Sunday 25 October 2020
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.
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
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
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
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
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
“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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)