IN THE NIGHT 

by Richard Banks           

The gnarled face at the window had yet to arrive, but it would not be long. With the setting of the sun the old man made one final round of the house, checking locks on doors and drawing each curtain tight with a practiced precision that allowed no glimpse of the gathering darkness. He could sense the nearness of his enemy as it traveled westwards hiding in the black sky that would soon replace the remaining strands of twilight.

      The old man retreated to the kitchen and prepared his evening meal, taking comfort in the familiar kitchen noises. Outside, in his garden, the uneasy stirring of a eucalyptus tree heralded the arrival of the creature. For the moment all was quiet and might remain so, for there were many uneventful stand-offs in this long war of attrition. At worse the creature would roar its unreasoning malevolence and shake windows and doors in its frenzied attempts to gain entry.

      The man took his meal into the small front room that served both as his library and dining room. He read while he ate, while he listened to the night sounds outside. In his heightened state of awareness, he heard and understood every small sound - the impact of falling leaves on the concrete path, the subdued cooing of a wood pigeon, the shallow breathing of the creature as it bided its time. Once it had forced itself through a half open window and the man had fought it off with a hammer that he always kept within reach. What a battle that had been before he splintered the gnarled face into a hundred pieces. The victory had brought him a week of precious peace and then it had returned ever more determined to destroy him.

      The man continued reading past the midnight hour when the creature was at its strongest, and through the early morning until the sound of bird song announced the arrival of dawn. He waited half an hour, just to be sure, and then drew back the curtains in each room, half expecting to see his enemy at every window, but the creature was gone.

      It was safe to sleep now, time to retire to his bedroom where the curtains were always drawn, the room where he had done battle with his enemy and where the shattered remains of a mirror lay undisturbed on the bloodstained carpet.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Yellow Roses

By Janet Baldey

         The day after the funeral I knew I would have to leave the village.   Its crooked streets, that I had once thought quaint, were now sinister, as if dark secrets festered around each bend of the road.

George, of course, didn’t understand.  But then, he couldn’t be expected to.  He had no idea of the part I had played in Harry’s death.

         ‘What do you mean?  I thought you liked it here?’   With an irritated shake of his newspaper, he stared at me over the top of his spectacles.

         I lowered my head in a mute and miserable silence.  I couldn’t meet his eyes and I couldn’t explain.   Things had changed.   Every day, the scent grew stronger and now it permeated the whole house.   I clamped my lips together, fighting an urge to scream.   Abruptly, I turned away, staring out of the window at the maze of streets that seemed to have a single purpose.  They all led to the church on the hill.   The place where I had first met Harry.

*  *  *

Arriving back in England after many years spent abroad, George and I both fell in love with the small village, nestling in a valley surrounded by wave upon wave of forested hills.  Too far away from the coast and lacking a river, it was largely ignored by tourists.  It was, we agreed, a forgotten jewel and both of us thought it was our lucky day when we managed to find a house that suited our budget.

A few days after moving in, we decided to take time out from unpacking to explore our surroundings.  Eventually, our wanderings led us to St Etheldreda’s, the church on the hill.  As we pushed open the heavy oak door, its quiet beauty delighted me and suddenly I felt so happy, it was as if I’d come home at last.

‘It’s idyllic.’  I said.  ‘I swear I shall go to church every Sunday.’

George laughed but I was determined to play my part in the life of the village, after all, this was where I intended to end my days.

True to my word, the next Sunday surrounded by the swelling chords of the organ, I sat lost in the music as the service ended.  Gradually, I became aware of the congregation rustling as they rose, shuffling along the uneven stone aisle towards the entrance and the waiting vicar with his outstretched hand. When it was my turn, I found his handshake firm, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me and I walked out into the chill afternoon insulated by the warmth of his greeting.

 I stood looking at the gravestones tilting towards the earth. Encrusted by lichen their lettering was difficult to decipher and as I bent to peer closer, I felt a light touch on my arm.

‘Excuse me, madam.’

The voice was soft and as I looked up, I saw it belonged to the verger who had been standing in the porch when I arrived.

‘May I?’  He extended a hand.

Blood rushed to my head as I realised I was still clutching the hymn book he’d handed to me as I entered the church.

‘I’m so sorry!’

He smiled.  ‘Not at all.  At our age, we tend to get a little forgetful.’

Taken aback, I looked at him.   A pair of baby blue eyes met mine.  Although his face was unlined, it had the translucent quality of either the very young or the very old.   A light breeze set his fine, white hair dancing about his head like thistledown and, at a rough guess, I calculated his age to be at least eighty.

‘I look forward to seeing you next week.’  His eyes twinkled into mine.

 As I walked down the hill, I thought again how lucky we were to live here.  As if agreeing, the sun came out for the first time that day and the mellow stone houses glowed in the sudden light.  Surrounded by lush green hills, the village reminded me of a drop of honey in an emerald spoon.  Strolling on, I became aware of light footsteps tapping along behind me.  I resisted the urge to turn around but the sound intruded on my thoughts and I couldn’t help wishing my follower would take another route. As I reached our gate, the footsteps slowed a little and just before I turned, I heard a familiar voice.

‘It seems that we are neighbours.  Goodnight my dear.’

Recognising the soft voice of the verger, I stood watching as he trotted past me and vanished up the overgrown path of the cottage next door.

* *

A few days later, the weather turned hot and humid, perspiration trickled down my arms and my shopping bags chafed against my sweaty hands as I struggled home from the Wednesday market.   

‘Wine, garlic, rosemary, scallops, pasta, chocolate, candles….’  I ticked off the items in my head as I puffed along. Then, I stopped dead. ‘Damn and blast!  I’ve forgotten the flowers.  There must be yellow roses.  They’re Jenny’s favourite.’

  Tonight, was a special occasion.  My daughter Jenny was coming to dinner, together with her husband.  They had some special news and I had guessed what it was, there could be no other reason for their excitement.  At long last, I was going to be a grandmother.

But now my heart sank. I would have to go back for the roses. That would mean a rush to prepare the meal and I wouldn’t have time for the long, cool bath I had promised myself.  Irritated, I pushed open the front door and rushed into the kitchen feeling hot, sticky and thoroughly out of sorts.  Dumping my bags on the table I made for the sink and filled a glass with water.  Just as I began to drink, the doorbell shrilled and I started, spilling water all over myself.

Fuming, I started to dab at my blouse.  Stalking towards the door, I wrenched it open.

‘Yes?’  I said.

 Shivering in the doorway was a huge bunch of yellow roses, their perfume wafting towards me.  Then the flowers shifted to one side and a pair of sparkling blue eyes appeared.

‘Sorry to bother you, but my rose bushes are running riot this year and I wondered if you would like some.’

I recognised the soft voice of the verger and gasped in disbelief.

‘This is amazing. How did you know I needed roses?  You must be a mind reader,’

Overcome, I took him by the arm and drew him into the house.

For the next half hour, he sat in my kitchen as I plied him with tea and told him all about my daughter and the dinner party and how his gift would make all the difference.

He said little, but sat perched on a stool, his head on one side, looking for all the world like a benevolent sparrow.

At last, I ran out of steam and realised that I had been monopolising the conversation.

‘I’m so sorry.  I’ve been gabbling on.  You must be bored to tears but thank you for listening. Now it’s your turn.  Tell me about yourself.  Do you have a family?’      

‘I did, my dear. I had five beautiful children.  They are all dead now.’

I stared and my mouth opened, but no sound came out.  Through the stunned silence, the tick of the kitchen clock counted the seconds.

In shock, I couldn’t think of a thing to say and he didn’t elaborate.  Instead, he slipped from the stool.

‘I feel I have outstayed my welcome.  Do have a very pleasant evening.’  With an inclination of his head, he lifted the latch and let himself out.

I sat at the table for a long time after he’d left, trying to make sense of what he’d said.  I felt crash and boorish, I had rabbited on about yellow roses to a man who had lived through tragedies that would have broken most people.  To lose one child was bad enough.  To lose five was unimaginable.  I wondered what had happened.  A house fire maybe?  He hadn’t mentioned his wife.  Perhaps she was dead as well.  I eventually roused myself but his words nibbled away at my mind; I prepared the meal as if I was an automaton and all through the evening what he’d said cast a shadow.

Jenny had clapped her hands with delight when she entered the dining room and saw the table. Its centrepiece was the huge bowl of yellow roses gleaming in the candlelight, with  its double reflected in the polished mahogany.  My guess had been right and as we raised our glasses to the baby the sparkle of the wine mirrored our jubilation. But, even when I should have been so happy, my mood was depressed.  Jenny’s baby was just starting its long journey and I couldn’t help thinking of Harry and all the things that could go wrong along the way.

As the days passed, I thought about Harry more and more. I felt desperately sorry for him and worried that he was lonely so I invited him around for tea. To my surprise, I found him good company.  He’d been a verger at the church for many years and knew everyone connected with it. Garrulous and witty, he regaled me with spicy bits of gossip and offered to introduce me to the Ladies’ Circle, extolling the stimulant properties of flower arranging and tea making.  He also started to talk about his family and I encouraged him in this because I had noticed that he seemed to float around the periphery of the church society and was mostly a solitary figure seemingly with no close friends. I also learned a great deal about his children, Arthur, Tom, Mary Jane and Louise, although I never pried into the causes of their deaths as I didn’t want to re-open old wounds.

Gradually, with Harry’s help, I began to carve a niche for myself in the village and rarely had I been more content. My main worry at this time was that George had not taken to Harry.  At first, he was polite, then icily polite then he made himself scarce whenever Harry called around. On hearing the doorbell, he’d glance out of the window and then look at me sourly.

‘The boyfriend’s here,’ he’d grunt and bury himself back into his book or decide the garden needed weeding.

***

Just before Harvest Festival, I picked the last of our home-grown vegetables to donate to the church. Harry helped me and also raided his allotment so that now the table was laden with knobbly potatoes, carrots, squashes, beans and ripe tomatoes.  The low rays of the sun slanting through the window highlighted our efforts and I smiled with satisfaction.

‘Right, now for a well-earned cup of tea.’

As I turned towards the sink, Harry perched himself on top of a stool.

‘Would you like to see a photo of my children.’  His voice was barely audible over the rush of water into the kettle and I froze for a second before turning off the tap. This was a breakthrough.

‘Of course.’ Wiping my hands, I went back to the table and sat down.

Shyly, Harry handed over the photograph.  The edges of the small snapshot were curled and its surface was creased, it was obviously very precious.  I peered at it and groped for my spectacles. As the blurred outlines swam into focus, I gasped and sat frozen to my chair, listening to the blood pounding through my veins. Then I felt sick but I still couldn’t tear my gaze away.  The faces of five children stared back at me. But what faces and what children!

With misshapen limbs and lolling heads, they sat limply, slumped against one another as if propped up by the photographer. Drool decorated their chins and their eyes  were vacant. I dropped the photo as if I’d been burned.

‘Aren’t they lovely?’

The sound of Harry’s voice brought me back and I stared at him. I thought of all the times we’d talked about his children. He’d told me that Mary loved to read, Tom drew like an angel and Louise ran with the speed of a gazelle. He had painted a picture of lively, happy children but he’d lied.  I felt a surge of anger as I looked at his bland enquiring face. What I had taken for shyness on his part was obviously slyness. The children in that picture were obviously totally helpless, clearly incapable of living independent lives. Then a new horror occurred to me, was this kindly man, who had taken me under his wing, actually a hopeless lunatic?  My head began to drum.

‘I think you had better go now, I’m getting a migraine.’ Unable to look at him any longer, I blundered out of the kitchen.

For weeks, I had nightmares about that photograph. I stopped going to church and didn’t answer the doorbell, indeed I hardly dared leave the house for fear of bumping into Harry. I couldn’t confide in George, partly out of pride that I had been so wrong about him and also because I didn’t want to explain the picture. So, I moped around the house, mourning my happy life which seemed to have disappeared forever.

Eventually, my depression lifted. After all, I was soon to become a grandmother. Jenny’s pregnancy was now well advanced and early in December George and I decided to throw a small drinks party before it became too difficult for her to travel.

The night was fine and dry, with just a hint of frost, the guests had arrived and the party was in full swing when I heard our front bell chime once more.  I looked around for George but he was weaving his way around the room, a plate of canapes in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ I called.

I looked at the wavy outline pasted against the frosted glass and without a thought, pulled open the door feeling the rush of cold air freshen my cheeks.  I’d already had a glass or two of wine but the alcohol evaporated in an instant as I stood staring at Harry. 

‘Good evening Rose.  I haven’t seen you in a long time and wondered if you were well?’  He started to rummage in his pockets. ‘I’ve brought a small gift for you both.’  He brought out a small package.  He peered at the crowd and then looked back at me.  ‘Tell me, is that lovely young lady your daughter?’  He stood expectantly, obviously waiting to be invited in.

Fury consumed me.  How dare he try to gate-crash our party?  I glared at him as he stood cringing on my doorstep.  Dread replaced my anger as I guessed what he had with him and I imagined what would happen if he were to join the party; at some point in the evening he would invite my daughter aside.

‘I see you are expecting a happy event.  Would you like to see a picture of my family?’

The very thought made me feel ill.  Jenny’s peace of mind would be destroyed when she should be at her happiest.

 

I stepped towards him, slamming the door behind me.  With the thunder of blood in my ears,  I pushed him backwards down the steps.  He tripped and fell on one knee and  the pale glimmer of his face staring up at me fanned the flames of my rage.

‘Go away.’ I hissed, ‘you are not welcome here.’

‘But….’  He scrambled to his feet and raised his hands entreatingly.  Suddenly I saw it.  A small scrap of white peeping out of his pocket.  A scarlet tide almost completely blotted out my vision. I made a grab for him and snatched the photograph, flourishing it wildly.  Never again would it destroy someone’s peace of mind.

‘See’ I screamed.  Shredding the picture into confetti, I threw it at him.  Then I turned and marched back into the house.

Of course, the party was ruined for me.  After a while, I pleaded a headache and went to bed where I lay staring into the darkness, seeming to hear the faint sound of sobbing.

I never saw Harry again.  Months later I came across a knot of women gossiping in the High Street.  Their faces were shocked.  It seems that Harry’s body had been found in the outside privy of his cottage.  He had hung himself months ago.

George was puzzled when I refused to attend the funeral.

‘I realised you must have fallen out,’ he said, ‘but you were great friends once.’

I didn’t answer.

It was on the morning of the burial that I first noticed it.  Faint, at first, daily it increases so that now the whole house reeks of it.  When I first recognised the smell for what it was, I scoured the whole house searching for its source.  Not one fallen petal could I find but daily I am suffocated by the suffocating perfume.  Yellow roses.  Jenny’s favourite.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Vase of Flowers & A bowl of Fruit

 

VASE OF FLOWERS

By Peter Woodgate 

Severed in their prime

To satisfy conceit

They extend our conscience

Beyond the unspoken word.

We exhibit their beauty

Laurels, projecting our ego

An unnecessary sacrifice

And, despite the absence of a future,

They are, “still life”.

 

BOWL OF FRUIT

(an acrostic)

By Peter Woodgate 

B is for bunch of bananas all yellow

O is for orange delicious and mellow

W is for Worcester an apple so sweet

L is for lemon a fruit we don’t eat.

 

O is for oval the bowl that holds all

F is for fruit that is picked before fall

 

F is for fungi that starts to appear

R is for ripeness that’s over, oh dear

U is for unfit to touch or to taste

I is for insides that ooze just like paste

T is for tip, in the rubbish, What waste.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Cheilin Saga ~ 02

 Cheilin Saga ~ 02 Cheilin Horse Breeder 2

By Len Morgan

"Your grasp of the language is excellent Aldor," Wedex commended  "you will however need to be schooled in the etiquette and customs of my people.   Cheilin people are quite fastidious.   Make a wrong move, in public, and you’ll find yourself involved in a fight to the death."

"Wizomi knows the Cheilin Empire and should have carried out this mission but, he had to travel North on another equally important assignment.   So, the people of Cheilin will have to make do with me" said Aldor.   "I need some background knowledge of these people, in order to make them aware of the dangers they will soon be facing; they need to start preparing, immediately."

"You think the Empire is not aware of developments in other states beyond their borders?"

Aldor went silent, as Shamlei handed him a steaming bowl of soup.   Wedex broke off a hunk of fresh dark bread, handing the remainder of the loaf to Aldor.

'Orden, what makes you think the Empire needs help from us?'

'The Tylywoch are few in number.   The Bluttlanders outnumber them a thousand to one.  They cannot call on support from the twelve, and those living outside the Clan enclaves do not possess weapons nor are they trained in the martial arts.  Who else can they turn to?”

"Wedex, are you aware of what they will be facing?" Aldor asked.

"You have never been across those mountains, so what would you know?" Wedex said defensively.

"I have reliable information from an impeccable source.   There are close to two million trained and seasoned soldiers in Bluttland.   If the Tylywoch could muster 200,000 armed and seasoned troops, to defend their homeland, they would only be outnumbered ten to one."

Wedex's face turned pale.   "Intelligence would of course be dispensed on a need to know basis but I would guess the forces available are more likely to be counted in tens rather than hundreds of thousands, but of course this is all speculation.   I cannot conceive of a force that large being raised and mobilised.   The logistics…"

"They would live off the land, burning and pillaging as they went, like a plague of locusts.   You have been living here in the Kurdik states for a number of years.   You have, I assume, sent back information about us?   Indeed it may well be your principal reason for being here.   What would you estimate is our capability to wage war?   How many men would you say we could muster?" Aldor asked.

It was Wedex's turn to go silent.

"I reveal no secrets by telling you that Corvalen has a standing army of ten thousand men,” Aldor continued.   “But, they can call on twenty times that number in a state of emergency.   One in five men are called to train for this force which is tempered in the conflict, between Corvalen and Bycroft, in the disputed territories.   They train for two years then return to civil life but, if called they would be immediately available and ready to fight.   It is each mans responsibility to keep himself armed and in peak physical condition, ready and able to fight and die for the homeland.   There are twenty states, some larger and some smaller than Corvalen.   If you attack a single state, you attack them all; they would stand together as one.   All petty differences set aside for the duration of the conflict.   Existing disputes would be settled, after the conflict is over, reflecting each state's effectiveness and contribution during the emergency," said Aldor.    "If you do the calculations…"

"Two million," said Shamlei, "you could conquer the world with that many men."

"Should we fear Bluttland or the Kurdik States I wonder,” said Wedex.

"We are a third the size of Bluttland and half that of the Cheilin Empire," said Aldor.

"I always thought the Empire was prepared…" said Wedex.

"To be prepared, they need to increase the number of warriors trained and under arms.   This can only be accomplished from outside the clan system," Aldor said with conviction.

"What you say is true, the Clans will not unite but they will fight, individually, if they are attacked or their space is violated," Wedex confirmed.

"In which case, the Tylywoch are indeed Cheilin's only real hope of survival.   They must, in reality, become the 13^th Clan in order to police the lands that are not being administered by the other twelve.   If they can convince the Emperor there is a genuine threat from without, they will have a legitimate excuse to arm and train the fringe communities of the Empire.   This will absolve the Clans from providing costly defences outside of their own borders" said Aldor.

"But, there are no disputed lands on the Borders of our Empire."

"Neither is there a real dispute between Corvalen and Bycroft.   But, the forces of both states are honed on the lie.   Posturing and playing games could never train our forces for real combat" he said’

"The Tylywoch are the eyes and ears of the Empire.   Though small in number, they do not treat security lightly.   They have intelligence-gathering services in all states inside and outside the Empire.   They have always been highly secretive.   Their force was created by the first Emperor Daidan to ensure his personal safety and that of his subjects.   It is said that if an Emperor dies, from other than natural causes, the Tylywoch will be hunted down and put to the sword, every man woman and child would be put to death.   They do not recruit; membership is by birthright and their training starts with their first steps.   It is rumoured that one in five die training before they reach the age of ten," said Wedex.   "Before they speak with you, they would know what significant skills you bring to them.   What they would gain from your involvement and what you would gain from the association.   Before I commit myself to aiding you I would know how you will answer."

"Bluttland and Bedelacq represent the biggest threat we have ever faced.   If the Cheilin Empire falls, its resources will be utilised against the Huren, Meyam, and Kurdik nations, who could not then hold out long.   All freemen would become slaves.   You know me as a 'beast master' but, I am also a coordinator, I make things happen.   I turn dream into reality" said Aldor.

"You have climbed the mountain." said Wedex, grinning at the surprised look on his guests face.  "Eat and drink, I will tell you more and provide you with a written introduction and maps showing the secret passes through the Sabre Tooth Mountain range.   You will be advised to travel a'foot beyond the slopes of the foothills.   I will take you to that point then return with the horses.   Shamlei more wine for our guest, entertain him whilst I attend to a few pressing matters.   A warning, before we become too drunk to remember.   Never reveal your gift to anybody in the Cheilin Empire.   Heed my warning Aldor, and it will ultimately save your life".

Wedex departed leaving him to explore the large rambling wood and stone-built house.   There were two large glazed windows that distorted everything on the outside.   Exquisite leatherwork and burnished bronze tack hung on every wall, all the fittings handcrafted.   Shamlei entered the room silently, with a large carafe of fine red wine.   By the light of a flickering fire, it seemed that her hair had been spun from the same copper used to furnish the ornate leatherwork, at times it seemed to be aflame.

"We make our tack during the dark winter evenings and when the weather is particularly foul" she explained as though reading his mind.   A quick mind scan revealed otherwise.    However, she did not entirely trust him.   There were walls in place, in her mind, indicating basic mind control techniques, the ability to hide areas of her mind, and thoughts, she did not wish to share with him.   He had never consciously violated the privacy of another mind; so he withdrew before his presence was detected.

"It is very sophisticated work, you should be proud of it," he said with a warm smile.

"More wine?" she countered.

He held out his goblet and she poured, her eyes never leaving his.  

"Is your mother still here?" he asked.

"She remains in Cheilin, though I doubt she would acknowledge either of us.   My father was adjudged to be a vile aberration, because of his gift, and I was adjudged tainted by blood.  We were exiled forever from the lands of the 1^st Clan, under pain of death should we ever go back.   Mother was permitted to remain and the marriage was annulled, it was adjudged to have been flawed, which allowed her to remarry within the year.   We have not seen or heard from her in sixteen years, not since we crossed the range and settled here.   Father buys stock in many places and gathers wild horses from the foothills.   I run things here at the ranch whilst he is away with his men," she explained.

Wedex returned, handing him a sealed document, "What you are to do with this will become apparent when you arrive at your destination" he said.   Then, Spreading a map on the low table between them, he lit and trimmed a lamp, proceeding to explain the intricacies of the higher mountain passes; warning Aldor of the effects of the thin air he would encounter close to the summit.

"Once you are in those passes, your life is in your own hands.   There are some treacherous paths, where heavy rainfall can become a waterfall, or create slippery watercourses, causing the unwary to plunge hundreds of feet to their death.  Then there is always snow and ice on the peaks, each providing its own unique form of danger.   Ice may become thin and give way under your feet.   Just raising your voice can cause an avalanche that will bury you alive in an instant.   Then of course there are bands of brigands who eke out a living by preying on unsuspecting travellers, so be on your guard.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 NEW TIMES NOW

by Richard Banks          

                                

I was, my mother once told me, a reluctant baby in no hurry to leave the warmth and safety of her womb.  That may explain why I have always preferred a bath to a shower. Why rush what should be a pleasure, a chance to savour again that untroubled time before the uncertain transition to a strange and unknown world.

         Thirty-six years on, the good times have far outweighed the bad. I have been fortunate, unaffected by war, disease , or famine. My life has been unremarkable, often dull, but the quiet certainty to which I have become accustomed is something I value above everything else.

         Jenny is in the kitchen, the engine room she calls it, cooking dinner, her still slim figure almost hidden by the steam rising from several saucepans on the hob. It’s pasta night, as it is every Friday. What could be better than bucatini or spaghetti with a glass or two of Chianti? In our lounge/diner Lucy and Kate are examining the presents under the Christmas tree squeezing the ones with their names on, guessing what is hidden beneath the brightly coloured wrapping paper. When they were younger they would sometimes open a particularly intriguing parcel before attempting to reinstate its covering. Now they understand that the unwrapping of presents must wait until Christmas morning and never before the ringing of my alarm clock.

         They should be setting the table but as usual, they have forgotten, distracted by the lure of more interesting things. Jenny peers through the serving hatch and with feigned annoyance expresses surprise that nothing has been done. But within minutes everything is done, Lucy fetches the tablecloth from the linen cupboard and spreads it unevenly over the dining table while Kate takes spoons and forks from the cutlery drawer and, with studied concentration, places them on the tablecloth. She knows that the forks must always go on the left which is the same side as her writing hand. She is seven now, her sister six, babies no more. They sit up at the table as Jenny brings in their meals.

         Six o’clock tea is a good time, especially on a Friday, and this Friday is no ordinary Friday,  tomorrow is Christmas Day. Jenny raises her glass. “Bon Appetite,” she says and the girls do the same with their tumblers of lemonade. I smile but say nothing. Now is a time for eating, conversation is for later, but for once it is not long in coming.

         Kate clears her plate and discards her spoon with a clatter onto the center of her plate. “What is happening tomorrow?” she asks.

         Jenny explains for the seventh or eighth time that Father Christmas will come, as he always does, and that once she and Lucy are washed and dressed they will be allowed to open all their presents.

         “And then,” Jenny continues, “as a special treat we are all going with Uncle Ben to a lovely restaurant for Christmas lunch.”

         Kate pushes out her lips in sullen displeasure. “Why can’t we have dinner here?”

         She looks towards me as though seeking my intervention but since the ending of our marriage there is nothing I can do or say. This is her mother’s call and for a while, at least, she will decide what is best for herself and the girls. I am sad but wish no sadness for them. No, I must not be sad. It is Christmas Eve and once again I am able to share the warmth of their company in a friendly familiar place.

         Jenny wards off further discussion on the subject of Christmas lunch by saying that it has been booked, so of course they are going. They should be pleased that Uncle Ben has invited them to such a posh restaurant. She adds, somewhat unconvincingly, that there is no more food in the house and that if they don’t go to the restaurant they will have nothing to eat all day.

         “Is there no ice cream?” asks Lucy, her face a picture of despair.

         Jenny concedes that there might still be some ice cream left and departs to the kitchen to find it. She returns with dessert bowls, spoons, and a tub of Caramel Swirl. It is their favourite dessert and thoughts of Christmas lunch are temporarily forgotten. As they finish, Jenny turns on the television; a distraction is needed and instantly provided by a Christmas edition of the Simpsons. I watch it with the girls while Jenny clears the table and loads the dishwasher in the kitchen. She peers through the serving hatch and seeing them absorbed in the adventures of Bart and Lisa quietly makes a phone call on her mobile. I resist the temptation to move closer to the serving hatch and eavesdrop on the conversation taking place. There is no point, I know who she is talking to, and the words they are speaking I should not be hearing; better to watch the Simpsons with the two little girls sitting in front of me on the carpet. The program ends and Kate switches channels until she finds another cartoon. Jenny returns to the lounge and sits down beside me on the settee. She studies the TV guide and informs the girls that ‘Strictly’ will soon be starting and that once it is finished they must get ready for bed. Tonight is the final. For six weeks the various contestants have battled it out until only two couples remain. The presenter is not unlike Jenny; she is wearing a white dress. Automatically my eyes turn towards the photograph of our wedding on the wall above the fireplace, but it is gone replaced by one of her and the girls. The snapshot of me in the hall still remains but is seldom noticed. In time it too will disappear into the cupboard under the stairs, out of sight and largely out of mind.

         Am I angry? No. This is the way it has to be. What is done is done and can’t be undone. Memories that give no pleasure must be forgotten, discarded. Life is about today and tomorrow, never the past. Jenny knows this. Her future and that of the girls is uncertain but she is determined that through the choices she makes all will be well.

         Will one of those choices be Ben? Only time will tell. They have been dating for only three months, but if he were to propose what would she say? He is charming, reasonably good-looking, and apparently not short of money. Let’s hope there is more to him than that.

         ‘Strictly’ comes to a triumphant end and Jenny switches off the TV. Having quelled the usual protests she ushers the girls upstairs into the bathroom where they clean their teeth and change into their pyjamas. Once they would run back to me for hugs and kisses but now they go straight to their beds. Jenny reads them a story and they settle down beneath their duvets determined to fall asleep before Santa calls. She returns to the lounge and pours herself another glass of wine. She is pensive, lost in thought, she tries to read but turns only two pages of a chic lit novel. We sit in silence not wanting to turn on the television lest it disturbs the girls.

         We have much to say to each other, but nothing that can be spoken. I want to tell her that it’s OK, that I understand, life changes, so must she. Would she say the same to me? I think she would. So why do I linger? Is it that we never said goodbye or am I, yet again, the reluctant baby? One year after the accident that ended my life I should be away, but the warmth and comfort of much loved people in a familiar place has more attraction than the unknown place beyond.

         Jenny peers into the girls’ bedroom and finds them asleep. There are Christmas stockings to fill, clothes to be ironed, an extra present to wrap and label. At eleven thirty she turns off the lounge light and departs for bed. Tomorrow she will be woken by the sound of my alarm clock and the excited cries of our children. By then I will be gone. Where I am bound I don’t know, only that it is a new beginning, that death, like birth, is a part of life and that in life I may be born again. On Christmas Eve I am filled with hope.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

FOUR WALLS & IT'S SPORT!

 

FOUR WALLS - A SHORT HISTORY OF COVID

By Rosemary Clarke

Four walls
Oppressed
Not at
Your best
Same as
The rest
Put to
The test
Let be alone.

Closed up
At home
No more
To roam
Friends only phone.

Open
All doors
Freedom
Is yours!
Breathe and
Be free!
Happy we'll be!

 

IT'S SPORT!

By Rosemary Clarke

As a kid
Dad takes you to your first match.
Now at home
You kick balls not play catch.
Now you're grown
You still support your team.
Watch them go
Up the lead board of dreams.
Stay loyal!
Buy each piece of kit
They're royal
You don't like it when they're hit.
Feel so proud

You start to chant their song
In the crowd
Feeling nothing can go wrong.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 Ageing pt. 2.

By Natalie Hudson 

I look in the mirror

Is that a grey hair?

Oh no, it's a white one

Not much difference there

And wrinkles, a few now

Not deep, but a trace

Of time and experience

Etched on my face

It's getting much harder

To keep off the weight

So I have to be conscious

Of what's on my plate

I get out of bed 

Each day when I wake 

And all of my joints 

And my back start to ache

My bladder is not

What it used to be

I have to be quicker

When I need to wee

I can't drink as much 

As I guzzled before

The hangover lasts 

And my head hurts much more

But I feel more at ease

With the thoughts in my mind 

My morals, my ethics

I've not left behind 

So bring on the ageing 

Let's embrace the change

It's happening anyway

It's nothing too strange

 

Copyright Natalie Hudson