Recycling

By Sis Unsworth 

My husband built a sun house, out of his old shed,

“it will benefit the family,” well, that is what he said.

Of course it was a lot of work, but he said,”it would look smart,”

inspired by his new project, he made an early start.

He worked on the new sun house, every dry warm day,

also he would venture out, even when the sky was grey.

At last the glass doors were put on, and he gave out a cheer,

but then he promptly went inside, for a celebration beer.

“I have to paint the inside now,” he added with a smile,

“I want it to look perfect, it just might take a while.”

Our friends and neighbours visit us, and love to sit inside,

It’s nice and warm there in the spring, a good place to abide.

You feel at one with nature, watching birds build their nests,

we don’t disturb their way of life, they make us feel like guests,

we’ve placed a bee hotel, outside where we can see,

a haven for a resting place, for a solitary bee.

The sun house stands in pride of place, for all who care to see,

the one he said, that he would make, “for all the family.”

I always know I’ll find him, whatever may be said,

asleep in his new sun house, that he made from his old shed.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

A HAIGA from Rob

 Gifted

By Robert Kingston

HINDSIGHT

 HINDSIGHT 

By Richard Banks 

The first time I started seeing things was from beneath the shelter of my umbrella on the corner of Dean Stanley Street and Millbank. The rain was about to turn to sleet and the girl I had arranged to meet was nowhere in sight. I was, I admit, in a state of nervous agitation, cold, wet through from the knees down and very much fearing that I had been stood up. Two minutes later she made her entrance, alighting from a number 87 bus which she blamed for her late arrival. By then she was out of my thoughts, almost forgotten.

 

         “Hi,” I said, the stunned surprise in my voice only too apparent.

         “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

         “Nothing,” I replied. “Didn’t recognise you in that mac. Is it new?” 

         It wasn’t. In fact it was the one she had been wearing on our first date. It was not a good start to an evening for which I had high hopes. Thereafter it improved – it could not have got worse – and we had dinner at Pizzaland followed by a West End show for which I had discounted tickets. 

         I never did tell her what I saw in the thirty seconds or so before her arrival. But then, how  do you explain seeing a black robed monk walk down the middle of the road, heedless of the rush hour traffic and the rain which should have soaked him but had no way of doing so. And if that wasn’t enough, watching him being struck by a Waitrose delivery van - a collision that had no visible impact on monk or van - before turning right and disappearing from sight through a stone wall that would have repulsed a ten ton truck.        

        Had I related these details to Julie, the girl I was dating, I have little doubt that this, our third date, would also have been our last. In fact I needn’t have worried, three weeks later she abandoned me for a young man who drove a two seater sports car and took her for lunch at the Savoy. Even so I’m glad I said nothing. What I had seen was weird, too weird to let on to anyone else, particularly a young woman I was hoping to attract, not repel. 

         Normal is what I wanted to be, a nice, straightforward, uncomplicated guy at ease with himself and the world about him. This did not include the seeing of the monk, a monk who - had I seen what I thought I had seen - could only be a ghost. Either that or there was something very wrong with my mental functioning. As I didn’t believe in ghosts it seemed only logical I should confess all to the medical profession and swallow whatever tablets they prescribed.        

         Fortunately, I made my confession to Herbie Sutcliffe in the public bar of the Westminster Tavern. Quite what I was expecting him to do or say I don’t know, after five pints of Newcastle Brown my thinking was less than clear, but instead of him expressing the grave concern that seemed appropriate to my disclosure he was as cheerful as a semi-inebriated man could hope to be. Against all reason and expectation, I could not have chosen a better person to confide in. 

         Herbie, when he wasn’t making a bob or two flogging second hand books from a market stall, was a tourist guide operating in and around Westminster Abbey. In the next few minutes he told me everything I needed to hear. The monk, he said, was affectionately known as Old Skinhead on account of his tonsure which had laid bare a large part of his scalp. All that was known of him was that he was a Benedictine monk from the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. He had been seen not only by Herbie but by one other guide and a few of their clients. Seeing Skinhead, he asserted, was a gift, not a curse. It was a precious moment in history that I had witnessed, an insignificant but fascinating insight into the distant past. “There was nothing to be afraid of. Some people can see such things, others can’t. Be glad that you can. Who knows what wonderful things you might see: the coronation of a King or Queen, the arrest of Guy Fawkes, the trial of Charles I, or maybe an unknown slice of history, suppressed and excluded from the public record; ripples in time that make you a looking glass into another age. Believe me there’s not an historian alive who wouldn’t give everything he had to be like you.” 

         “So will it keep happening?” 

         “Bound to, it’s not like a TV you can switch on and off. Now it’s started this is you for the rest of your life. We should be celebrating your good fortune. So get along to the bar and buy the next round.” 

         I did, and although I had one heck of a hangover the next morning it was nothing to the realisation that I was not only normal but at the same time kind of special. Nevertheless, it was a talent I thought best kept to myself and at first only one other person apart from myself knew that my senses numbered more than five. I was, as Herbie almost said, like a TV set without an on and off switch, and although the transmissions came whenever they had a mind to they seldom numbered more than three a week. Almost always they are of ordinary people going about their working life. Sometimes they are at their leisure - at fairs, in the tavern, playing skittles, singing, dancing - and sometimes at prayer in their churches. There are thieves and vagabonds, but mostly the folk I see are honest strivers who work hard to live and are more than deserving of their small pleasures. 

         Despite Herbie’s fond hope that I would, one day, see a King or Queen my ‘visions’ have so far only identified one person I have been able to put a name to. I was at Stamford Bridge watching a less than enthralling nil nil draw between Chelsea and Derby when in a much more entertaining match a burly centre forward rose majestically above the other players to head the ball into the goal with such force that it rebounded back onto the field of play. The player wiped a muddy smear from his forehead and, with the air of a man who had done no more than what was expected of him, jogged back to the half way line for the resumption of play. Immediately, two things were clear to me: one, that his playing kit belonged to the early days of club football; and two, that I would never forget that dour, moustachioed face. A month later I saw him again on a cigarette card, one of a set of thirty players published in 1908. He was, according to the information on the reverse side of the photograph a Scottish international by the name of Billy Steele who played his club football for Newcastle. If I needed any further proof – which I didn’t – he was wearing the same black and white striped shirt in which I saw him play. As for famous events I once saw a riot of which I can tell you little beyond the fact that windows were broken and the rioters put to flight by soldiers on horseback. That this first happened in the early 1800s was apparent to me from the clothing of those taking part.

         All this I kept to myself in the pursuit of ‘normal’ but as I was beginning to find out there are many shades of normal and some of us have little choice but to be what we are. My next eureka moment came when I was having five o’clock tea at my mother’s house and a soldier in chain mail armour came striding through the wall against which our table was placed and, without upsetting anything on it, continued straight ahead before disappearing through the party wall into number 56. Although I had by this time become well practised at concealing surprise or alarm the sudden appearance of the warrior, sword in hand, caused me to emit a startled cry from what was, no doubt, an equally startled face.

         My mother’s reaction was restricted to a few words of weary resignation, “Oh no, not you as well.”

         “As well as who?” I asked. 

         To cut short a long story that was not allowed to commence before tea had been eaten and the dishes washed I was told the family secret that had up to then been kept from me. My father also had the ‘scourge’ as my mother called it and once jumped off Lambeth Bridge to avoid a runaway hansom cab that had mounted the pavement. Fearing that the incident would do nothing to advance his career in the Midland Bank he claimed to have jumped into the Thames to rescue a dog caught up in the current, an act of heroism widely reported in the local press which may well have influenced the bank to promote him to First Cashier. Thereafter he had no other choice but to conceal his ghostly visitations which he did by tightly closing his eyes on the pretence that he was light sensitive and sometimes needed to rest his eyes. Unsurprisingly this did not go down well with his line manager who expected his front desk staff to keep their eyes open when receiving or dispensing the bank’s cash. Rather than terminate his employment it was decided to transfer him to a backroom job that he did for the next seven years until he died at his desk from a heart attack, his eyes tight shut. 

         “Well, he did what he could, I suppose,” my mother said, evidently unimpressed by my father’s efforts to make good. “Can’t be blaming him too much for the way he was. His father and grandfather were just as bad. Caught it from them, I don’t doubt. Would never have married your father had I known what I was letting myself in for but he kept it from me until we were wed; too late then to say no then. Don’t do that to any girl you have a mind to marry, better still don’t marry. No good will ever come of it.”

         Needless to say I returned to my small bed sit sadly reflecting on everything my mother had said. To her my father’s unusual ability to see into the past was a curse to be kept secret at all costs, and in the ’50s when conformity was valued above all else, it is not difficult to understand why she felt that way. My father, who died when I was ten, evidently took the same view and far from taking any pleasure in his visions found them a cause of stress and unhappiness which no doubt shortened his life. I determined not to make the same mistake. As Herbie said, I had a gift not a curse and in an age more forgiving of those who are different I have no intention of being anyone but myself.

         However, one thing my mother and I were agreed on was that any girl likely to become my partner in life had to be fully aware of what she was taking on. I therefore resolved that on a fifth date I would explain all and leave it entirely to her as to whether or not we went on to date six. It was an honourable way forward but not one that got me past five until I discovered that Herbie had a kid sister, ten years his junior but only one year younger than myself. Like Herbie she also had the gift and loved every moment of it, claiming to have witnessed the Siege of Sidney Street and the coronation of Charles II. She also had the most wonderful head of cascading blond hair, a kind face and blue eyes that sparkled with the joy and wonder of life past and present. 

         Leila and myself have been together now for nearly seven years. Our separate visions we share with each other like other couples talk about films or plays they have seen. Sometimes we have the same vision, see the same things and compare our sometimes varying perceptions of what has come our way. Whatever we see, good or bad, we are drawn ever closer together.

 

         Sometimes I think of my father and feel sad.

                                                                                                           

MAG

                                                                                                                      2 July1978

A memoir found among the papers of the novelist and spiritualist, Martin A Greening, 1947-2020.

Reproduced here by kind permission of his son and executor, William Herbert Greening.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 The Traveller’s Joy

By Janet Baldey

“Half of best, please love.”

Joy turned back to the pump, glancing at the clock; still early and already her arm was aching, it’d be as numb as a block of wood before the night was out.  As amber liquid foamed into the tankard, she thanked the Lord it had a good head.  At least there’d be no moaning and groaning that usually greeted the landlord’s watered-down brew.  Not her fault, but she was the one who got it in the neck.  Certainly not Fred, who’d disappear into the snug at the first hint of trouble. Like a bloody canary in a coal mine, he was.

“That’ll be a tanner please, Bert.  I know, I know. Goes up every week. But don’t shoot the messenger. Ain’t me wot’s lining me pockets.  What’s yours then, sweetheart?” Ignoring a nagging pain in her back, she nodded to the next in line.

She was sick of both this job and the landlord; especially, the landlord.  Conniving bugger with his weak beer and sky-high prices.  She peeked in his direction.  Forget the canary, he was crouching behind the bar like a fat, black spider with many eyes, each following her every move, just in case she slipped a penny into her apron pocket.  That was the trouble with being on the take, he thought everybody else had sticky fingers.

A sudden gust of wind buffeted the windows and icy rain scoured the glass with a venom that made even the most hard-bitten look up from their pints.  Despite the smelly fug of the bar, Joy shivered, glad to be inside, even if she did have to share the same air as Fred and his cronies.  She thought she heard the creak of wood and glanced towards the door but it was set firm in its frame.  Must be the wind trying to get in, she thought and if Fred didn’t do something about that lock, sooner or later it would.  She looked around the bar; pity about the state of the place though.  Her Ma could remember when it was a prison, and swore it was in better condition then.  Fred had really let it go.  Sometimes, Joy daydreamed about what she’d do if it were hers.  For starters, she’d sort out the state of the woodwork, inside and out, at the moment it was barely good enough for woodworm.  Then, she’d paint it up and make it look smart.  Ma had showed her a picture once and the whole place used to be covered in some sort of greenery, Old Man’s Beard, she called it.  Used to look quite nice, ‘Was the only thing holding the place together,’ Ma said.  But the first, and only, thing Fred did was to tear it all down and let the world see how rough the timber was.  Joy’s lip curled as she looked around the bar at the greasy upholstery and chipped tables.  Lot of work to be done and a fortune to be spent no doubt.  Again, she heard the creak of wood and stepped out of her daydream as this time the door did more than shiver, it swung open with a crash that sent loose plaster spraying from the ceiling.  In the silence that followed, Joy clearly heard mice in the wainscoting as everybody’s eyes swivelled towards the entrance. 

“Blimey, it’s Frosty the Snowman!”  Immediately, the would-be comic regretted his quip and buried his face in his glass, for there was something oddly dignified about the man standing in the doorway.  With a brisk, dog-shake of his body the stranger rid himself of hailstones clinging to his clothes and stepped out their puddle towards the bar. 

Fred jumped to his feet, almost spilling his beer.

“Out,” he bawled.  “No travellers here.  Didn’t yer read the sign?”  He gestured towards a board that read No travellers, no blacks, no Irish.

The man looked at him.  “But it’s called The Travellers.” He pointed out, mildly.

“Never you mind what it’s called.  I run this place and I don’t want dirty gyppos stinking the place out.” He nodded to his two mates who immediately lurched to their feet and stood swaying, poised for action.

The traveller stared into Fred’s bloodshot eyes and his lips moved.  At the time, nobody heard what he said, although several swore they did, but that was later.

Seconds passed, everyone held their breath, then the man turned back towards the door.  The wind’s whine carolled into a scream as it was opened and Joy shivered again.  “Wouldn’t send a cur out in weather like that” she muttered and at that moment, made up her mind.

With one swift movement, she ripped off her apron.  “Cover for me, will ya Fred.  Gotta go, call of nature,” she yelled.  Not waiting for his reaction, she dived down a couple of steps into the kitchen. Stopping only to grab a bottle of beer and hunk of pork pie, she wrenched her coat off its hook and flung it over her head. 

“Ere, mister. Wait up” she called into the whirling snow through which she could just see the dim outline of a bow top.  Puffing and blowing into the polar air she slid to a stop beside the traveller who was standing at his pony’s head, picking lumps of ice out of its mane.

“Sorry about Fred” she said, “he can be a misery sometimes.  Look, his girl’s got a pony and she keeps it in the stable across the yard.  She’s off to the farriers but she didn’t reckon on this weather and anyway, she’s sweet on the farrier’s son, so she won’t be back any time soon.  You can take your ‘orse in there for a while.  There’s fresh hay and if you’re lucky, a bit of bran mash. Quick, let’s get going, I gotta get back.”  She led the way across the yard to the stable and waited till the Bow Top rumbled to a stop and the horse was let out of its shafts. 

“Ere.” She thrust the beer and pie into the gypsy’s hands and for the first time looked at him full on.  Although his nut-brown face was seamed with as many cracks as ancient leather, his eyes were bright and alive with intelligence.  The eyes of a young man in an old man’s face, she thought and a sudden feeling of awe swept over her.

“That’s very civil of you Missy, may I ask your name?”

“It’s Joy sir; although me Ma sometimes says I bring her more trouble than joy.”

“You are very kind, Miss Joy and kindness should always be rewarded.  Here…” reaching deep into the pocket of his worn woollen coat, he held out a small sprig of heather. “Take this, keep it safe and remember who gave it to you.”

Scampering back to take her place behind the bar, Joy wondered what the old gypsy meant but words are cheap, soon forgotten and she had work to do; she tucked the heather into her apron pocket.  Sure enough, as the weeks passed nothing changed but the seasons that is, until exactly six months later when Fred was found drowned in a bowl of stew, his face bright purple, decorated with gravy and shreds of gristle.

Although not a popular landlord, the mood was sombre in the bar the evening after.   Unease lined every face as they lamented his demise, he wasn’t an old man but his lifestyle didn’t bode well for old bones and many a pint was left untasted as others vowed to cut back and take more walks.  There was only one who didn’t join in the general chorus of health-related consequences.  Jem stared into his tot of whisky before swallowing it down and clearing his throat.

“Twere that gypsy.  Six months, he told ‘im, and six months he got.  I said at the time, Fred should never have messed with ‘im.  He were no ordinary tinker, pure Romany he was and them lot ‘ave powers.”

“Ah, get away wi’ you Jem.  That whisky’s gone to yer head.”

“No, no.  I think Jem’s right.  E did say six months.  I read ‘is lips…”

Discussion prowled the room and after a while Joy switched off, although she did wonder.  After all, she’d had more to do with the traveller than the others.  Had she sensed something?  She gave herself a quick mental shake, she had more important things to worry about.  Even though she’d been no fan of Fred’s, she’d wished him no ill and what was going to happen now?  Who would be the new landlord and would she still have a job?

The next evening, she trudged back home her eyes all but blinded with tears. There’d been a letter waiting for her when she’d arrived at the pub and she never got letters.  It looked official and now tiredness and depression had convinced her that it was her notice and she’d be out on her ear before the week ended. What would she do then?  There was no way that she and her Ma could manage without her weekly pay packet, small though it was. Anyway, she enjoyed her job.  She was fond of all her regulars, mostly they were lonely men, widowers like Bert and Harry and there was Cliff whose wife had run off with a Yank.  Of course. there was the odd ruffian, too fond of his beer and his fists.  Lord help their wives, she often thought, but they were few and far between and tended to congregate around Harry.  Mostly, the blokes were kind and treated her with respect.  There’d only been one who’d truly given her the creeps.  Good looking chap and first she’d been flattered when he started paying attention to her.  Then, she’d looked up suddenly and caught him by surprise.  He was smiling but his eyes raised goosebumps although the room was warm; completely expressionless with no light or life,  looking into them was like looking into a pair of empty graves.  Chilled, from then on, she kept busy and did her best to ignore him but as the minutes ticked on she started to dread the dark journey home.   In the end, she asked Harry if she could walk up the hill with him and he seemed to understand.

“Is that chap bothering you?  “Don’t worry, me girl.  If he comes back tomorrer, me and the lads will have a word with him”.

Sure enough, he did come back and later she heard fists talking in the yard.  He never showed his face again but a couple of days later a young girl was found murdered near Rayleigh Weir and Joy couldn’t help wondering.

 

She wiped her face as she walked up the garden path, no need to worry Ma.  But once inside, when she tried to read her letter, more tears welled and the words separated into shapes that swam away like little fish.  In the end she had to ask her Ma for help.

“This is from a solicitor, what ‘ave you been up to my girl?”  Then, Ma squawked like next door’s rooster.   

“It says you’ve got to go and see them, to learn something to your advantage.  Oh, Joy.  Wonder what it means?”

………

Joy finished polishing the bar and looked around with a satisfied smile.   Now the refurbishment was completed, it looked lovely, just as she’d always imagined.  But she still had to keep pinching herself, fancy being made Manager with full control.  She and Ma had moved into the pub so there was no rent to pay and her wages had been doubled overnight.  The rotten woodwork outside had been replaced and painted a smoky green as a nod to the original Old Man’s Beard, otherwise known as The Traveller’s Joy, which was now the pub’s official name.  That was the first of two conditions to her employment - the other being that there was always a welcome to anyone, whoever he might be.   Joy still didn’t know who the new owner was, but he seemed to know about her which was a puzzle and no mistake, although the solicitor had told her not to worry about it.  So, she didn’t, not really, although she made a point of doing what the gypsy told her, and kept the sprig of heather in a safe place - just in case.

Copyright net Baldey

 A BITTER TASTE

Peter Woodgate

I look at the barmaid through an empty glass

As the last drop of liquid slides down my throat

I fumble through pockets each side of my jeans

Finding them empty I turn to my coat.

I manage a smile as I grasp some loose change

And thump the glass down and ask for another

She gives me a smile and replies with the words

You’ve had enough darling go home to your mother.

Everyone knows I’ve had a big row

My wife’s kicked me out and I’ve gone home to mum

All I have left is to visit the pub

And drown all my sorrows one after one.

But hang on a moment that girl in the corner

She’s wearing a blouse with pink and white lace

I stumble towards her my luck may be in

It’s then that I trip and fall flat on my face.

So to all those poor fellows who know what it’s like

To feel so dejected their lives full of woe

Don’t bother with women they just give you grief

Stick to the booze but drink nice and slow.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  GUARDIAN ANGEL 

 by Richard Banks  

Aerium~Guardian

Everyone has a Guardian Angel, a departed soul who, having served a probationary period in the celestial world, becomes a Trainee Angel, Second Class. Such beings, after a long period of induction, are then sent back to earth to watch over a single human being, born at the precise moment that the angel enters the mortal world. At first, the angel can neither be seen nor heard and must remain incognito, so to speak, until the human in question requests its assistance. Only then can it commence its mission, which is to keep the human from harm and be his or her spiritual guide through life’s journey? If the human at the end of his life passes on into the celestial world the Angel is judged to have successfully completed its mission; it is then awarded a first class certificate and goes on to complete its training in one of many seminaries in the ethereal world. 

      Sadly, it is often the case that many human beings are unaware of the existence of their Guardian Angel and therefore make no call on its services. In such instances, the Angel is rendered inactive and ineffectual and must await the death of its human protégé before transferring its mission to a newly born child. It has been known for Angels to be marooned on earth in this way for over three hundred years before receiving the call for help that kick-starts their mission. While the long periods of solitary inactivity that most Angels endure is extremely demoralising, it also produces moments of intense frustration that send ripples of emotional energy rushing through the human world. 

      Such a moment was threatening to overwhelm the solitary figure who, unseen by human eyes, was applying needle and cotton to his celestial robe in the garden of the Slug & Lettuce. Aerium, for such was his heavenly name, took a deep breath and struggled to quell his pent-up emotions. He remembered the last time he had lost control of his feelings and how it had caused an earth tremor in Kings Lynn. He had received a celestial reprimand on that occasion and been warned as to his future conduct. He took another deep breath and resolved not to let it happen again. 

      His sombre thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raucous laughter from within the Slug & Lettuce, where Aerium’s latest protégé, Kevin, was vying with other young men as to who could consume the most Bacardi Breezers before closing time. As was their custom the winner’s drink tab was paid by the unsuccessful contestants, whilst anyone falling over or passing-out was deposited in the ornamental water feature that the landlord had installed in the vain hope of attracting a better class of clientele. The front door burst open and four inebriated young men stumbled out into the night air carrying the prostrate figure of Kevin, whom they managed to drop several times before heaving his prostrate body into the stagnant water.

      As he lay there face down, Aerium offered up a prayer of intercession that he should not suffer serious harm. Secretly he would not have been disappointed had his prayer gone unheeded. Kevin was clearly a lost cause and the longer he lived the longer Aerium would have to wait before reassignment to another, hopefully more promising, human being. Having completed his prayer, divine intervention arrived in the form of two ducks who proceeded to peck Kevin until he regained consciousness. At this point Kevin’s survival instinct took over and he rolled onto his back and then in a sequence of erratic, uncoordinated movements managed to stagger out of the water feature and collapse onto the litter strewn picnic area. 

      It was at moments such as this that humans would sometimes sense the presence of their Angel. They did not always know that it was an Angel, but for a moment they would know that something beyond their world, beyond their understanding, was there ready and able to change their life. This, however, was not such a moment. As Aerium knew only too well, Kevin was not about to extend an invitation to him or any other Angel. Indeed, the idea that Angels existed and were seeking his redemption would have horrified him. Kevin struggled to his feet and concentrated his remaining brain power on the challenging task of finding his way home. To his relief, he managed to locate the wicker gate that gave access to the street and, despite the fact that it swayed unhelpfully from side to side, was able to manipulate the latch and turn right towards the small village where he lived. 

      Aerium followed at a discreet distance, reflecting on the many changes that had taken place in the four hundred years since his death from bubonic plague. He tried to visualise the landscape as it had been, the wattle and daub houses, the large open fields, and the common land that now lay beneath a Tesco Supermarket. One thing that had not changed was mankind’s love affair with fermented liquor and the strange effect it had on their ability to walk in a straight line.   

      The thought had no sooner passed through his mind, when Kevin veered off the pavement and began to walk in the road, weaving from side to side of the white line in the centre. Aerium embarked on another prayer of intercession. He had scarcely completed the opening line when the sound of an approaching car was quickly followed by the glare of headlights. There was a screeching of brakes, a horrified scream from Kevin as the car skidded towards him, and then an inexplicable silence as the vehicle missed him by inches before mounting the pavement and impacting into a tree. The thud of metal on oak was followed by the crash of breaking glass and a cry of pain from the driver trapped within the compacted wreckage of his vehicle. Unable to comprehend the rapid blur of events, Kevin continued his unsteady progress towards the village.

 

      For a few shell-shocked moments, Aerium was undecided whether to follow Kevin or attend to the greater need of the motorist. He sought guidance from above. An inner voice told him that his mission was with Kevin and that the motorist had his own Guardian Angel. But where was the Angel? In theory it should have been there by the car, offering up prayers and waiting for that elusive moment of spiritual insight when the human would request its help. The motorist called out in the hope of attracting the attention of some other human, but there was no response. He called out again; “Is there anybody there!” but no one was. There was a searing pain in his chest and he sensed that if help did not come soon it would come too late. 

      Blood was seeping from the corner of his mouth and trickling slowly down his face; drip, drip, dripping down his shirt. His cries for help became less frequent and less audible. Aerium drew closer to him. It might not be logical, it might be against all the rules, but his intuition told him that this human man was now his responsibility. The human was silent. There was fear in his eyes. Fear that his life was nearly done. He did not want to die alone. But then he was not alone, there was a presence nearby. He felt its warmth and took comfort in the knowledge it gave him, that his life was no more than a beginning. Nothing was said, nothing needed to be said. The man saw Aerium and through him saw the reality that human vanity had previously denied him. The man’s spirit left his body and, despite the downward tug of dark forces, rose steadily into the night sky.

 

      To his disappointment, Aerium remained firmly rooted on terrafirma. He wanted to go with the man, but the man was not his man and it was less than clear whether Aerium would be commended or censored for his intervention in another Angel’s affairs. His mission was still with Kevin who having reached the comparative safety of the war memorial, was now attempting to lie down on the narrow plinth at its base. Aerium began another prayer of intercession; there would be many more to follow. 

                                       *****

      Through no fault of the author, this is a story without an ending. That it will have an ending is not in doubt. It is merely a matter of time, but time in the celestial world passes but slowly. In time, celestial commissioners will be appointed to consider Aerium’s conduct and that of the truant Angel. In time, probably several decades from now, they will deliver their verdicts and Aerium will either receive the promotion for which he has laboured, or the censure that will prolong his existence on earth. Until then he must continue his earthly vigil in the wake of the irrepressible and irredeemable Kevin. Remember them both, in your prayers, dear reader.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 HIGH FLIERS 

By Rosemary Clarke 

     Oh Danny Boy the pipes the pipes are calling, they are to me, there won't be any 'after the war' for me Hun'll see to that; those flaming onions!

 

     It's just before dawn, lovely sky not a cloud in it.  I wonder what Paddy's doing; at least one of this family is getting it right!  Mum's drinking too much, didn't touch a drop before this damn war now...I know it, the worry, the money how to keep things together but I can't keep all of them!

 

     After all that argument of the SE's I'm flying one; hope the bugger doesn't fall to bits on me or the gun jam...no parachutes still!  How do we fight this thing if H.Q won't give us the equipment!  All I want is a quick death, no flamerinoes for me!  Good, pistol's in my pocket.  They can laugh, Mick taking pot shots at the Huns; Taffy and I know what it's really for.

 

     The waiting for Kiwi seems endless...God knows I'd love to see this place again, I'd even sit through one of those awful plays they're always putting on.  That dream said it though; death's the only real rest you get from this bloody war!

 

     Here comes Kiwi... they're so young now, schoolboys really newly washed and ready for battle, well, I promised him his first blood so here goes; I hope we'll be able to find an early flying two-seater coming over.

 

     Everything looks so bright today, so real as though I'm coming out of a dream, waking up.  The grass seems greener, wet almost emerald with the sun coming up properly now.

 

     I've told Kiwi to follow me up closely and he'll get in a good position to give 'em a good burst.  I don't feel I shall last much longer, spent out but if I'm killed I'll be in good company.

 

  McCudden, Rastas, Bond... Taffy's not done for yet...might even meet the great Albert Bell himself, have a flying lesson.

 

     Wonder how Piddles is; catching more mice or curling up where he shouldn't be most likely.  He'll last it out; cats definately have nine lives!

     Oh look at that a blackbird full of the joys of life, singing his little heart out!  I do love their yellow beaks; a light shining in the darkness.  I do believe he's wishing us luck!

 

     Ten past 5 and still no sign of cloud.  The aircraft look new, glossy and shiny like new toys out of their boxes.  Davidge, Biggs...damn good mechanics... I'll never see these men again.

 

     In and strap up!  Be better up in the air...no balloons as yet; come on old 1294 don't let me down!

 

     Damned eye messing about as usual, no real pain this time, used to it with one eye but that shrapnel; I'm lucky I'm flying at all.  Wonder if we'll see Hun or if it'll be like yesterday, or will I get my 73rd as Davidge said.

 

     They're lovely old buses some of those Hun craft; red and yellow like brightly coloured bugs hovering and dipping in the sky ...shame you have to shoot them down but it's war and they’re shooting at us.  Once round the block; hope Kiwi's keeping up. Nothing as yet, open the throttle and up we go.  Ah, that's better and here comes Kiwi.

 

     Alright here's one coming towards the lines ...get East get East!  God, he nearly had me!  Kiwi's doing well.  Bang on!  Flamerino sizzle... sizzle... wonk!  It's like moths to a flame, must see it go down...will I do that?  Look at him spin!  He's done for, thumbs up to Kiwi there's one in the fire!  Down, down ...bang!  All over for him.

 

     The battlefield's covered with holes and craters, looks like the beginning of Earth no lava though; little men running about.  It's a game isn't it, a huge game ... but who's playing it?

 

     Bloody Hell Archies! Hard right, keep it straight...come on you bastards make it easy for me! 

 

     God I wish this war would end!  God take me back to the boys, get this bus down, let it be alright...

 

     Rudder's gone, looks like it's all over for me... Kiwi's shot up badly too, fuel tank looks like.  Oh God it's happening!  I'm burning on my right side still, I've got my pistol thank God; told 'em I'm not being sizzled! 

 

     INTO THE MESS OR TO BETHUNE!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke