Meanings of the flag

 Meanings of the flag

 

By Barbara Thomas 

 

It could mean to flag a person down or to wave your flag in an act of patriotism.

 

Unfortunately through the centuries the flag has also been used to terrify and control people.  A good example was the Nazis Swastika flag.

 

Just lately, the domestic view has been to fly the flag to show others this is our country and we want to claim our borders back.

 

Flags are flown down Pall Mall to celebrate, for instance:

The coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.

To celebrate the end of WWII.

And, to welcome foreign dignitaries when they visit our shores.

Politicians stand in front of the Union flag, cementing the fact that they are talking to the British people. 

Lately, according to the Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer, any person(s) who rally to the English, Welsh, Scottish, or N Ireland Flag are Right wing. He was referring to ordinary citizens, of multicultural differences, when their families congregate in public places to let the Government know we are proud of our country and do not agree with his policies regarding illegal immigrants. 

The flag would be used in a battle to rally the troops. 

In some countries if the flag is defaced in anyway it could mean prison or death for the perpetrator. 

In Britain, a very diverse country, we should all rally round our Flag and once again cement the meaning of unity.

 

Barbara Thomas

The Room (Flash fiction)

 The Room 

By Len Morgan

It was a sparse room.  Only a worn rug adorned the floor, a desk, a chair, a journal, and an assortment of writing implements sat on the desk. By the door, a dog's basket… 

The wall above it held seven pictures of children displaying a familial similarity, except for their ages.  They were each hugging a small dog; the same dog. The pictures were arranged in chronological order, the first child was aged one, then two, three, four, five, six, and seven. The dog aged in each successive picture. Then came three pictures of the dog alone, followed by two blank frames.

I wonder if he had survived the knife attack, would our marriage have survived?  The final straw was when Milo passed… 

The killer got six years, due to his mental state, but as a model prisoner only served three years.  Today, he is to be released to murder again…

I checked my service revolver, loaded it with three bullets, and left my house for the final time!

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

GUSTAVE (Part 2 of 5)

  GUSTAVE  (Part 2 of 5) 

 by Richard Banks

The journey from Euston although long was not unpleasant and on arriving at Penrith I was duly met by Brownlow, Gustave’s man of business, and conveyed to Whinfell Castle in a carriage that would not have been out of place in the royal mews. Learning that I had not seen or spoken to his master in many years Brownlow proceeded to tell me all that was necessary for the role I was to undertake, beginning with the turn of fortune that had begun his fortune.

         On the election of Wilhelm I as German Emperor his niece, who was also Gustave’s cousin, petitioned her uncle for the restoration of her family’s estates in Saxony. The request granted, Gustave, the senior male member of the Von Wern family, returned to the land of his birth only to find that it was not the idyllic place of his childhood memories. The populace was unwelcoming and when riots occurred, threatening to erupt into revolution, he made over his feudal dues to a Dresden banking house in exchange for a large sum of money which, after his return to England he tripled or possibly quadrupled by judicious investments in the Manchester cotton mills.

         “Oh, what a shame,” I said, referring to his unhappy return to Saxony. “He always spoke so warmly of his native land. That must have been a sad disappointment.”

         Mr Brownlow nodded his head in agreement, but made no comment except to say that his unruly subjects were once again subject to Prussian rule.

         “Well, serves them right,” I replied in spirited defence of ‘my friend’, whilst thinking that Gustave’s morose disposition would not have made him the most popular of rulers. Perhaps Mr Brownlow felt the same way for he quickly moved on to my duties as night sitter. These had been devised by Gustave himself, and his instructions would be given to me on arrival at the castle, along with the implements needed to carry-out the checks he considered necessary.

         “Implements?” I said, fearing what might next be said.

         “Oh, nothing worth the mentioning: a mirror to catch his breath, if any, various needles for the drawing of blood, a stethoscope, a feather to tickle his feet and a magnifying glass for peering into his eyes. Nothing to worry about, all perfectly straightforward.”

         I murmured my agreement, the remuneration for these tasks now seeming less than generous. The thought that he had died of a contagious disease and that his final act would be to reunite us forever in the afterlife produced in me an involuntary groan that had Brownlow enquiring if I was “alright”. Ignoring his question, I responded with one of my own. “And what did he die of?” If I was blunt and a touch indelicate Mr Brownlow’s reply was equally blunt and to the point.

         “He fell from his horse, Mr Thomas, a tragic accident. We managed to get him back to the castle but he died of his injuries a week later.”

         “How awful,” I said, my relief at his reply giving way to genuine remorse. “I hope he didn’t suffer?”

         “His doctors saw to it that he was largely free of pain but there was nothing they could do to save him. Told that he had only a short time to live he put his affairs in order, gave directions for his funeral and in the presence of myself and his doctors, passed away quietly in his sleep.”

         Mr Brownlow fell silent and when he spoke again it was to point out the distant hill on which stood the grey stone walls of Gustave’s castle, slowly becoming larger but less clear in the fading light. We arrived after sunset to a reception party consisting of Chambers, Gustave’s butler, and two man servants, one of whom was holding a lantern.

         The house was mostly in darkness, only the entrance hall and several rooms leading off it being lit, while anyone needing to go further afield had to light the way with a paraffin lamp. On being ‘told’ by Chambers that I no doubt wished to go to my room before dinner I was also informed that it would be served at nine o’clock in the Prince of Wales Room.

         Taking his leave of me with a stiff, dutiful nod of his head he abandoned me into the care of the man servants who without speaking began mounting the stairs, one carrying my portmanteau and the other lighting the way with a lantern. Having shown me to my room on the third floor landing and, at my insistence, leaving me the lantern they disappeared into an impenetrable darkness, clinging grimly to the bannister.

         The room although less welcoming than the Margate boarding house I had recently stayed in at least had the modern conveniences of a wash basin and running water. I therefore lost no time in unpacking and, after washing and shaving for the second time that day, I changed into my dinner suit and, with lantern before me, carefully descended the stairs to the entrance hall. Relieved of the lantern I was ushered towards the dining room where a half dozen persons were soon joined by another five. They were an odd bunch to be sure, few if any of then appearing to be persons of quality. Indeed most of them would not have been allowed beyond the threshold of a City bank. Disconcertingly several of them were beginning to look vaguely familiar.

         Our placements at table were indicated by paper name cards. Mine was between a Mrs Green and a Mrs Skinner who had already taken their seats. On joining them the former greeted my arrival with a squeal of surprise followed by the exclamation, “luv a duck, Ethel, look who’s here, its young Dickie.”

(To be Continued) 

Copyright Richard Banks

 GUSTAVE (Part 1 of 5) 

by Richard Banks

When I received the letter about Gustave’s death my first reaction was of puzzlement. Why tell me, who had not clapped eyes on him for nearly twenty years? Even then we were no great friends, fellow clerks scribbling away at our high desks in the office of Shadwell & Potter, suppliers of black mourning cloth to a Queen who wanted no other colour. Discouraged from talking to each other on any subject unconnected to the business of the company we nonetheless discovered a mutual interest in the frowned on pleasures of the music hall.

         Well, why not, we were young men who after a long week of suffocating tedium deserved our Saturday night fun. But fun in Gustave’s company was not easily had and usually only got to after three pints of stout and a whisky chaser. So, why Gustave? he of the brooding disposition whose small talk consisted almost entirely of bitter sweet memories of Lower Saxony. But who else could there be when my days were taken up by work and my evenings shut away studying for the commercial diploma I hoped would change my life.

         At least Gustave had the distinction of being the first born son of a Saxon baron with extensive lands and a favoured position at court. But all had been swept away by the Prussian invasion of ’66 and he and the rest of his family were now penniless refugees, forced to scrape a living in the countries to which they had fled. He had travelled to London in hope of finding favour with the Prince of Wales to whom he was related through the Prince Consort, but his letter of introduction although delivered by himself to the Palace had not even been acknowledged. Fate had not been kind to Gustav and those who listened were, more often than not, ‘treated’ to a long litany of his misfortunes.

         Our association ended when on the passing of my exams I was successful in applying for a junior position at a City bank where I am now Assistant Manager of its Holborn Branch. It was shortly after my promotion to that position that I received the letter about poor Gustave, who was so faded in my memory that it took me several minutes to recollect who he was. He, however, had not forgotten me. There was to be a reading of his Will to which I was invited. The reason for my invitation was not stated only that my attendance was necessary under the terms of his will to be read at a Westminster hotel at 2pm, the following Tuesday.

         Had Gustave regained his family’s lands I wondered, and, if so, was I to receive some part of his fortune? The only way of finding out was to attend the reading, but as that was to take place on a day during the working week I had first to seek the permission of old Jessop, the Branch Manager, offering to make-up the lost time later that day or in the days that followed. He was, I could tell, less than keen on giving me permission, insisting I submit a written request to head office. This I did and, to Jessop’s obvious disapproval, they replied that I was to take off whatever time was necessary and that as a senior member of the Branch I would not be expected to make good the lost time.

         The fact that this message was conveyed to me in person by the Secretary to the Board was as much a surprise to me as it was to Jessop who could hardly conceal his annoyance. The Secretary sensing there were ruffled feathers to be smoothed volunteered the information that the testator, Mr Gustave Von Wern, had been a valued customer of their Penrith Branch and that I would, therefore, not only be attending in a personal capacity but as a representative of the Bank which, not unnaturally, was desirous of retaining the business of the Von Wern family. Indeed, anything I did to ensure this happening would be duly noted on my staff record.

         An opportunity had opened that seemed likely to be to my financial benefit as well as furthering my career with the bank. My reply to the letter was, therefore effusive of the usual pleasantries as I attempted to endear myself to the legal representatives of my ‘dear and esteemed friend and former colleague.’ The next opportunity to shine was at the reading itself which I attended in full mourning dress hired at considerable expense from a Piccadilly clothier. Arriving early I wasted no time in finding out who everyone was and handing out my card to those likely to be more important than myself, but of Jardine, the person who had written to me, there was no trace until, on the stroke of 2pm he entered, placing himself at the centre of a table facing a seated audience of some fifty persons. What followed was a long recital of Gustave’s bequests beginning with his lands and properties both in this country and abroad, and continuing on to lesser bequests of money and possessions. By the time Mr Jardine was down to individual items such as Gustave’s hall clock and an oil painting of his favourite racehorse my hopes of financial advancement were all but extinguished. Indeed, extinction occurred when on the bestowal of a silver plated spoon to a housemaid Mr Jardine announced that the reading of bequests was at an end.

         He was, however, not yet finished. There were things that Gustave wanted doing and payments to be made to those agreeing to do them. Having escaped responsibility for looking after an elderly relative, and offering up prayers each day for the salvation of his soul, I found myself charged with the office of ‘Night Sitter’ for which I was to receive the sum of one hundred pounds. My pleasure in receiving this useful addition to my worldly wealth was tempered by apprehension as to what was expected of me. Sitting I could certainly do but why did this have to be done at night, and for what purpose? Clearly, I needed to understand the nature of my office before accepting the money.

         Mr Jardine was evidently of a similar mind and, on asking me to identify myself, requested my presence in the room from which he had emerged.  After briefly expressing his sympathy to me at the loss of such an esteemed and much missed friend, Mr Jardine began to enlighten me of certain details about his client that any good friend would know but that he would tell me none the less. Gustave, a man of business and noble birth, valuing life as a God given opportunity to make ever increasing amounts of money was haunted by the knowledge that his father had been interred in the family vault while still alive, a circumstance discovered when his coffin was found the day after the funeral shaken from its plinth by the frenzied efforts of the occupant to free himself. Not unnaturally, Gustave was anxious, not to say terrified, that the same thing might happen to him. My commission therefore was to sit with my friend in the hours before his funeral to make sure that he was truly dead. Indeed if I should discover that he was still alive his payment to me would be raised to £500. In the meantime Mr Jardine’s instructions were to give me a cheque for £100 in exchange for my written agreement to comply with the testator’s request.

         While the duty of Night Sitter did not seem the most agreeable of tasks my refusal to do it was not only going to deprive me of the signed cheque presently residing on Mr Jardine’s side of the table but the goodwill of the bank who employed me and had power of preferment. It was, however, with a faltering hand that I signed the legal document thrust at me and, on receiving the cheque, was also given a rail ticket to Penrith Station with instructions to be there the day after next at three in the afternoon from whence I would be conveyed by carriage to Whinfell, Gustave’s castle home.

         The Bank’s willingness to see me undertake the duty assigned me was not reciprocated by Helen, my wife who thought I might fall foul of whatever disease or ailment Gustave had died off. My reply that he may have died of nothing more catching than old age - when he was only in his forty-third year - did little to ease her fears, or indeed mine. So, what had he died of? Whatever the cause it was too late to back out now, so equipped with two bottles of Dr Surebright’s tonic and an aromatic spray for my handkerchiefs, I took my leave of her with the gravity of a soldier going to war.

        

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Two Haiku (from Rob)

 

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

 

 THE RAYLEIGH SET

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 15^th 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 London, San Francisco and Tokyo. Further parks in Paris and Beijing are scheduled to open in 2127.

         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 London franchise in Battersea Park. The recent escape of one of the three Labradors trained to impersonate Jack triggered a nationwide search for the dog, real name Scoggy, which was eventually found trying to deliver a letter to the Battersea Dogs’ Home.

         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 Stonehenge. A further two million persons regularly log on to the sanctuary’s web site of which a select one hundred viewers are allowed to sponsor individual foxes for annual fees that only the super rich can afford.

         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 Iceland’s where Banks did his food shopping now sells only the beef curry convenience meal to which he was allegedly addicted. Purchasers of these are allowed a single perambulation of the perimeter aisle before exiting the building close to the British Heart Foundation shop that will forever be associated with W.R. French.

         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 Unsworth Boulevard (formerly Cheapside East) is another major attraction that will only increase visitor numbers. Dedicated to the memory of Sis Unsworth, the ‘Downhall Bard’, it contains her house and garden, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and six other buildings dedicated to her much loved poems.

         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

In the blackbird’s wake

 

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, UK

First published, Pan Haiku review 5 2025