by Rosemary Clarke
As another one closes one opens they say
So make sure yours are the best OK?
When opportunity comes, as it must
Learn to heal and love and trust
Learn to care for and take on board
All that your heart can afford
Use those doors to always bring
Peace and joy to everything
Then all who can, will take away
A really hopeful, lovely day.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
by Richard Banks
“It's Cheshire and Adam,” whispers Cheshire.
The door widens to let us in, then closes, plunging the house into total darkness. A voice tells us to stay where we are; he will put on a light. The muted sound of footsteps is reinforced by the creak of a wooden floorboard. An internal door is shut, curtains drawn and when the door is opened again a light shines out like a beacon. We follow the light into a room, where our host is already seated behind a desk. For a man who's been unexpectedly woken in the early hours of the morning, he seems remarkably composed, and if he's surprised by our mired appearance he makes no show of it. At first, I don't recognise him, a familiar face but in an unfamiliar place, the white overalls of the laboratory replaced by a blue quilted dressing gown.
“Good God, sir, it's you!”
Sir, the senior technician at Timewalk, stares back at me with an expression that suggests I have been more than normally incompetent.
“Of course it's me, Adam. Who on earth were you expecting?”
When I can't think of an answer Cheshire comes to my aid by saying I'm still woozy from a dodgy cigarette that she now thinks was a truth drug. Unsurprisingly this does not reassure 'sir' who is otherwise known as Professor Renshaw. Cheshire then launches into a blow by blow account of how she rescued me from a government hitman and that if the police are on to me they must surely know about everyone else in the cell.
Renshaw considers this with the same expression he wears when calculating time shift coordinates. “Then why aren't they here, knocking down the door? No, it's only Adam they know about.” He fixes me with a look that suggests I am being held responsible for more than the footprints on his carpet. “Why you, Adam?”
For the moment I am tempted to tell him the whole story; Eli, Egor, the whole thing, but I don't. If they find out I'm the old Adam rather than the new revolutionary Adam I become a threat to them all. I shrug my shoulders and when that response appears insufficient to reassure Renshaw I say that I'm not sure, it's all a blur, I was drugged.
“But that raises the same question. Why you? Why just you?”
To make sure that it is just me, Renshaw phones someone called Mason on what he assures us is a secure line. Mason confirms he is okay, although he clearly doesn't relish having to acknowledge this at 1.30 in the morning. More calls follow and the recipients confirm that they too are okay.
“Are you sure you weren't followed?”
Renshaw's question is directed at Cheshire, who assures him that we were not. He takes a deep breath but is reassured. “It would seem, Adam, that whatever you may have told Lew has gone no further than him. Lucky for you, lucky for us all. I hope this isn't going to happen again.” There is an unpleasant edge to his voice. This is a man who will have no mercy on anyone who endangers the cause he espouses. I have a second chance; there won't be a third.
Cheshire asks if the 'op' is still on. Renshaw confirms that it is. The only change is that he now wants me to detonate the explosives. Henderson, he says, has been reallocated to other duties. My apprenticeship is over. It's time for me to step up to the plate and be fully involved. He knows I'm up to it; that's why he recruited me to Timewalk. I am to attend the final briefing at 20.15, after which the operation will commence.
Cheshire asks what we are to do until then. Once Lew's body is found there can be no going back to the flat or our jobs. Renshaw agrees.
“You will have to stay here,” he says.
“And afterwards?” I ask. “After the op, what then?”
He looks at me like a schoolmaster about to admonish an insolent child. “Leave that to me, Adam. Today we change history. Think about that.”
This is not the reply I was hoping for and I'm beginning to think that my contribution to the revolutionary cause is unlikely to be missed if I am blown up. Renshaw delivers us into the care of a man called Hobson who takes us upstairs to a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. We shower and while our clothes are being washed and dried we retreat into the unaccustomed luxury of a proper bed with mattress and sheets. This might be the equivalent of the condemned man's hearty breakfast, but as revolutionary activities go this is definitely the best so far.
Hobson informs us that the briefing will take place in Renshaw's study and that until then we are to remain where we are with the curtains shut tight. He says that lunch will be served at 13.00 hours and offers us a choice of dishes that includes salmon and beef. Cheshire says that after the revolution we will all be eating beef. I pretend to agree but in an overpopulated world, this is never going to happen. As always the beef eaters will be the rich and powerful. The revolution, if it happens, will be about who they are. That's the way it has always been and always will. Why should it be different this time? But Renshaw is already eating beef. Why risk that?
We dress, have lunch, watch TV. Cheshire says the operation is straight forward, low risk but she's too tense for that to be true. The minutes pass with unbearable slowness. I want them gone; the sooner this is over the better.
At last Hobson appears to tell us that the briefing is about to take place. He escorts us downstairs to where Renshaw and three other men are seated around his desk. A ring on the doorbell announces the arrival of a young woman called Jodi, who, without speaking, takes her place on the only unoccupied chair.
Renshaw begins. He is brisk, matter of fact. He explains that I will be taking Henderson's place, but that all other details remain the same. Our target is Nicolas Steppler, a junior Minister at the Directorate of Internal Affairs. The plan is straightforward, apparently well researched. If everyone plays their part it should work. Steppler will be leaving his office in Victory Square at 21.30 in order to attend a reception for Regional Commanders. As he is only a junior Minister the security arrangements for his protection will be minimal, a single bodyguard at most. He will leave by a side entrance in one of a pool of cars provided by the Directorate of Common Services. The official car will be intercepted and delayed, while I make the pick-up in an identical car that has ten kilos of explosives in the boot. On arrival I am to take manual control of the car and drive Steppler for several minutes before stopping and activating two controls; one locking the passenger doors and the second triggering a timer device that will detonate the explosives. I have five seconds to make my escape. If I am not followed I am to report to a safe house near the Timewalk building. If I mess up I'm on my own.
“Any questions?” asks Renshaw. When there are none he wishes us well and is on the point of ending the meeting when he decides to say something that has evidently been omitted from earlier briefings.
“You will, I am sure, be wondering why we are targeting a little known Minister with only a subordinate role in Government. Let no one be in any doubt about the importance of what we are to do. It is no exaggeration to say that the future of the human race depends on the successful outcome of this mission. As you are aware, the Government has delayed the start of the Time Forward Programme pending the resolution of unresolved technical problems. It may surprise you to know that no such problems exist and that, unknown to our political masters, I have overseen a number of missions with a view to gathering information useful to our cause. I regret to inform you that twelve years from now the world will be devastated by nuclear conflict. How this happens – I mean the precise sequence of events – is unclear, but what I can tell you is that the war will happen as a direct consequence of the reckless militarism of our then leader. That man is our target, Nicolas Steppler. He must be stopped, stopped now. We dare not fail.”
There is silence, broken only by the shuffling of chairs as everyone gets to their feet. Hands are shaken, backs patted, a brief hug or two, then we are away, walking quietly, unobtrusively, to our designated positions. At the second intersection Cheshire turns right and I continue straight ahead. I glance back at her. It's twenty-four hours since I met her. Twenty four hours of death, near death, affluence and revolution. It's been a whirlwind romance. Do I want to see her again? I think I do.
I arrive at the garage where the car I am to drive is ready, its sculpted body spotlessly clean, a functional work of art. To destroy it seems a greater crime than the taking of life but this I must do; how can I not. I change into the uniform of a Journey Attendant and listen to the last minute instructions of the mechanic. He informs the car of its destination and we are away.
The car navigates its way onto the main vehicular route into Westminster, which, thirty-five minutes from curfew, is beginning to empty. We are on schedule, completing each section of the journey exactly on time. If the man responsible for delaying the official car has, for whatever reason, failed to do so, it will be within fifty metres, but there is no sign of it. The car pulls into Victory Square then left into a side turning, where it stops outside a porticoed entrance. I override auto drive and sound the horn to signal our arrival. The doors open and Steppler exits the building, briefcase in hand. I stride out onto the pavement and hold open the passenger door. He is about to get in when a voice from within the building calls his name.
“Nicky, any chance of a lift?”
Nicky asks where he wants to go and on being told the Savoy invites him to, “jump in.” Steppler shifts across the back seat as the other man emerges into the bright glow of the doorway. It's Eli, the new Eli that I saw on TV. He has the self-satisfied swagger of a man revelling in his own success. If he recognises me I'm done for, the mission over. But then this is the new Eli and I'm the old Adam. Did we ever meet? The thought seems absurd but the hope it gives me steadies my nerves. I stand motionless, hand on the door, while he buttons up his overcoat. Whatever I do I must not make eye contact. He steps down onto the pavement and I salute him with a sweep of my hand that covers my face. To him, I am a person of no importance, worth no more than a cursory glance. He joins Steppler in the back of the car. I shut the door and take up my position in the driver's seat.
Within seconds we are away. Steppler opens the window in the partition between us and issues a peremptory instruction. I am to go to the reception and then take Eli to the Savoy. I respond with a dutiful, “yes sir.” Fate has delivered into my hands the man who in all probability ordered my murder. His death is unimportant compared to that of Steppler but it's difficult to know which will give me more satisfaction.
I have only to stop, push two buttons and make my escape. I calculate that if I open my door before I push the second button my chances of escaping uninjured will be marginally, but significantly, enhanced. The thought distracts me and I am late in noticing the brake lights of the car in front of me. I press down on the brake and a collision is narrowly averted; my passengers, deep in conversation, appear not to notice.
I turn into the inside lane, pass a row of shops and stop outside the unlit façade of the World Bank. Steppler opens the window and asks why I have stopped. He waits for me to say something, but there's no need. I open my door and press the button that locks the passenger doors. I hear the bolts click into place and, to my horror, see the bolts in my door project out into empty space. This wasn't in the plan and I'm guessing there won't be a five-second delay when I press the second button, but I press it anyway and launch myself into the middle of the road. The explosives detonate, along with the petrol tank, and what's left of the car bursts into flames. There's a shower of burning debris and pain in one or both of my legs but I get up and stagger towards the side road that's on my escape route. There are fifteen minutes to curfew. With luck, I will get to the safe house without attracting attention. Then I come to my senses; I've been set up. I was no more meant to survive the bomb than Steppler. My new comrades are as toxic to me as the Government. I take refuge in the doorway of a shop and try to work out what to do. It's looking grim, but if I can get to the safe house I will have at least one ally in Cheshire. I also have a gun and Renshaw won't be expecting me. What happens after that I don't know. As plans go it doesn't add up to much, but it's better than being homeless and on a Government hit list.
(to be continued)
Copyright Richard Banks
by Rosemary Clarke
My mask is on, my gloves are too
I'm all ready how about you?
I board the bus my mask on face
I'm going to a different place.
I'm going shopping in Southend
And Covid rules I will not bend!
When I get off mask stays in place
To keep all safe it's on my face.
I reach the store where I will shop
On footprints orange, I will stop.
I pay by card I leave and then
I take the bus back home again.
Open the door, spray my boot's soles
Efficient cleaning is my goal.
Take off outerwear, bish, bash bosh
And throw the lot into the wash.
I dress in old clothes then I spray
The shopping, and put it away.
I spray the trolley, especially wheels
I love how clean everything feels.
I feed the cats then brew some tea
I'll have a good rest now you see.
Then up I get to find some wood
To mend the doorstep, looking good!
Watch TV and when cats are fed
I yawn and stretch and go to bed.
Copyright
Rosemary Clark
By
Phil Miller
There may be a time when she wants to
Open the door to solitude
And close it quietly behind her
So that only she can hear her heart
beating.
She will want to feel the comfort of a
hug
From a familiar armchair as she wriggles
Childlike into its well-worn woollen
Structure, like slipping into the arms of
her
Fathers oversized cardigan.
And facing the frosty wall of glass that
knows the January storm will keep its
Promise, she will want to be still.
And there she will wait with saint-like
Patience, listening intently for the
Euphonious calls of her beloved birds,
Whose flights she will never see.
Copyright Phil Miller.
By Jane Scoggins
When, in November 1916, Mrs Wilson
suggested that Jack be a messenger for the Army, some of her friends and
neighbours thought it a bit strange.
''Why', they asked, would a woman who had
lost both her husband and her son to the war, want to give up her closest
companion and comfort to a war that may not see his return? But Mrs Wilson had
thought long and hard about this, and was sure it was the right thing to do.
Not just for King and Country, but in memory of her husband, John, and son,
Billy. Jack had no say in the matter, no say at all, but he would have done
anything for Mrs Wilson; laid down his life for her if need be, which is
probably what he would have to do if sent to the Western Front and enemy lines.
The war was now in its second year and losses of life
just across the
The womenfolk held things together in
tightly knit communities. Their sons, husbands, brothers and uncles, acquainted
or related to one another, and closely linked through work, church, hobbies,
streets and towns. The custom of drawing the curtains when news that a soldier
had been killed at war had become the traditional sign to the surrounding
neighbours that mourning for a dead family member was taking place. Sometimes
several houses in a single street had curtains drawn at any one time, and
the silence was very noticeable. Children temporarily stayed out of sight,
despite cramped conditions indoors, and dogs sat dolefully beside their front
steps, aware that something was very wrong, and that this was no time for play or barking.
Jack, being of a sensitive nature, had been
very aware of the sadness surrounding the
When Sergeant Clegg came to visit Mrs
Wilson, he wiped his big army boots on her front doormat and respectfully
removed his green serge army cap before stepping over the threshold of her
terraced house. He waited to be offered a seat when she showed him into her
tiny front parlour. When Mrs Wilson called his name, Jack came straight away
from where he had been waiting in the kitchen. After introductions, Jack sat
attentively beside Mrs Wilson.
Sergeant Clegg explained the work of dogs
as messengers in the Army, and their specific role on the Front Line. Sergeant
Clegg was himself a dog handler and trainer. Mrs Wilson had told him about
Jack’s abilities and temperament, and from his own observations of the dog’s
intelligence and breed he was prompt in telling her that he thought it very
possible that Jack would be accepted to join his regiment. A period of training
would ensue before a commitment would be given. If Jack did not show aptitude
he would be returned to her
Sergeant Clegg, a kindly man, was keen to
tell Mrs Wilson that messenger dogs were highly trained, highly respected, well
cared for, and well-fed. Although sad at the thought of being without Jack, she
felt comforted by Sergeant Clegg’s assurances.
Jack had been Billy's dog, and she knew in
her heart that her son would be proud to know that his mother was putting him
forward for important military service, work that could save the lives of many
men serving in the Army,
When Sergeant Clegg had left the house,
Mrs Wilson told Jack that he was a good boy and would do very well in the Army.
She did not say more as she found herself reaching in her cardigan pocket for
her handkerchief, and shedding a few tears.
A week later Sergeant Clegg came back to
collect Jack, and for Mrs Wilson to sign
the paperwork. People from the street came out to wish Jack farewell, and to
stand with Edna Wilson as she watched Sergeant Clegg’s van disappear around the
corner, carrying the canine conscript. Aileen Thompson invited Edna back to her
house for a cup of tea. It was a gesture in recognition of her sadness and
courage and intended to soften the blow of separation. Another neighbour, Rosa
Croft, commented that she thought Edna a heroine for giving up her beloved dog
for such a good cause and that Jack would no doubt prove to be a real hero.
Sergeant Clegg was as good as his word. He
sent Mrs Wilson regular updates, in his own strong, clear handwriting on army
stationery, telling of Jack’s progress in training for the Front. He reported
that he had proved to be a quick learner, a fast runner and a determined
achiever in the tasks set at training school. Sergeant Clegg also remarked on
Jack’s intelligence and affection. Mrs Wilson had a slight pang of jealousy at
the thought of Jack transferring his affections from herself to Sergeant Clegg
but understood that this was absolutely necessary to enable Jack to take
instruction willingly. It also indicated to her that by being willing, Jack was
being well treated. She remembered how Jack had pined when Billy had gone off
to war. For many weeks he looked out for him coming down the street and cocked
his head if he heard a boy whistling like Billy. But as time passed he
transferred his affection to Mrs Wilson and she had been grateful for this. It
somehow made her feel closer to Billy. Sometimes she raised her eyes to the
scullery ceiling when she was washing up in the chipped enamel bowl, and spoke
out loud to her deceased son. It comforted her to speak out loud to him. It was
a one-sided conversation of course, but she felt in her heart that he
understood why she had taken the decision to offer Jack to the military.
Although she communicated less so with her dead husband, John, in this way, she
somehow felt that he would not have minded. He had been a good husband but not
exactly the kind of man she could talk over her feelings with. Billy, on the
other hand, had been a mother’s boy, a sensitive lad, whom she had nursed
through measles and scarlet fever as a little boy of six. Through her fear of
losing him during the epidemic, when so many children died, she had done her
best to keep him well and safe as he grew up. By his teens he was a strong, wiry
lad, He had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the army when
the call-up had come. Although only just sixteen his parents had agreed they
could not hold him back. The fact was, of course, that there was not much
choice in the matter. The Government, under Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, had
more or less ordered that all able-bodied men over the age of sixteen sign up.
There had been a fever of bravado that had
fuelled the call to arms, instigated by the well-known poster of an admired
soldier, Kitchener, whose imposing moustached face and pointing finger reached
out with the words Your Country Needs You. Young men rose to the challenge that
spoke to their manliness and self-esteem. At last, they could escape their
dreary lives and take the path to certain adventure and heroism.
News of Jack spread about the local streets
and provided a welcome distraction. Mrs Wilson was happy to share the updates
from Sergeant Clegg. She was sometimes stopped by complete strangers asking
after Jack.
Reports about Jack, once he had been
dispatched to the Front, were less frequent and quite terrifying at times to
Mrs Wilson. She had had less news from her son and husband, who wrote little
about the terrors of the war, the agonies of the men and the hellish
conditions.
From the letters about Jack, Edna learned
more than she had ever done from the carefully worded letters from her spouse
and child. The horror of war became real to Mrs Wilson through the scenes
described of mud and chaos, and the horrors of the men’s injuries. She loved
her husband and son even more for their bravery when she realised the terrible
conditions and fear that they had lived with day by day, night after night,
without respite. The only way out was by death, the only way home was by
serious injury.
In November 1917 an injured soldier from
Sergeant Clegg's East Anglia Division came to visit Mrs Wilson. She welcomed
him into her house and did not flinch at the sight of his badly disfigured
face. He had returned home from Passchendale, after being shot, and losing the
sight in his right eye. He had volunteered to visit Mrs Wilson and give her
news of Jack. Jack, he said was still very much part of the regiment and all
the men regarded him as a hero. He had saved many lives, including his own, and
had often sat stoically beside injured infantrymen, giving them comfort as they
lay dying in no-mans land. Corporal Green explained how Jack had lain across
his bleeding and unconscious body until a fellow soldier had spotted him and
hauled him back into the trenches as soon as it was safe enough to reach him.
He was able to give Edna the sort of information that she had been longing to
hear, but which was too secret to write about in letters from so close to enemy
lines. She was told that Jack, and two other dogs, were used to carry messages
in canisters around their necks to and from officers along the lengths of the
trenches, across stretches of deeply rutted, wet, muddy terrain that a man would
have struggled to cross quickly and safely enough due to his weight, and would
have been an easy upright target. The dogs were light, fast, focused and ran
close to the ground, often unseen and mainly out of target. When lines of
communication were down the success of the dogs carrying messages to and from,
was crucial to maintaining essential contact. The dogs had sometimes been
caught in the crossfire and injured, but somehow always managed to get back to
base, even if it took a whole day. Mrs Wilson cooked tea for Corporal Green
before she sent him on his way. At the door, she was tempted to reach up and
kiss his young ravaged cheek. But instead, she shook his hand, and as an
afterthought lifted it to her face and lightly kissed the back of his hand.
Edna Wilson felt humbled and yet sustained
by that single afternoon visit from the injured corporal, and often thought
about him and about Jack. Occasional short letters were received over the next
few months, but they held little information, except to say that Jack had
survived another gunshot wound, and damage to a paw from barbed wire.
When, at last, the war with
After a month convalescing at home, Jack
was much improved. Life settled down for Jack and Mrs Wilson. Thanks to Jack
, Mrs Wilson began to socialise more and it wasn’t long before she met Bert, a
widower who made her laugh again. He had a little Yorkshire Terrier who got on
well with Jack and they would all go for walks together.
When a letter came from the Prime
Minister's office, commending Jack for his work during the war, Mrs Wilson was
touched and proud and had it framed. A few weeks later she received another
letter from an organisation who trained guide dogs for the blind. It explained
that as a result of their war injuries many servicemen had lost their sight and
were struggling with rehabilitation and work prospects. The organisation was
recruiting suitable dogs to act as guides and companions to these men and
women. Jacks name had been put forward to them and they wondered if Mrs Wilson
would consider allowing him to join the training programme.
Edna and Bert talked it over and agreed
that Jack would be ideal although they would miss him very much.
The following year saw Edna and Bert
married. Although they had a new puppy they never forgot Jack. For the rest of
his working life, they visited him regularly. When Jack was ready for retirement
he came home, to be loved and cherished for the hero that he was.
Copyright Jane Skoggins
By Peter Woodgate
Small but exquisite
Beautiful nature indoors
My lovely Bonzai
 |
| My Lovely Bonsai |
