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Saturday, 24 October 2020

DECISIONS

 

DECISIONS

By Peter Woodgate

Strolling through Romford Market

on a Saturday afternoon

a woman sings amongst the crowd

alas, she’s not in tune.

It’s then I spy, a wistful lad

ensconced outside a closed shop door,

laid out, in front, a cap, to beg?

His clothes are ragged, is he poor?

And by his side a dog, he’s cute

Man’s best friend, a faithful pet?

Or an aid, to raise some loot?

A cynical thought, selfish, and yet,

This world is full of those that cheat

and take advantage of each thought,

rely on us, our conscience pierced

to take the action that we ought.

A passer-by has seen before,

this lad, calls him an immigrant,

“go back to where you have come from,

not welcome here,” you hear him grunt.

A woman who has witnessed this,

Reveals a smirk, etched on her face,

it’s obvious, she does agree,

he should be in another place.

I look into the beggar’s eyes

he smiles, but there is sadness deep

within his thoughts, somehow revealed,

the sort depriving me of sleep.

I then decide, “oh what the Hell”

A bit of change, it’s nowt to me.

I throw it in the cap and find,

no more decisions, I am free

I wander through the market stalls

I’m happy now, my conscience clear,

no need to debate the £2 given

for I’m off to the pub and having a beer (or two).

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate 

 

MY LITTLE TIN BOX

 

MY LITTLE TIN BOX

By Bob French

Jillian felt the cold.


October wind tugged at her wet raincoat as she stood under the tall oak tree that had stood guard over the graves of Rayleigh Town out on the Hockley Road for centuries.  The mourners, having paid their respects, had left her standing in the wind and rain, staring confused over the dark hole in the wet grass, where her father now lay.

            She tried to clear her mind; think of all the good times they had spent together but felt only anger at how their life had turned out. Ever since her Mum had run off with someone, things had deteriorated and money had become tight.

            Her Dad had been a soldier in the war and after moving around, had settled in Rayleigh and found a job with one of the high street banks. Then their world fell apart. After eleven years of loyal service, he was fired; replaced by the daughter of the manager.  When he challenged the manager, he was told that they had found out that he had been embezzling money from the bank.  He was furious and vigorously denied the charges, but was arrested, and tried, but because he had an impeccable record, the judge gave him a suspended sentence. After the trial, he was a broken man and rarely left the house.

            The local papers and subsequent gossip soon made it impossible for Jillian, who had recently finished school, to find a decent job in town, so had to settle for anything that could earn enough to stave off starvation, so during the afternoons she worked as a waitress in the White Hart and in the evenings, she packed shelves at Woolworths three days a week.  It was slave labour with corresponding wages, but it allowed them to get by. That was four years ago and during that time she watched her Dad slowly fade away.

            A few days after the funeral, Jillian decided to get on with her life and started to clean the house.  It was late in the afternoon that she found an old metal box under her Dad’s bed.  She sat staring at it for a while before plucking up enough courage to open it.  It took some time to force the key to turn, but when it finally opened, she stared into the box and felt a sudden wave of sadness rush over her and for a few minutes, she openly cried at the memories and loss of her Dad.

            Inside the box were many things that jolted her memory; some photographs of her as a child in school uniform, and a group photo of his chums in the desert from the war with their names scribbled on the back, a pair of knitted booties she had worn as a baby, his war medals and a tattered copy of a Ladybird book; The Adventures of Pinocchio with the first few pages torn out.  As she held up the book, some white cards with numbers written on them fell out. Jillian stared at it all, then felt the tears fill her eyes again as she realised that this was all she had left of the man she owed so much to and had loved dearly, even though he had been through some terrible times, he had always been there for her.

            The clatter of the letterbox told her that the post had arrived and pushing the box aside, she made her way downstairs. As she sat at the kitchen table reading the letters, fear crept through her tired body; they were all bills or final demands and as she opened the last from Anglia Water, she burst into tears.  She didn’t know how she was going to pay them.

            Totally exhausted, she lowered her head onto to her arms, closed her eyes and slept, hoping to push the worries that faced her away. It was the noise of the telephone that woke her.  The irate voice of the manager of the White Hart demanding to know why she had not turned in and after explaining her circumstances, he grunted, then and put the phone down on her. 

            The following morning Jillian laid out the contents of the box on the kitchen table. She read the little Ladybird book, listening to her father’s voice in her head as she read it. Then she remembered the white cards and the game they used to play of converting letters and numbers into numbers and letters. After half an hour she had created the phrase: ‘Where Jimmy is buried will show you the way.’ Straight away she understood, it was one of her Dad’s games, but who was Jimmy?

            She studied the rest of the contents, hoping to find who Jimmy was; then his name sprang out at her; he was one of her Dad’s friends in the photo.  Under his name, written in pencil, was Rayleigh.    She glanced at the other names and noticed that they all had different towns and assumed that it must be where they were buried.

            The following day she walked into Rayleigh and wandered around the graveyard of Holy Trinity. To her surprise she found it within the hour: a simple headstone; on it were the details:  James Oliver Charles Kent, died 29 December 1965.  Jillian scribbled the details down and went home, tired and hungry.

            That evening after her shift at the White Hart, she studied the details again, then the penny dropped.  The men in the photo had all fought in the African Campaign and took out his medals.  There she found the bronze medal named the African Star, in the centre of it were the Royal cipher GR for King George.  She let out a yell of joy, of course remembering her Girl Guide training; GR meant grid reference; then looking at Jimmy’s date of birth and converted it into six numbers: 291 265.  This had to be the next clue.

            During the following night as she packed shelves, she asked Marcus, a fellow stacker at Woolworths, if he had a local map, he didn’t but told her she could look things up in the town Library.  The following morning Jillian was shown into the little room behind the reception desk where she studied an Ordnance Survey map and found that the grid reference was an animal graveyard out at Hockley.

            The following day Jillian took a bus out to Hockley and wandered around the small graveyard for nearly two hours not knowing what she was looking for.  It was as she sat on the bench staring at her notes that it came to her. The first letters of Jimmy’s full name; James Oliver Charles Kent, spelt JOCK and there was only one little grave in the grounds dedicated to a Yorkshire terrier named JOCK.  Beneath its name were a string of letters and numbers.  They meant nothing to her but she scribbles them down and made her way back home. After four days of trying to decipher these numbers, she gave up.  Her code-breaking skills had run out.

            Saturday morning, she decided to return her library books and as she was handing them over to the librarian, she noticed the number on the spine of her book and quickly asked if they had a book that had the number D. 2/10/1968 on it.  The lady smiled and pointed her in the direction of the children’s section.

            “You’ll find them on the third and fourth shelf, my dear.”

            After quickly looking at each book; found nothing that would give her a clue to the next step and as frustration and depression clouded her thoughts, she once again, gave up and went to leave.  As she approached the desk a little girl was asking her mother what the funny numbers were in the front of her book on nursery rhymes was. Without thinking, Jillian returned to the shelf and took out the little Ladybird book of The Adventures of Pinnochio, flipped it open and smiled at the pencilled arrow pointing to the ISBN number which had been slightly altered by pencil.

            At home, using the process of converting the numbers of the ISBN into letters, found that it read: ‘under the rose bush.’  She stared at it for ten or so minutes, then felt failure creep into her tired mind.  ‘What did Dad do when he was stumped?’  she asked herself.  ‘Make a cup of tea.’  She also remembered that he always stared out the kitchen window into the garden with his mug of tea in his hand, so without further-a-do, she boiled the kettle, made herself a mug of tea, then stood looking out of the kitchen window.

            The weather on that afternoon was fine for the time of year as she let her eyes wander around the garden which her Dad had taken great delight in caring for.  She tried to remember the various names of the flowers, then her eyes settled upon a beautiful rose bush, its bright red blooms swaying gently in the warm afternoon sun. 

            Before she left for work at the White Hart that evening, she carefully dug around the rose bush until she found a small plastic box buried beneath in the dirt.  Once she had washed the dirt from it, she sat down at the kitchen table and carefully opened it.  Inside was a letter from her dad and two keys, a small one, similar to the one that opened her Dad’s metal box and a more robust brass key, that according to the cardboard label her dad had attached to it, opened a safety deposit locker at Waterloo Station.  She read the letter from her Dad and burst into tears; it told her of his love for her and how sorry he couldn’t have been a better father, but that she should empty the box and use the contents wisely. 

            Jillian’s heart ached; her head thumped and her eyes stung as she openly wept again.  Exhausted and drained, she slowly rested her forehead onto her hands on the kitchen table and cried herself to sleep. 

            The sound of the telephone cut into her sleep again and as she answered it heard the gruff voice of the manager of the White Hart pub.

            “You didn’t show for work Miss Cordon.  I warned you that if you were late again, you would be dismissed.”  The phone went dead.  She’d been fired.  That’s all she needed, then slumped down into her Dad’s chair and fell asleep sobbing.

            The following morning the post arrived delivering more threatening letters and demands for un-paid bills.  With what little money she had left, she took the afternoon train into Waterloo and found the deposit box, emptied the small tin box into her rucksack and made her way home. The train was delayed at Shenfield and by the time she got home, she’d missed the start of her Woolworths shift and expected a phone call telling her she’d just lost her job there as well.

            Exhausted, she left the box on the kitchen table, and still fully clothed, climbed into bed and fell into a deep sleep.  The sun broke through her grey drab curtains, waking her and as she glanced at her alarm clock was surprised to see it was eleven o’clock.

            Jillian stood in the kitchen still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and toyed with the box, then remembered the second small key.  With her freshly made mug of tea, she sat down and opened the box.  To her surprise she found four large bundles of twenty-pound notes, the wrappers told her that each bundle was worth £15,000. A note from her Dad and a thick envelope folded several times. 

            The note stated that within a few months of working at the bank he had realised that something was wrong so decided to put his pension and savings into the tin box, rather than open a bank account.  This was now hers.  The envelope contained a detailed account of how the manager of the bank had been embezzling the bank out of thousands of pounds and the account numbers where he had moved his ill-gotten gains to in the Channel Islands.  She reread the letter again in disbelief. 

            Her Dad’s note ended by asking her to take the envelope and put it into the hand of George Wainright, an old Army friend at the Southend Chronicle.  He would know what to do with it.

            Two weeks later having just returned from a holiday in Majorca, Jillian threw back the gaily patterned curtains to her newly decorated bedroom just as her Teasmade started to boil.  There was a clatter at the front door as the newspapers arrived.  Over breakfast, Jillian read with enthusiasm how a local bank manager and his daughter had been found guilty of embezzlement and had been sentenced to ten years.

            As she ate her second slice of toast, the telephone range; it was George Wainright.

            “Hello Jillian, just thought I’d give you a call to say that The Courts have reassessed the evidence against your father and he has been exonerated of all charges and I have managed to sell your Dad’s story to the nationals for £30,000.  Where would you like the money to be sent?”

            “Oh, I don’t have a bank account, Mr Wainright.  I keep my money in my little tin box.”

Copyright Bob French

Friday, 23 October 2020

Eating Out

 

Eating Out

by Rosemary Clarke

In this time of Covid
It's good to hear a voice
And in the places to eat
In Southend there's such a choice:-

The food it is delicious
Green tables far apart
But Maxwell's knows just what it takes
To warm all of our hearts
It takes kindness, it takes laughter and caring for everyone
To eat out at the moment
For me, Maxwells is the one!
You travel up to Southend
And down the Street of Queens to experience a culinary feast of all your dreams!
From Vegan, Veggie Gluten Free they cater for us all
As well as those who eat meat the smell of food will call.
The Molo Lounge is friendly
They cannot do enough
To make everyone feel comfortable which is good when time's this tough.
If you're Veg or Vegan they will cook a breakfast to desire
And even if you're not their food will set taste buds on fire!

That's only two of many
Who have won a load of hearts
They'll try to open just for us
So wear masks, keep apart.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

TAKING THE PLUNGE

 

 TAKING THE PLUNGE


By Jane Scoggins

  When Sally asked Gerry if he would like to go to the swimming pool with her, he didn't know what to say. The fact that she was asking him, was mind-bending enough. He blushed and in a daze said ''That would be great''

He didn't know if this was just a friendly gesture or if it was to be like going on a date. He couldn't work it out. No time to think further on it as she turned and went on her way with a smile, and a little wave of her hand. He smiled back of course, and was grateful that at least he appeared composed enough to do that, but as soon as she was out of sight his smile faded and was replaced with a frown, the type that signifies worry and uncertainty.  What had he let himself in for? Sally was a girl way out of his league and he was amazed she had asked him to go anywhere with him. I mean anywhere, even to cross the road with him, never mind to an actual venue. And to the swimming pool of all places. Date or not. At the moment that bit was the least of Gerry's worries. He had much more important things on his mind to worry about. He couldn't swim! How embarrassing was that! He couldn't change his mind now, he had accepted the invitation with a smile and he would look a fool if he told her now. Perhaps he could tell her he had a verruca and not allowed in the pool. But no, he remembered that his cousin had had several and he had been given a rubber sock thing to put on when he went swimming. He could have a bad cold? No, that would be time limited to a week at most. What to do? Gerry went to the cafe for a drink and a think. He had had swimming lessons at school but a bout of Glandular Fever during the summer term when his class were moving on from a few strokes to a width of the pool, had put a stop to his own progress. Some kids who had been on summer holidays abroad or holiday camps that year where there were swimming pools and flumes and the like, had, on return to school in September, boasted that they could now swim a length, and some could even dive in from the side or swim underwater. Gerry had spent most of that summer holiday recovering from the exhaustion left by the Glandular Fever. No real opportunities had come after that and he had not bothered to catch up. If only his parents had suggested he take extra private lessons he might not be in this unexpected quandary now. But he knew that was a bit harsh on his parents. No, it was not their fault he couldn't swim. Never mind about fault he thought, think of a plan!

After a bit of internet research he found a local swimming teacher who offered intensive two week swimming courses. Every day for an hour. That should do it, and she was willing to teach him first thing in the morning before he went to work or later in the evening before the pool closed and it was quiet.

Gerry took to the classes with enthusiasm and soon gained confidence. He made good progress and before the end of the two weeks, he knew he would be able to hold his own well enough when he met up with Sally. Some nights just before the pool closed members of the Dolphins Swimming Club arrived to have their lessons and practice their racing and diving. Gerry was fascinated and hung about for as long as he was allowed to watch them. They were a friendly bunch and always said hullo, once or twice he was asked if he was looking to join.

''Oh no,'' he would say, ''I am not up to your standard yet.''

Apart from the fact that some wore black trunks and some wore black costumes it was hard to tell the boys from the girls as they were all in the pool within seconds of emerging from the changing rooms and all wore yellow hats and black goggles, so in the water the only thing you noticed was their individual styles and speed when racing one another.

Several of the swimmers caught his eye as being particularly good and probably the stars of the team. One swimmer, he didn't realise was a girl, to begin with, he liked watching in particular. She was fast in the water and had a way of curving her arm when she did the crawl that was a bit quirky and intriguing to watch.

  When Gerry met up with Sally at the swimming pool he was confident and all fired up about swimming.  They swam a bit together but as time went on Sally was more interested in chatting with her girlfriends and showing off her new bathing costume than actual swimming. Gerry was very disappointed after all his efforts but still felt very grateful to be in her presence. After a few meetings at the pool, Sally announced that she was getting a bit bored with swimming and had decided to start horse riding with her best friend Amy. She wasn’t able to fit in both activities so regrettably, she said with a little princess pout she wouldn’t be coming to the pool much in future. Gerry got the message and gallantly said he understood and said he hoped to see her around sometime.

Gerry returned to watch the Dolphins Swimming Club and when asked the next time if he would like to join he said he would love to, if they would have him, and accept him as the novice he was. The team manager said, ''no worries, we all have to start somewhere, We were all novices once, if you are willing to practice hard you will soon be racing with the rest of the team,''

  Gerry was very happy; He set his goal on achieving a good time for a length in the pool and keeping up with the training. He also set his sights on the Dolphin with the quirky fast crawl and when he felt confident enough in the water he intended being confident enough out of the water to ask her out. This time it would be a proper date.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 

 

Thursday, 22 October 2020

LONG RUN SHORT

 

LONG RUN SHORT

by Richard Banks

So this was it. What I had been training for, for nearly three months. In as many minutes we would be off, me and twenty-five thousand other underdressed masochists shivering with cold and nervous tension on a shrill April morning. I eased my way into the mass of runners by the three hours, thirty minutes sign and found a small gap on the tarmac between a grizzled veteran in his club colours and a younger, but less fit man, dressed as a clown. Despite the banter, everyone was on edge, anxious to be off, watching the second hand on the big clock creep round towards the final minute.

      The veteran half turned his face towards me. “First time, son?”

      I nodded.

      “Thought so,” he said, “can usually tell. What time are you aiming for?”

      “Three and a half hours, if I’m lucky.” I bit my tongue, what did luck have to do with it? I reflected on the training sessions I had missed. Had I done enough?

      The veteran sensed my uncertainty and lack of preparation. “Well, at least you’re standing in the right place, not like that wally on the other side of you. He set his

stop-watch for the off. “Thirty seconds to go,” he muttered. “Run steady for the first few miles, then pick it up from there, if you can.”

      I took off the old sweater I was wearing and tossed it onto the pavement. The hooter sounded and we were off - a slow shuffle at first, easing into a gentle jog as we passed over the starting line. A hundred yards on, the crush of bodies began to ease and the veteran, with practised precision, started to weave his way through the crowd.

      I let him go. After four miles of steady running, I attempted to take his advice and take it up a gear. A mile later I took it back down, and by the time I reached Cutty Sark, I was ready to stop. Seven stops later I knew it was all over; with twelve miles gone and fourteen to go, I was never going to make it. I walked disconsolately to the next junction and turned left, away from the course. A black cab pulled up.

      “Want a lift mate?” The driver thrust his large shaven head through the open window and looked at me like a vulture anticipating its next meal. I climbed in, thankful that I had some emergency money pinned to the inside of my vest. As we pulled away en route to my hotel in Greenwich I crumbled into the seat, feeling like the utter failure that I was.

      The driver tried to console me. “Never mind mate, there’s always next year. You’re not the only one to drop out.”

      “Maybe not,” I sighed, “but how many of them are sponsored for ten thousand pounds. I explained that I was running on behalf of little Tommy, the critically ill grandson of my next-door neighbour, whose family needed the money to send him to a specialist unit in America. The cab came screeching to an abrupt stop and the driver swivelled round. He looked angry. I thought he was going to punch me. “What, and let little Tommy down! We can’t do that!” he roared.

      “But what can I do? There’s no way I can make it to the finish.”

      The cabby thought otherwise. “Oh yes there is my son! Oh yes, there is!” He turned the cab around and set off towards the City.

      I sensed that my day was not improving. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.  

      “To Birdcage Walk.”

      “That’s on the course, isn’t it?”

      “Indeed it is my son, just ’round the corner from the finish in the Mall. We’re going to do an Archie.”

      “Archie?” I said. “Archie who?”

      “Too much information,” he said. “All you need to know is that he had the same problem as yourself. Different race, but same problem.”

      “And what did he do?”

      “The same as us. Now listen up. When we get there you put on my overcoat. We find a gap in the crowd. You crouch down, make yourself small and I’ll stand over you, giving you a bit of cover. When you see your chance, slip off the coat and rejoin the race.”

      “Isn’t that cheating?”

      The cabby pulled a face. “Just think of little Tommy.”

      Half an hour later we pulled up in St Anne’s Gate and descended the steps that led down to Birdcage Walk. There were no gaps in the crowd but the cabby forced a way through to the front and occupied a space between two metal fences. I followed him in, and several minutes later re-entered the fray.

      I would like to say that I felt guilty as I dashed over the finishing line. Instead, I gave a clenched fist salute to the TV cameras. I even framed the medal they gave me; well it’s not every day you run a marathon in under three hours. A week after the race I embarked on another marathon, collecting my sponsorship money. Tommy got to go to America, and after a stunning marathon debut I retired from the sport and took up darts.

      The pub team I belong to is having a sponsored bulls-eye competition next month. It’s all in a good cause. I’m not very good, so I don’t suppose it will cost you much. Can I put you down for fifty pence a bull? 

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

                                        

 

 

Elders


Elders

by Rosemary Clarke

Elders all over the world are revered
Looked on as sages and teachers and seers
But Western places treat elders as fools
Giving the backchat and government rules.
Elders are US only lived a bit more
Some and vibrant and happy the rich and the poor.
The lessons they've learned we should all want to hear
Don't put them down but give a huge CHEER!
These folks know resilience much better than you
With wars and restrictions and all they've been through
They're ELDERS and we should look up to them ALL
That way the West World
Will learn to walk tall.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke