On the Writing Trail - Short stories by QueenSpark writers

Foreword

‘On the Writing Trail’ is a short story anthology consisting of contributions from writers who belong to creative writing groups which are either members of or affiliated to QueenSpark Books, the largest and oldest community publisher in South East England. It is the belief of QueenSpark Books that everyone has a history and anyone can be a writer and while that credo is generally applied to the publishing of local autobiographies and oral history books, ‘On the Writing Trail’ represents a rare excursion by the organisation into the field of fiction produced by its member groups. These groups are Hove Writing Group, Morning Women Writers, Club 94 and Brighton Nightwriters.

‘On the Writing Trail’ recognises that writing fiction, like any other creative form, is part of a process and the stories represented here reflect the various unique experiences, ideas and inspirations that each writer has sought to express at an individual stage in the development of his or her craft. What is important is that they have found the time, confidence and discipline to polish and complete their work. As Woody Allen says, eighty per cent of success is just turning up, with a further five per cent being attributed to talent and fifteen per cent to luck! Well, all the writers here have turned up and it is hoped that the reader will enjoy their work and perhaps find the inspiration to put his or her own pen to paper as well.

J.David Simons
Margaret Bell

November 1999

MY LANCASHIRE ANGEL
Leila Abrahams

I had waited a long time for this, but from the start it looked as if it was to be a day of disaster.

After a restless night, I woke late with a blinding headache. The children were fractious and disobedient and I had no time nor patience to pander to them. Then the child minder phoned to say that she was ill, so I had no option but to take them round to my mother, who was none too pleased. All hopes of a quiet, leisurely morning to collect my thoughts before the ordeal were squashed, and time was rushing by too quickly.

Then it started to rain as I dashed to the bus stop, only to see the tail end of the bus disappearing. The next bus was late and full, so I had to stand all the way, clutching my possessions, as the pain in my head beat time to the jostling and jerking of the bus.

I kept glancing at my watch, hoping there would just be time for a quick cuppa, but no such luck, and I knew that I’d have to face the ordeal without its comfort.

I stepped out onto the busy road, weaving my way precariously in and out of the angry, hooting cars, so deep in thought that I missed the kerb, and found myself stretched out on the wet and dirty pavement, like a wretched beached whale.

I ached all over, felt sorry for myself and pictured how stupid I must look with my books, bags and umbrella all strewn around me, and the rain pouring unceasingly over me.

Suddenly a firm hand grasped me and a deep Lancashire voice said ‘Cum on, luv – give us yer hand. Right … up on yer feet now. I don’t think yer’re quite dead yet!’

I looked up to see a tall, curlyheaded, young man, in faded jeans and damp anorak, smiling down at me. He gathered my things together, heaved me up, patted me on the shoulder, and laughed.

‘Now, what you need is a good, stiff drink to buck you up and settle you down.’

‘A drink,’ I murmured, as I gazed sadly at my torn tights, grazed knees and splattered coat. ‘I think a bath would be more appropriate. I must look a real mess.’ I sighed, ‘What a day! And I particularly wanted to look good. Anyway, I haven’t time – I have an appointment at two o’clock and it’s half past one now.’

‘Oh, cum on,’ he said, ‘there’s plenty of time, and you’ll feel more fit to cope with whatever you have to cope with. You have had a shock, you know.’

‘B… but I never drink anything stronger than tea or coffee, and certainly not now – I need all my wits about me right now.’

He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Now, luv, The King’s Arms is just around the corner, and you can clean yourself up while I order you a whisky. Believe me, it’ll do you the world of good – unaddle your wits and make you think more clearly, then you can toddle off to your appointment with a clear mind and full of confidence.’

My mind was clearing as I sat down. Who was this stranger who had so suddenly appeared to help me? And his accent – certainly not a southern one … an echo of my own!

As I sipped my drink, I looked up at him. ‘Eee, laddie, where yer from – yer sound as if yer from the same neck of the woods as me, eh?’

He laughed, ‘Mebbe – who knows? We Mancunians must look out for one another, don’t yer think?’

‘How d’yer know I’m from Manchester? And you … what are you doing down here?’

He tapped his nose, his eyes twinkling. ‘Ah, lovey there’s more twixt heaven and earth than thee’ll ever know, so just accept, eh.’

I shrugged, looked at my watch and quickly downed my drink. I didn’t have time to carry on this discussion, but I must admit that something about him had made me feel a glow and confidence that had been missing all morning.

The young man helped me up, insisted on carrying my things to the building where I was headed. Then he took my hands in his and, warmly gazing into my eyes, he said. ‘Well, luv, what did I tell you. You look more yerself now. I know that whatever yer have to face – yer’ll win through. Good luck. I send my prayers for you.’

I scurried up the stairs to Room 4, opened the door to see rows of numbered desks. Rushing to my seat, I was just in time to hear the invigilator say, ‘You have three hours to complete the paper. You may now turn over your booklet and begin.’

I looked at the questions – they didn’t make sense. My eyes blurred, my mind went fuzzy. Suddenly I could see the young man’s face hovering in front of me. I heard his words, ‘I send my prayers for you – good luck!’

A warm glow swept through me … was it the whisky, or my Lancashire angel?

I looked again at the questions. They were easy. I knew somehow that I would gain that B.A. that I had worked so hard for, over the last three years. I picked up my pen and began to write with a fluency and confidence that I had never before felt.

THE WHITE KID GLOVE
Ethel Akhurst

The young man, standing alone by the door, looked dazed and bewildered at the lively scene around him. Used to a lonely life on the oil rig out on the unfriendly North Sea, he had never imagined himself at a place quite like this, but he had been dragged there by his sister and her friend while on this weekend break, and felt a bit shy and out of place. He stared at the beautifully dressed girls with their equally beautifully dressed escorts and wished he could leave quietly. He looked at the long table piled high with goodies, the tempting array of bottles and shining glasses, and the flowers with their fragrances scenting the room. Bright coloured streamers and gay balloons hung from the ceiling and lights like stars twinkled down on the dancers as they circled the floor. He sighed, knowing that this wasn’t really his scene, and wondered if he dared ask one of the lovely ladies to dance with him. ‘No way,’ he thought, ‘I couldn’t. No way.’

His eyes wandered across to the little tables set around the walls. Then he opened them wide and his breath caught in his throat as he found himself looking at his dream. A dream held so long in his inner self. She was lovely. Her long silvery coloured hair was a perfect match for her dress – a long filmy silk robe which shone with tiny dewdrops in the lights. She looked, he thought, like an icicle, a silver sheen of water as she moved. As if in a dream he left the door post and went straight across the room to her side.

She looked up with a smile, and without speaking, rose and went into his arms, putting a tiny hand enclosed in a white kid glove on his left arm. He led her out on to the dance floor, and still in a dream, circled with her around the floor. The flowers sent out a perfumed haze. The silver lights twinkled down on them as they danced, lost in their enchanted world. The evening wore on and no-one interrupted them. She is so light in my arms, just like a snowflake, he thought, gazing down at her, drowning in her scent, with the flowers and the soft music making an almost unbearable magical evening.

Suddenly, the lights were dimmed and a silver spotlight rested for a moment on her lovely face. The room grew darker, the music quieter, then just as suddenly the lights came on again and loud laughter and cheers broke out.

He stirred uneasily. His arms felt empty and he looked for his fairy-like partner. He swallowed painfully. His arms were indeed empty. His dream had gone. Only on his arm was a small white kid glove.

WORKING IN A SHOE SHOP
Marge Batchelor

It is a lovely summer’s day, the sun is shining and I long to be on the beach, or in the country, sipping cool drinks with my feet up. But this is not to be. We are in this small shoe shop, just the two of us and the manageress. We greet each other in the usual way. Pat, the manageress, goes to the stock room and tiny office while Peggy and I flick around with a feather duster and rearrange some of the shoes.

‘Too hot for work, Peg,’ I say. ‘You’re right ,’ she replies.

Pat calls from her office. ‘Come here a minute, you two girls. I’ve made a list of some lines we want to get rid of, so see what you can do, will you?’ ‘O.K.’ we say.

And with a last dab of make-up and a flick through our hair with a comb, we are ready to greet out customers.

It was quiet at first, with few people coming in and looking around, so we take turns to tidy the stock-room and bring to the front the shoes to get rid of. Then I get my first customer, a lady of uncertain age, who flops down into the nearest chair.

‘Good morning, madam. What would you like to see?’ I ask. ‘I don’t really know,’ she says.

‘Well, would you like to see high heels, low heels, sandals, strap shoes or lace-ups?’ ‘Oh, bring me some of each.’

I go into the stock room and say to Pat, ‘I’ve got a right one here.’

She smiles sympathetically and I take a selection which the customer insists are too tight or not comfortable. So I get a pair of those we are trying to get rid of and tell her they have been reduced considerably – a little white lie, of course.

‘These are fine. You should have shown me them at first,’ she says.

‘Yes, madam,’ I say, smiling, as I take her money. Then I boxed up several other pairs she had tried on. By then it was my coffee time and I could relax for a few minutes.

The rest of the morning passed quite busily with some pleasant customers, except for one unkempt man who bustled into the shop carrying a bottle and sat down poised to drink out of it. Pat acted quickly, calling to us to grab an arm each, while she picked up the phone and threatened to call the police. Muttering, he decided to go and we closed the door for a few minutes. Luckily, we had no customers at that time. After that, we all went on lunch breaks at different times to fortify us for the afternoon.

Now, morning shoppers’ minds are mostly on food and meals for the family, what to get for dinner for the next two or three days. But in the afternoon, that being settled, their thoughts are on more personal things. So, they drift from shop to shop, browsing, and by the time they get to a shoe shop, they sink thankfully into a chair, just glad to put their feet up and not really knowing what they want. Such a one was my first customer, who started off with a smart court shoe.

‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘But have you something more casual?’ ‘Certainly. What colour?’ I say. ‘Oh, bring me all the different colours.’

She tries them all on, then notices someone else trying on a pair of coloured plimsolls. ‘They look nice,’ she says. ‘I’ll try those.’

She decided to buy them. I almost wished we hadn’t got her size, I thought, as I packed up and cleared the many boxes around me.

Then in comes a harassed-looking young mother with a baby in a buggy and a boy of about three who soon made his presence felt. In a flash, he had rearranged the display of shoes on the lower shelves.

‘Stop it,’ his mother said. ‘Shan’t,’ he cried.

She grabbed his arms and sat him on a chair, kicking and screaming. ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘And try on these shoes.’

Thankfully, they fitted him and he liked them. Then, he snatched one from me and promptly started crying.

‘Come on, you little brat,’ said the mother and with that departed. Peace reigned once more.

Next, two men came in who might have been father and son but we soon realised they weren’t. I thought the relationship was obviously close. They were very friendly towards us.

‘Good morning, darling,’ one said to me. ‘My friend would like some shoes, wouldn’t you, pet?’

After a deep discussion, I managed to find out roughly what he wanted and brought out a selection. The trying process started and everyone in the shop became involved. The conversation went something like this:

‘How about these?’ ‘Oh, my dear. You can’t wear those.’ ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘They won’t do, lovey. Try some more.’

Eventually, they bought two pairs of each and departed all smiles, saying ‘This is a lovely shop and thank you for all your help!’

By this time everybody was smiling and the whole atmosphere had lightened. We were busy and the time passed quickly. Soon it was time to close. Feeling very satisfied with the day’s work, we each made our way home.

GATEWAY
Shirley Beckett

Pristine Penelope keeled the pot; beef with carrot and swede and beans. The haybox was at the ready on her kitchen floor – large, square with “Gateway” on the side and filled with straw from the nearby stables. She looked out the window at the grey winter garden – all pristine too. No mess in her life! (only the once), successful profession, Civil Service pension, now doing her duty as her eminent family had brought her up.

Christmas Day at the soup kitchen on the South Bank. She had no family of her own, after all (only that one years ago, tidied away by her worthy mother who was about to appear on the New Year’s Honours List).

She added more herbs, sealed the lid and lifted the casserole into the box, pressing around the straw. ‘Shut the box, carry out to van. Not easy. So heavy! Take the pink Laura Ashley apron. Look cheerful for the poor unfortunate souls..’

It was cold as she started the drive through the deserted, dawn-lit streets. Occasional children in coloured-light windows sent a shaft of sadness (the purple mark had only made his face more dear). But, today, she had her “family”.

Cardboard City Slicker Robbo’s was the best box by “The Arches”. Hard by the Thames, it was a sort of inverse model of the concrete boxes around him, only with picturesque decoration never quite obliterating the lettering. His was “Sainsbury’s Cape Sultanas” – figures in Eastern garb, fetching a laugh and a bob from passers-by, unsure whether it was wit or dubious geography. Next to his was Ruthie’s “Greek Olive Oil” and Robbo’s masterpiece whereon the gods went a-begging and a sign over the “door” said “Stay out of my sun.” Philosophy scholars smiled at “Kyria Drogones”, gave her a bob and thought, “What a waste of such learning and creativity,” but then almost envied them as they rushed to their airless offices – all back-biting and computers.

All his life, Robbo had not got along, allergic to foster homes and bosses. But he had always loved colour and old Pa Brodsky had encouraged him. Robbo had got his paints from the old boy who had his studio under one of the arches. Quite famous, they said; but this year he’d gone to “the arches in the sky”, so there’d be no party. Some foreigners came and cleared the place out – not even a tube of indigo left.

Robbo’s mates gave him bread and books to do their boxes and it pleasured him greatly to conjure up the places and people suggested by each box. He’d done a real beaut with “Findus Fish Fingers” – all green and blue and glacial – but the occupier, Felix, just hissed when people stopped to admire. “Heinz Baked Beans” was an explosion of colour, and “Bell’s Whisky” a heartfelt result of the warm feeling engendered by the commission in kind from Harry.

Today was Christmas Day and he and the mates were looking forward to the “Good Ladies’ Nosh”. Wow! It smelled fantastic as they lined up in the “caff’ in a sort of cinema. Ruthie was with him, gazing at the glossy pictures around the place. As they got near the counter, Ruthie nudged him. ‘That old crow in pink is really staring at you! Even I know it’s rude to stare cos you got a “horrible birthmark”.’

But Robbo smiled at the lady as she filled his bowl with stew. Then he spotted the haybox and his eyes glazed over. ‘Oh, I could do you a lovely “Gateway” on that one, missus.’

GIN OWL
Shirley Beckett

It worries me to death when I see the old owl sitting on the draining board looking so sly, his round golden eye on the cat again. Last time they had fisticlaws. The feathers and fur flew all over the kitchen.

‘My old boots’, I cried, ‘it can’t be true!’ It was grannie in her nightie come down for a cup of gin.

‘Owly by the sink again,’ she squawked. ‘I can’t get to the tap.’

‘But, Mother, gin doesn’t come out of a tap.’ ‘ Want to bet…’ and pushed aside Owl.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off it, being a most gin-loving bird. Grannie gave him a drop in an egg cup; he blinked twice and spread his wings, forgetting about the cat. There seemed to be two now, anyway.

Grannie reached into her handbag and took out the dog leash. ‘Come on, Owl, time for your morning fly.’

The tipsy bird hopped out the door. She followed fast. Outside he spread his wings again – flap, flap, once, twice and three … up into the air they both went …

Such is the power of gin.

PIGEON FANCIER
Sylvia Calvert

Yes, they certainly looked in top form. Bert was well pleased. He had fed the pigeons the best corn, with vitamins added. They had received all his love and attention. He thought he stood a good chance of taking first prize. Their feathers shone, their eyes were bright, their overall appearance was sleek. Bert’s chest swelled with pride. He had spoken of nothing else for months, much to his wife, Audrey’s, annoyance.

Today, Bert would choose his ten best birds – a difficult task since all were beautiful to him. He packed the pigeons tenderly into their crates, ready for the long journey to Birmingham from where they would be set free and hopefully make their own way back to Chorley Park in Surrey.

His wife Audrey was muttering to herself. ‘I wish he’d take half the interest in me that he takes in those bloody birds.’ Bert was unaware of the anger his wife felt, she just seethed inside.

‘So, can I leave you to log the times the birds arrive back, old girl,’ Bert said, placing a kiss on top of her head. ‘I’ll be off now then. See you later.’

He packed the crates into his van. On arriving at the railway station, the crates were carefully lifted into the goods wagon, and Bert jumped in beside them. A friend had arranged to pick him up in Birmingham.

There was great excitement at the pigeon fanciers’ club, each entrant sure that their birds would clock the best time, but it was all friendly rivalry. When it was time to set the birds loose, Bert’s parting words were: ‘Now do me proud, my darlings.’ He watched them fly off into the distance with the feeling of satisfaction that all the months of hard work were paying off. The birds were just specks in the sky now, finally dropping out of sight. His friend drove him to the station, Bert hopped aboard, eager to get home to his pigeons.

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door to be greeted by Audrey’s long face which she had been practising in the mirror. ‘I’m ever so sorry, Bert. The pigeons haven’t arrived home. Perhaps they lost their way or have been attacked.’

He couldn’t believe his ears. All his hard work gone to waste. He felt bereft. He sat by the window unable to speak, every so often pulling back the nets, hoping to see the pigeons returning home.

Audrey patted Bert’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Bert. I know how much they meant to you. I expect you won’t feel much like celebrating now, so I’ve cancelled our table at the French restaurant round the corner.’

It was as well they stayed at home for the restaurant was serving “Pigeon Casserole” as dish of the day and that would have been like rubbing salt into the wound.

THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT
Valerie Croft

The policeman warned the assembled girls to go straight home from school in pairs if their parents could not collect them. At large was a dangerous man preying on small girls. After school ‘nature’ called so I left the playground last.

Walking home he approached me as I bent over, tying a shoelace. Rat-faced, thin, more a smirk than a smile, his ice-cold hand on my bottom: ‘We could have fun in the saleyards,’ he said.

I wasn’t afraid. I thought he was stupid. Fun in the saleyards was on Fridays when the rugged farmers brought in their cattle: beautiful brown-eyed cows with their leathery coarse hair which I was pleased to pat. The saleyards were empty now, even gloomy. Besides he was dressed in brown. Mother said that no gentleman ever wore a brown suit. I wouldn’t go anywhere with a stranger unless in a navy or grey suit. Sidling around him I began my first grand lie. ‘What time is it?’ I fenced. ‘Twenty five to four’.

A step back to turn and race away calling over my shoulder – not to offend him. Mother liked me to be polite. ‘I’m late already. My mother will beat me.’ I was proud of my invention. (It saved my life.)

At home I didn’t tell. The hand up my pants was far too rude for my sweet mother.

THE CROSSWORD
Stevie English

Half past eleven in the morning and the temperature was already in the seventies. The park had that very still atmosphere that only the hot summer sun can bring. Trees and shrubs were beginning to droop, as were the plants in the ornamental beds. The trees had the advantage of deep roots, but even they were showing signs of wilting. The flowers drooped their heads pathetically, waiting for the cool evening respite. Birds either sunbathed with their beaks open and their wings spread out, or had dust baths in the dry earth between the snapdragons. The earthworms had long ago gone deep down into the soil to find the moisture and the birds knew this. It was no use expending energy trying to locate food at that level. Better by far to approach the lunch-time office workers and beg crumbs from them. They had to be hard-hearted indeed to ignore the fluffy bundles of feathers waiting for a crust!

Liz left the office and, with her large canvas bag slung over her shoulder, made her way to the park. Through the iron gates and along the gravel path, she moved as quickly as the heat would allow, until she spied a tiny section of shade. It was too hot to stay in the office and it was too hot to sit in the park, but there wasn’t an alternative. Sitting down on the grass she started to unpack her bag. Tomato sandwiches (a bit squashed and soggy!), a plastic bottle of mineral water, an apple, a yoghurt and, in a plastic container, a rather large portion of strawberry cheese-cake. With all the food spread out before her, she rummaged again in the bag. A droopy ‘Christopher Robin’ type sun hat was extracted, shaken and pulled onto her head. It made her feel hotter than ever, but mindful of the weatherman on the telly, she knew she should wear it. She was delving again into the bag when a shadow fell over her. Looking up in surprise she saw a young man standing before her.

‘Can I share the shady bit with you?’ he asked. ‘Sure,’ she replied, thinking uncharitably to herself, why can’t he find his own bit of shade?

‘Hot,’ said the boy, by way of conversation. Liz nodded and went back to delving into her bag. Factor 12 sunscreen, a pen and a crossword book were put next to the food.

The boy lay on his side, propping his head up on one arm. He picked a dry grass stalk and chewed the end, his eyes screwed up against the sun, looking at Liz.

Normally Liz was quite good-natured, but the heat and the fact that she was being scrutinised by the boy made her a bit ratty. With a sandwich in one hand, a pen in the other and the crossword book on her lap, she started her lunch. Try as she would, she couldn’t concentrate, and after a few minutes looked up. The boy’s eyes were so screwed up she wasn’t sure if he was looking at her or not.

‘Here,’ she said offering him a sandwich. He nodded and reached over to take one. ‘Ta!’

My God, she thought, not only do I have to share the only bit of shade in the park with someone else, but he’s only able to communicate in one-word sentences, and each word is one letter shorter than before. She giggled to herself in spite of this bad-tempered thought.

I know, I’ll ask him crossword questions and then he will have to speak to me, she thought to herself, forgetting that it was she who didn’t want his company in the first place.

‘Are you any good at crosswords?’ she said, pushing her blonde hair off her forehead and under her hat.

‘Not bad,’ he replied. ‘I can usually finish The Telegraph but The Times takes a bit longer. Sometimes I don’t get to finish that,’ he admitted.

Bloody Hell! thought Liz. First I’ve got him down as an idiot and now I find he’s nearly a MENSA genius. Passing the book, she said, ‘Well, have a go at this – I can’t concentrate – it’s far too hot. Apple or yoghurt?’

‘Share?’ he inquired, taking a penknife out of his pocket. She nodded and, taking the apple from her, he sliced it in half and handed half back again. They munched in silence.

‘You should be able to get this clue,’ he said, ‘4 across – Good Man – 5 letters – saint! ‘Oh yes,’ said Liz. ‘I knew that – just hadn’t put it in.’

He gave her a quick grin. ‘Course you did.’ He turned his attention back to the crossword. Pursing his lips he wrote in rapid bursts, then handed the book back to her. ‘Thank you for your help,’ she said stiffly. ‘I only asked for politeness’ sake, I didn’t expect you to finish it off!’

‘Not to worry,’ he replied, getting to his feet. ‘Tomorrow I shall bring another book and a picnic, and I’ll let you do it all by yourself.’

‘See you tomorrow, then – same time, same place,’ she said.

He turned and walked off into the brilliant sunshine. Thank goodness he had noticed the front cover of the crossword puzzle book and had checked out the answers. He had waited a long time to chat up Liz and now he was in with a chance.

ON LINE
Valerie Goble

Arthur tapped on the computer keyboard and then flung the mouse down in annoyance. He was finding it much more difficult than his wife Kathleen had. She had been a typist, so quickly adapted to the keyboard, soon mastering the intricacies of the machine. She had always been ready to try something new. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained” had been her motto.

The day she came home full of enthusiasm and told him she was going to buy it, he’d said, ‘It’s a great deal of money to lay out. I’m not sure we can afford it.’

She had laughed at him. ‘You are an old stick-in-the-mud, I’ll soon earn enough money to pay for it by doing extra work at home. Don’t worry so much.’

The computer was soon paid for as she quickly found people who offered her work. Learning as she went, she enjoyed the challenge of new technology. She tried to encourage Arthur to use the computer but he was not in the least interested.

Three months later she had died in a tragic accident.

It had been a long time before he could bring himself to venture into the little den that housed her computer. One day, he took his mug with an “A” from next to the one with a “K”, filled it, then went into the den. He started tinkering with the computer, desiring something else to think about. At first, it was frustrating but gradually he became more interested. Eventually he had gone “on-line” which meant he could communicate with people all around the world via the computer. To his surprise, one evening as he experimented with the various programmes, the word “Hello” came up on the screen.

He didn’t quite know what to do, so he tapped out, ‘Where are you?’ and waited to see if he would get a reply.

Sure enough, up came: ‘It’s not the custom to reveal our address but we can chat. How are you?’ He typed: ‘I’ve had a bad day.’ ‘Well! Cheer up. It’s not over yet. Do you have enough interests?’

Arthur was bemused. He wrote: ‘Well, perhaps I should find some new pastimes. Tell me about yourself. What’s your name or aren’t you supposed to tell that either?’ ‘I’m Katy,’ was the reply.

They then began to converse over the computer, telling each other their favourite films, songs, food and books. She said her favourite film was Random Harvest. With a pang, he remembered that it was also Kathleen’s favourite film.

He said he was surprised she liked such an old film and where had she seen it. She told him she watched the old movie channel. ‘What’s your favourite song?’ she typed.

“I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen” sprung into his mind. It had been the natural choice for them when he married Kathleen and had become their “our song”. He decided not to answer that. Instead he typed out ‘What is your favourite song?’ To his utter amazement back came: “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen”.’

The conversation reminded him increasingly of his youth and courtship days. Her favourite book was Gone With the Wind. He recalled that his wife had cried profusely when she had read that book.

‘Have you ever tried Mexican food?’ appeared on the screen. ‘No,’ he typed. ‘Well, why don’t you? Just for a change? Do you ever go to the theatre?’

It had been years since he had been. Kathleen had always wanted to see Cats. Sadly they had never gone – now it was too late.

‘I haven’t been to the theatre for many years,’ he typed.
‘Why don’t you? It is such a pleasant occupation.’
‘How would you know if I would like it?’
‘Perhaps you should risk it,’ appeared on the screen. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

Her phrase, he thought, his pulse quickening. Arthur was beginning to believe that it was indeed Kathleen on the other end of the computer. He decided to ask her some questions to which only his beloved Kathleen would know the answer, to try and confirm his suspicions.

‘What was your mother’s name?’

After a few seconds back came: ‘Mum’.

Exactly what Kath would have said, he thought. He typed: ‘Please tell me where you are?’ ‘Floating in the ether,’ was the answer. ‘Do you like roses?’ was his next question. ‘Yes! They are my favourite flowers. I particularly like “Blue Moon”.’

Arthur’s heart pounded as he remembered how they had planted a rose tree of that particular subtly coloured variety on their twentieth anniversary. The excitement of the whole thing was beginning to make him very tired. Arthur realised it was long after midnight and he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open, much as he tried. He knew he must sever this tenuous connection and go to bed.

‘It has been wonderful talking to you. I’m really happy we have been able to,’ he typed. ‘I do hope it will happen again. Good night.’ Back came the reply: ‘I hope so too. I enjoyed the visit so much. Have a good life. Good night.’

Deep in thought, he turned off the machine and went into the bedroom. He felt more light-hearted than he had for a long time. He wondered where there was a Mexican restaurant near, as he would like to try some Mexican food for a change. Humming “I’ll Take You home Again Kathleen” he prepared for bed, making a mental note to buy a London paper the next day to see if Cats was still on. He climbed into bed, gazing tenderly at the framed photograph of a smiling Kathleen. He kissed the image, said ‘Good night’ again and turned off the light.

The next morning he couldn’t wait to switch on the computer. Nothing happened. It was completely blank. Then he noticed that the plug was out of the socket. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember when he had pulled it out.

CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Margaret Howell

I always looked forward to my trips home on holiday to Ireland. They were such a welcome relaxation from the pace and noise of London. People were so friendly. Walking along a quiet country road, someone would smile or wave and bid you ‘Good Day’, or even stop for a chat.

On this particular holiday, I noticed the gates of the demesne were open. Those were the gates leading to the vast estate and mansion of Major Barrington, one of the hundreds of the so-called British gentry who settled and took over the land. The mansion was known as the “Big House”. The whole area was guarded by high walls and locked gates. As children we were warned never to go near or try to climb the walls. I had learned that the Barringtons had gone and the “Big House” was now a convent. I couldn’t get in there quick enough!

The gardens were ablaze with colour and the sun was glistening on the rippling stream while the birds were singing from overhanging boughs – it was a delightful, peaceful scene. A tall, dark-haired young man approached. He stopped and we chatted. He had pensive brown eyes and a handsome face. He was on holiday from England and always loved coming back to this area. I said how thrilled I was to find the gates open and he smiled knowingly and suggested we meet the next day to explore the estate, which we did for three days. He told me that his name was David and that he was an officer in the Guards.

As we came to a wooded path, I suddenly exclaimed: ‘There is the exact place where my brother and I got such a fright.’ ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘One day we found a green door ajar, ‘ I answered. ‘I said to my brother, “Come on, let’s go in. ” I dragged my brother in and we looked across in amazement at this enormous house where we saw ladies in long dresses walking down steps. Suddenly, we heard footsteps and as we were so scared, dived under that tree there and hid in the long grass. A big dog came sniffing around. The footsteps got nearer and we were shaking with fear. A man whistled to the dog. On peering out we saw a man with a bag on his shoulder and a gun in his hand. We thought if he found us he would shoot us! Then we rushed out through the green door. I’ve never forgotten that.’

I thought David looked sad as I told him the story. We then came near to a lodge where a very old man was sitting outside with two dogs. David whispered in the old man’s ear, shook his hand and the old man’s face lit up. David came over to me and said: ‘This is the man you thought would shoot you.’ We all laughed.

Later David said to me: ‘I purposely did not reveal to you that I am the son of Major Barrington as I was afraid that you may not want to see me again.’

‘I forgive you,’ I laughingly replied. ‘But promise me you will meet me again.’

We kissed farewell and I returned to London happily knowing we were to meet again there.

THE TEDDIES’ LAST PICNIC or THE UNBEARABLES AND AFTER
Keith Kennedy

I check my watch. Almost time. Simply a matter of minutes now. The singing is getting louder, sweeter, and nastier to my ears. I run my finger carefully along the edge of my blade. It is keen and so am I.

‘Don’t go down to the woods, to-day…’ That silly song! But we are going, and once we’re in, there’s going to be a lot of choppin’ and hoppin’. Those Teddies are about to be given a great big surprise. When the Colonel blows his whistle we’ll be out of these bushes and across the road, and at ’em with a vengeance. This enormous citadel before us – the Albert Hall, I believe – where they are all party-partying, those infinitely adorable cuddlesome bears and their equally cute chums, is about to be taken by storm. Just watch us! To my left in the shrubbery the Wild Wooders are sharpening their claws and licking their whiskers in anticipation. Next to them are The Golllies, all rarin’ to go. By our leader – Colonel Fungus to give him his right name – there’s William and his dashing band of Outlaws and Joan’s with them too. But, it’s the Bunters who are going to lead us in. Watch them bowl over any opposition. And my little friends Arrietty and Trehorn will be alongside them because they’re small enough to wriggle through any cracks, to penetrate any defence.

Any second and we shall be off, and what has to be done will be done, and it will be good riddance to all that – ‘that’, of course, being the padding of the cosy world of Story. It’s going to be goodbye to the sachets of stuffing with the greatly loved names. Because, as I see it, the Nussy-Nossies, the Nursery Nostalgia brigade, have Storyland all stitched up. Those caught in the trap of what you idealise today you may idolise tomorrow, come to infect so many others with their spurious sentimentalising. It’s a conspiracy, really, and it’s not fair on us and should be changed, and it’s up to the likes of me.

Me? Well, I’m accustomed to appearing in the picture rarely, or the book. Perhaps, I do not walk, talk, or look decent enough to those who produce the goods. Here in my circle I’m known as Munkey which comes from the word ‘homunculus’, or so I was told. I’m not as tiny as Arrietty, but undoubtedly I’m of low stature. There! I’ve said it myself! Though it’s true that whenever my sort appears in a story, he will be baleful of eye, and of malevolent intent. Which, at this very moment, I am, so let’s go. PEEEE-E-E-E-E! The long awaited whistle blast followed by a swelling cry and – ATTACK! Our long sleek Wild Wooders shoot out of the bushes, hard on the heels of The Bunters. Twitch-twitch-twitch all about me. The Gollies are bristling. There is a shriek and a rallying yell by the door leading to this most private of parties, and next a thunderous crash. And – WE GO – we are off, whooping as we surge across Kensington Gore, sucked on by the sound of battle within the building.

Now, with great sadness, I must tell you how it was. My first skirmish came by the ticket office. There was a terrible snarl-up there – that seems to be the right word. I slashed at the first face I saw, which was family – Milly Molly something – but missed. As a terrible cloying smell reached my nose, I thrust forward and struck home. A moment later, by a spotlit poster, I paused and examined my blade. Its tip was pinkish. I cackled. One up the bum for Victoria Plum.

When I stepped into the concourse I was amazed. I gaped and coughed. The air was fibrous. It was aswirl with golden hairs. And lo – there in the centre of this cavernous place with its tiers of seats stretching up out of sight – I beheld a wondrous scene. Teddies are not a warlike breed. They are clawless and without sharp edges, so look for them where they belong and you may find them hardly distinguishable from the cushions upon which they will be reclining. Make it honey cakes not steak tartare for the bears of Storyland. So, indeed, here had been no real battle, but a massacre. They had given way like lambs to the proverbial. And mentioning that particular animal, there at my feet lay a well and truly filleted Larry of Toytown fame. Hardly in mint condition, I thought without meaning to be funny. I swished my sword. My mind was on other matters. It was time for me to make my mark. Fortunately, at that moment, a funny little fellow came into range. He had a button nose and a floppy hat with a bell on its point. Swipe! Off flew his head. ‘Nothing to it’, I decided, all hot for the fray. However, the fun was virtually over. All the rabbits, of both the Peterish and Little Grey varieties, had scarpered, though a few scuts were still twitching by my boots. Wheee – what price The Electric Carving Knife Massacre?

I turned slowly, and beheld a thoroughly debagged Bagpuss, and over there, who had been the lucky one to have seen off Sooty and Sweep? And yes, yes, indeed it was, of course! The Woodland ragtaggers had seen off Ratty, Mole, Toad and Badger, and they hadn’t spared Tigger or Eeyore either. And, the big question, where were the mortal remains of the ineffable pluke himself?

A game of football had been started up between The Outlaws and the rest of us – The Mongrel Tendency you might say – and there could be no doubt who had provided the ball. The headless body of Pooh was serving as a goal post. But, where was that sweet little chap, that winsome boy? I poked frantically among the piles of Teddy bits, but there was no trace of our arch enemy. Where was he? As I searched, I became more desperate. It was unthinkable that he should be allowed to escape. Our cause would be undone if the likes of him was allowed to go free. His kind is the kind that publishers are made of.

Suddenly a thin cry from on high told me the worst. The voice was unmistakable. Our cause was doomed. I saw the Colonel blink and a big, green, blobby tear ran down his cheek. The thin, infantile tones rose higher, and we listened. Christopher Robin was reedily, squeakily telling us to say our prayers. I stared up into the glare of the lights and eventually, yes – there he was! The lynchpin of their movement had survived. I felt sick. His message, descending from above, was loud and clear. We were few and his readers were legion and would always be there to put paid to would-be interlopers. I shaded my eyes and strained to see and found that he wasn’t lying. The galleries around him were crammed with figures clutching treasured books and toys. The true-blues had arrived! We were sunk, and it was time to leave, to slink away.

I turned to go. A book thumped me on the shoulder. A missile from the Gods! A vixen fell at my feet, downed by a copy of The Gingerbread Man. All at once, it was raining books. William reeled back, his right arm shattered by a Talbot Baines Reed. I ran for it, legged it away, ducking and weaving, as all about me comrades fell. Who might survive?

Me. I’m back in the bushes now and there is time to think. This can be only the beginning, not the end of the war, and if it is to be an unholy one, so be it. I am well able to cope with that. I believe that we are right to seek to de-cosify and de-sentimentalise the narrow kingdom of Story. I want to have my say, too, whatever I might be; unprepossessing; an oddity; of a minority, or anything else. So, beware Christopher Robin and Co. I shall repay.

SATURDAY MORNING PICTURES
Susie Mehmed

A Saturday morning at the Duke of York Cinema was our special treat for the previous week’s good behaviour when my two sisters and I were young. I remember the excitement of being somewhere on our own, without grown-ups watching our every move. The decision of where we were to sit often caused arguments between us. Our eldest sister, Jasmin, always got her own way and there was nothing that Sonia or I could do about it because she was ‘left in charge’, as she so arrogantly put it, and our mother said we must all sit together.

We were given money to buy popcorn and sweets, and trying to agree on the decision as to who would be the one to share them out was an almost impossible task, and caused another of the three loving sisters’ disagreements. It’s not that Jasmin slyly gave herself more of everything, she was blatant about it, saying that she was entitled to more because she was the eldest and needed more.

We were always bickering with each other about something or other, and it was absolute proof that ‘threes’ never work out. Our poor mother, we must have driven her mad with our incessant arguing.

I remember the lingering, annoying sound of the crackling popcorn packet and sweets as she opened them. I can still smell the aroma of cooked frankfurters and I have a vivid picture of those hot dogs covered in mustard. They certainly smelt better than our clothes, once we got home, because unlike today when smoking is banned, people were allowed to smoke any time they so desired.

I remember the hard seats, which I found very uncomfortable and the material with which they were covered was itchy and irritated my legs. In our innocence, we wondered why there were double seats in the back row. We have since discovered the reason! I always wanted to sit in the back row because invariably, wherever we sat, the people in front of us were blessed with either big heads or had stiff ‘Eiffel Tower’ hairstyles, and if there were no people directly behind us, we could just sit on the seats unopened, which made us higher.

There were always two full films on show in those days, not like it is today; just one which is preceded with countless adverts. I looked forward to the interval when we could buy an ice cream or lolly. I liked the thought of choosing what I wanted, but there was always a long queue and I was frightened that in the middle of queuing, the lights would go out and I wouldn’t be able to find our seats again. For that reason, I always insisted that one of the others came with me. I remember the ice-cream seller’s tray which, not only lit up the delicious goodies, but also revealed her facial hair problem.

I was relieved when, with choc ices firmly in hand, we managed to find our seats before the lights went out.

THE TRAVELLING MAN
Robert J. Miles

It was a bitter cold mid-winter morning many years ago in the fen county. The day hardly arose from its slumber. A misty white frost covered the whole countryside, painting everything with the same monotonous colour, awaiting the morning sun, which never came. The snow lay deep in the places where the wind had left it the day before. An unseen icy stillness crept through the stark lifeless trees and the cold was felt in the bones of man and beast alike.

In a caravan set by the wayside, a travelling man kindled his meagre fire with little effect against the cold. Outside his horse stood, like a frozen statue in a seemingly lifeless world. But across the field behind the caravan a fox, covered white with frost, was returning from its night’s hunting, and a tiny vole burrowed deeper into the dead leaves under the hedge for warmth and safety. No sound came from the icy waterways, still, as if deep in meditation. A puff of smoke came from the chimney protruding from the roof of the caravan, and ascended straight up into the frosty air; no wind deflected its path. The man inside tended his fire in a small iron stove, trying to boil water to make a morning mug of tea. Another pan contained some rabbit stew left over from yesterday. As he waited for his breakfast to heat and the inside of his home to warm a little, he thought about the day ahead. The prospects were not good. The cold would keep the rabbits under ground, his main source of food, and nothing was growing in the hedgerows. His thoughts turned to pheasants, but that was risky, especially in these parts. ‘I’ll stay in and rest up for the day or two’ he said out aloud but to himself for no one was there to listen to him.

But the events of the day were not going to be as he thought. For as he prepared his brew, suddenly without warning there was a violent thumping on the door. ‘OY! You in there, I know you’re in there,’ a voice said in a loud threatening manner. ‘I’m the head gamekeeper in these parts and I want you off this land pretty sharpish. We don’t like your sort round here. If you’re not gone by the time I get back, I will personally come around here with some of the boys to help you on your way, you know what I mean. Do you hear me, Gipsy?’ The caravan man heard him all right but didn’t answer. He’d been startled, any way what good would it do, he knew the score. If I didn’t move they’d be back to wreck my van and give me a beating.

After a while he courteously looked out the window and saw the footprints in the snow approaching his door then leave again. The Gamekeeper had gone. He quickly gulped down his tea as he stifled his fire and put on his boots and coat.

The biting cold caught his breath as he stepped from his van. He knew it was going to be hard for him and his horse. Like him, his horse’s stomach was empty as well. Its shoes would be worn, and they would easily slip in the icy conditions, and it could injure itself. But they had to go and that was that. Somehow he knew his horse would do its best – it always did, and he didn’t expect anything more. ‘I’ll lead you from the front,’ he said as he harnessed the horse to his caravan. And so they set off, stumbling down the road, he in front with the reins, steadying the horse as it pulled the caravan.

They hadn’t travelled far, but it was already late in the afternoon before he found an area of open land by a stream where he thought it might be safe to pull off for the night. His bones ached with cold and he hadn’t eaten all day, but there was still work that had to be done before exhaustion overcame him. He wearily unharnessed the horse and put it out to grass, then collected sticks from a nearby wood. His last job outside was to get water from the stream that was now running.

As he climbed the steps to his door with the full water container, he paused for a moment and looked around. The mist had cleared. Half-hidden behind a clump of willow trees just beyond the stream, the last rays of the setting sun were fading from the sky. It reminded him of the heathlands of Wessex, the countryside he loved so much. The place he called home. These thoughts stayed with him as he lit his lantern and got his fire going to warm his rabbit stew.

Later that evening he rested in his bunk, looking into the flickering shadows his lantern made on the walls of his van. He felt for the first time that day the warm glow from his fire. He wasn’t feeling cold any more and his stomach was satisfied. He felt a little better about things but he had come to hate this part of the country.

It hasn’t treated me well. I’ve been hounded and driven off nearly everywhere I’ve been. What a fool I was to come here, especially at this time of year, he thought.

His mind wandered back again to the rolling heathlands and forests. Warm evenings, music, and dancing children around camp fires. Then he’d had to get away, but it was no better here, far worse, in fact. I know what I’ll do. I’ll start heading south in the morning. I could be home by the spring.

The thought pleased him, giving him some comfort at the end of a hard day. He laid back in his bunk and offered up a small prayer and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The night outside was dark and cold. There was the movement of a mouse in the undergrowth. An owl screeched as it swooped, but nothing disturbed the travelling man that night.

JACK AND THE BEANS-TALK
By Nick Osmond

Jack’s eyes are grey, he’s dressed in a grey flannel shirt and tattered trousers which once belonged to his dad, a long time ago, before his dad laid down one night saying he was very, very tired, and sighed, and died. Jack’s face is candid and handsome, his eyes are on his mother’s face as she tells him they must sell the cow. Her face is hard and lined with worry, it is many years since he heard her singing as she tugged old Daisy’s teats and made the spurts of warm milk ring on the side of the pail. Her hair is tangled and unwashed, he watches her lips as the words are shaped in harsh, hurt movements.

Life has become impossible, she is asking the impossible. Take old Daisy to the market, don’t come back without at least three golden guineas. Do come back without Daisy. Wait all day if need be. All there is for his lunch is a hunk of dry bread and a lump of last week’s cheese. He must get a drink at the fountain along the way, or from the pump at the top of the sloping market.

All day Jack and Daisy stand patiently in the hot sun. Her bones are showing through her dull coat. But Jack loves Daisy, he does not know how he can live if she is not there.

Three or four men in corduroy clothes come to poke her thin flanks and feel her udder, then ask ‘How much, lad?’ Lips are pulled back from brown teeth clenched on a clay pipe. But when they hear his answer, ‘Three golden guineas, good sir, is the price my old mother asks, and no offer is to be considered,’ they grunt and stride away as if affronted, their leather gaiters creaking.

When the sun has turned red and soft between the gables of the inn and loud laughter punctuated by the crashing of pewter pots is floating through an open window, Jack puts his arm round Daisy’s warm neck and whispers in her ear, Well my old beauty, happen we’ll not, after all, be needing to say good-bye.’

‘God be with ye, young master.’ A fluting voice in Jack’s ear makes him shiver and jump, so close it almost seems to ring inside his head. Turning, Jack finds a pointed nose, a black pointed hat, and eyes of the most devastating periwinkle blue. He listens to the words that will change his life:

‘I come in search of Daisy,
I’ve marked her for my own,
It surely cannot please thee
To have to bring her home.

The meadow where I’ll take her
Is not so far away,
The brooklet there will slake her
In comfort shall she lay.

I have no golden guineas
Nor yet no bags of gold,
But I’ve three bright beans like rubies
That are both rare and old.

The first will free thy mother
From fractiousness and care,
While if thou sow this other
New life will spring from there.

The third seed, full of promise,
Must grant thee lasting youth,
So whereso’eer thy home is
Shall bloom with joy and truth.’

DURBAN 1993
Violet Pumphrey

Eva stood waiting quietly unnoticed by the group of women. It was dark and the beauty of the moon light on the sea made her catch her breath. She looked up at the unfamiliar stars, but managed to pick out the Southern Cross low on the horizon. Her hot cheeks were cooled by a gentle breeze, her senses lulled by the sound of the waves breaking on the shore.

‘Africa,’ she breathed. ‘Will I be able to leave you when the time comes?’

The sound of laughter interrupted her reverie and she looked towards the group. Six young women were giggling as they stripped off their clothes and, although she didn’t understand their Zulu tongue, she detected tones of caution from their older companions. The girls ignored them and with their black, beautiful bodies gleaming in the moonlight, they sped over the sands to the sea. Their elders followed, all carrying a plastic container or bottle.

Eva, convinced a baptism was about to take place, drew nearer, preparing the flash in her camera.

The women waded into the sea up to their knees and, bending, filled the containers with sea water. The young girls swam out, ignoring the calls of disapproval. Their laughter drifted back with the breeze. Eva could tell there was anxiety now and recognized the danger herself. Swimming at night was banned for fear of shark attack. Even during daylight hours, and with the presence of lifeguards, one swam at one’s own risk.

The women plodded back up the beach, carrying their containers, muttering among themselves.

A small crowd watched from the promenade and Eva approached the nearest person and said ‘What is happening, can you tell me? Is there to be a baptism?’

‘No, it is to drink,’ the man replied.

‘To drink? I’m sorry I don’t understand.’

‘When they leave their homes to come to work in the town, they bring their witch doctor’s advice with them, which is to drink sea water,’ he explained.

Eva looked at him puzzled. ‘Surely that makes them sick, doesn’t it?’

‘That is the idea,’ the man patiently replied, ‘they drink the water, it makes them sick and they believe their insides are cleansed.’

Eva thanked him and turned to move away. At the same time, a piercing scream came from the direction of the sea. ‘Oh, my God!’ someone shouted. People began running onto the sands, but it was too late. They could just make out the shape of a body being tossed and shaken like a rag doll and five Zulu girls stood shivering and sobbing. Then the sea was still.

I REMEMBER WHEN THE MILKMAN USED TO CALL
Violet Pumphrey

Jack hoisted the polished brass churn on to his milk cart, filled it with rich creamy milk and set off on the first of his two daily deliveries.

Five o’clock on a summer’s morning, the best time of day, when everything was quiet and the birds were singing. He enjoyed this run best of all, the next one would be when the sun was high overhead. Then the sweat would soak his shirt and face while, with aching arms and legs, he struggled to push the cart up and down the hills of the town. He longed for the day when he pushed his cart into the yard for the last time. He had had enough after twenty-five years in all weathers. He was ready to hand over to one of the youngsters. Things might be easier for them.

What was it Fred had said in the pub last night? Oh, yes, he remembered. ‘They are trying out new milk carts in London. Don’t have to be pushed, they move by themselves. Powered I think they are called. The milkman just holds a rod at the side to guide it along. I reckon the rounds will be done in half the time,’ Fred had said importantly.

Jack had shown them he wasn’t very impressed, it would mean staff cuts for one thing, but Fred had insisted, ‘It is progress, stands to reason.’

Jack came to and decided he had better get a move on, he had a special job to fit in on his rounds today. Shouldn’t take long. Leaving his cart in the gutter, he ran down the steps to old Mrs.Thomas. She was waiting on the doorstep, leaning on her stick, looking as if a puff of wind would finish her off.

She held out her jug, but Jack said, ‘I’m coming in. I thought I’d try to free that window you told me about.’

Poor old soul, she reminded him of his mum, but Mrs.Thomas didn’t have a living relative to care about her. All alone twenty-four hours a day, no-one to talk to and in constant pain. ‘Now, you sit down in your nice easy chair, it won’t take me a minute.’ He helped to get her settled, then walked behind her, picked up a cushion and quickly smothered her.

He stood looking down at her, her suffering was over now, he thought, but the other eight old ladies on his round would have to hang on a while longer, he could only manage one more this week.

‘Now, if I had one of those new-fangled milk carts they are trying out in London…’

FIRST LOVE
Violet Pumphrey

It was my mother who introduced us. I found myself looking into the bluest of eyes and under his gaze, I trembled a little. I don’t recall what I said, I was almost struck dumb with shyness. He smiled at me and said, ‘Hello, Violet, we meet at last then?’

I felt immediately drawn to him. It was love at first sight.

We were to stay in the same house for a while, so we saw a great deal of each other. Over the next few days, I began to relax when I was with him, he was good company. Sometimes the two of us would sit in the kitchen, just talking. I found myself telling him things that I had never told anyone before.

It soon began to dawn on me that my mother didn’t share my enthusiasm for him. In fact, I was upset to discover that she didn’t seem to like him at all. I really couldn’t understand why.

I thought my grandad was a charmer.

A SEARCH
Sam Royce

I came across a folder that showed a crest of Knellar Hall on the cover and the words ‘Grand Concert’ centred the page. This stopped me in my tracks and allowed for memories to saturate for a few minutes. Here I was reading of a concert given by the famous Knellar Hall musicians at the Royal Albert Hall in London in 1950. The price of the programme was sixpence and as for the entry fee, it may well have been for free as far as I can recall, so far back now.

Further to this, I opened the folder to reveal even more distant details of concerts given at the great Knellar Hall itself, with ours truly included in the programmes. The year is now back to 1948 and I am on a course for pupils, playing my heart out on the clarinet, and improving by the minute.

I was all of eighteen and now on man-service after serving as a ‘boy’ for four years, a mere sprig of a lad full of ambition. Now here am I, forty-eight years on, refilling my head with the names and times of youthful indulgence. Leave me with those chilly evening concerts performed outside; the invited guests, sat on hard metal-slatted chairs, listening for any deviation from perfection. There we stood in our ‘best’ uniform, well wrapped against the cool summer evening breezes, playing to our level best and loving it. We were 276 strong in number and amassed on a huge bandstand surrounded with lawn. The students would conduct selected pieces which had been rehearsed during the preceding weeks, until almost perfect for the Director of Music’s ear to allow performance to go ahead. The students were the future bandmasters of various regiments in due course, for they had three years of study to undertake first before qualifying. We were the mere pupils, invited to attend for just a year to improve our standards and return to barracks more useful musicians.

One name stands out from the page; that of student T.L. Sharpe – Trevor to his fellow students. He played the clarinet and had already passed his p.s.m. and was an L.R.A.M. with an A.R.C.M. in the pipeline. A smashing fellow who went on to become the Director of Music to the Coldstream Guards. His name appears on the credits of that popular TV series Dad’s Army. He directed and conducted the music for that show. The majority of the students, including those from overseas regiments, went on to qualify as bandmasters to their respective regiments.

Endorsing what I have been saying, I thumbed a further page and found my ‘pride and joy’ – a certificate. First prize for progress on the clarinet, thanks to the tutorage of a Professor Pipe, aptly named by all accounts.

They were heady days and found me playing every waking hour, either in the toilets, or the playing fields, with a music stand set up with my studies for the week. I just loved playing and was determined to be a great player one day. Into the bargain I had to learn the basics on the piano in order to be useful with the regimental dance band. But it was the clarinet that found me rehearsing concert pieces and playing scales, fingering arpeggios and triple tongueing the pizziccato passages.

If only I could turn the clock back to those magical moments at Knellar Hall where I learn’ed so much and had great fun with young fellow musicians.

MISTRUST
Sam Royce

Bidding my farewells, I left the Queen’s Head pub and made for home in order to catch the last frames of snooker on television. The air was cold and fresh on my face with a noticeable lack of activity as I turned toward North Road. The occasional glance toward fellow humans was made in order to ensure that I was safe to be on the street. Dodgy characters could so easily be looking for a ‘confrontational’ in the quiet of night. All too often we read of the yob culture which makes us ever mindful of the fact ‘There but for the grace of God go I’.

By now I had approached the Brighthelm Centre and found a character some twenty yards ahead of me. He was not looking in the best of condition, either stoned out of his mind or drugged maybe? There was certainly no co-ordination of limbs as he stumbled his way along the walls of adjacent buildings. I would imagine he was wearing clothes to a shred in his endeavours to make headway.

Suddenly he stopped, turned and looked toward me: our eyes did not meet as I paused to allow him to decide his next move. He scraped the pavement with his foot as if in search of some dropped coin or fag-end, I presume. Nothing offered up so he carried on in groping fashion mindful of me behind him. I stayed a respectful distance away listening to his mumblings which sometimes crescendoed into undefinable shouts. The language was certainly not inviting, indeed, it was threatening. Once more I paused, not wishing to be part of his world at this stage of his thrashing behaviour.

He glanced over his shoulder toward me, not knowing quite what or who I was. He steadied his gait and shuffled to the other side of the street where Kensington Gardens led through toward London Road. Picking him out in the street lighting I saw him stumble on the uneven cobblestones and fall into a lamp-post. The shout of displeasure echoed along the narrow walk-way as he challenged the post that stood in his path. Again he looked over to me as if to stay ‘Who the hell do you think you are staring at?’ At last I was able to make my own pace homeward: I didn’t know him, nor he I, but somehow there was total mistrust of each other’s intention. Not so many years ago I would catch up with such a person and maybe offer a comment ‘nice day for a stroll’ and smile at such activity. Now I tend to shrink back for fear of something untoward lunging at me.

Arriving indoors and settling down before the snooker came up on the telly, I shook The Argus and read the stories: ‘Brighton, a stabbing took place in Orange Row last night when a youth approached a passer-by and asked for a light.’ I quietly lay down the paper and watched Higgins and Doherty battling the green baize. I was lost in another world.

THE PRECIOUS PLATE
Claire Shelton Jones

As soon as I saw the plate in that junk shop I knew that I had to have it. Odd, because it wasn’t the sort of thing I would normally consider spending ten pence on, let alone ten pounds. It was very dirty and slightly chipped but under the layers of grime you could just make out the delicate pattern of a dignified but waif-like girl self-consciously holding a rose. Perhaps I pitied the maiden’s descent to such seedy surroundings, forced to associate with faded film stars grinning from torn magazine covers and simpering baby dolls with fractured limbs. My plate – I already considered it mine – kept a dignified distance from books, boxes and bicycles. It stood on a high shelf next to a Toby jug without a handle and two hideously twee china shepherdesses who looked desperate to be out in the fresh air with their sheep.

I picked up the plate cautiously, half expecting it to crumble into dust like an ancient mummy, but it remained solid. I rubbed it with a tissue and the girl took on dramatically sharp shape and colour. Her hair was red, her long loose dress a brilliant blue and the rose was a dazzling white against the shiny black china background. As I was blinking at the transformation, a wizened old man slowly shuffled out from the gloomy back of the shop.

‘Oh, you’ve cleaned her!’ he croaked. ‘Isn’t she a beauty! Such an evil one. Take her. Just don’t let her get the better of you like she did me!’

What did he mean? Probably nothing. His brain had seized up with age and dust inside that bald, yellowing skull. His dry lips seemed to move with great effort as if he were a puppet worked by a dying man.

‘She was twenty pounds’, he whispered slowly and painfully, ‘but she’s on special offer now. You won’t think ten pounds too much I suppose!’

I was about to exclaim that the shepherdesses were only marked fifty pence each and that nothing else in the shop was more than one pound, but something in his sad look stopped me. If I refused he might deflate with disappointment and sink into a flat heap at my feet. I felt afraid of my odd fancies. I produced the money hastily and waited with nervous impatience whilst he fussed about the multiple layers of tissue paper and fraying string.

He handed the bulky parcel to me reluctantly: ‘Be careful, won’t you?’

I avoided his eyes which I could feel were trying to convey some sort of message. I stepped out into the street, wiping dust showers from my sleeves.

When I got home I washed the plate carefully, wiping it dry with a soft, clean cloth. It shone with satisfaction. The chip was tiny, a blemish which only emphasised the gloriousness of the rest of the plate. I gazed at it lovingly. I had never seen such a beautiful thing in my life! The girl had an exquisite smile and the rose she proffered looked so fresh and perfect, with delicate drops of dew hanging from its petals. The painter certainly knew how to convey real life. I could almost fancy that the rose trembled in a living hand and that the girl was looking right at me.

‘What do you want?’ she asked.

She had really spoken to me! In my panic I dropped the plate. It shuddered then slowly bounced harmlessly back into my shaking hand. I sat down heavily and gazed at the girl’s now furious expression.

‘You fool! Do you not know that I have had to use most of my remaining magic just to keep you from breaking me! Do you not realise how delicate I am? I could have rewarded you with as much wealth, success or fame as you wished for, but now, alas, I have but little strength left. Too many years wasted sleeping in the dust. Only think, that grandsire in the bazaar got eternal life from me! Over five hundred years old he is, but he does little with his great gift now. I warned him to wish well. If he had but had the sense to demand eternal youth. He was so fair in Tudor times! Aah me!’

I was horrified at the shopkeeper’s fate – condemned to deteriorate forever like a living death! No wonder he had frightened me. He had called the plate evil. I should destroy it, but how could I when it was so beautiful? I would have to be very careful.

‘I’m so sorry I failed to realise your importance great plate!’ Please tell me what I may wish for.’ ‘A little money or a little health is all I have left to give. I have been used so many times.’

‘But I thought you’d been in that shop for years!’ ‘Years without number but I do not stay there. I am bought, I grant a wish and return to the emporium. It is my fate to be worth less each time in both money and magic. To think that I was once 5,000 guineas!’

‘How did you get that chip?’ ‘Alas, people do not seem happy when I grant their wishes. I never say I can give happiness. There is always a tragedy of sorts but that is how it must be. The woman who wished for a child did not like the fact that it was sick and ugly. She threw me against the wall. Better to have thrown the baby. Life is not perfect. No-one can be as lovely as I am.’

‘Tell me, can you ever lie?’ I asked. ‘No, but I do not always tell the whole truth.’

‘So I gathered,’ I said bitterly. ‘Can you tell me honestly please what a little money or a little health would be like?’ ‘A little money would buy you a new house if you wished or a few new robes and jewels. A little health would keep you well for a time.’

‘Yes, but what would be the catch?’ ‘I do not understand’. The tragic outcome.’ ‘I cannot tell you that.’

I knew what I had to do. I had to destroy this beautiful thing quickly, even though it broke my heart. Deliberately I took the plate and walked out onto the patio with its new hard slate tiles. Feeling like the most savage murderer I hurled the plate against them as hard as I could. I heard it scream with horror. It bounced up once, but I jumped back so it couldn’t get a soft landing in my hand. It smashed into fragments at my feet. The fragments started to try to join themselves together. I separated them firmly, burying each in a different part of the garden. They will never be able to piece themselves together under the ground, will they?

Sometimes at night I think I hear a scraping sound in the garden.

THE GOAT PATH
John Tatum

Whenever the old woman moved, her bracelets clacked abundantly. In the whole world only her hairdresser knew the real colour of her hair. Her eyes were faded blue but she missed nothing.

Now she leant forwards on her stick and pointed with a trembling, crimson-nailed finger to where a tiny figure could be seen walking along the shore. The Mediterranean lay like a shield of burnished metal in the noonday sun. The hillside, with its outcroppings of ochre rocks and its olive groves, was silent; the goat path, the only way down to the village from the casetta, was like a carelessly cast-down thread. On it nothing stirred.

‘He will be burnt to a frazzle!’ ‘Oh, he’ll be alright, Mother. He’s wearing a wide straw hat. I can see it from here.’ The girl rose from the step, on which she had sat while rubbing sun-tan lotion over her breasts, and padded onto the terrace.

‘Do be careful out there, Stephanie,’ warned old Lady Rowbotham. ‘I’m going in to have my siesta. When in Rome, I always say. And it is stifflingly hot.’

A moment later Stephanie lay on her stomach with her chin cupped in her hands and looked down to where the higgeldy-piggeldy rooftops of the village glowed like fire in the fierce light. Beyond, the distant figure of her brother had dwindled to no more than a speck. Thank goodness her mother had failed to recognise him. Did she know that Dominic had spent every day until sunset for the last three weeks walking up and down the long strip of beach awaiting the return of his wife and their friends from the islands?

‘If only I hadn’t been drunk the night before and cried off that trip,’ he had agonised to Stephanie when the news had come in that the boat had smashed on the rocks and everybody had been drowned. Rebecca had been so excited when she had burst into their rented casetta with the information that a trip in a fishing boat had been organised for tourists to explore a nearby group of islands.

Stephanie sighed. It was strange that her mother had insisted on staying on after the funeral. Poor Dominic. After ten minutes or so she rose wearily and made her way into the coolness of her bedroom.

As she lay on the bed she heard her mother’s laboured breathing from the next room, and her husband, Maurice, chuckling over a book he’d found in the casetta library. Then, just as she was dropping off to sleep, she became aware that the scruffy mongrel which had adopted them was scratching away in the corridor just outside her open door.

By late afternoon the village and the surrounding countryside were exhibiting signs of awakening. The hillside was bathed in a soft golden light and the blue of the sky had become muted; a yacht with a red sail moved slowly far out on a turquoise sea. The sound of a guitar being strummed haphazardly and a skittering of laughter drifted up to the casetta from the village. And, from nearer at hand, came the tintinabulation of goat bells.

Stephanie and Maurice had come out onto the terrace for cocktails. Then, precisely as the clock in the cool interior of the casetta pinged six o’clock, Lady Rowbotham emerged from the shadows, resplendently dressed for the evening and carrying by a strap over her shoulder a large and bulging purple velvet bag hung with green tassels.

Maurice dragged a large wicker-work chair into a situation of prominence and the old lady allowed herself to be seated on it as a queen upon a throne. Starting from high under her chin, the long swathes of her multi coloured garments swept down to the marble floor. Just protruding were the thong of a sandal and a crimson-painted toe-nail. Her stick, clutched in hawk-like fingers, tapped the floor in time with the querulous rhythm of her voice; as with her other hand she pointed triumphantly down the goat path.

‘I thought I would give the dear girl and her charming companions a small present on their return from the islands!’

And, as Stephanie and Maurice looked at her, at first with incomprehension and then with a growing sense of horror, she tipped the contents of her bag, a dozen or so gaily coloured and extravagantly tied parcels, gently on to the floor in front of her.

GOING ON LEAVE
Arthur Thickett

Summer of ‘Fifty-two found me with “9 Section 3 Platoon” on the forward slopes of “187”, getting the sh-sugar shelled out of us almost daily. Top trench-ring forward facing on “187” was a particularly bad spot, but the other platoons and companies were getting it too, and the jeephead; the Chinese tried to be fair. It certainly was a long, hot summer that year.

Days on the hill hot and dry; the ubiquitous tiny bees zoom in after your tinned “C” ration fruit on the plastic spoon, twixt can and mouth. Nights down in the humid valley on patrol, probing towards the dangerous foothills of enemy-held “166” and the mosquitoes are numerous enough and big enough to pick you up and eat you whole and are always game to try. Mosquito repellant? It’s supposed to repel ’em but nobody told the mosquitoes. They are malaria-carrying and if you’ve sense you have taken your daily palladrin tablet and have not thrown it in the bushes; bushes that move at night.

September comes in with the days still hot and dry and the air ominously heavy; the regular shelling has churned much of the thick bushy green of “187” to a bare brown and the singular smell of the newly churned earth and explosives will long remain with me.

My delayed R&R leave in Japan is coming up at last – can’t be too soon. But the rains come first …

Yellow-brown mud everywhere you move; in the crawl-trenches, the weapon pits and the long, winding foot-trail to the jeephead supply point. You try to keep the weapons dry and patch up the bunker water-proofing where you try to live and sleep. But there is an “upside” to it all at first. The shelling becomes less and less and after 36 hours’ rain there is only the occasional in-coming shell; the Chinese and North Koreans are having their own monsoon problems. We count our blessings – but the novelty wears off quick. The monsoon is now the Enemy and our problems increase as a saturating, grey stillness envelops the whole front. The rough water-proofing of our bunkers is increasingly found wanting, despite frantic repairs. Mud in your food, your sleeping bag, soggy cigarettes – it’s hard to laugh and even the cynical, curved grin is rare. The crawl-trench drainage blocks and you wake up to water pouring into your bunker doorway hole – more frenetic repairs. The monsoon is relentless and some bunkers start to collapse; matches useless, canned-heat useless, it’s sheer misery. Heavy, laden skies across the peninsula; it stops, starts, stops, belts down – respites are brief.

But I’m going on R&R leave in two days’ time, sorry mates – lucky me. Another unspeakable night but never mind, one down – one to go, Tokyo here I come – wow!

Then the news filters through; Imjim River is in full flood. Well, it would be, it happens every year. But this time it’s so bad it’s threatening the Pintail Bridge! The only bridge that can be counted on to withstand the mighty Imjim in full flood… is closed! And the Pintail crossing is certainly the only way out to Seoul’s Kimpo airport and the DC3s and rest leave. Wretched news. But next morning comes hope. The bridge is open, though traffic is strictly limited. Instead of the usual bumper-to-bumper two-way stream of traffic over the long, high crossing, only one vehicle is allowed to cross AT A TIME – first one way, then the other. And the leave truck has low priority. Nevertheless the order comes, ‘stand by to move’. Late afternoon we get away on ten minutes’ notice – I was ready in five. A dozen of us on R&R plus three or four more “time-expired” en-route to Kimpo airport, Seoul, via the Pintail crossing, hanging on, bouncing along in the back of the inevitable three-tonner. Soon it’s dark and pissing down. The truck grinds and swishes slowly on along the tortuous route skirting bleak, forbidding hills – can’t see a thing. A quick stop at rear echelon for paper work, tea and sandwiches and banter and then off again on what passes for a road; slow, slow, stop: stop-start, stop-start. It dawns on us that we are now in the Pintail crossing monsoon queue.

When we stop, at first all there is is the hiss of rain and water draining from the hills in the middle of no-bloody-where. Then we hear rumbling, and an impression of some sort of light ahead. Thunder? A storm? Heads crane from the three-tonner, straining to look ahead. Slowly approaching the Pintail crossing and the sight and sounds take shape and it’s a scene we’ll never forget. There are many sounds but the background noise is the continuing frightening roar of the Imjim River higher than we’ve ever seen it before rushing through the stalwart frame of the bridge; hell, will it hold?

The whole area is illuminated by searchlights and flares and Centurion tanks are on both banks of the swollen river 50 yards or so up from the Pintail Bridge. They are firing into the river! – up-stream. The heavy machine-guns of the tanks are firing more or less continuously, and the 20-pounders blast away at intervals. The mighty swollen river is bearing along on its broad back all sorts of heavy, wooden jetsam; the remains of flooded-out villages and God only knows what else. And the tank-firing is to smash up the big lumps, the roofs of houses and what-have-you, into tolerable size and shape before it rushes into the Pintail superstructure!

The shells get at the really big stuff; the machine-guns do the slicing up. And the final bit-scene in this fantastic drama is at the foot of the bridge superstructure itself. Engineers are somehow (I’m not sure how) safely secured on pontoon-like shelves right across the river, wielding long, heavy poles. And with the poles they are constantly prodding, poking, shoving and making sure that the continuous stream of chopped-up flotsam flows on away between the bridge stalwarts and does not jam and build up. If even the broken flotsam started to jam across the bridge instead of flowing between the bridge piles, the build-up would be quick and the threat to crossing would be all too obvious. What a picture!

And high on the bridge itself, in splendid, illuminated isolation, a lone vehicle crosses – slowly, slowly, don’t rock the boat! After an age … it’s our turn. Slowly, slowly does it. It’s hairy all right; dunno about the others, we aren’t chatting, too much noise; for myself I feel scared but yet fascinated as we cross the roaring middle of the mighty Imjim, more awesome even than it looked. Then we are across, and on the way to Seoul airport and Ebisu leave camp in Tokyo and all that – and all that.

But hell, what a way to go on bloody leave!

…THAT’S HELEN
Arthur Thickett

London east – Saturday afternoon. …West Ham back streets on a grey, late summer’s-day-gone-wrong. Wandering unknown streets in a strange city. London’s always a strange city, even to the resident, away from his own doorstep.

“Chartered streets” – lost streets, pushed aside by motorways and freeways; minor roads leading no place very much.

Lost…and pointless, they wandered, crossed, merged into one another, turned…and started again. Cut off now from most traffic they merged into a slowly decaying, lumpen sprawl. I drifted along with my mood and the streets; mood and streets…synonymous.

Sometimes I came upon old, residential working-class areas. Clean curtains and well-scrubbed frontages; the old cars standing outside. Inhabited areas but nobody seemed to live in the houses. Hardly a soul walking around; I was alone.

I walked on…out of the residential areas, around vague corners; rubbishy, paper strewn; past half falling-down old buildings, dead garages, derelict sites…heavy with weed and junk. Now a site of very old houses with blocked-off windows and doors, dusty, grimy and dead. The bulldozer chewing them away sat – squat and powerful – at one end; silent and deserted.

Everything silent, deserted, decaying and lost. The odd car swished past, stirred old newspapers at the corners – disappeared. Silence. The silence was immediate, instant; heightened by the grey, heavy damp clamping low overhead…silence more ominous, because from outside came the hum of the city.

I moved on, quicker now, no longer wandering; I…was going somewhere; I did have a destination …did I not?

Past large hoardings bare of adverts, riddled with graffiti. “West Ham Rules – OK” was everywhere – they’d won the cup that year. Here a bridge across the road and spectacularly, amazingly – “US – GET OUT OF VIETNAM”. Who? How? When? Well, the US went long ago while defiant, relentless, the slogan fights on …ever dead, deserted lines.

Under the bridge now and the slogans are infantile, aimless, stupid or just plain nasty; “NF RULES”; “WOGS OUT”; “IRISH OUT”; and the inevitable “F— OFF”. Familiar anywhere with variations, but particularly depressing here in this urban desert.

I’m really moving now, around a corner, hurrying out of this desert of yesterday’s ghosts. One more corner and – there it is! On the back of a big, battered road sign; large, well-placed lettering in blue proclaimed; “SWEET AND BEAUTIFUL – THAT’S HELEN”.

I looked, looked again, slowed my pace, pondered, quickened up again and moved on. I was caught up though, baffled, struck!, but – yes…uplifted. My imagination and wonder now soared above the dreary streets, derelict corners, above the soggy grey clouds. “That’s Helen”, who…was Helen? Who wrote it? A swain? Helen herself perhaps? “The moving finger writes….”

So out of character it was, out of place, out of joint – even out of time; but there it was; “SWEET AND BEAUTIFUL – THAT’S HELEN”. Intrigued, I was hopeful again, I was drawn toward…this Helen. It was a simple enough slogan, yet it was in poetic – not childish – prose. It was a touching but also a defiant assertion… a small flower blossoming among the weeds and wilderness of West Ham.

Again I wondered, who did it? I shall never know, but “That’s Helen”…I’m sure she is…I’d like to meet her.

RECYCLED
P. B. Thomas

High summer, my birthday in fact. A strange way to celebrate perhaps, but I decided to cycle out into the countryside. The weather promised the sort of perfection of a pre-war newsreel’s ‘typical’ English summer day.

I made an early start to allow me to get way out into the depths of the countryside, to where I felt happiest and a real sense of belonging. By eleven o’clock I had escaped the predatory aura of the suburban traffic so I slowed to a more comfortable pace; the roads were now more welcoming, which made cycling feel less gladitorial.

At last I could free those senses previously focused on self-preservation, thus allowing me to take in my surroundings. I was able to breath deeply as the air was no longer noxious, it was clean and scented with summer subtleties; it was as if twentieth-century tainting got vacuumed away on the dawn’s evaporating dew each morning. The countryside murmured its discreet activity, sounding like a committee meeting in an adjacent reality; there were the insects, the air’s eloquent choristers, then the trees which whispered their mysterious and humorous thoughts and a whole anonymous orchestra of accompaniment.

I decided to take a break so I could immerse myself in it all. Once I’d stopped I made a squinted survey of the blue infinity above to pinpoint the source of the celebratory song which had surrounded me for some minutes. After a moment or two, I was just able to make out a lark, pinned to the blue drapery of sky; yet, for all the distance, the precise complexity of its song shimmered all around. Following my exertions, my shallower breathing sampled the palette of scents from the various local crops as they worked on their ripening. Somewhere in the distance a tractor, accorded the status of an honorary constituent of nature, chuntered.

After a while, I rode on a few miles to one of my favourite places. Up to now, my progress along these kerb-less arteries harmonised with the lazy busyness of the environment, but I had in mind to offend this urgent stillness, albeit briefly and without disrespect. A shimmering stripe of tarmac, incompletely camouflaged by nature’s best efforts, stretched ahead for about a mile, initially steep then gently levelling out. It invited speed, in return it promised to grant access to sensations akin to those of a falcon; for this I had to launch myself until, at the end of my stoop, I would disappear into the enveloping canopy of trees which patrolled the verges.

I took a last look up at that guardian lark, urging it to watch me and marvel perhaps. Off peddling even faster, flicking through the cogs till I could add no further impulsion. The air stroked me as I parted it, the greens, browns and golds surrounding me blurred, refracted in tears drawn and swiftly evaporated from my eyes. Without being aware of choosing to do so, I let out a call, a sound having no elements of language, but which was pure exuberance. In a single extended syllable it defined freedom, joy, belonging, but mostly it spoke of being alive.

All too soon, the trees caressed me with the coolness of their dappled shade.

I still flew, but suddenly I bore the bike rather than the other way round. I should have entered the long sweeping bend around which I would usually glide with gradually eroding speed, banked over, testing the tyres’ adhesion to exhilarating limits. This time I carried straight on; there was an innocuous jolt to the front wheel, that’s all. Fleetingly I saw the top of the hedge as it reached out to snatch at my legs as I arced over it.

I woke tentatively, as you do when you don’t wake, but are woken. As I tried to muster my thoughts from the transitional treacle between the two states of sleep and wakefulness, I was aware that it was quiet. My mornings weren’t quiet, they were raucous with suburban symptoms; early commuters, the ruminations of lorries, buses and cars, not forgetting the asthmatic local birds. I opened my eyes to find myself enveloped in a light darkness that was delicately probed by dusty streams of light that pried round the heavy undulating curtains. A languid, inquisitive breeze was visiting via some unseen window. I could smell the early morning as it rose, leaving its dew-damped bed, to take night away in deference to day’s temporary sovereignty.

I looked around me, seeing but not recognising. I was islanded in the magnificence of a four-poster bed, its generous curtains bunch-tied to the four ornately carved posts which ascended ponderously to a sagging and faded canopy. The room was imperiously panelled in some dark and, doubtless, endangered wood. There was a matching dresser topped by a huge gilt mirror, in front of which stood an unnecessarily large china bowl and jug, both decorated in a way which suggested that good taste had taken leave of absence during the Victorian era.

I couldn’t make any sense of it all; I recognised nothing. Certainly it was not the cramped inadequacy of my bed-sitter, where the morning air is tinged with essence of sock and take-away, gently humidified by drying shirts.

I lifted the generous layers of bedding that had contrived to be warm, rather than hot, and caressing rather than constricting. I stood up beside the bed once my feet had made it all the way to the floor. I was wearing an elaborate night shirt that was equal parts practical, ridiculous and possibly, in some past and maybe also future time, fashionable. I walked over to the window and drew back the curtains.

I am no architect so I can only say that what the window revealed was not what I expected. It was like some time-weathered monastic arch in miniature, a leaded half section, discreetly open, admitting homeopathic wafts of summer. I looked out on what was undoubtedly but unfamiliarly, the verdant richness of Shropshire, but it offered no recognisable landmarks.

This vague familiarity mystified me. I knew where I was, up to a point. Then the events of my birthday cycle ride and how it had ended so abruptly, gradually came into focus. I didn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects. In fact, I couldn’t find a single new blemish on me. I felt elated, which was incongruous in the circumstances, and I was confused.

Somewhere in the distance a church clock, with the solemn indifference of a landmark, tolled seven times. I looked at my watch to ensure that the irrelevance of time in such surroundings hadn’t affected the clock’s judgement; it was indeed seven a.m., but then, quietly, it dawned on me, it was seven a.m. on my re-birth day. It always would be.