ALL IN THE MIND

 by Richard Banks

Yeah, I like Rayleigh. Better than the Mile End Road any day of the week. Made the move six months ago. Best thing I ever did. Right from the start felt at home. Strange that for an East End boy born and bred. It never would have happened but for Angie. Came here to visit a friend and next day returned with a fist full of leaflets about houses for sale.

         “Kenny,” she says, “it’s a really nice place, better for the kids and near your Aunt Ada in Canvey.”

         “Aunt Ada,” I say. “Haven’t seen the woman in years. Never liked her, anyway.” 

         But I might just as well have saved my breath; once Angie sets her mind to something it usually happens, and when she got me to drive her down there one day I had to admit that she had a point. Yeah, I definitely like Rayleigh. Like the High Street and the white stone church at the top end. Like that it’s out in the sticks, near open country, and the sea at Southend. And yet it’s close enough to London for me to go there whenever I want. Not that I do. Rayleigh’s where I live now, and that suits me fine. Blimey, I even dream of Rayleigh, clear, sun-shiny pictures of nearby places: of the windmill, white sails against a blue sky, of stalls and bunting in the High Street, of squirrels on Rayleigh Mount, and other places I can’t quite place. And then there’s that one of the sun going down over Hollytree, our house in the Eastwood Road, and Bob next door still tinkering with his old Vauxhall. Sometimes I hear the faint blur of voices and passing traffic; familiar, reassuring noises I wouldn’t be without. 

         Then one day I hear, “Scilly”, a man’s voice speaking, sounds a bit like the guy at the garage. But why Scilly? I’m seeing Rayleigh when the voice is saying Scilly. Not only that, but it’s said in a way that’s puts Rayleigh well and truly in the shade. Funny that, how just one word can say so much. To him there is no better place and nothing else comes close. Perhaps it’s a premonition, I think; later today Angie’s going to arrive home with holiday brochures all about Scilly, but it never happens, and thoughts of Scilly slowly fade from my mind. 

         It was in the High Street museum that things started getting weird, odd stuff that couldn’t be explained. Angie had become a volunteer there, so one Saturday when there was nothing else on I went down there with her. Was thumbing my way through a book of old photos when I found one of a building I had dreamed of only the night before. Captioned, ‘Premises of North Thames Gas Board, 1981’ it was they said the very building I was sitting in, except now it was a Pizzaland restaurant on the ground floor and the museum up above. 

         That was when I realised that my dreams were not of the present but of the past, a past I could never have seen because I wasn’t there. The discovery went through me like an electric shock. Someone or something had got inside my head, no permission asked or given, and me not knowing it had happened. So far there were only good dreams but supposing they turned bad and I couldn’t shut them out. What then? For better or worse my mind was no longer my own. How to get it back? I didn’t have a clue. 

         At first I tried not sleeping. No sleep, no dreams I thought. Keep awake long enough and what’s inside me might lose patience and bugger off somewhere else. Kept it up for three nights, one mug of coffee after another long walks in the night, Angie looking at me like I’m mad, and mad I nearly am. At last I fall asleep on the sofa.

         I wake up in day light with no dreams in my head. Then I move on to the bathroom and while I’m showering they start rushing in. I see Rayleigh Station and a London bound train coming round the bend in the track, white steam billowing up into the usual blue sky. There’s a goods yard where now there’s a car park and on the other side of the track a gasometer long disappeared. On a dull, overcast morning the weather in my dream world is always better than the waking day. Grateful I am not. 

         This is the earliest of my dreams. The line was electrified in 1956, twenty five years before that photo of the Gas Board. With the help of the museum I am able to date another of my dreams to 1970, while the stalls and Union Jack bunting in the High Street are probably those put up for the Silver Jubilee celebrations in ’77. Then I dream of the Roebuck and what I’m seeing can’t be any earlier than 2003 when the pub opened. 

         “Thank God for that!” says Angie. “At least you’re now in the right century. Who knows you might soon have some dreams of your own.”

         Angie is doing her best to make light of it all. Did my best not to let-on what was happening, but with her working in the museum and me trying not to sleep it was only a matter of time before she found out. What I didn’t tell her was that my dreams now have a blot on them, a ragged black spot that started no bigger than a saucer, hovering above the optics at the bar. For the first time I sense fear, angry despair, and above the clatter of bar room voices hear, once again, “Scilly.” There is a sigh, followed by a groan and the blot seems darker and a little larger. Scilly, that once happy place is now the cause of deep concern. If I am to find out why, it will surely be in my dreams.

         In the next few weeks the untroubled skies of my night time world change from blue to grey, and instead of the random ordering of their coming each dream moves forward in normal time. At least that’s how it feels, and if I need any proof it’s in the slow expansion of the blot. The saucer that became a dinner plate is now the size of a car wheel. Like a black hole it is steadily devouring all light and colour around it. There’s no hope now, only the contemplation of disaster soon to come. 

         “But this ain’t my problem,” I say, looking into my shaving mirror, but the pallid face that stares back tells me it is and that when the dreams end so will I. It was then that everything in my day time world began to fall apart: how I couldn’t think straight no more, how I nearly drove the car into a bus, how I was signed off from work. So now I’m at home all day trying again not to sleep but having to nearly every second night. And when I do, I see the blot grow ever bigger and blacker. There’s more black now than picture. A few more dreams and everything will be black, all colour gone.

         Angie’s also gone. She didn’t want to, but it’s all for the best. “Don’t want the kids to see me like this,” I say. “Go stay with your mother for a while. Come back when I’m better, when the new pills kick-in.” But there ain’t no new pills. In fact I’m not taking the one’s I got. They can’t help me, nothing can. 

         The dreams keep coming, the blot pushing the pictures deeper and deeper into each corner. What’s happening in them is no longer clear. The little I can see is of an inside place of ceilings and floors, of strip lighting on white ceilings, of wooden paving blocks and floor standing furniture that might be beds. This is a bad place to be, none worse. All hope has gone, tomorrow there will be no more day. Time stretches out; every minute seems like an hour, each one more awful than the last. There is fear; numb, helpless fear turning warm blood to ice. And once again I hear, “Scilly;” the voice wavers, the speaker weeps. One more dream and it will all be done, everything lost and never seen again.

         I delay things as best I can. I will not sleep, black coffee on black coffee, Scotch from the bottle, but it’s no good. I sink down to my knees and fall forward onto the floor. If I am to stay awake I must get up. Get a grip I tell myself, up on five. I start counting, but five never comes.

                                              *****        

        I come to, my head aching, but no more dreams. What I’m seeing now is the real world, colour grey, the first light of day creeping into my living room through uncurtained windows. I’m not alone. 

         “Good morning,” he says from the armchair on which he is sitting. How do you like my house?” 

         “Your house! It’s my name on the deeds!” 

         “Of course it’s my house. Been here ever since it was built nearly fifty years ago. And you? Six months and twenty one days; that’s how long you’ve been here. You’re scarcely across the threshold and me still in residence. You’re nothing more than my tenant. But you must admit I’ve been a more than generous landlord. Not a penny in rent have I charged and in return for nothing I have given you my fond memories of the town you now live in. Happy thoughts you were only too pleased to have because, like me, there’s no place you like better.”

         “They ain’t happy now!” I bellow. “Scilly’s put an end to that. Why Scilly? Why torture me with that? Never been there, don’t want to. Why do I have to suffer for Scilly?”

         He looks surprised. “You’ve got it wrong,” he says. “The dreams I gave you were never about Scilly. I said Cicely with a C, the name of my wife. The only woman I ever loved, more important to me than everything else put together.” 

         “So why give me nightmares about her?”

         “So you would understand, how important she is to me, how I will stop at nothing to get her back and how you have no choice but to help me. You have a wife of your own. Imagine her slowly being taken from you. Day after day, each one darker than the one before; cancer it was, too advanced to stop. Nothing to be done but watch her die and that I did. And when she was gone I wanted nothing more than to be like her. Was going to top myself, then a heart attack saved me the trouble. I’m not a religious man but I’ve never shut my mind to the possibility of life after death. Now I know it’s more than just a Sunday school tale. But being here is not what’s it’s about. There’s something better, far better and it’s only a few steps away, but how can I go there when Cis might still be in that hospital ward. I can’t leave if she’s still there. So, if you want to be free of me you will have to take me back to the hospital. It’s easy done. You just let me step into you, this time it’s a complete takeover of brain and limb, then I walk your legs down to Southend, to the hospital ward where we were parted. Once there I promise you I’ll be gone and you back to normal. Until then I’ll be needing both your mind and body. Do we have a deal?” 

                                                *****

         We had a deal. Of course we had a deal, what choice did I have, and the next thing I remember is being picked-up off the floor of the ward where Cicely Bembridge died, three months to the day before we moved into Hollytree. Her husband was a good man so I’m told, devoted to his wife and the town in which he lived all his seventy seven years. A local Counsellor he was also a supporter of every good cause that needed a helping hand. I didn’t know him for long but I too liked George, even though he nearly drove me crazy. Who can blame him for that? I don’t, not now. 

         Did George find Cicely in the hospital? I don’t know. I’ll be lying if I said I did. Maybe she decided to go on ahead by herself and wait for him in that good place they thought might be life’s next stop. Either way, I figure they’re back together. Amen to that. As for myself the dreams I now have are mine and mine alone. I dream them in a house full of memories, the good ones far out numbering the bad. Angie says we have a lot to live up to. I agree. It won’t be easy, but we’re sure going to try. How can we not.

 

Copyright Richard Banks                            

 KNEES UP 

By Peter Woodgate 

Jo has got another Knee

The other one was knackered

Up and down the stairs she goes

No wonder she is shattered.

I am too with all this work

It seems a bit like hell

I’m up and down like a Jack-in-the-box

Every time I hear the bell.

It appears Jo is up for another job

One that requires an ology

She thinks it’s fun to pull the chord

And pretends it’s campanology.

She has to wear these stockings

And I’m not being catty

They are black and thick and wrinkled

Just like Nora Batty.

I should, of course, show sympathy

For the pain is the worst on earth

The only other that’s close to it

Is when you’re giving birth.

Of course, I cannot confirm this

Not having had the pleasure

I got to hold them afterwards

All three oh what a pleasure.

I suppose I should be thankful

That my knees are pretty good

They let me run around a bit

Which I suppose I should.

After all before the op

 Jo did the same for me

So I can’t moan for giving care

But I do you see.

I’ve had a taste of a carers jobs

And, in truth, must say,

We don’t appreciate their work

And they deserve more pay.

 

ARE YOU LISTENING Ris

 

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate (January 2023)

 Forbidden Fruits

By Len Morgan 

There is a place where we all go at night, fleetingly; perhaps one in a million people realise it.  But following this article, many more may become aware of the existence of ‘Dazetime’.

 

It’s a refuge that opens up new worlds for the few.

It’s a secret place between waking and sleeping.  You might call it ‘Dreamtime’ but that is another thing entirely.

 

‘AWAKE-DAZE-ASLEEP’

 

Now that you are aware of its existance, you can consciously seek it out.  When ever you doze off, you may become aware of entering ‘Dazetime’.

 

It’s when the mind is divorced from the body.  Yes, it can exist outside of the body.  It is pure consciousness.  When gazing down upon your body you become aware of its physical limitations.

 

This out-of-body experience can happen under anaesthesia, during an operation; when the mind becomes separated from the body.

 

Sometimes known as ‘Astral travel’.  Mostly the spirit (for want of a better word) will stay close to the body to protect it, though in reality, it can do nothing… 

 

But, it could travel farther afield and explore its astral potential.  In ‘Dazetime’ The physical world is not a barrier.

 

The Astral traveller can pass through walls, travel to the moon, mars or to the stars in an instant.  The speed of light is no longer a barrier.  Secrets can be revealed capable of advancing mankind’s knowledge and experience but...

 

In the next instant sleep takes us over and everything we have gleaned is forgotten?!

 

No doubt, somewhere, at this very moment, scientists are attempting to unlock the experiences gained during ‘Dazetime’.  Somewhere in China, Russia, USA, UK, Nova Scotia, boffins are attempting to download the secrets of the Universe from subjects, under anaesthetics and/or drugs.  Buddhist monks are engaged in the same endeavour possibly with more success.

 

‘Dazetime’  ~  Forbidden fruits! 

Troy and Caroline ~ (an Essex Tale)

  

Troy and Caroline ~ (an Essex Tale)

By Grace Petersson

David Gordon Phipps never discussed his early life with anyone – not even his wife of twenty years.  He was brought up in central Southend in a terraced house with three sisters and working class parents.  Once he was twenty-one, he changed his name, taking the Gordon from his father and the Phipps from his mother.  Pretentious perhaps, but the name opened doors in the financial sector.

David had a fair education and would consider himself a self-made man, although as the only boy, he was afforded rights and privileges not deemed worthy of his three equally intelligent sisters.  If David wished for Oxbridge, the family made sure he got there. But David Gordon Phipps had a secret.  A secret that would decimate his family.

Stockbroker status was afforded to David. By age thirty he was skilled at playing the market.  His considered choice of a wife, Gloria brought up in Thorpe Bay;  a sincere and honest woman who loved David unconditionally.  The couple had just one child, Caroline, who at seventeen was studying for A levels at Southend Boys Sixth form college with an ambition to study at Harvard USA and serve as an environmental lawyer to challenge big corporates as they may endanger flora fauna in their clamour for money and power.

Gary Taylor was also brought up in a small terraced abode just a few streets from David Gordon Phipps although the two never met.  Gary loved and still adores motorbikes.  He started life as a bike mechanic and eventually bought his own shop before he was thirty.  Gary also had a good head for business and within ten years, the down to earth Gaz had seven shops around Essex; all doing excellently with reliable managers and contented staff.  Gary’s wife Marina became a fashion designer inspired by Zandra Rhodes and Vivienne Westwood.  Her creations featuring studs, spikes, and grungy leather jackets were hugely popular in Gary’s shops; elevating Gary and Marina to a rather embarrassing millionaire status given their ‘humble beginnings.’  The couple had a single offspring, Troy; his name was inspired by Marina’s love for Troy Tempest, captain of the submarined Stingray.  Troy was teased all through primary and high school by his mates who constantly reminded him he was named after a puppet.

Troy and Caroline were destined to meet as they were both passionate about saving the earth and studying in the USA; MIT and Harvard respectively.  They were also fated to cause chaos, uncertainty, and ultimately growth in their parents’ lives.  As children, Troy and Caroline knew of each other at Thorpdene Primary; particularly as Gary would bring Troy to school on the back of his Harley Davidson, causing all the kids, including Caroline to utter “wow” in envious union. 

Troy inherited his love of bikes from Gary, who revered Richard Abry, The Dark Knight, riding the Kursaal Wall of Death in the 1960s.  Once he was seventeen and had his licence, Troy’s parents gave him a Farsta Electric motorbike, which he rode to school each day.  He knew about the bad boy image associated with bikers, but didn’t care.  He was safe and always followed the rules.  Boom!  As soon as he laid eyes on Caroline at Southend Boys’ Sixth Form College, he was smitten.  As they conducted science experiments together, they laughed, had fun and made plans for their future together. 

But to Troy, Caroline was ‘posh.’  He had subconsciously picked up from Gary that posh people were snobs and up themselves.  But Caroline was not like this, taking after her mother, Gloria, who would help anyone.  However, Troy believed he would only be acceptable to David, and happy, when he got good exam results, had Caroline out of Rayleigh and off to the US, where they could both pursue their ambitions without David’s judgment.

Later, as Troy, Caroline, and her folks went to the Roslin hotel for afternoon tea, Troy knew immediately he was right;    As soon as Troy uttered the word motorbike, David Gordon Phipps (what kind of phoney name is that,  he thought), had a face like thunder and Troy knew he was whipped. The moment David and Gloria met Troy, Caroline sensed there would be trouble.  Yet she also knew he was anything but a bad boy.  To her, he was kind, respectful, polite and brilliant.

Then, just one week after the Roslin hotel debacle, Caroline’s world as she knew it fell to pieces.  Her mother picked up David from Rayleigh station as usual and as he entered the house in Great Wheatly’s, Caroline knew something was very wrong. 

“I’m so sorry, baby, Harvard just isn’t possible anymore.”  The words gushed out of David’s mouth and Caroline stopped breathing.  “What?” she softly said nonplussed.  “It’s all gone.  I’ve lost everything.”  David said, “The stock market took a bad turn and it’s all gone.”

“What do you mean?” Caroline frantically asked.  “You have lots of savings right?  You told me I could have Harvard.  All my life you told me and I believed you.”

“I’m so sorry Caroline” David now sobbed.  “I had to use it all to pay my debts and even then it wasn’t enough.  I’ve done so many bad things, bad decisions.  I even had to remortgage the house.”

Now Gloria joined the fray.  “David, are you telling me we don’t own the house anymore?”  He nodded at his wife not knowing what else to do.

All Caroline’s plans were torn asunder.  Hers and Troy’s dreams were shattered.  At school the following Monday, Caroline told Troy the ghastly news.  Trying to keep hold of herself she said,  “You go to MIT as planned, but I can’t come with you.  I’ll go to SEEVIC and see you in the holidays.

“No!” Troy shouted, “I thought your dad had pots of money from the way he talked.”  “Well” said Caroline, “That’s all it was, talk.”

At home, Troy told Gary and Marina the dreadful news.  I knew my parents were a bit skeptical about David’s claims of tons of money, but to their credit, they said nothing.

“It’s a big shame, but not a tragedy,” said Mum “But you can still go to MIT and maybe when Caroline’s dad gets himself sorted, she can join you.”

Feeling like screaming aloud, Troy shouted “You don’t understand Mum, David’s lost everything, literally”.  After a long minute, Gary and Marina looked at each other seeming to know what the other would say.

Gary cleared his throat before speaking, “I’d like to put an idea to you son.  I – we, he looked expectantly at his wife, would like to help you and Caroline financially.  Now before you start your tirade Troy, please listen to us.”

Through his frustration and angst, Troy paid attention without comment.

“What we’re proposing is a loan – not a handout – to fund Caroline’s Harvard fees and a flat for you both.  We’re assuming you two will live together, so in a way, the loan will help you as well, Troy.”

What about the “esteemed” David Gordon Phipps?” asked Troy sardonically.  “What’s he going to say?”

“Well” interjected Marina, “That why we insist it’s a loan.  David is honourable and proud of his ability to provide for his family.”

“That’s a joke.  If he’s so’ honourable’ he wouldn’t be a scumbag shark” derided Troy,

“Now, Troy”, said Marina,  Caroline would be aghast to hear you speak of David that way.”

“Well,” said Gary with a long sigh,  All we can do is try.”

With that, Gary invited David and Gloria to dinner the next night, knowing the registration date for Harvard was looming.

Once the quartet were seated with coffee and liqueurs, Gary put forward his proposal regarding the loan. 

“We can’t allow that,” puffed out David.  “I’ve promised Caroline I’ll get her to Harvard somehow, even if it’s next year.”

Now the usually reticent Gloria found her voice.  “David, darling, it could take years for us to have that kind of money again and I’ll be much less worried about Caroline if she’s living with Troy.”

“As Gary says, “she continued, “It’s a loan, not a gift."  David ran his palms over his balding head looking so dejected that even Gary felt sorry for him.

With that, Gloria asked Gary if she and David could have a word together, alone.  After thirty minutes, Caroline’s parents returned with David appearing less purple and apoplectic.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Gary and Marina for your kindness.”  David uttered quietly.

“Just say yes,” Gary simply replied.

 

Epilogue.    As predicted, Troy and Caroline were exemplary students, passing with honours.  Both sets of parents travelled to Massachusetts to see their children graduate and take up their new positions as environmental lawyer and space researcher.  The lovebirds paid off the loan within two years and now live in a beautiful condominium in Fremont, halfway between San Francisco and the NASA HQ in Silicone Valley.

Meanwhile, Gloria gained Qualified Teacher Status in two years; teaching English Literature at Southend High School for Girls.  David surprised her with his unstinting support; a changed man it would appear, as a result of his fall from grace.

David had always loved decorating their home as a means of escape from his pressurised London career, surprising everyone by renovating and decorating homes for a living.  His first commission was Marina and Gary’s sitting room, for which he took no fee.  Troy’s folks were delighted with the result.

Copyright Grace Petersson 

A VALENTINE MESSAGE

 A VALENTINE MESSAGE

By Peter Woodgate

I could, of course, have bought a card,

Showing other people’s words,

But, in truth, they should be mine

To be of any worth.

A big red heart, a teddy bear,

Just commercialised produce,

This heart of mine, you cannot see,

But that is no excuse.

For it is full of your embrace,

Your love and kindly soul,

You touch so many people’s hearts,

And that should be my goal.

But I can only concentrate,

On one, and that is yours,

It is the only one I love

Unique, of that I’m sure.

 

Peter Woodgate 14 February 2023

Wish You Were Here

 Wish You Were Here 

By Jane Scoggins 

   Gwen’s trip to the charity shop started a few months after her husband Jim had passed away. It had been the Macmillan nurse who had suggested that Gwen might like to give some of Jim’s clothes to the hospice shop. Although she had nursed Jim through his illness, and knew that time was short, she had still been completely overwhelmed by grief when he died. The visiting nurses had given such a professional and supportive service to them both. After his passing the nurses had continued to visit regularly through the practicalities and emotional turmoil she found difficult to cope with. For the first few months Gwen found comfort in opening Jim’s wardrobe or chest-of-drawers and  holding a piece of his clothing to her face to breath in any lingering smell of him, or  to stroke a favourite wool sweater. At the point she felt it was the right time to sort out Jim’s clothes she asked one of the nurses what she thought she could do with her husband’s good suit, his sheepskin jacket and the almost new shirts and sweaters. The nurse, sensitive to Gwen’s emotions suggested she may like to donate them to the hospice charity shop. Jim had been cared for several times in the local hospice for short periods to review his medication and give Gwen a break from his care. She thought this a good idea, and the nurse offered to take them when she was ready to pack them up. Time passed and Gwen coped better with her grief. She ventured out more to spend time with friends. During a visit to the town she ventured into the charity shop. She was relieved not to see any of Jim’s clothes on the rails, afraid she might become tearful. Browsing in the shop she chose to buy a couple of books, a CD and a slim glass vase, just right for a bloom or two from her small garden. On the way to the counter to pay, something hanging from a hook caught her eye. It was a cloth bag made from deep purple velvet. It looked homemade and the things that made it distinctive were the badges pinned or sewn onto the front flap. Intrigued Gwen looked closer. The sewn on badges were from Cornwall, Paris, Nice, Moscow, Sri Lanka and Chile. Gwen could only imagine what it was like to travel the world, but she and Jim had been to Cornwall many times in their camper van and it held many happy memories. The pinned on badges were of Greenpeace, CND, Amnesty International and Love Books. The bag and its badges somehow resonated with Gwen and impulsively she took it to the till with the book CD and vase she had also selected.

At home Gwen put on the kettle and the CD. She hummed along to the Songs of the 70’s and examined the bag again. Smiling at her impulsiveness for buying a  rather well worn bag for the badges, she felt her spirits lift. Having made a mug of tea she reached for the sugar bowl and knocked the mug over. Hot tea spilled over the worktop where the bag sat. The bottom of the velvet fabric thirstily soaked up the tea and left very little to mop up. Dismayed, Gwen reached for a cloth and tried to sponge it clean but soon realised that it would need more serious attention. Putting the plug in the sink, Gwen ran the tap and dunked the soggy bottom of the bag in the cold water. After lifting it out Gwen began to squeeze the water out. The base was heavy with sodden cardboard or padding  so snipping away some stitches she reached in to remove it. To her surprise it was not cardboard but a plastic bag with two neat piles side by side of 20 pound notes wrapped in cloth and with a letter:

  ‘Dear stranger,

I am so glad you have my bag and have discovered this hidden treasure trove. It is a gift for you.

 

Yes, it really is. Let me explain. After many years as a free spirit travelling, and supporting good causes close to my heart, I am now housebound and reliant on others for the first time in my life and having to live any unfulfilled dreams  through others. I have decided to give away some of my possessions and treasures. The velvet bag I was undecided about but hoped I would take pot luck and give it away in the hope that someone else would treasure it and discover the hidden money. I would like you to use the money to fulfil a dream. Life is short and we should enjoy it whilst we can. Of course you may decide to pay your electric bill or have the house painted that is up to you. But I hope that if you are the person I think you are, you will take a leap of faith and do something out of the ordinary. The Norwegian fjords, the Northern Lights, The Rocky Mountains are all spectacular. If it is peace you prefer, a Hebridean croft. I have been living in Essex for some time but feel the time is right now to return to my native Cornwall. If you decide to follow a dream I have included a PO Box number. And if you wish, and only if you wish, perhaps you would write and tell me of your adventure.

Wishing you happiness

Rose  

 After Gwen had read and re read the letter she sat thoughtfully for a while before saying out loud

 ‘Well Jim, what a bolt out of the blue this is! But I am not going to waste an opportunity, I'm going to do it Jim. I'm going to do what we always said we would do together; if and when we had the time and money. I'm going to Nepal to walk in the Himalayan mountains, stay in a teahouse and watch the sunrise from the Annapuri Sanctuary. You will be with me all the way, and I will send Rose a postcard. 

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins     

The Prince & Gemma

 The Prince & Gemma

By Grace Petersson

Prologue

  Now after the craziness of movie tube, I am flat and again rudderless.  I have two beautiful children who are my whole life, and a stunning wife who wants nothing more now than to be the first Native American President of the USA.  So, now I am cast in the role of house husband and possibly first man.  Is this really what I want?

****

  I am Prince Thane of Scotland; second in line to the throne.  My brother Harald is first in line.  I am the surplus prince; the spare in case Harald goes AWOL.  My childhood was very entitled with the best private schools money could provide like Gordonstoun, an outdoorsy cold showers 'make a man out of you' type of school.  I am the outdoors type, I love nature, long walks, serving and defending my country.  I hate some of my mannerisms, which when I see clips of my father Malcolm are identical to him.

  However, in spite of all my privileges, my life was not all jollity and bliss.  Firstly, my parents, Malcolm and Marissa’s marriage was not the starry-eyed fairy tale predicted.  I sensed this particularly in my mother for as long as I knew her.  My father is Malcolm XIII.  He at first balked against the XIII numeral after his name, but eventually declared he would not be intimidated by superstition saying “I am the 13^th Malcolm and therefore that is how I will be known.”  Adding to the doomed marriage was the fact that Malcolm was actually in love with another, Amelia.  They met as teenagers, fell wildly in love, and had much in common from a love of all things horsey to a love of the environment and classical music.  However, Amelia had ‘been around’ as they say, and therefore deemed wholly unsuitable.  I am glad about this because Marissa was tall and willowy, giving me and Harald our 6ft tall bodies, making us even more desirable to the world’s women.   My mother Marissa, beautiful and enigmatic, couldn’t care less about horses and the environment.  What made her heart sing was a new dress from Versace, dirty jokes and unfortunately for her, Malcolm.

  So in view of Amelia’s unsuitability, a virgin had to be found for Malcolm my father, and my mother Marissa, fit the role perfectly.  Just 19 years old, supposedly shy and biddable, she was deemed perfect.  Alas, Marissa was complex and unhappy as a result of her own mother being a ‘bolter.’  Malcolm was wholly unaware of this, blithely marrying Marissa at the insistence of his dictatorial controlling uncle, Hereward.

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  My life as I knew it came to a shattering halt when Marissa my mother was shot by a Scandinavian sniper when visiting the Taj Mahal.  She sat looking at the famous majestic building, not knowing this was the last sight she would ever see.  I was 11 and Harald was 16.  Initially, we clung together for comfort and support.  We both knew Malcolm my dad would eventually marry Amelia and I had no problem with this.  He deserved to be happy.  Yet still, I felt angry enough to kill  the world for stealing away my mother. 

  I always felt somehow at odds with the rest of the family.  Also, I sensed Harald was my mother’s favourite and all my life have looked, unconsciously for someone to replace Marissa’s withdrawn love.  Also, I somehow felt more at ease with the marginalised members of society. 

  When I was 17 I hounded my dad for the opportunity to live for a while in the USA, attending Sitting Bull University, a prodigious Native American school, where I learnt much of the plight and tragic history of Native Americans.  Some students even took me home to meet their parents, where ironically I learned most of the real history of these tragic people and I kind of felt they had adopted me.  Even with the constant protection officers, I felt freer.  I believe the students at Sitting Bull were marginalised sort of like me and my mother.  It was here I first met Jemima; a beautiful descendant of the Chinook tribe from what is now called California.

   I was both entranced and mesmerised.  Not just by her obvious beauty, but her ideas, strength and firm beliefs about justice in the world and for her people.  We hung out in the same circles for a while, but I had to return to the UK to take up my pledge to the army, which up until then was the only role making any sense to me. 

   I just could not see myself following the steps of my dutiful brother Harald, the golden boy, who ironically looks like my mother, but is not challenging or confrontational.  I, to my extreme chagrin, resemble Malcolm, both in looks and mannerisms but with striking red hair.  Yet I am a rebel and yet not.  I dutifully joined the army and ‘fought’ in Afghanistan, albeit with several armed guards to make sure I wasn’t a PR coup for the Taliban.  These minders, poor sods, willingly risked their lives for me, whilst I felt I was in a gilded cage, with an opulent lifestyle, but with all eyes on me waiting for me to screw up.

  Screw up I did.  After I left the army, I felt rudderless and lost.  I had a few girlfriends, but they were ultimately scared off by the press intrusion.  Then I met Jemima again, and felt like I had my mother Marissa back.  She loves me and holds me up and I can’t imagine a life without her.  So if she wants congress and a political career, I have to support her if, I want to keep her.  What’s the alternative?  Run back to Scotland and be ridiculed as the bolter prince who couldn’t control his own wife?  Dear reader, what would you do?

Copyright Grace Petersson