Writers Reign - An anthology of poetry and prose by QueenSpark Writers

INTRODUCTION

The writings in this book are special. They deserve to be read. The world, the weather, love… the subjects are many and may not always appear to be local but in many ways this is a local book. All the authors live here, many have done for all their lives, and they react against the natural and human landscapes to produce local understandings. The audience is you and you are a known audience for we all share the same streets, buildings, shops, workplaces, and countryside; it is time that we started sharing our stories created out of this environment. QueenSpark encourages local people to create and express their own culture, something hidden in our age of “mass culture.”

In doing this our writers have often overcome difficulties and prejudices in order just to attend workshops and practice writing at home. A lot of inspiration is found in their own personal lives and feelings. Some argue that this does not make for good writing: we believe it has produced some of the most stimulating reading. “I think” is a phrase discouraged from early on in many peoples’ lives, the assumption being that what people know and think, as individuals, and together, is less important than what many professionals think they know about them, and market as “mass entertainment.” We all have valid and important stories to tell and the more people who gain confidence and do so, the better. All people need to be taken seriously, their messages listened to and understood: no one is “ordinary”, “average”, or “mediocre.” All have a right to their own uniqueness.

This book has arisen from the work of three writing groups: one in Hove, two in Brighton, one of them for women. Their workshops have not imposed crude standards of “good” and “bad” writing like a qualifying height in the high jump. They are aware that people come to write for a whole number of reasons and will want different types of criticism. Our members, with their vastly different experiences and tastes may misunderstand each other but reading, listening, empathy, and constructive advice all usually ensue at workshops. Improved work results along with the resolve to improve even further. Through these complex and sensitive methods have the pieces of work contained here been judged to be of value. Those who are still caught up in the outmoded idea that we can simply judge work as “bad” or “poor” would do better to produce their own writing for their own reasons rather than sit back and bicker about others.

We do not see this book as a fully finished work of literature. But then no writing ever can give a truly completed story. Rather it is better to envisage an on-going process from which elements have been solidified into poems and stories. Your reading of this book, and your responses to it, will be a further stage in this process: we aim to stimulate new beginnings. Our writing groups are free and always welcome new members.

Finally, we have enjoyed putting this book together: it has been produced democratically by a number of people of differing ages and backgrounds, with all the writing groups being represented. In these and many other ways QueenSpark is actively forging a true sense of community as it is becoming an essential feature in the local landscape.

Tom Woodin.

FOREWORD – QUEENSPARK WOMEN WRITERS WORKSHOP

The clattering of cups makes me long for tea as I hear the lorries roaring past the windows and see out of the corner of my eye a bike being wheeled along the pavement. Nine writers are scribbling thoughtfully in the dungeon of the library-quiet room until someone shuffles her books and then drops one with a thud.

More crockery noises and orders taken by Julie. I concentrate on the blue painted table, which is a bit high, my legs ache, “Where can I put my feet?”

The discarded banana skin on the formica desk, and the piece read out to us earlier in the lesson reminds me of the banana I had eaten for breakfast and I can taste it. I move my tongue, feeling along my teeth and swallowing my saliva. The tea arrives in its blue-striped mug but is not as I imagined it would be. I drink the refreshing herbal brew, my parched throat accepting gratefully.

I love this room; I am never afraid of being alone or in a confined space; it’s people who can be frightening, but here we are all friendly and pursuing our goals of writing and incidentally getting things off our chests.

I have spent most of my working life in musty rooms like this surrounded by boxes and files with newspapers, letters and documents to read and sort out while reorganising several filing and record offices. Keeping everything tidy seems to be my mission in life.

I feel at home here, enjoying the plants on the window sill; there is a toilet along the corridor and a kettle and a plug nearby.

I could live and die here!

Irene Donald.

Gallery

THE MAYTREE AND US

We walk through the lounge bar which is empty except for the landlord’s pet alsatian who stands menacingly in our path. Once we have skillfully manoeuvred this obstacle we make our way along the dark hall to the Family Room. This is where we meet each week to share our writings.

The grey painted walls, stained threadbare carpet and poor lighting make the room appear bleak. Most of the floor space is occupied by a snooker table but there are a few small round wooden tables placed haphazardly around the perimeter. We push a couple of them together and seat ourselves on semi-comfortable plastic backed-chairs. Our space is limited and there is a slight chill in the room caused by draughty windows. We don’t notice, our minds too full of creativity to be bothered by such mundane things. We are glad to be, once again, with our like-minded friends.

For two hours we become what we long to be – writers! Words of encouragement are given to make us feel special and any criticism we receive is constructive, never callous or bitchy. Despite being in a public house we are able to work in uninterrupted silence and of course we have the added advantage of the bar being nearby in case we get thirsty.

All too soon our time is up, we are given our homework then reluctantly make our separate ways home, happy in the knowledge that there is another meeting to look forward to.

Pauline Streeton and Jill Donocick

NIGHTWRITERS

Oh God, they’ve all been coming for years, how will they feel about me, a newcomer, no folder of work, no nothing, just me and my biro and my brand new writing pad? They were smashing. And what will it be like, their writing? It’s great, raising goosebumps with several ponderings on the Gulf War, astounding tales of transvestite schoolfriends, diffident revelations of pre-war orphanages and, often, wonderful ways with words. So, what do you want from our writing group? Constructive criticism from our peers. Oh no, that means when you don’t like something you have to say so and why and how it could be improved. Gulp. Still, I’m saying “we” already. That’s Brighton Nightwriters.

Anna Mills.

REMEMBER EARWIGS…

What’s happened to earwigs?
I don’t see them any more.
When I was a kid
They would crawl up an old garden wall…
not high
…eye…
was only three feet tall:
if I wasn’t careful, they said
they’d get in my ear, they said
and then – they’d eat into my brain
They said:

Now, I know… what’s happened to earwigs.

Arthur Thickett.

WHY?

Why has Daddy gone away?
Why with Mummy must I stay?

Why’s the furniture been divided?
Why’s my future been decided?

Why can’t Mummy smile at Dad?
Where’s the fun gone, we once had?

Why can’t Daddy come back home?
Why do we have to live alone?

Why won’t someone listen to me?
I want my Daddy can’t you see?

I need and want my Mummy more
but Daddy don’t walk out the door!

The Magistrate said you can part.
He doesn’t care what’s in my heart.

I love you Daddy – through and through
don’t punish me – I’m only two!

Hammy Hazells.

EVERY SUNDAY MORNING

Highgate Hill is hard to climb for grown ups; but it is very hard when you are not quite four. I hold onto our old black pram, which my four bigger brothers and my very big sister push in turn. We all have nice shiny hair and shoes and wear our Sunday best. Boys take their caps off; but girls keep their hats on in church.

Holy Joe’s is big with bright round roofs just like the sun in the sky, and if you turn round, you can see the roofs a long way off. We leave our pram outside, by the very tall front door, and creep into God’s dark house with pretty coloured windows high up. Smoke from swinging baskets on gold chains smells like sucked sweets. A long way off, hanging over the altar, is a lovely red light and it must never go out.

I am lifted up a little way to put my fingers in the special water in a long bowl on the wall, to cross my face and chest. We try to get good seats, just like big children at Saturday morning pictures. Before we all squeeze into our seats, we kneel on one knee and make a cross again, very quickly. It’s just like a great big shop, with lots of grown up noise, but the nuns and priests hurry softly, as if only in their socks. The nuns put flowers, pretty white cloths and big candles, on the high altar for 11 o’clock Mass, which is special.

Some people go through gates into little churches under the twinkling windows and say prayers. Lots of people buy little candles to put around the feet of pretty Mother Mary with baby Jesus; which looks like Christmas.

Father Patrick wears a bright scarf and sits in a little box with two doors, like Jesus’ stable and lots of big children and grown ups want to go into little boxes on each side to whisper secrets to him. Almost everybody has a small prayer book with a special name with loose, holy pictures to look at. Then the priests, wearing beautiful church dresses in bright green or purple, or sometimes gold, with sparkly beads, come through a special little door, with funny shaped black hats, like they wear every day, then the first priest wears a fancy hat and lovely scarf which he kisses before he puts it on. Sometimes he changes his clothes in church, if it is a big Mass. Behind the priests are several big boys in long black dresses, with short white ones, on top, and last, little boys with their hair brushed flat, and they all sit around the altar. Everyone in church is very quiet. They have lovely songs which sound funny; not like the way we talk at home.

All the time, I have to wriggle on and off the wooden bench to kneel down on the little bit of smelly pillow; and close my eyes to say my prayers.

Father stands up at the altar and looks at the sky, with his hands out and, then picks up a lovely box with Jesus inside, but I know it is really very special bread which the nuns make; because my sister told me.

Then all the big children and grown ups go up the middle of the church and Father puts Jesus’ bread on their tongue. When they come back, no one must speak or look much; so you must sit quite still, for ages. At last he climbs up the steps of a small, round castle to tell us long very holy stories; be very, very good, and never eat meat on Fridays!

Tina Chapman.

THE GIANT WITH ONLY ONE EYE

In the days of long ago there once lived a giant who had only one eye. It was set right in the middle of his forehead, and he could see absolutely everything. Everything that went on in this country, all over the world, up into the sky and down into the depths of the sea.

He was a kind giant and he would tell all his animal friends what was going on in farmyards, jungles, forests, and even cities. The little creatures would gather round him in the middle of the day, for that was the best time for the Eye to work, and they would listen spellbound as he told them the news. Sometimes he would make them laugh, but sometimes they would cry. However, the giant always knew how to comfort them with a cup of his own Special Brew made from honey, crushed rose petals and pineapple juice with a dash of nectar. Jungle Juice he called it.

The giant always helped the little animals or birds if they hurt themselves. He would gently bind up their wounds and keep them safe and warm until they were well again. But best of all was the way in which the great Eye looked at them. It was so kind and sympathetic and seemed to have the power of healing.

One unhappy day, and oh, calamity! The giant was in tears. As the tinies gathered round him to hear the noon-day news they all felt so sad to see their friend in such a sad state. The big tears rolled out of his eye and down his cheek, splashing everyone around him.

“What is the matter?” asked the kinkajou, his goggly eyes goggling more than ever. “How can I help you?” asked the ever-practical dormouse, and Pinky and Perky, the chipmunks, ran up trees and turned cartwheels and tried to make him laugh.

But it was no good, no good at all. The giant was inconsolable.

“Oh, I’m so tired,” he said. “But I have only this one eye which I dare not close in case I miss something. How I wish I could close my Eye and go to sleep.”

Then all the little animals, the birds and the little furry things went away into the forest to hold a top level meeting. The wise old owl presided and urged them all to think how they could help. No-one made any suggestion. All they could do was to cry, and they cried and cried and cried until they all fell asleep.

When they woke up in the morning they all rubbed their eyes and looked about them, and what do you think they saw? Why, there were drifts and drifts of small blue flowers which had sprung up in the night just where the tears had fallen. Of course the wise old owl knew that these flowers were called Eyebright, and at noonday there were hundreds and hundreds of small blue eyes wide open both receiving and sending the News all over the world. So the little creatures rushed back to the giant and said:

“Come along dear friend, stretch out in this meadow, close your Eye and while you sleep the flowers will be your Eye.” Then the giant rested and the flowers took over his duties.

So next time you watch the mid-day News just think how many little blue flowers have worked hard to bring the News to you from all over the world.

Monica Hastings.

LITTLE HENRY’S GARDEN OF FEAR

Treading the fresh-razed grass, one summer day of sun,
I came upon a line of tanks, advancing
Along the crazy paving cracks.
By the sundial, in sight of the conservatory,
A battle plan was born in haste and chaos
As the drone of lazy dragonfly hit the air.
The sun burnt; I waited. Slowly
The sprinkler threw its liquid lasso
Into the quagmires of the lawn.
Blade by verdant blade, the troops fanned
From border, by my deckchair, to the path.

He looked at me; explained
That I, the mountain, was to be
The scene of final conflict.

A radio crackled nearby;
The news was not good.

Tim Shelton-Jones.

BECAUSE THE BODY IS LIKE A SPHERE

“Hydrogen is a gas boys, a gas, very like the gas which supplies the domestic cooker on which your mother prepares your meals at home. Now then, the sun, like all other stars, is a ball of very, very hot, burning gas, primarily the gas hydrogen, and the sun burns six hundred million tonnes of hydrogen gas per second. And boys, think of this – it has enough gas left to burn for at least a further five thousand million years.

“Kennedy, tell the class what I mean when I say one million.”

Kennedy pulled the end of his plastic biro from between his small teeth, and, ginger mouth open, stared at Mr. Robertson. Small globules of spittle clustered at the corners of his lips, heat prickly at the corners of his eyes. Mr. Robertson’s lips began moving, slowly.

“You don’t know, do you. Boy. You don’t know. This lesson has been running for thirty-five minutes laddie, thirty-five minutes. I have explained the mathematics of one million and of one billion several times. And you still don’t know. Is any other boy in this room ignorant of the value of these numbers? Well? No. Only you, only you Kennedy, are ignorant of their value. You have obviously not been listening. Again.”

This was true. Kennedy had not been listening, again. He had been worrying. Again. Worrying. The cold of water, the ice of the cold waters lingers, lapping, dragging him down, to the depths, the siren of gravity. Worrying. Worrying about swimming, worrying about sinking. Swimming was next lesson.

“This is your very last chance with me laddie, the very last time I will waste my time repeating myself for your benefit. Do you understand? Do you understand? For the last time, a million is one thousand times one thousand. A billion is one thousand times one million. Do you understand laddie?”

Kennedy hadn’t altogether understood. He hadn’t altogether been listening. No, he hadn’t heard the words, separately, just a blur, a wave, something indistinct.

“Do you understand, or not, Kennedy?”

Kennedy’s eyes stared through a watery, yellow film, his tongue tip lay in a shallow warm pool of bubbles behind his front teeth. From nowhere a small drop slowly followed the contours from the moist depression under his shoulder down to his middle ribs, where it diffused into his blue cotton shirt. His head wobbled up and down rapidly.

“Well? A million Kennedy?” Think. Please, please, think.

Very quietly: “One thousand times another thousand. Mr Robertson, Sir.”

Mr. Robertson’s two eyes continued to pierce Kennedy. On his pale forehead, water squeezed popping pores. Mr. Robertson stared, “Now then boys, listen carefully,” and turned to the blackboard.

Smelly green baths, the old glass roof falling in, old pee-yellow, warm, water. He’ll say, “This week in the deep end with the rest, with the rest in the deep end Kennedy,” laughing and laughing, and I’ll fall in and sink to the bottom.

I sink in the bath. I’ll sink in the deep end, and the water will cover my mouth and go up my nose and my ears and squirt out of my eyes and I’ll swallow pints and pints in my mouth. I’ll be full of water, Kennedy you big fat whale, I’ll sink and no-one will know and I’ll die on the bottom…

“…and in our own galaxy, the Milky Way Galaxy, we have approximately one hundred billion stars. Kennedy. The value of one billion.”

Kennedy’s head started. Frightened eyes stared without blinking, without changing focus, without change, at the eyes of Mr. Robertson. His lower jaw slowly drooped. A billion a billion a billion a billion a billion a billion a billion.

“I’m getting very tired of you laddie, very tired indeed.”

Mr. Robertson did not appear tired; indeed, his eyes bursting burning energy seemed far from exhausted. Kennedy could feel their heat pouring forth.

“A million times a million. Sir.”

Kennedy stared at Mr. Robertson. Kennedy knew this was not correct.

“That is not correct Kennedy, that is not correct. For such an excessively large body Kennedy, you seem to have a pitifully small brain.”

Ak, ak, ak off the walls the noise hit him ak ak thin sharp needles, laughing, at him, again, again, again, ak, ak, splitting the thin air, in the class, in the gym, in the baths.

“Back here, three forty five. Tell him Spencer.”

The water is soft. It does not, cannot support weight. The pool has two ends, the shallow end and the deep end. The shallow has calm warm yellow water and the floor is just there, just there; the deep is an icy blue white, the boys splash and the bottom is a million billion, million billion billion miles away.

“A quasi-stellar object, quasi-stellar being Latin for star-like, our own sun, as I mentioned before, being a star, a quasi-stellar object, or quasar to the professional astronomer…”

Kennedy, Kennedy you big fat whale, blubber belly, big fat cissy, in the shallow end you.

“…produces many times, the amount of light, produced by the sun.”

…only girls wear white girlie floats on their big fat arms, why do you wear floats Kennedy? He’s so fat he’d sink, ak ak he’s so fat all the water would splash out of the swimming pool why are you so fat Kennedy you’re full of hot air laddie, big fat…

“…the light emitted by a single quasar is greater than the combined light emitted from one hundred galaxies with one hundred billion stars each. Boys, it is very bright indeed. Now then, a calculation. Jotters.”

“No floats this week Kennedy; one of them has a leak, so you couldn’t use them anyway. Right lads, come on, come on. Quick race to warm up. Three breadths. Practice hiding in the shallow end for now Kennedy. Ready lads, on the whistle.”

On the whistle. Kennedy, one step at a time from the green and white and green cracked tiles, to the grey wet stone steps colder than the water, colder than the air. Lapping, rising, falling around his ankles, his shins, his right thigh, his left thigh, the terrible point on the lower back. At last, just stand there, small, clean hands locked together between warm thighs. Kennedy slowly slowly bent his knees and the water rose to his upper chest, shoulders, to the chin of his red face; and then slowly gracefully straightened his legs once more. Calm, shallow, the deep end an ocean away, shouting, ak, ak, splashing, struggling water arching in the air then drops as a small shower, the gasps for breath, kicking kicking under the surface a froth of elbows striking ribs, frantic, swinging, chopping arms. Kennedy opened his arms wide, running them back and forth over the surface as birds wings, and slowly, leaning backwards, lifted one foot, then the other, a rush of blood to his toe. Gently, he lay on his back, closed his eyes, perfectly still, as the afternoon sun streaming through the glass roof bathed his body with a clear warm light.

John Sitzia.

CAROL SERVICE

The day was crisp and white, with winter’s first snow flakes, which added to the exitement and expectancy of things to come.

It was Sunday and the annual carol service was to take place that evening in our village church, which was decorated as usual by a few devoted workers, and was a place of beauty, transformed to far off Bethlehem.

The children from the Sunday School also magically changed from grubby, screaming, kicking, sagging stockinged individuals, into shiny faced, immaculate, angelic souls, rehearsed, word perfect and ready to perform for the benefit of villagers, parents, and any visitors who might have strayed off course from their sight-seeing tour (including my husband who was not an ardent worshipper, but as his twin daughters and son were among the heavenly choir, he felt he should participate).

The little church was packed to capacity, and as usual we were some of the last to arrive, and found ourselves up in the balcony. The organ rang out, the service had begun. The sound of voices raised in songs of praise echoed round the church, the acoustics were wonderful. The children, angel like, remembered all they had been taught, the vicar was now saying, “We will pray”, the congregation hushed, then knelt, one little girl breaking wind as she did so, it rang round like a strike from the bell tower, the acoustics were wonderful. The tittering started slowly at first, then erupted to the whole Sunday School, parents tried not to smirk, the vicar struggling to pretend he was having trouble with his ears again. But the teacher was not pleased at all, and needed all her power to restore order. The sermon naturally was based on “Suffer little children to come unto me,” the vicar did not add what he would like to do with them when they came, but his face said it all.

It was time then for the younger ones to perform, my son was next to the teacher, she found his place in the hymn book, I noticed he was jigging from one foot to the other, he sat down, she stood him up, he gazed wide eyed up to her, and sat down again, she pointed to the line in the book and stood him up. His eyes were pleading with her, I whispered to my husband, “He wants to go to the toilet,” he sat once more, the woman stood him up, “This is stupid,” I said, “Can’t she see what he is trying to convey to her, why doesn’t he tell her.”

After watching the sequence of sitting, standing, hopping from one foot to the other I could contain myself no longer, I crept down the stairs, standing at the bottom I willed him to look toward me, miracle of miracles he did just that. I beckoned him to me, he toddled up the aisle his heels clicking all the way. We made our way outside, he quickly relieved himself round the flowering cherry tree. Feeling happy and ready now to do justice to the rest of the service, he skipped back to his place; he sat down noisily looking up at the teacher with a smile, “I’ve been to wee wee,” he said in a loud whisper. The acoustics were wonderful.

Olive Masterson.

ALIEN AGONY

Some of us, put-up-with others,
out of love, or “Peace of Mind.”
Fathers, Aunties, Sisters, Brothers.
Those, we’d sooner “leave behind.”

Some cause trouble. Some try harder.
Try to do their best, “for all.”
Most can tolerate the struggle.
Others, simply “climb the wall.”

Accepting others, without question,
difficult, to say the least.
Dotty moods – and silly habits
keeping order – quell the beast.

Fitting into, outer circles,
foreign places, alien homes.
Being, what we must, for others,
rather than be “left alone.”

Split in half, with desperation,
tearing out – one’s own inside,
lonely, desperate, suicidal,
“crying out,” – for helpful guide.

Guide me through my solemn worry.
Straighten-out, all those around.
I’m not wrong, “it’s all the others.”
Put my feet on solid ground.

Hammy Hazells.

WINTER OF DISCONTENT

I was a Sergeant at the time – Brighton Police – making good progress in the force. Six feet two, fair haired with blond beard. Married to Sybil, with one youngster – Bonnie.

I was on duty at John Street Station the night Brian Massey was brought in, charged with murder.

Despite his appearance I knew him the moment I spotted his face. Still the same pretty-boy expression but older, of course – about twenty five – same as myself.

I stood next to him as he was being charged and had a good look at him. Quite small, he was – small face – like a girl, small hands and feet. Hadn’t grown more than five feet three or four. Still the same Brian I knew so intimately at school, but more developed, if you know what I mean.

At school it had seemed quite natural we should have a name for him – Belinda – cruel really, but kids are cruel all the time. But he never seemed to mind – seemed to like it, in fact.

By the time we were both fourteen and about to leave school we had a pretty intimate schoolboy affair going and an understanding between the two of us, which was not exactly a healthy situation. Even at that early age I knew enough of the world of my neighbourhood, and beyond, to give me a fair idea of the direction Brian would take, by choice, once he broke loose from his parents.

I remembered – he didn’t stay at home for long – maybe a couple of years and then disappeared up to London and we lost touch with each other. I suppose he drifted around the spots up there for some time, learning his “trade” and them came back to Brighton to try his luck at the game down here. There was no doubt about what his game was.

Looking at him as he stood beside me in the Charge Office, I saw how right I had been in my youthful speculation concerning his future. Here he was, as I had predicted – rouged cheeks, skillfully made up eyes and painted lips which, even in his present stress, he strove to pout sexily in my direction.

He was wearing a dark, low-cut, strapless evening dress which accentuated a hint of cleavage and revealed a length of thigh, followed by black, lacy patterned silk tights shaped to an attractive pair of legs leading to black, soft leather, high-heeled shoes. He carried a gold-edged, black evening bag, which he managed to retain throughout the proceedings. The epitome of sophisticated male prostitution about to be brought to book on a charge far more serious than solicitation.

I thought, “My word – you’ve come a long way in the wrong direction – and now – murder! You’re in for a tough time my boy.”

He didn’t appear to recognise me and for that I was immediately thankful. But I couldn’t be sure about him and I was reluctant to acknowledge him.

I was mentally shaken to find that the act of seeing him again after so many years and under such circumstances brought into play a disturbing response to emotions I had, at one time, thought to be dead. But the result of those schoolboy intimacies between Brian and myself had remained dormant within my sub-conscious nature, supressed knowingly but semi-surfacing on occasions, waiting for a significant moment of acknowledgement and acceptance.

After Brian was taken to the cells I went into my office and closed the door. I needed to give this matter some thought. I was under no illusion regarding myself. Seeing Brian again confirmed a long-standing tendency that, despite my marriage, my sexual preferences were within the Gay world.

Giving this matter serious thought within the confines of my office, I determined that I would begin a discreet liaison with a young man of my acquaintance who held views similar to my own.

Epilogue:

It was fifteen years ago when I saw Brian Massey on the night he was brought into the Station. He has been inside ever since and is unlikely to come out again without remission. The nature and circumstances of his conviction make that a distinctly remote possibility.

Ten years ago my wife and I were divorced and she left me, taking Bonnie with her. I have not seen either of them since their departure.

As for my police career – that came to an abrupt halt when I became personally involved in a vicious scandal in an obscure Gay Club in Kemp Town. It was that incident that led to the divorce.

I am now one of six temporary residents of Cell Number 97, Ground Floor, Lewes Goal, where I am destined to remain for a further five years.

It is ironic that Brian is a prisoner here, in one of the other wings. I sometimes see him in the exercise yard. He has recognised me now that I have shaved my beard. Maybe circumstances in the future will make it possible for us to renew our schoolboy liaison at a higher level. We already nod to each other at a distance. There’s a possibility to look forward to.

Bill Ghent.

AUSTRALIAN NIGHTMARE

Must you wander away my son?
Must you throw my vision to the wind,
And blow away the love I gave.

Must you take that little girl my son?
Must you deny me the joy of her growth
And leave me in a grey empty space.

But why so very far away my son?
But why to that distant unknown land
That my cloudy eyes cannot see.

But why do you need new life my son?
But why is your life now not enough
That you can fulfil your family goals?

I am devastated beyond recall, my son.
I am weeping and feel the loss already
It will be my burden from now on.

I am freezing in anxiety now my son
I am frozen in my limbo of despair
It will stop any fire forever.

To see that sweet, sweet girl my son
To see her grow and rise tall
Is my only reason for hope.

To see her flowering into my heart my son
To feel her slender arms enfolding me
Is my journey ever forward.

Please don’t go, don’t go my son
Please don’t end the rainbow’s pointing fingers
Leaving a pot, broken and empty of gold.

Stay here with me, my son.

Pauline Streeton.

BILLY

Billy died today while watching T.V.
Very unexpected, was only thirty three

What reason for his untimely demise
Didn’t smoke, he thought it unwise
Didn’t drink, never touched a drop
Heart was healthy, liver tip top
Kidneys worked well, his lungs clean
A premature death could not be foreseen
Didn’t have cancer, it wasn’t a stroke
Not accidental, he was a careful bloke
Ate the right foods, worked out every week
Guess you could say he was a fitness freak

This is what happened to end his life
He was murdered by me, his frustrated wife.

Jill Donocick

LITTLE CHEROKEE

Cat crouched, stiff with fear, in the bottom of the hatbox. Time stood still. Past, present and future had become interwoven in cat’s mind. A memory, longing and dreams of milk, fish, fires and cushions, and the loving touch of man’s hand.

Now the motorbike on which the hatbox was strapped growled into life, and cat, confined in blackness, shook with fear. The fear was black and bottomless – timeless. Past, present and future of black fear, until the growling stopped, unknown sound surrounded her and daylight streamed painfully into cat’s eyes as the hatbox was opened.

“Why, what have we here?” said man’s voice. “A little white cat”.

Man seemed friendly. Cat could scent warm baking smells, could glimpse soft cushions on deep chairs drawn up to a warm hearth aglow with crackling logs. Cat purred, stretched and leapt.

But dog was faster. Dog was large and black and wicked. Cat had not seen him pad across to see what man had in the round box. Dog did not like cat at all. Dog owned the man. Dog guarded the house and was rewarded by sharing with man – his food, his warmth, his place of safety. Dog was not going to share with cat. Dog growled as loudly as the motorbike had done. Cat fled.

The world became a place of chaos as vases fell and smashed, newspapers tore and books fell from the end of shelves as dog chased cat.

The inside of a piano gave sanctuary. Outside dog growled and waited, inside cat paced about waiting for dog to tire. Strange music echoed as cat brushed the wires attached to the yellow keys.

Time stood still. Dog became bored and hungry and followed man into the kitchen, so cat crept out of her hiding place, a cobweb trailing from one ear. Across the room a door to the garden stood ajar… outside the starry night. Pad, pad, across the warm, worn rug. Pad, pad, past the glowing fire. Pad, pad. A saucer stopped cat: the smell of warm milk hypnotised her taste buds. From the kitchen a satisfied growl came as dog finished his dinner and cat fled past the saucer and out of the open door.

Straight as an arrow, tail like a trailing flag and eyes wild, cat streaked into the darkness. To exchange security for freedom was no choice, especially when dog was around.

Man stirred the big iron pot on the stove, letting the savoury smells waft into the night. He knew the minds of little creatures and guessed cat would not stray far. When the pot was empty man stretched contentedly and went to bed.

Cat stayed in the topmost branches of an old apple tree for three days and three nights. On the fourth day she felt so empty she came down when dog was safely indoors and caught a field-mouse in the long grass. She smelt warm, appetising smells drifting from the kitchen, then retreated to her safe branch and counted sardines swimming under a bridge until she fell uncomfortably asleep. In daylight she hunted, but caught only worms and once a slippery green frog.

Next day cat felt her ribs rubbing together under her empty skin. Man came out carrying a gun and wearing heavy rubber boots; black dog followed him fat and wicked and smelling of gravy and woodsmoke.

Cat waited until she was sure the coast was clear, then crept down slowly from her perch and crawled on her stomach, snake-like, through the door. Inside she found a cod’s head mounted on a plate, eyes like liquid marbles welcoming her.

When man and dog returned with their bloody trophies and smoking guns, cat looked down from her high branch, disinterested, and then returned to grooming her full belly. Man looked at the empty plate and smiled, but dog growled.

Next day cat was more daring: again she slithered through the door and found chopped liver. She could hear dog upstairs so she warmed herself at the hearth, blinking her golden eyes at the flames. When dog came down he padded about furiously, sniffing at where cat had presumed to tread. Man smiled and patted dog reassuringly.

When evening came cat felt lonely. The night wind, that she was used to, suddenly felt chill. The open door below looked welcoming.

Cat came down from the apple tree and sat in the doorway. Her whiskers, like antennae, stirred as she sniffed the air. Milk, creamy milk, only a few inches away. Too much for a hungry cat to resist. She licked to the bottom of the bowl, the tips of her ears twitching for the sound of dog. Warm now and comforted, cat became brave and daring, and ready to take on dog, knowing man would see fair play.

The logs in the hearth had fallen to smoky ashes as daintily cat threaded past. Up the stairs silently, across the landing on her full white stomach, legs moving in swimming motions across the lino, tail thrashing madly from side to side. Then, in one leap, onto the eiderdown, purring, purring. Man stretched out his hand and stroked cat’s head.

Dog growled from his basket in the shadows. Dog, outraged at cat’s audacity, growled his indignation.

“Nice puss,” said man softly. “You creep into my room like a little South American Cherokee Indian… I shall call you Cherokee.”

Dog growled a reminder at the invasion of his privacy. “Quiet Bruce,” said man firmly.

Cat purred contentedly. Now dog had a name his growls were no longer threatening. Cat also had a name – so she belonged.

Cherokee slept dreamlessly on man’s bed… and Bruce, in his basket, knew when he was beaten.

Peggy Eaton.

A PINT OF GUINNESS

You told us that your favourite tipple was
A pint of Guinness.

We laughed, as you spoke of a “Guinness Voice”

Now, as I daily pour the men their pints,
I think of what you said
I have no choice.

I am reminded of your big hearty laugh,
As the coffee-coloured head stares me in the eye,
The dark, cream richness of the drink
Oozes out the auras of you,
And makes me want to cry.

I feel so glad to pull a pint of Guinness,
My homeland’s genius, I feel always a pride,
The darkness of the stout can’t pass me by,
I remember darker men who felt inside,
The pain of a young woman, constantly trying to hide.

The tempting barrel empties, right on cue.

You told us that your favourite tipple was
A pint of Guinness.
It reminds me of you.

Madeleine Gaffney.

TO “LIZ” – “A MOMENT OF CARE”

Our eyes met up across the Ward,
You came and sat beside,
Thoughts were clouding up my mind
I simply sat and cried.

You upped and pulled the curtains round
A tactful thing to do,
Then held my hand and talked with me
And tried to work things through.

Such turmoil in my heart right then
I thought the very worst,
No answers there to satisfy
My head was fit to burst.

We chatted on, you looked at me,
I felt an inner calm,
I thanked you for that moment craved,
No more my heart to harm.

Now after trauma of the day
I sit and shake my head,
Admiring one who cares so well
For Patient in his bed.

So THANK-YOU LIZ for moment spared
I needed you so much,
God bless you in your life ahead
My heart has felt your touch.

Sam Royce

THE SLOW DESTRUCTION

Seeds, seeds, seeds of doubt.
My confidence is gone.
I thought, I hoped, I believed.
But you say I am a failure,
You say it’s no good – are you right?
Is my dream a fallen angel in ashes –
Or shall I try again and, like the Phoenix, rise up high?
So many times you’ve put me down
And crushed my visions til all that’s left
Is the empty shell of desires fallen.
So many times I’ve looked – but you’ve seen,
Your strength is meanness – the meanness of being right
And stomping on each dream I have had.
Wringing out each drop of hope from my stupid mind.
This time you are right again, should I let go
Or should I hang on believing in myself.
You say I’m a failure, my writing is crap
Can this be true when, with pen in my hand,
The words from my brain come tumbling out.
But I had such faith til you quashed my visions and left me feeling a fool.
Will you kill this last promise I made to myself?
Will I let you – should I let you?
From where will come my strength to override your selfish words,
If not from me, from myself, then who else?

Pauline Streeton.

IN SEARCH OF GRANDFATHER

“The roses that year were too wonderful, but when you walked down the street, you didn’t see a soul. So much beauty and such desolation; it was tragic.” These are words quoted from Brian Roberts’ book Kimberley, Turbulent City.

Like most young men from Cornwall in the early days, my grandfather, William Roscholar, left the country in search of work. He first went to America, where he learnt to sleep with a gun under his pillow, and then to Africa, where he found employment working as a Captain in the diamond mines of De Beers at Kimberley. Within the year, he sent home tickets for my grandmother and her young daughter, my mother, to join him out there. Sadly, just before sailing, a telegram arrived informing them of his death, putting paid to any plans for a hopeful future for them. Ironically, the boat on which they would have sailed, was torpedoed.

As a child, I had always been curious about my grandfather whose large glass-framed sepia-coloured photograph hung over my grandmother’s sideboard. She never really spoke much about him. Partly, I used to think, because it may have caused her too much sorrow. But it might also have been for the fact that, being made a widow at 21, perhaps she didn’t really know much about him herself. She used to relate snippets about him to my sister and I, but for me it was never enough. The story sounded a fascinating one and I became determined one day to fill in the missing gaps.

Some years ago my grandmother died. It was then that I began seriously thinking about the promise I had made to myself. But where to begin?

By chance, one lunchtime in a London restaurant, I overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. The words “De Beers” kept cropping up. Interrupting them as politely as I could, I enquired if they worked for De Beers and explained my interest in their conversation. I couldn’t let this opportunity go.

They listened sympathetically it seemed. Luckily, one of them was able to give me the telephone number of a contact at De Beers in London. After finally convincing the telephonist I wasn’t a security threat to De Beers, with such an offbeat enquiry as an excuse, I managed to speak to the contact. He too obviously thought my call was suspect, but after listening to my story, suggested I wrote to the Department of Internal Affairs in Pretoria as a start. This I did, half expecting my letter to be buried in someone’s “pending” tray in Africa for ever.

However, one month later, a reply came together with a copy of my grandfather’s death certificate, something which even my grandmother had never seen. The certificate gave scant information, but it provided more knowledge about events leading up to his death than any of us had known before.

William Roscholar was 33 years old when on the 3rd October 1918 he had been admitted to Kimberley Hospital where he stayed for 3 days before succumbing to Spanish influenza. This was the worldwide epidemic which had hit during the closing months of the First World War. It was known by different names in different countries, and in South Africa it was called Spanish influenza. In Kimberley alone, between the months of October and November 1918, it claimed the lives of 4,483 victims. Most of them were men aged between 25 and 45 and my grandfather had been one of them. Just two weeks before celebrating his 34th birthday.

The letter which had enclosed the death certificate had been dated the 6th October – the very date on which he had died. Coincidence or not, I took this as an omen and decided to press on with my quest.

But the one thing which neither letter nor certificate had stated was where the actual burial place had been. On contacting De Beers once more, it was advised that I write to the Town Clerk’s office in Kimberley itself. Their subsequent reply informed me that my letter had been passed on to the City Engineer’s Office. By this time, the whole thing was feeling like a wild goose chase. Then, one morning just as I was hurriedly leaving for work, another letter arrived. Without even thinking that it would contain any useful information, the contents were read without hardly taking in the words. Then the realisation of what was printed before me shook me.

It consisted of just four lines, businesslike and unemotional, simply stating the precise location of where the grave could be found. But the effect of those four lines was not businesslike and unemotional to me. They were devastating. I had to sit down quickly as suddenly my legs would not support me. Here, after all those decades of wondering why, how and when, was the evidence that William Roscholar had existed and that there were records in Africa to prove it.

All those years, and it had taken just a few seconds to read the proof.

I hadn’t bargained for this moment to be an emotional one, but it was, and it was hard for me to feel normal for the rest of the day. I was elated too. For this would mean setting myself yet another task. The task of now locating the place itself. A trip back to Africa. To a country where, if things had turned out differently, I might have been brought up living in a totally different environment. But fate in its wisdom had not allowed that. Some years ago I did make my pilgrimage to Kimberley and was successful in finding where William Roscholar had been buried.

But that is yet another story.

Ann Foster.

GARGOYLED

Gargoyled, that’s you.
Your face moulded to spurt out
Pure ugliness.

Dragon breath,
So sour it would curdle
The sweetest of breast milk
On baby’s tongue.
All the good would be undone
And rancid his little, cracked egg-shell shaped heart.

Cherry red are your thoughts,
Burnt cherries resting on top of the
Freshly cooked crumble.
But cherries grow rotten in your heart.

For a start,
You lost your heart many years ago,
And it was through your own fault,
You were always too sorry,
And pity turned to hate.

The niggling, doubting hate
That burnt in the hot, fat crate
Laden down with coals that grizzled fiercely.
Against the tangerine glow
Of the flames,
Licking out the angel’s wings.

Soiled,
That’s you.
Like a baby’s stenching nappy,
Ever since you found your wooden block of
Hate.
Around it you lovingly coiled.
That’s you.
Gargoyled.

Madeleine Gaffney.

FELINE PASSIONS

My lover came to me today,
nuzzling her head into my hair
spread along the edge of the bath
where I lay on cloud 9 (Bath Gel).

She purred and pushed her face into mine,
intoxicated by the Colgate on my breath,
telling me I had usurped her special, favourite place
with my large pink bubbled body.

Tabby and white fur glistening from my damp caress,
my love moved delicately, waiting for the lowering water to vanish,
then carefully, paws outstretched, she lowered herself
into the warm, safe haven of her chosen throne,
while her sister, equally passionately, caught the dinner.

Irene Donald.

KATE

I wanted
her Bob Marley record
her brazenness
her boyfriends
her black silk knickers
her blond hair
her bronzed body
and her bra size

She told me last Christmas
she wanted my brains;
if I’d have known earlier,
we could have done a straight swap.

Julie Everton.

IT FINALLY HAPPENED

I am aware of the squeaking wheels as the trolley slides along the endless silent corridor. It is pushed through handleless doors, and there is a soft thud, as they gently close together again. I can see lights overhead – so bright, that I must close my eyes. Shapes draw near me, muffled and indistinguishable, and there is the hum of some machine, combined with the muted rasp of metal instruments being moved and put down with a stifled, softened clatter.

Pinging of rubber and puff of talcum powder – the sudden gush of water and over all, the strong pungent odour of disinfectant, sterility and cleanliness. Faceless shapes in green hover over me as I am lifted gently from the steel trolley onto a white sterile bed. My starched gown crackles and wrinkles as I am moved. A gloved hand straightens it, and a masked face looms over me with a cup, from which I am instructed to drink. There is a small amount of thick, pink liquid within it. It is hard for me to swallow. My mouth is thy and my hands are clammy. Another masked figure, I think, this time a woman as I can smell a faint whiff of perfume midst the disinfectant, lifts my head as I try to sip the concoction. I am so muzzy that I can hardly detect the taste because of the all pervading odour of the place. But as it is pink, I fancy that it has been flavoured with raspberry in order to mask its otherwise nastiness.

The ceaseless beat of the machine quickens. Plimsoled feet are softly shuffling. A testy voice urges, “Aren’t you ready yet?” I feel a needle plunging into my arm. I am counting – 10,9,8,7,6,5- all is blank.

I am struggling in this blackness. It’s enveloping me. I’m becoming part of it. It is me. Hollow and vibrating sounds emerge and recede. Boom-Bim-Boom-Bim, like a muted Tom-Tom beating away in the depths of a dark, threatening forest – now near – now far – now nothing!

Slowly I awaken. Misty figures are appearing. Something keeps pressing my arm and releasing it. I try to move it, but it is attached to some tubes. I feel sick and hazy – a kidney dish appears by my head. Gradually shapes begin to come into focus. Reality creeps into consciousness. My stomach hurts and fearfully I try to grope towards it. But I can’t reach it. I try to bend over, but my stomach is tight and painful. Panic joins forces with pain and becomes a crescendo of fear. I try to scream for attention, but the noise of the pumping machine smothers my feeble cries. A hand appears with a syringe – I try to knock it away. I want to know what has happened. I feel a prick and sink into obliterating oblivion again.

The sun is shining on my face. It is morning. A nurse is offering me a drink, which I sip gladly, my throat is so dry. I look about me at the ward. Reality focusses. “Tell me, tell me,” I try to shout. The nurse bends over, “Shush – try to relax – everything’s fine. You must sleep.” She leaves me and I try to get up, but I’m too weak and still in a great deal of pain.

Suddenly the curtains around my bed are parted. I can hear a baby’s cry. Jack is coming towards me, carrying a squawking bundle in his arms. He bends over and gently places our baby in my arms. He smoothes my greying straggly hair and gathers us all together. “Well, old girl – you’ve done it. After all those years of trying we’ve finally made it – who’d have believed it at forty two. Shows you, never say `die’ eh! Well done. I know you’ve had a hard time, but it’ll be worth it. I’m proud of you Darling.”

We both looked lovingly at our longed for child. He opened his navy blue eyes, yawned and then seemed to give us a big knowing smile, and I could swear he closed one eye and winked.

Leila Abrahams.

ON HEARING OWEN HANGSON-DAVIES,

aged 97, performing on radio the balcony scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet’

One Sunday I was standing in the kitchen,
Watching the ham and vegetables boil,
When suddenly your voice transported me
Onto a balcony, where I saw your hand
Fondle a rose, and its sweet scent
Came flooding into my nostrils.
All the zest of a young girl in love
Sang in your voice and Juliet was more real
Than my own hand, holding a wooden spoon.

The broadcast ceased and there was I,
Standing beside the stove, saying aloud
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet
Yes, even if we’d always called it cabbage!”

Barbara Kluge.

FOUND IN A BASKET OF APRICOTS

My sister and I went shopping one beautiful, sunny Saturday morning. I was getting married in two weeks, and was feeling happy and excited. We first went to the fruit market and I bought two panniers of delicious looking apricots, amongst other fruit. We then took our parcels back to the car as we wanted to look at some of the antique stalls which were a ten minute walk from the fruit and vegetable stalls. We took with us one basket of apricots to eat on the way as they looked so tempting.

We arrived at one jewellery stall where I bought a very unusual bracelet of blue and green stones and Jane bought a beautiful old topaz ring which was a reasonable price. We were still browsing around the different stalls and it was getting rather late so we walked back to the car eating a few apricots as we were feeling a little hungry.

In the kitchen we emptied our packages on the table. As I was putting the rest of the apricots in the dish, I suddenly looked and looked again; in the basket, at the bottom, I saw a gold and bronze amulet. “Jane”, I shouted, “Come here and look what I have found”. She came quickly. “My goodness, whatever is this?” On the amulet we noticed some words in either Greek or Egyptian. It was a beautiful piece. I said, “Let us take this to the British Museum tomorrow and perhaps The Curator can tell us what these words mean.”

During the evening we were discussing the amulet. How on earth did it come into the basket of apricots; who had put it there and why?

The next morning we went to the British Museum early and asked to see The Curator. After about ten minutes a small white haired man appeared; he had nice twinkly blue eyes. “Yes, my dears, can I help you?” We told him we had found something and would like to know more about the amulet. He led us to his private room; we sat down and showed him the amulet. He stared at it for quite a while and went very pale when he read the inscription at the bottom of the amulet. “Where did you find or buy this?” he asked us. We explained the whole story about going to the market and finding the amulet in the bottom of our basket of apricots.

“What a mystery, my dears, but I will explain the story behind it. The words stamped on it are Egyptian and say “Together Always”. He then took us to the Egyptian Room and stopped before a mummy of a young woman. He turned to us and said, “This medallion was stolen from her many thousands of years ago B.C. The young lady’s name was Soraya and she was engaged to a fine young Egyptian warrior, but the Pharoah of that time was very jealous of Rameses, as he was in love with the young and beautiful girl himself. One day Soraya was out shopping for her trousseau when the Pharoah, who was in a jealous rage, had the young warrior entombed. As Rameses was being led down the stone steps, he tore off the amulet he was wearing around his neck and asked the soldier to give it to his beloved Soraya.

When the poor girl arrived back home, and was told what had occurred to her beloved she fainted – she wanted to kill herself but was expecting Rameses’ child. She was handed the amulet and wore it always until she died. She never married and brought her son up, explaining to him many
times what a great man his father had been. When Soraya died the amulet disappeared and we do not know what happened to it.” The Curator then put it around the neck of the young mummy and as he did so I heard a whisper in my ear, “Oh, thank you for finding my amulet; I am very happy now”, and a beautiful smile seemed to appear on her lovely face.

I could not say anything as I had tears in my eyes. I felt so full of happiness for Soraya, but what a mystery? We will never know how the amulet came to be in our basket of apricots.

Valerie Boyd.

ON LOVE AND COCKROACHES

My friend gave me the first earrings for my birthday in 1983, six weeks after I’d clutched her to me through the birth of my second daughter. I call them cockroaches, they hung on silver hooks, moulded in butterfly blue plastic with gold leaf, strangely beautiful. They dangled around my head through it all, solid as friendship. I could raise my hand at any time and know that I was not what you would call alone despite the circumstances. They were there when Sam had concussion – life and death and doctors who tell you, “It’s nothing to worry about,” whilst hissing to a nurse to “Get Mr Jones here, fast,” and then say, “Lovely earrings, the colours glow, don’t they?” Not in the blotchy mirror in that dark and gloomy flat they didn’t. It’s only in recent times that I’ve taken them off at all, sometimes, for a day or two. In November – I lost them. Did this mean that I could stand alone at last? I think perhaps it did, but only when I want to, for through the post came a tiny parcel with a new pair, same design but in warm amber colours, with gold instead of silver wires.

Anna Mills.

MAGGIE

Maggi looked around somewhat in amazement; she’d had frequent experience of being charged in a police station for shoplifting, but she had never seen a place like this. It looked like a luxury hotel, a carpet on the floor, large luxurious windows, and plants on the table. Maggie couldn’t understand it. On looking around she said,

“Officer where the hell am I? This is not a police station, what are you up to?” The officer mumbled as he fiddled with his charge book,

“This is the new police station. Won’t you sit down and make a statement.” Maggie glared,

“New police station. Me a.r.s.e. I always have a draw and spit on the floor.” The policeman looked up,

“You don’t spit on the new carpet. Here is a pen and paper to write your statement.” Maggie jumped and said,

“I spit where I like, I might even spit on you. I don’t want your old pen and paper!” The policeman retorted quickly,

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” Maggie replied,

“I speak as I like. Here! give me a light for my fag.” The policeman shrugged despairingly,

“I’ll give you a light if you sign this statement. And don’t you dare drop ash on the carpet or spit.”

Maggie said,

“O.K. Give me a light and I’ll do all you say. Where is that nice Sergeant Frank?” The policeman sullenly lights her fag and says,

“I don’t know any Sergeant Frank.” Maggie continues,

“And while your at it, get me a nice hot cup of tea with sugar and phone me Charly. Here’s the number.” The policeman, exasperated, leaves the room. On his return with the tea, he finds Maggie sitting in the arm chair by the window with her feet in dirty shoes on the new arm chair. She is puffing away and having the odd spit. He roughly points to her and is cross.

“Take your dirty shoes off the chair, have you made that statement yet?” Maggie nonchalantly removes her feet, and with a grin says,

“My God young man you never stop giving me orders. Have a fag, it might shut you up. Is me Charly coming?”

“Yes,” said the strained policeman, “And the sooner the better. You are burning the carpet. Will you stop it.”

Maggie was the grandmother of a true blue cockney family, renowned for their good humour, and their resilience in the face of tribulation and their perkiness in adversity. Most make livings by selling goods which have fallen off lorries. But, because of cockney wit, cunning and natural craftiness the police have always found it impossible to prove anything illegal.

That certainly applies to our old veteran Maggie as we shall see.

Charly, a short portly man, arrives, perky and beaming, full of smiles. He goes up to Maggie and gives her a hug and says, “Did he take care of you Ma?”

Maggie looked at the policeman with a wry grin and said, “He talks too much.” The policeman then said,

“She refuses to make a statement.” Charly pompously draws himself up to his full 5′ 5″ and says, “Me Ma never makes statements.” The policeman replies,

“It’s the law: she committed an offence. This will have to be taken further. She cannot leave.” Charly grabs Maggie and shouts,

“Oh yes she can.” Thereupon he flung a piece of paper at the policeman which was a Medical Certificate stating that Maggie was suffering from amnesia, is disoriented, and is going blind. With a flourish he pulled Maggie to the door and turning back, he grinned triumphantly and said,

“By the way officer, I forgot to tell you that Ma cannot even write!”
The policeman, flabbergasted and unnerved by his combat with this unusual couple, ran his fingers through his hair and gazed unseemingly down at the old and tatty certificate which he held in his hand and gave a deep sigh.

Margaret Howell.

AN UNFORGETTABLE EXPERIENCE

A week before my seventy-eighth birthday four years ago, I was visiting my family, and as I was about to leave, my daughter said, “We are taking you out next Sunday so be ready by eight-thirty and we will pick you up!” As they always take me for a run in the country and on this occasion for a drink and a meal, I said, “Why so early?”

Seeing my puzzled expression she said, “We are sending you on a trip on Concorde!” Well, I just could not believe it and said, “You’re joking!” Then she handed me the ticket and for that week I was in a daze. I awoke each morning thinking, “This cannot be happening to me, it’s like an impossible dream coming true.”

The day came, with the sun shining, a lovely drive to Heathrow, which I was too excited to appreciate. We arrived and when I presented my ticket, a photograph was taken by British Airways and given to me when I returned. Then we all had coffee in the Airport lounge until we were called to the departure gate, and from then on I was alone. Following others I made my way to the Concorde Lounge which was carpeted and furnished in grey, where we were offered coffee and a danish pastry. Then we were taken by bus to the plane which stood there like a beautiful white bird poised for flight.

We climbed aboard and sat down, the upholstery was also grey, and it seemed narrower than other planes. The take-off was different too, instead of accelerating down the run-way we seemed to jerk backwards and then thrust upwards, then we were on our way. Looking out of the windows we could see the countryside below, and an announcement came as we were about to pass over the Isle of Wight. A wonderful meal was brought to us and glasses of champagne. A little later we were told we were flying supersonically. It was hard to realize we were at that height and speed, it was sheer magic.

We turned back and I’ll never forget the view of the Thames, of which I am always reminded when I see the introduction to “News at Ten” on ITV. Afterwards we were given a certificate signed by the Captain and Chief Executive, a coloured photograph of the plane, and a small model. These have pride of place in my lounge, and remind me of one of the most wonderful experiences of my life!

Marjory Batchelor.

HELP

I cry for Help
A silent cry
It is disguised
(I always try)
My subtle plea
Unnoticed goes
A bit too subtle
I suppose.

Roz Knight.

FACING UP TO REALITY

She walked into the bathroom and noticed the blind halfway up. She began to pull it down. Drat the thing – it wouldn’t stay put. They should have got someone to fix it properly, but Bill had said that it was more aesthetically pleasing stuck in that position. She stretched up once more to try to pull it down, but then dropped her arms hurriedly. Must be careful. They said she shouldn’t exert herself too much. Why wasn’t there a string on the end of the wretched thing. Most blinds had a pulley of some sort – oh well, just have to leave it half way up.

She shrugged, moved away from the window, bent over the bath and turned on the unusual top fitment that they’d picked up in a junk yard and so carefully and lovingly restored. The water gushed out, blending unevenly together, hot and cold, spluttering and splashing until the bath was filled.

Her slippers padded across the room to the side table. Her hand moved towards the bottle of perfumed bath oil – a present from Bill. She held it, opened the top and sniffed, then her hand hovering over the steaming bath, she remembered. No – mustn’t use it yet. She went back for the salt, and, nose wrinkling, threw a handful into the water.

Slowly she began to undress – skirt, sweater, tights, girdle, panties – each in turn carefully and reluctantly draped and smoothed over the chair, until finally, naked except for her bra, she hesitated. Biting her lips to stop them quivering, she shakily sat down on the edge of the chair, trying to fight her fear. Her many fears – her fear of what she would see, how she would look – what of the future – her partner? What would he think? Oh yes, he knew. But he hadn’t seen. And neither had she.

Suddenly she felt cold. The bath water had stopped steaming. How long had she sat there? She had to do it now – now. It could no longer be put off. It must be faced now for better or worse. Reluctantly she stood up, then defiantly she straightened her back and strode to the mirror on the wall. Standing on tip toe, the better to see, slowly she undid the hooks on her bra and let it dangle. It slid off her shoulders – one cup dangling loose and empty. The other filled and padded with soft foam, emulating a breast that wasn’t there. A shrill scream resounded round inside her head – foam, fake – not breast – not skin and tissue – not me. Fake! fake! fake!

She flung her bra to the floor, lifted her head and looked long and hard at her mutilated body. A mastectomy they’d called it. Who would think that a small, insignificant lump could cause all that. They’d said that treatment wouldn’t help, and could have nasty side effects; that now the operation was done, her chances of a complete recovery were excellent. She looked upwards – sky wise – sadly questioning, “Why me? Why me?” Bitterly she gritted her teeth. I didn’t deserve this. I haven’t been such a bad person. It’s not fair. Angrily the words beat in her brain. How can I believe – is there anyone or anything up there? I’m not an old woman – I’m young, young. My life in front of me, and how can I face it like this. Oh God – if there is anyone there – help me! She shuddered, then felt a sudden calmness and strength flow through her.

She straightened her shoulders, leaned forward and looked closely and critically in the mirror. She stared at the scarred tissue and gingerly touched the gaping space where her breast had been. She smoothed her finger over the still lumpy ridges where the stitches were not quite healed, and faced up to the whole of her disfigurement. She’d done it! She had looked her fears in the face and knowing the worst, she could perhaps begin to live with it – maybe even begin to hope.

Her doctor had assured her that in view of her age, wonders could be done with plastic surgery. Next month after her check up, she was due to see Mr Hudson. He was renowned in such cases and she’d been told that he could model breasts using silicone and tissue that were as good as real. She hoped so. She must believe so, she would believe so.

Turning towards the now cooling bath, she noticed the bathroom scales on the floor by the towel rail. Kicking off her slippers, she defiantly stepped on the scales and watched the pointer move forward. Damn you, she thought with a wry grin, you’ve always been my enemy – now see what you can show me – I must weigh a lot lighter with only one breast.

Leila Abrahams.

HAYWARDS HEATH

At the bottom of the valley of time
Grew Haywards Heath.
Strangely mutated from some odd organic crumb,
It parted the prehistoric foliage
And coughed.
Something smelly fell from its tidy rooves,
And slithered hurriedly away.
A passing pterodactyl, confused,
Flew screaming to the hills
To enjoy familiar battles with dinosaurs.

Nobody disturbed Haywards Heath.

Surprised at its own sensibleness,
It survived, by its one guiding instinct –
An overwhelming desire to pretend not to exist.
While mammoths died and forests burnt
It grew,
Nibbling the seeds of time,
Ambushing chaos while looking the other way.

Alas then, poor Hayward! For who was he?
You must not ask.
History, like nakedness,
Is clad discreetly here by coats of paint.
So do not yawn, O Heath,
For you might swallow
What’s left of the world.

Tim Shelton-Jones.

ADVENTURES IN OZ

During our second visit to Australia we decided to hire a car so that we could have more freedom and cover more territory. We had many off-beat happenings en route, but space allows me to comment on only a few.

We were on our journey from the North headed for the long drive back to Sydney when, as always, the mid-afternoon thirst overtook us. This coincided with our entering the strangely named little town of Banana. It did at least boast a very small cafe.

As I went to go in I saw a notice on the door, “Customers will not be admitted unless properly dressed, and gentlemen must also wear a tie.” Turning to the man who was sitting at a desk outside the door I asked, knowing the Australian somewhat warped sense of humour, “Do you mean this?”

“But of course,” he replied. “One must keep up appearances.”

“I only brought one tie, and that’s locked away in my suitcase,” Ted told him.

“No worries,” said the cafe owner, “I’ll lend you one,” and he produced it as if by magic. I patted my hair and glanced at my nails, hoping that I’d pass muster, and thought, “It’s a wonder he doesn’t inspect behind our ears.”

We entered the extremely neat and clean cafe. Naturally Ted asked for a banana milk shake. What else? Only to be told, “Sorry we don’t have any bananas.”

“But surely you grow them here,” I asked in disbelief. “Isn’t that why the town is called ‘Banana’?”

We settled for coffees and listened to the explanation as the owner told us, “This is grazing country and the very large herd of cows belonging to a local farmer were always led in by a large dun-coloured cow named `Banana’. She did her work faithfully and well and lived for many years, but one unlucky day she missed her footing and fell down a deep hole. The poor thing lay there for a long time, badly injured, and by the time help arrived it was too late to save her, so they had to put her down. The people were so fond of her they not only re-named the town but put up a statue of her in the town square.” We wondered if he was having us on, but sure enough, as we drove out of town we saw a huge model of a yellow-brown cow suitably inscribed.

“Brings to mind the Biblical story of the golden calf doesn’t it,” Ted observed.

“By the way,” I said, “I asked the man what he was studying, for you remember he went straight back to his writing desk when we left.”

“What was he doing, writing a book?” Ted asked.

“No, he was studying English History as he wants to become a J.P,” I told him. Did he ever make it, I wondered.

Monica Hastings.

THE POLL TAX

They’ve gone and caused a panic
To folk so true and blue,
They’ve perpetrated Poll-Tax
On him, and me and you.

What unfair deal they’ve burdened
On us of modest means,
The millionaires are equal
To youngsters in their `teens’.

And us who do our duty
Of looking after Wife,
Are getting in a `tizzy’
Its causing in us, strife.

You see, if one earns nothing,
And partner has to pay,
It doubles his expenditure,
Of this I have to say.

A law abiding citizen,
Of that I try to be.
But forcing heavy burden
Is just not fair on me.

I’ll pay my way like others
But please just reason out
How I should pay for two of us
It seems such heavy clout.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s many
In plight quite like my own,
We’d hate to get to measures
Of taking out a loan.

So please you “Thatcher-think-tanks”
Get heads there working fast.
We want to live for better days,
Not wish it were our last.

Sam Royce.

THE STORM

The humidity hangs low
Hazy sky turns to black
And I yearn for its violence
Yet I wish it away!
These tempestuous forces
Are the flashes of Hate
Distant rumbles of conflict
Cause a downpour of tears
Apprehension grows stronger
At the first charge of light
And I weep in my pillow
For there’s no turning back.

Roz Knight.

THE SPELL

Piece of straw and tail of lizard
Stir them up and make a blizzard,
Bone and soot and ash and dust
Blood to cast the dye of rust.
Where the ground has cracked become
Make a rushing river run.

By the mighty powers that be
Bring the rain clouds over me,
Make the thrashing thunder roar
Chase this drought from us, the poor.
Feed us, feed us, make the rain
So hunger now can cease, and pain,
Lightning crack and whip and pierce,
Flow a river, join our tears.

Sarah Griffiths.

A PLACE IN THE COUNTRY

A place called Moulsecoomb on the edge of the Sussex Downs.

A place of one’s own provided one pays the rent.

A place that really belongs to the council and therefore to the people. So the people come and dump their rubbish in your garden.

A garden is a microcosmic countryside all of one’s own. Eighteenth Century landowners coiffured acres of countryside with lakes and copses and silly grotto follies to turn them into gardens of Eden and prove Man had dominance over nature. Nature could be tidied up a bit, made ornamental, functional, fractional, fictional, anything he wished, however he designed it: that’s the way God planned it.

In a Moulsecoomb garden it’s not possible to have more than one silly grotto folly, so most people make do with none.

From a Moulsecoomb garden you can look up, north east and see fields of wheat just beyond the farmer’s barbed wire fences. Fences that stop kids riding down the hay on their Yamaha 125 trial bikes. To the west is more open land; Wild Park no less. A perfect escape from a council estate, one might think: how lucky the children must be to have such a large and wild park in which to play when their gardens get too small and noisy.

In 1986 two little girls went there to play and were later found murdered in the bushes. Now I cannot pass the park without feeling contempt for it. A little mock countryside in the country; subtle vicious landscape under the sun; ten minutes from the University: here is a seat of ignorance and ignorance is bliss, and I’m so happy some kids build huts out of broken doors at the end of their rubbish tip gardens, happily thinking of them as their little place in the country.

Peter Sharrock.

A WESTERN ARCHIPELAGO

When I was born I was a Communist.

My blood still is red, thick
Now with age,
Slowed with thinking;
Viscous through years of central heating,
Concentrated down the days
Of good eating and drinking.

When I was born, I was an angel.
I saw and made the world
In one act of divine justice.
And all the rain, and all the sun
Was laughter, music, tears for everyone.

Now, in our sclerotic archipelago,
I have but one small black island.
It is paved, wired and plumbed,
And the herbaceous border is so neat.

I think the world of it,
And know I am a capitalist.

Tim Shelton-Jones.

ONE EVENING

Below the inflamed sunset
Bruised clouds on the skyline
Sank down and drew over
The soothing cover of night.

Hillside house rows dissolved into shade,
And then were illumed like lanterns,
Dipping, sparkling and tricking the mind
Into seeing magic in a place
Which an hour before was grim.

It’s time to close the night out,
Time to keep the warmth in.
A few degrees from vertical
She stands, and with a hand
To steady and direct her,
Walks the long minute to the window.
There’s time to sit, time to think,
The old joke life is wearing thin.
Time to wish that time would pass
More quickly.

I turned out the light
To see the stars more clearly
Rested arms on the sill
Cupped head in hands.
Gazing up I saw not stars
But an insulating layer of cloud
Tainted with the glare of the lights.

Clare Halstead.

PASS THE ICED WATER!

The temperature is rising
It’s way past 90 degrees
We’re plagued with creepy crawlies
Moths, daddy long legs and bees
Our water supply is running low
The earth is parched and dry
We need a torrential downpour
But there’s not a drop in the sky

I’m frying myself to a frazzle
In the heat of the blazing sun
I’m beginning to resemble
An overtoasted bun
I’d like to cool off in the sea
But I think it would be slaughter
From what I gather in the news
There’s sewage in the water

I’m sweating like a leaking sponge
My make-up’s in a mess
My skin is wrinkled like a prune
I’ve got blisters on my chest
Don’t think that I’m complaining
But apart from aching swollen feet
I’m irritable, tired and thirsty
Can’t stand this humidity and heat

Our weather is so unpredictable
And who knows by next week
I could be wearing fur lined boots
To brave the snow rain or sleet
Will I moan and groan then I wonder
No of course I won’t complain
I’ll put up with shivering and feeling cold
Flu, coughs and the odd chilblain!

Fay Layton.

A TIME MACHINE

We gingerly stepped off the ferry, which had brought us from the mainland of Hong Kong, on to the rickety jetty and made our way to the steep path that brought us to the village. Chung Chau was a green island, a little remote, unlike Hong Kong which was a busy bustling place hilly and crowded with highrise buildings. This was a quiet place where people went about their business in a humble and industrious manner.

The first thing that caught my eye was the Chinese temple or shrine, very garish with its bright red and gold paint and I could hardly breath for the strong odour of incense from the many burning joss sticks. I had a strong urge to leave the place but reflected that each offering represented an offering or plea, or aspiration from some soul.

It was highly incongruous and amusing to see a very ancient fire engine stowed away in a corner. Was this just a utilitarian relic from the past or was it looked upon as some kind of God? It is difficult to understand the minds of our Eastern brethren.

As we followed the path to the village we felt we had stepped into a Time-Machine, surely we had travelled back several hundred years. There were dark little workshops and peering into the interiors we perceived men and women dressed in the accustomed clothes worn in those parts; black trousers, white or blue tunics, straw hats, squatting over the objects they were making.

In one shop coffins were being carved, a hollowed out tree trunk, while in the next shop matchboxes were being turned out at lightening speed, entirely by hand… quite good furniture was also manufactured; we saw low tables and stools and chests with intricate carving on the lids. Jewellery and ornaments were displayed in plenty. People carried their various wares in baskets, or by means of a pole slung over the shoulder with a container balanced on each end. Gazing from the hill down to the beach I could see a fishing boat being unloaded, the nets being mended and hung out to dry.

Yes, we had certainly stepped into a time-machine and must shortly return to the twentieth century by means of a ferry. I think we all felt somewhat reluctant to leave our peaceful green island and face the noise and crowds of the city again. This was forty years ago and I wonder what Chung Chau is like today.

Doris Brown.

UGLY

Ugly isn’t about being too fat or too thin
Not being pretty or having spots on one’s chin
Ugly isn’t about being bald or cross eyed
Having buck teeth or a nose that’s too wide.

Ugly is prejudice, cruelty and pain
The violence that takes place again and again
Ugly is exploitation, treachery and greed
Turning one’s back on those in need
Ugly is hatred, murder and war
Poverty, famine and a whole lot more.

Selfishness, avarice, ignorance and fear
What sort of future for those we hold dear?
We must learn to be tolerant, loving, forgiving
To stamp ugly out and make life worth living.

Jill Donocick.

ENGLAND

England, no more green and pleasant land
Filthy beaches instead of golden sand
Oil slicks floating towards the shore
Killing sea birds by the score
Industrial garbage and toxic waste
Thoughtlessly buried in too much haste
Polluting rivers, endangering lives
It’s a blooming miracle anyone survives

England, once a good place to live
Now it’s a country with nothing to give
The education system, down on its knees
Want your child educated, can you afford the fees
The National Health Service, that’s a joke
`Cos the local authority are always broke
Need an operation, you’ll just have to wait
That’s what happens when you depend on the state

England, a land of milk and honey
Where you are taught to worship money
You have to have plenty, it has to be earnt
Don’t worry, if in the process, others get burnt
Selfishness and greed are the lessons for today
The pressure’s on and it won’t go away
Own your own home, buy a new car
Without these things you won’t go far

England, the perfect place for grabbers
liars, parasites, thieves, backstabbers
Where loving and sharing are things of the past
You may think you’re happy but that won’t last
I paint a picture of a future that is bleak
Especially for the poor, the sick and the weak
If you want things to change, then play your part
Join the rebellion that’s about to start.

Jill Donocick..

THE SILENT ROOM

A dining room silent in Cathedral atmosphere
Filled with solid tapestry chair,
Watched over by a dark wooded sideboard
Arched and mirrored deep.
Heavy drapes lining Gothic windows peep
Onto vistas that lead the eye to green banks
And grazing sheep,
And trees still flecked with Autumn red.
Vistas that stretch the imagination of the onlooker to
Statues who guard the fountain stream
Start oracles of Grecian symposium.
Candelabra shine down on silent monastic diners
Sombre clothed in meditation,
Suddenly in unision their voices rise
In a crescendo!
Bringing the silent room to life.

Hazel East.

AFTER MISTLETOE WINE

… On the Thirteenth Day of Christmas, removing the Calender I revealed:
(squatting behind… days of the week; weeks of the month; months of the year)
The Great Spider:
Spinning, vibrating, flickering,
Spinning its mesmerising web of endless days, formless weeks, mindless months, timeless years…

I beheld the struggling flies; enmeshed, helpless
And watched The Old Spider… shooting out;
Wantonly picking off His mute prisoners – needing not such nourishment;

(The flies were mere maggots: the chrysalises… empty cadavers – I witnessed no souls… knew no wings.)

…refilling the glass…

Lighting, as snowflakes on a fathomless river;
Drifting with trivial dreams… down to the sea,
or striving upstream… seeking the Fontal-head:
Significant as raindrops, vital as autumn leaves…

Yet I am the icy wind from the sea, touching everyone;
I am the smallest leaf on the tallest tree…
I… helped build The Pyramids, after all…

…third cup…

Scientific thought: craving the finite; uncomprehending;
fearing an alien world…
Bays at the ever-creeping shadow of infinity
As a dog howls at the moon…

But arising in the pit of my stomach, the tip of my mind sails across the moon…
Feels the subterranean waters of a distant planet: flows over the sun
Ferments beyond the Gates of Heaven…

Imagination: Jewel of the mind, Infinity’s hand-mirror: Sees…
(for those of Angels’ Eyes);
The Living God’s Priceless Secret –
Infinity constantly unfolding… its ever-new instant, its mint-new atom,
uniqueness in perpetuity… beyond the hard, ringing bowl of science.
Imagination, unbounded, knows Eternity:
Existence is simulaneous; the stroke of creation is now!

Arthur Thickett.

MOULSECOOMB, MY LOVE

The trouble about Places
is that
With the utmost sincerity
You can say almost anything about them.

And this warm August afternoon
as children shrill and play
while cats slumber on lawns;
opposing truths also rest here,
easily or otherwise, side by side.

Our Moulsecoomb is, by and large
A green and pleasant land – come and look;
though (media please note)
Jerusalem is not yet completed here
… or anywhere else…

Arthur Thickett.

THE COMBAT OF THE CORPUSCLES

A war is raging deep in me,
Between two factions real,
Red and White corpuscles stand
Against “stranglers” on the steal.

So many years a healthy one
Portraying endless strength,
I’m now reduced to slowing down
A test of unknown length.

I’ve called troops from Hospital
Called “Chemos”, “Steroids” too,
They’re knocking out the stranglers fast
Reducing to a few.

This battle goes on day by day
Until the “stranglers” die,
Then Red and White will hold their own
And put me back on high.

Six months the Doctor reckons
Although he’s pleased with signs,
These vicious nodes the “stranglers” cause
Give face some added lines.

Two months now gone and “troops” replaced
We’re winning all the way,
Although it isn’t pleasant now
I’m sure right here to stay.

To back me in my fight I have
A dedicated crew,
Nurses, Doctors, Colleagues, Friends,
Just these will see me through.

So bear with me a while, please do
I’ve weeks to get it right,
My wish for health is dominant
I’ll win this “bloody fight”.

Sam Royce.

WONDERING

What is there at the end of the road
That winds from the cradle to the grave?
To some it is only a very short way
And sadly they cannot stay.

To others it often spans over many long years
A mixture of happiness and some tears
All part of life’s rich pattern we are told
And we remember so much as we grow old.

Half forgotten memories of childhood
Triggered off by a word
Then the “teens” with the longings
Of so many dreams
Till time brings maturity and more adult themes.

Then the later years which can be so fulfilling
To look back and remember how much was so good
For at the end of the journey we can only hope and pray
As no one returns to show us the way.

Majory Batchelor.

ENDING

They lay in their beds, then,
Those weary old gals.
Simpering,
Whimpering
small pleas for help.

Years ago they were young then
They were sprightly girls.
Wriggling,
Giggling
as young girls did.

Life was for the living then,
As they wandered through teens,
Scheming,
Dreaming
of love yet to come.

Excitement surrounded each day then,
As puberty came, paused and passed.
Dancing,
Glancing
from skittish flirtatious eyes.

Marriage just round the corner
With children to carry their name.
Playing,
Staying
to look after those they loved.

But hardness of daily toil then
Bent shoulders once so strong,
Breaking,
Aching
Why must they grow old.

Where have the hopes gone then,
How have they come to this end.
Paling,
Ailing
left to wither away.

Bring out the cloth and the bedpans,
Old infected urine must pass,
Missing,
Pissing
over the sheets again.

Take tea from a cup hard to hold then,
And toast that scrapes on old gums,
Munching,
Crunching
To feed unwilling bones.

Forgotten by so very many,
Remembered by so very few.
Being,
Seeing
with a mind cloudy with tears.

So sad to see those old gals
As they wait for life’s last call.
Grieving,
Leaving
only shadows of themselves behind.

Pauline Streeton.

THE SECRET

The father on his deathbed lay,
a breathing of his last,
Come closer quickly daughter dear,
for I am going fast,
A secret I have kept from you,
for nigh on thirty years,
What I’m about to tell you now,
is only for your ears,
Eager she was to hear the tale,
Moved closer to his bed,
Just then he had a coughing fit,
And sadly dropped down dead.

Sylvia Calvert.

BURNING THE BODIES

I had always longed to be cremated,
It seemed so logical, and ecological.
I wished for my ashes to be scattered on
Wherever, at the end.
A place where I had decided was my real
“Home”
A place where I would not feel alone.

We walked to Woodvale that sunny afternoon.
It was very hot, and the light of day preceded
that evening’s full moon.
Picturesque and inspirational,
I ran over the muddy graves,
Lost in years gone by,
Irretrievable in moss land.

We reached a fish pond, a large one,
Full of dirge and frogs,
It was backdropped by a tall, Victorian tower.
I thought back to the poor chimney boy
of Yesteryear.
The chimney boy of Woodvale.

The smell sickened, the sight shocked
And protruded death on my pretty flowered frock.
My dress was life, the odour death,
The stink was rotten to the core.

Logical or not,
I’m not sure if I’m
to be cremated anymore.

Madeleine Gaffney.

ARMISTICE DAY AT THE CENOTAPH

A distant gun booms on the hour.
A nation halts its stride.
Heads are bowed, some tears are shed
In sad and silent pride.
Now shall the Captains and the Kings,
The Makers of Law and all Men,
Come face to face with God and pray
It shall not happen again.

Bill Ghent.

THE BUTTERFLY GARDEN

Margaret was restless and she set off for another walk round the back of the buddleia and the wild life garden at the end of her retirement home in Dulwich, away from the usual hangers-on she was obliged to be polite to after Sunday lunch. The weekends at Chequers were bad enough when everyone seemed to want to have a rest on Sunday afternoon, but then she made the excuse of work, another speech or a meeting to prepare for.

These last few years since she had fallen in with Dennis’s wishes and had retired, she thought she would go mad without the thrust of battle! But to do Dennis justice it was his money which made it easy for her to give vent to her beliefs; after all, not many people marry a millionaire and have twins completing her family at one go; but Margaret had never believed in luck! You have to make your own luck she asserted to herself. Once the idea of her being European President had been squashed by those belligerent Heads of other Countries she wasn’t going to crawl. But what other battles could she get her teeth into?

Sinking onto the bench under the apple tree with bees and butterflies overhead and insects underfoot, she mused on her start out in the wider world when she worked at Lyons and on “Mr Whippy” as the project became known. Perhaps there was a lesson here for her future; then as a chemist she got people to pay for air surrounded by ice-cream blown-up. Later the privatisation schemes, not least water. People paid for things they thought they already owned. Still people had had enough and they wouldn’t be fooled again… but, the Animals, perhaps she could do something with them, the people were so foolish about them, and the butterflies were very pretty, but the little insects were too ugly… perhaps she could get into farming them, I shall have a word with that chap from Lyons and see what they’re doing now with new snacks like Chocolate Ants. After all there were all those locusts in lands where there were hungry people. Frustrated, Margaret got to her feet and stamping on a beetle in her way, she stumped back to the house with thoughts on new battles; not just in Britain but the whole Planet.

Overhead the buzz went round among the insects and a large black mass wound its way down, homing in on the bright blue suit plodding on.

Irene Donald.

PSALM OF THE UNBORN

Bury me deep
And bury me near
Close to your heart
To keep you from fear.
Please don’t forget
But no longer cry
There is no blame
No more asking “why?”
Gather your strength
Your grieving is done
Time now to love
A new little one.

Roz Knight.

The Authors

LEILA ABRAHAMS: I was born in Manchester and trained as a dress designer and fashion artist. After serving in the ATS, I married and had three children. At 45 I entered Teacher Training College and after eight years of teaching I was promoted to Head Teacher. After retiring, I moved to Brighton with my husband, and now I am involved in painting, running a discussion group, voluntary work and writing. My ambition is to become the “Grandma Moses” of writing.

MARGE BATCHELOR: Is a widow living alone in a one bedroom flat. She has a small dog for company. She has an active social life and does a lot of voluntary work in homes for the elderly. She started going to the Hove Group in January 1990 and has been a regular participant ever since.

VALERIE BOYD: I am a Senior Citizen. I enjoy writing children’s stories and short stories, also fantasy stories. I am a lively, vivacious person and I love travelling and meeting people. I was born in London and am now living in Brighton. I hope to have a romantic novel published one fine day.

DORIS BROWN: When I retired from nursing I took an interest in writing. This led me to attend Adult Education Classes in English and Social History. Later I tried my hand at autobiography, but it is difficult to find a market for this type of work. I joined the QueenSpark Group where I found useful information and helpful friends.

SYLVIA CALVERT: Lives in Hangleton with her husband. Hobbies are wildlife, oil painting, gardening and writing stories for her grandchildren. Joined the Hove Group in January 1990 and enjoys every minute of it.

IRENE DONALD: I was born in Brighton 54 years ago and spent 30 years working in Local Government and University Administation. I retired early to fmish my Open University Degree and to spend more time in politics and my writing, contributing two chapters to the History of St. Breward, in Cornwall, where I was living at the time. Returning to Brighton, I joined the QueenSpark Women’s Writing Group and have been working on my autobiography and a life of my father, well known as a market trader and councillor. After having a stroke, I suggested a book by stroke victims, and with the Health Authority’s support, there is now a QueenSpark Stroke Writing Group.

JILL DONOCICK: A member of the Hove Group and convenor during production of this book. Enjoys music, films, theatre, walking and writing poetry. Ambition: to have a novel published.

HAZEL EAST: After leaving school, I worked on farms braking in ponies and spent 16 years on the Kent Coast. I trained in general photography, then worked on my own, taking out boarding house groups and coach parties. I was discriminated against as a woman photographer. In the 50’s and 60’s I entered the film cutting rooms. I wrote a TV script in the 70’s.

PEGGY EATON: Brighton born and educated. I started writing seriously in the sixties graduating from plays to short stories and novels. Have been a member of QueenSpark for about five years.

JULIE EVERTON: I was born in Hagley, West Midlands and have three sisters and a brother. I am 25 and have worked as a teacher, secretary, writer and barmaid. I live in Brighton.

ANN FOSTER: Member of the Hove Group.

MADELEINE GAFFNEY: Madeleine Gaffney is not really called Madeleine Gaffney at all. She was born in Hastings. She is twenty years old and concentrates on writing novels and scripts.

BILL GHENT: Bill Ghent’s ambition is to develop a selection of short stories in the style of Rohl Dahl, a writer whom he admires and enjoys. He already has a number of short stories in draft and plans to develop and add to these to make a possibility become a reality.

SARAH GRIFFITHS: I was born in 1966, that makes me a gemini of one quarter of a century. I spent many of those years, when younger, waiting to be discovered and am still whittling down the possibilities.

CLARE HALSTEAD: Has lived in Brighton for five years, first as student, but now working, including being a member of a local theatre company.

MONICA HASTINGS: Born in Melborne, Australia, is married but has no children. She was as a teacher of commercial subjects in local schools until retirement. Since then she and her husband have gone in for retread – or is it overdrive? They both have itchy feet and made two journeys to Australia; one in 1983 and again in 1987. Her current interest is trying to write an account of these journeys, not so much in the form of a travelogue, but more of a collection of adventures and off-beat happenings, including an affectionate looking back at her parents’ life in “Oz.” In addition to travelling whenever possible, her hobbies include gardening, dressmaking, flower arranging and visiting historical houses and places of interest.

HAMMY HAZELS: I’m a 45 year old housewife and mother, originally from Highbrook near Ardingly but settled in Hove 22 years ago. Like many poets I fmd stimulus in everyday life, particularly domesticity.

MARGARET HOWELL: I was born in County Cork in Ireland, with an academic family background. I obtained SRN and SCM certificates and later an “A” level in English literature, here in Brighton in 1989. I have always had an ambition to write, but have been unable to do so because of a very fulfilling nursing career. I hope now to achieve some success in the world of writing.

BARBARA KLUGE: She was born in London, but her home was in Wales for many years where her grandfather had been one of the Swansea Old Cape Homers. She has lived in Brighton since 1951. She has now retired from teaching and taken up writing.

ROZ KNIGHT: Is 27 years old. She has recently moved to Hove, though she has lived in Sussex all her life. She works as a typesetter for a local newspaper. Joined the Hove writers in April 1991.

FANNY LAYTON: I live in Sussex and I’m a senior citizen. In the last seven years I have taken to writing short poems. I find it most interesting to write about anything topical and humorous. I’ve been fortunate in having had a few poems published, which has encouraged me to continue, especially as it gives me pleasure to write them.

OLIVE MASTERSON: As one of the older founder members of the Women Writers group, I can only repeat what I have already said before. Belonging to QueenSpark opened a new door for me, enabling the twilight years of my life to be filled with interest and friendship, thus allowing me to enjoy writing fully.

ANNA MILLS: Age 36, ex bar maid, ex waitress, ex hippy, about to emerge from the chrysalis of full time mothering into… (watch this space!).

SAM ROYCE: I am sixty years of age and have been writing for only two years, but found generally, that local people enjoy reading my verse. It gives me pleasure to write and I put part of me into the poetry; this was especially so during my illness of last year.

PETER SHARROCK: I am a part time psychiatric nurse. Born in Manchester 1958, settled in Sussex, 1982. I am a father of two little girls who live in Moulsecoomb and pathetically describe the balcony of their second floor council flat as the “the garden.”

TIM SHELTON-JONES: Tim Shelton Jones works with computers, plays with his family, enjoys good beer and good cheer. His soul has been keenly fought over by such divine essences as mathmatics, writing, music and general idleness: (the writing is winning at the moment). Ambition: to get it all down on paper, before it’s too late.

JOHN SITZIA: John is currently touring China and nearby places. As a young man, an archeologist, he did much of his writing whilst commuting between Brighton and London. While writing “between the lines” he developed a fascinating style that was very much his own. A socially concerned, interesting and likeable personality; we miss John and hope he returns to QueenSpark some day.

PAULINE STREETON: Lives in Hove with her husband, two dogs, a cat and dozens of house plants. She enjoys knitting, making pressed flower pictures, walking the dogs, and of course writing. She is one of the founder members of the Hove Group and has been very supportative.

ARTHUR THICKETT: A northerner by birth, Jack-of-all-trades, sometime soldier, sometime wanderer, I found jobs mostly boring and wars… ultimately disgusting without exception or mitigation. Now aged 64, views radicalised, perhaps embittered, I nonetheless hope for and wish to write for… a better world.

TOM WOODIN: I came to Brighton five years ago to study history. I worked in a hotel for two years and continued studying. I’ve been involved in the production of this book and have written the introduction.