the gallery.”
“Yes, that’s what Mr Carew told us, so
it must be so,” I say, suddenly not so sure of myself, but determined not to
show it.
Mr Wells beams at me with a benevolence
not evident at our previous meeting. The papers, he assures us, if correctly
filed, can easily be found. He had a similar case five years ago which was
resolved with a minimum of fuss. He will contact us again as soon as the
relevant papers are in his possession.
Meeting over he escorts us to the front
door and waves us off with a cheery goodbye. It’s nearly five pm and with only
three hours to go until the big celebration we decide to fortify ourselves
against the alcohol to come by dining out at Cromer’s swankiest restaurant.
We’re almost finished and ready to pay when who should come in but Callow.
“Hi,” I say, and for a moment he looks
at me as though he doesn’t know me, then he does. I introduce him to Ally.
“This is the man who came to my aid when I was attacked.”
Ally looks suitably impressed while
Callow insists that he did nothing worth the mention. “Just a silly
misunderstanding,” he says. “Glad to have been of assistance.”
Not at all,” I say, “We’re having a
celebration this evening at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. If you’re free, you’ll be more than welcome.”
Callow thanks me politely for the
invitation and asks what we are celebrating and we spend the next few minutes
telling him about Uncle’s lottery win and his purchase of an expensive painting
which is now ours. This, I think, is working out well. Whether he comes or not
he’s bound to mention this to the Beales. If he believes us he will
likely convince them, and any thoughts they might have going back to the
missing brandy will be ended before they begin.
Callow congratulates us on our good
fortune. Is there a flicker of doubt in his face? Does he believe me? I think
he does. His presence at our celebration may, however, indicate otherwise. If
he suspects we have something to hide he will come to observe and listen, to
catch us out if he can, but when he opts to send us a bottle of champagne
rather than attend it seems he has taken us at face value.
Cummings arrives with photographer in tow, and we pose for pictures brandishing a photocopy of ‘Uncle’s letter’. The pub is full of our new found friends who soon get very drunk at our expense while we stick to low alcohol lager. The celebration ends at 5am when the after-party at Petherdale comes to an end and our remaining guests stagger home apart for one who is carried outside and abandoned in a bus shelter. We, also, are in an abandoning mood and, ignoring the multitude of bottles and cans left by our guests retreat upstairs to bed where we discover more cans and a pair of pants that aren’t mine. We’re beyond caring and fall asleep utterly exhausted.
(to be Continued)
Copyright Richard Banks
