My Name is Kelly

The grey speckled suitcase with its cold, now rusty, metal clasps still sits on top of my wardrobe - forty-one years after it travelled with me from Jamaica to England. It has moved with me several times, as a child and as an adult, crammed with memories too precious or painful to let go.

It's funny how time dulls the edge off pain and makes us forget the significant people or events which shaped our lives, leaving us with shadowy echoes. Even going back, as I did, retracing our steps can't recapture those memories fully. Perhaps it's just as well. Once we move on, physically or emotionally, the events are still there recorded in time. Because we have changed, we see them differently but the subconscious damage lies dormant.

The last time I remember being happy, truly happy… that warm fuzzy happiness that only children and lovers feel, was when I was four years old. I was walking home from the local Baptist church nursery school, known as 'private school' in Jamaica, with the sun bearing down on my back. I was skipping along holding my grandmother's hand. Then my childish illusion of a benevolent world was shattered - my grandmother, my beloved 'Granny' became ill.

My family come from Portland which is in the countryside in the north east of Jamaica. We lived in a small, scattered community not a village and houses can be quite far away from each other. In fact, when I went back after many years, I couldn't imagine how we had lived in such a remote location, without electricity or running water. But we had, very happily - at least in my childish memories.

I vaguely remember the trip to Kingston to the immigration office and having my photograph taken for my passport. I still have that yellowing and out-of-date Jamaican passport in my suitcase. The photograph of a serious little girl with frightened eyes looks back at me. It unsettles me because I know now what was in store for that little girl.

My aunt and cousins were more excited than I was when I finally got my passport and the date I was to leave Jamaica for England. It had been three painful years with Cousin Lola, in coming.

Suddenly my life changed from quietly sweeping leaves up in the yard and feeding the chickens, I was like a bride getting ready for her wedding. I was excited but felt more like I was being prepared for sacrifice; honoured and overawed at all the attention but scared.

Even though we lived off what was considered one of the main roads, my aunt and I had to walk about three miles to get the bus to the nearest town, Port Antonio. That was where we bought the suitcase which sits on top of my wardrobe. My aunt saw me looking at it but I never dreamed in a million years that I could own something so beautiful. It was lined with yellow silk material and had shining silver clasps.

‘Yu like dat one, Kelly?’ she asked. I nodded with an excited smile.

‘Well yu mother sent plenty of money to buy yu things so we will see how much we have left over after I've bought the material for yu clothes.’

My aunt bought several pieces of the most beautiful fabrics I had ever seen with matching threads and ribbons. She was the best dressmaker in our district and was going to make me an entire new wardrobe to travel with to England.

‘Dis one is my special gift to yu. It will be yu suit to wear on de plane,’ she said, pointing out a pale blue silky fabric with little white daisies. A sad look came over her face for a moment. ‘It's to say sorry a didn't come an' tek yu away from Lola a long time ago. Yu going to look so pretty, Baby. When those English people see yu coming, they will think it's de queen of England herself,’ my aunt laughed, tucking one of my thick plaits behind my ear.

‘Oh Kelly, I can't believe you're going to England at last,’ my aunt said with tears in her eyes. ‘Yu remember yu manners and be a good girl an' study yu book good.’

‘Yes, Mam,’ I said.

‘When yu see yu big house an' yu big car, yu wi soon forget 'bout us,’ my cousins teased. ‘I'll never forget you, Aunty,’ I said. ‘I'll never forget any of you.’ And I meant it.

The next weeks were a blur. It was just as well we had broken up from school for the summer holidays. I had prayed hard when I found out that at last I was really going to England, that I would go in the holidays. If I had to go back to school in September, the other children would think I had been lying and would tease me mercilessly as they had done in the past. Several times while living with Cousin Lola, I had been told that I was going to England but something had always happened and I didn't go.

My grandmother died after a long illness. Everyone assumed that I would go to England immediately but I was sent to live with a distant cousin, Lola, in an even more remote part of Portland called Mount James. An arrangement my grandmother had made before her death. I believe it was because Lola had no children and persuaded my grandmother that my Aunt Peach had enough people to look after already. I don't know why it took three years from the death of my grandmother for me to be sent to England. I lived with Cousin Lola until I was nine years old. Those three years scarred me for life. Unknown to my Aunt Peach and the rest of my family, I was subjected to severe beatings and verbal abuse for the slightest mistake. I changed from a carefree, chubby child into a nervous shadow who didn't want to be me anymore.

Of course, children overheard their parents' conversations and mocked me saying my mother didn't want me or she would have sent for me. That hurt. I felt abandoned. After I ran away several times and my cousins noticed how thin and sad I looked at school, my Aunt Peach sent two of her daughters, Dorette and Rhona to find out what was going on. My mother had also written to Aunt Peach, asking her to find out what had happened to me. I found out later that my mother had been sending money to Cousin Lola since the death of my grandmother for my care and asking her to get my passport and arrange for me to come to England. My mother had at first received different excuses from Cousin Lola about problems obtaining my passport, then about me being ill, then she had got no response to her letters at all.

My cousins Dorette and Rhona were horrified when they saw me. They took me back with them to my Aunt Peach's house. When I told Aunt Peach how I had been treated, she cried. I felt safe as she held me tight in a warm hug of sweet hair oil and carbolic soap. She said every time she had made enquiries about me, she had been told by Cousin Lola that I was well and happy. She swore she would never let me out of her sight again until she put me on the aeroplane to my mother.

In the days after the shopping trip to Port Antonio, I felt as if there wasn't an inch of me from wrist to ankles that wasn't measured and written down in my aunt's worn notebook. My aunt would beckon me from the yard where I was playing or doing my chores. She had a row of multi coloured pins pressed between her lips and a tape measure draped around her neck.

‘We'll have to fatten you up a bit before we send yu to yu mother, Kelly,’ she joked, tickling my ribs. She hummed a hymn softly under her breath as she fitted my new clothes, pausing in mid hum to take a pin from her mouth to secure a new fold of fabric.

‘Take the name of Jesus with you… child of sorrow and of woe …’

Then she slid the tape measure like an anorexic black and white snake, from around her neck to take new measurements.

As the weeks went by, I watched the anonymous pieces of fabric laid out on Aunt Peach's king size bed take shape, covered in chalk marks and stitching, until finally they took on the identity of dresses with matching jackets, blouses with ribbons and bows and skirts with starched pleats as sharp as a knife's edge. They were ironed by one of my cousins, carefully folded and placed into the suitcase except for the pale blue suit. It was hung up on the front of my aunt's wardrobe door reflecting its luxuriance in the mirror.

I don't remember much about getting up, the journey to Kingston Airport or customs or any of that. I suppose we would have had breakfast of fried dumplings and chocolate tea sweetened with condensed milk. We would have hurried up the steep path, pass the June plum tree to the road where my uncle's car was parked, getting our shoes wet in the dew grass. The sun, not having acquired its fierceness yet, would just have been peeping through the tops of the bamboo trees, burning off the mist as we drove down the steep, winding road from Black Hill, through Lennox. Uncle would have had to avoid several cows and goats on the way, more interested in getting their breakfast from the lush bushes at the side of the road than avoiding traffic. I don't remember but I've seen it since so that's how I know.

I do remember the comforting smell of my aunt's perfumed hair oil and the peppermint she'd been sucking and my uncle's rough cheek as I was hurriedly passed from hand to hand and kissed and ushered through a large gate with lots of other people. There was a high fence that went on and on and the noise of people and aeroplane engines and heat like I'd never felt before. I walked across the tarmac to the aeroplane taking care not to dirty my new shoes on the little bubbles of tar that had risen in the heat.

Just before I boarded the aeroplane I remembered my aunt pointing out where she and my uncle would be and her instructions that I should wave goodbye before I got on the plane so I turned to look for them. I searched the sea of colours and shining faces in all shades of brown, behind the fence but saw none that I recognised. I didn't wave and have regretted it all my life when I found out that even though I couldn't see them, they could see me and along with everyone else had been shouting and waving frantically to attract my attention.

The subdued lighting and cool air conditioning of the aeroplane hit me like walking into a cave. I shivered and took off my white gloves to rub the goose pimples on my arms. All my life I had lived in temperatures in the eighties and nineties. I felt excited and frightened at the same time. The first thing that struck me was that everyone sounded funny. They spoke in the lilting sing song voice of tourists and films, that had always fascinated me. I adjusted the thin elastic which held my hat on and pricked up my ears to listened intently. Before I reached my seat, I decided that if that was how English people spoke then that was how I would speak. I sat with a group of other chaperoned children most of whom were American, although I didn't know that at the time. That plane journey was the beginning of losing my identity. I began to re-invent myself in order to fit into a world I had only seen on films shown on a Saturday night on a big screen set up in the school yard at Black Hill.

On the plane, I tasted coffee for the first time, something which I had never been allowed to drink before. It grew in abundance by the side of my grandmother's house but I was always told that it was not a child's drink. We drank chocolate with its oily curdled coating made from the cocoa pods which we also grew. When that wasn't in season we drank bush tea. I didn't understand that I had to put my own milk and sugar in the coffee so one taste of the dark, bitter liquid convinced me that my grandmother had been right. I copied my fellow travellers and ate the contents of the strange little containers I was given on a tray but it neither looked nor tasted like any food I had ever seen. I concluded that that must be what white people ate.

By the time we landed at Manchester Airport, I had perfected a flawless American accent, which confused my relatives and my mother's friends no end. I overheard more than one person commenting that if I had come directly from Jamaica, how was it that I had an American accent.

I was told that when I arrived at Manchester Airport, my mother would be there to meet me but due to a misunderstanding of the time difference, my mother thought I was arriving the following day. One by one all the other children were collected and I was left in the airport lounge with my little suitcase pressed against my leg. Next to it was a bag crammed with small rum bottles filled with lime juice, honey and carefully wrapped packets of serassee bush, nutmeg and mangoes, things my aunt had sent that might remind her sisters of home and convey her love to them. Periodically an airhostess came to tell me not to worry, they were trying to contact my mother and someone would come to collect me soon.

The reason I know now that children are very resilient is that I don't remember being particularly worried about what was happening to me. As far as I was concerned, I had travelled from the Earth to the Moon and was still breathing. My nine year old senses were being overloaded by the wondrous sights and sounds around me.

The aliens were not little or green. They were friendly enough and gave me strange delicious sweets called chocolate, which bore no resemblance to the chocolate I knew. That was the beginning of my addiction to chocolate and the destruction of my teeth. Everyone smiled kindly and hurried about their business so what did I have to complain about. I watched them, fascinated. They reminded me of pale ants, scurrying frantically along - no-one hurried in Jamaica.

As the hours wore on, I became hungry and tired and was relieved when a tall, slim black woman rushed up to me. She started hugging and kissing me, asking me a thousand questions while apologising. I assumed this must be my mother but I did not recognise her at all because she had left me with my grandmother when I was three years old. I had never even seen a photograph of her. I had always had a picture in my head of my mother being tall and glamorous and I was not disappointed. In fact, I was overawed. I couldn't believe that this woman could really be my mother. I felt shy and awkward, hoping that she was not disappointed in me.

The first thing I noticed was that she wore a coat of the same pale blue colour as my travel suit. She had lovely Demerara skin and pink lipstick which she rubbed off my cheek with a scrunched up tissue every time she kissed me. She smelled of face powder and perfume. She took hold of my hand. It felt good and I was proud to walk next to her so everyone could see we were dressed in the same colour and we were together. This was my mother!

My father was killed in America while working on a farm when my mother was pregnant with me. As a struggling single parent, my mother had got the opportunity to emigrate to England in 1960 when her older sister 'sent' for her. My aunt in turn had been 'sent for' by another relative and had married and done well for herself. That was how, at three years old, I came to be left with my grandmother along with three other cousins whose parents had also been sent for in order to give them the opportunity to make a better life for themselves and help the folk 'back home'.

If you had a relative ‘a foreign' in those days, you were very lucky for money, parcels of clothes, toys and toiletries would arrive on a regular basis. If you had a mother or father 'a foreign', you were a prince or princess in waiting, for you knew one day you would be sent for unless that parent fell on hard times, which happened sometimes. Then the money, letters and parcels would stop. When that happened and people's hopes were dashed, abandoned children were sometimes ill treated.

I remembered what my Aunt Peach had said about not forgetting my manners so in the car from the airport as I answered my mother's questions, I remembered to add ‘Mam’ at the end of each sentence and ‘Sir’ if her friend who drove the car asked me anything. They both found this very amusing.

‘See my big daughter, Frankie?’ my mother said smiling proudly at me.

‘Yeah, man, nice little girl. She looks like you, Mala,’ Frankie answered.

‘Here how well she speaks. She has good manners. Not like these English kids who call adults by their first name. But Kelly,’ she said turning to me, ‘you don't have to say ‘Mam and ‘Sir’ here. You're in England now. You can just say ‘Yes' or ‘No'.

‘Yes, Mam…er… I beg your pardon.’

‘Oh Lord… isn't she sweet, Frankie? I can't believe this is my baby so tall. Do you prefer to be called Kelly or Elise?’

I looked at my mother in confusion. ‘My… my name isn't Elise, Mam,’ I said.

My mother laughed. ‘Of course your name is Elise. Your pet name is Kelly. So what do you think your name is?’

‘Alice, Mam. That's what I've always been called. That's what it says in my passport.’ My mother took out my passport and looked at it.

‘Lord, have mercy! She's right you know, Frankie. No, this is a mistake, Kelly. Your name is Elise. It's a good thing I didn't tell them that at customs, they would have sent you straight back to Jamaica. Never mind what the passport says. Do you want to be called Kelly or Elise?’

In Jamaica, officially my name was Alice McLeary but I had been known by my family as Kelly - I hated the name Kelly. My cousins and the children at school had always teased me and said it was a man's name. I jumped at the chance to get rid of it. New country … new start … new name.

From that day I became Elise to my family and was careful to correct them if they called me Kelly. I had no idea then the problems this would cause for the rest of my life eventually resulting in me having to change the spelling of my name by deed pole. As my passport said Alice, every official record then said Alice - schools, banks, doctors. I got so tired of explaining to people outside of my family that my name was really Elise, that after a while I stopped explaining and just answered to whatever I was called.

There is something about the English which makes them hear what they want to hear where foreign sounding names are concerned. Even now, although I tell people my name is Elise, I am called a variation of this - usually Alice, sometimes Alicia or Eliza. I have even got into heated debates with doctors' receptionists who seem to think I am not intelligent enough to know what my name is or how to spell it because it says one particular thing on their file.

The spelling of my name resulted in one of the most embarrassing moments of Primary school in England which has stayed with me all my life. When my mother told me that my name was Elise and not Alice, she forgot to tell me how to spell it. So on my first day at Stretford Road Primary School when the teacher called the register and called out,

‘Alice McLeary!’ I shyly put up my hand and said in my half Jamaican, half American accent, ‘Please, Miss, my name is Elise McLeary.’

‘Elise? Well it says ‘Alice' here.’ I was mortified as all the other children started whispering and giggling.

‘My name is Elise McLeary,’ someone mimicked in an American accent.

‘Quiet please, everyone! Oh, it must be a mistake in the register. Can you spell it for me Alice… er Elise?’

I went hot and cold as I suddenly realised that I had no idea how to spell 'Elise'. All eyes were turned to me. The children were silent now.

‘How do you spell it?’ the teacher asked again.

‘E… e… l…’ All the children started to whisper and giggle again.

‘Be quiet please, children! Remember Alice is new, she's a bit shy. Come to the front and write it down for me Alice.’

That journey to the front of the class was the longest journey I have ever made in my entire life. It was like swimming across the Atlantic in treacle. I jumped fences in slow motion higher than those at the Grand National. My hand shook as I struggled to write my new name ending up with a scrawled word that had several 'es' and ls' and a couple of 'ss' thrown in for good measure. The teacher looked at what I had written and smiled at me kindly.

‘Thank you Alice, go back to your seat please.’

I crawled back to my seat, wanting the floor to swallow me up. The next day I found myself in another class which I found out later was the bottom class. Fortunately, they quickly found out that I wasn't a complete idiot and I was moved back up a couple of classes.

That first day at primary school was a revelation. Everyone spoke very quickly and pronounced their words in a way I found difficult to understand. They didn't sound the way the American tourists or the people in films spoke and I couldn't understand why. They in turn found it difficult to understand my confused accent and the word 'pardon' started to feature in all my nightmares. At play time the girls skipped and played hopscotch, games which I was familiar with so I soon made friends. Some of the boys played football in between jumping and stomping on a bench while clapping their hands and shouting what sounded to me like,

‘Your nightie! Your nightie!’

I couldn't understand why they would be shouting about somebody's nightdress, so after a few days I plucked up the courage to ask one of my new friends what they were shouting.

‘United,’ she said. ‘They support Manchester United. Don't you have football in Jamaica?’

Like most black people at that time my mother couldn't afford to buy her own house. When I first came from Jamaica we lived in two rented rooms in a large damp Victorian house in Old Trafford. My mother had just separated from her husband and had three other children. One room served as my mother's bedroom which she shared with the baby. It was also the living room, where we ate and watched television. The second room had a double bed which I shared with my brother and sister. Two other families had lived in the house but they had moved out because it was in such a poor state. Apart from our rooms the house was like a grand old derelict stately home with an attic which we used for washing and drying clothes and a dark gloomy basement. There were lots of little nooks and crannies but we mainly stayed in our own two rooms.

My mother had to go out to work, not for a better standard of living but to put food on the table and pay the rent. In 1967, the welfare state was not as generous to families as it is now.

It's my experience, supported by friends, that children in the West Indies and some parts of Africa are given responsibility at a much earlier age than in England. This makes them more mature with a greater sense of responsibility than comparative English children.

At age ten, my mother was able to leave me in the evenings to take care of my brothers and sister age five, three and one and go out to work.

She gave us our dinner when we came home from school, made sure we were washed and in our nightclothes and left. My job was to keep everyone inside the house and as well behaved as possible. At seven o'clock I made us all a snack and made the baby his bottle, made sure we brushed our teeth and went to bed. I never knew what time my mother got home. She was always there when I woke in the morning. She made us a hot breakfast and took me and my sister to school, pushing my brothers in the big navy and cream perambulator. It was too grand with its metal chassis and giant wheels to be just a pram.

My two brothers and sister were easy to love. People have asked me over the years, if I ever felt jealous of them or resentful because I had to take care of them. Hand on heart, I can say ‘no'. My youngest brother, Micky is autistic and could be hard work but my sister Clara and my brother Colin helped me to look after him. This involved, when he wasn't in his cot, catching him as he ran blindly from one end of the room to the other again and again, and literally holding him to keep him in one place. When I look back now I don't know how I did it but they were well behaved kids and I ruled them with a rod of iron. I was very aware of the huge responsibility I had and that their safety depended on them obeying me at all times. I can't think why but they looked up to me and always did everything I told them to. Children were very different in the sixties. I wouldn't be able to cope with today's children.

My mother had a difficult life. She was a good parent to whom education and good manners meant the world. She was a traditional Jamaican parent where discipline was concerned. We were well fed, always warm and clean but no child was going to be spoilt in our house while there was a belt idly hanging behind the door.

In those days, like most of the black people of her generation, she was a naïve soul and still had the colonial mentality - anyone white could do no wrong. The harsh reality of English life, working class English people and racism has over the years taken its toll. In the fifties and sixties, our lot was to endure for a better life and to be able to return home one day - we weren't in our own country. The key to escape from the harsh life was a good education. My mother never allowed us to miss a day off school unless we were at death's door. She believed, and I've come to believe it too, that any illness can be cured a little faster with homemade chicken soup and a hot water bottle.

My memories of the late sixties when I first came to England are summed up in the words 'weird and wonderful' - the cold, drab, strangeness of the buildings and the people. I might as well have been taken to another planet for that was exactly how it felt. I had never seen white people in such numbers and such lack of black people. The thick clothes and heavy coats and boots were bizarre. I gladly put on the peculiar cardigans, scratchy woollen hats and gloves which kept out the chill that crept into my bones and made my knees ache. My memories are permeated by the music of the Beatles who were in the charts at the time.

The smell of coal fires, soot and fog was overwhelming, a constant assault on the sinuses for someone used to breathing pure sea air. It made me cough all the time, leaving black smudges on my hanky when I blew my nose. It was strange to see all the leaves drop off the trees and the trees standing brown and bare as if they were all dead. Those were the days when winters were winters. The windows would be covered with frost and the front door would be frozen solid so we had to wait until someone was passing and get them to push while we pulled to open it some mornings.

This was what I had left my beautiful, sunny, green Jamaica for. As I blew on my frozen fingers every morning on the frosty walk to school, I promised myself that as soon as I was old enough to work, I would save every penny and go back to Jamaica.

Old Trafford was a multi-cultural area. There were lots of other black and Asian families living there and I don't remember experiencing any racism. My first encounter with racism was harsh and brutal. We moved from the house at Almond Grove to Chorlton-on-Medlock, Dublin Street, behind the old Royal Infirmary. All those houses have been demolished over the years to make room for the expansion of the hospital and student accommodation. This house was equally old, cold and draughty. The passageway was dark and smelled of mould and decay. The stairs were narrow and steep. This was where the problems started with my knees which the doctor dismissed as ‘growing pains'. I must still be growing because I still have painful knees but these days the doctor calls it arthritis. We lived on the first floor. Two other families lived downstairs and in the attic.

Although I clearly remember Stretford Road School, I don't remember the name of the school I went to in Chorlton-on-Medlock. I remember the smell of Jeyes Fluid disinfectant and the school dinners. That stench of good food being destroyed; boiled meat and overcooked cabbage which permeated the entire building, clinging to our hair and clothes long after we had left. As you have probably guessed by now, I have a thing about smells which I associate with places and people; good and bad memories. I wonder what Sigmund Freud would make of this. I take an instant like or dislike to people and places according to how they smell. The smell of aftershave has been responsible for some very bad decisions I've made in the past.

In the playground on my first day, a huge, angry girl came up to me. Behind her was a group of kids who I can only describe as extras from Oliver Twist.

‘Do you want a fight, Nigger?’ was her greeting. The 'N' word was new to me but from the menacing way it was spat out, I knew it was not a term of endearment. I thought maybe it was an English swearword. ‘Do you want a fight?’ I understood. I had never had a fight in my life. Where I came from only the bad boys had fights; the ones with ripped trousers who wore no shoes and who my Aunty Peach said we had to pray for because they didn't know any better.

I saw my whole ten years flash by in front of me. My only thought was…. I hope Mum tells Aunt Peach that I was a good girl… I couldn't understand why this girl who didn't know me was asking me for a fight. I replied in a terrified voice that I didn't but that was obviously the wrong answer. As she drew back her clenched fist the piercing shrill of the whistle for end of lunchtime went and everyone ran to line up.

‘I'll get you at home time, Nig Nog! I'm gonna smash yer face in,’ the girl growled from her form line.

It was the days before four wheel drives when parents didn't drive their kids to school. The bully was waiting for me with her gang outside the school gate. She just casually walked up to me and punched me in my face. I think it would have been much worse if my nose hadn't immediately started to bleed. I had always suffered from nose bleeds. The sight of my face pouring in blood must have frightened the bully's friends because they all ran off down the street and she ran after them.

That was the first of many racists encounters at school which reinforced my need to re-invent myself in order to fit in.

Thankfully, a few months later, we moved again. This time to a Council flat in Wythenshawe. It was a spacious three bed roomed flat in a large block. It had a coal fire in the living and no central heating in those days so we used paraffin heaters. For the first time I had my own bedroom. The flat was near a pub called The Black Boy. The sign had a badly painted picture of the ugliest coal black boy with wide staring eyes and thick pink lips I had ever seen. I quickly realised that this was the sum total of the exposure most people in the area had ever had to black people which explained a lot.

I started at Baguley Hall Junior School where sometimes I was made fun of, occasionally I was challenged to fights, but because I could now defend myself, the bullies quickly learned to leave me alone. Most of the time I was just tolerated as a bit of an oddity. I had lost my American accent by then and struggled with the Wythenshawe accent which was unique in itself. I was taunted because I couldn't get my tongue around words which were chopped off and grunted. Showing good manners among my peers was scorned on and ridiculed as ‘tryin' to be posh’. My confused accent was mimicked mercilessly until I stopped speaking unless I absolutely had to. I became shy and withdrew into a world of books.

My love affair with books and poetry was awakened by my form teacher, Mr Harris. Books and a vivid imagination were my saviour. Mr Harris read poetry to the class all the time in such an expressive manner that it brought the characters to life. I stood in the moonlight with Walter de La Mere's The Listener, terrified and knocked on the door of the haunted house. I galloped along the lonely road with The Highwayman as he came riding… riding… and cried as Matilda burned inside her house because she had lied once too often.

In Jamaica I had read 'Janet and John' books and imagined myself living in their perfect world where Mum and Dad smiled all the time and Skip the dog barked happily at the snow. I had listened in awe as my cousins read 'Lorna Doone' by R. D. Blackmoore and was carried away to the land of the Doones. If reality was harsh, I found escape in places where aliens were friendly and went on adventures with you and didn't want to smash your face in for looking at them.

Mr Harris was our hero. One day in the playground when one of the girls wouldn't leave him alone, quoting from one of his poems, he took hold of her hair and said, ‘He wound her golden hair around her neck and strangled her.’

Everyone squealed with laughter. Friendless, on the fringe, I laughed too but Mr Harris must have seen the wistful look in my eyes and my desperate wish for inclusion. He smiled and took hold of my two plaits which didn't quite wrap around my neck, and said, ‘He wound her jet black hair around her neck and strangled her too.’

This got an even bigger laugh. It was the turning point in my life at Baguley Hall Juniors and I believe set the scene for my much easier life later at Newall Green High School. I was suddenly seen in a different light. Mr Harris was the most popular teacher in the school; everyone loved him. If Mr Harris accepted me then I must be all right so from that day I made friends and was invited to join in games.

It was about this time that I noticed that black people in England lived double lives. I learned very quickly on my arrival in England to live a double life too.

Among white people they spoke and behaved in a certain way, subdued and almost apologetic. When a group of black people came together just to socialise or for a party, it was as if they came alive. They took off the depressing greyness at the door with their coats and hats and revealed their bright colours.

The adults didn't get together often, but when they did, they drank Wray and Nephew rum and red stripe beer which people brought back from rare visits to the West Indies. Then they watched cricket on the black and white television, played dominoes and talked about ‘going back home’ once they had made a little more money. The 'pardner', that life saving savings club; money that was suppose to be put away towards that great home coming, always came up in conversation but your 'draw' always came at the same time as the gas or electricity bill.

The big radiogram, like a dark wood and cream coffin with its plastic flowers and crocheted doily in a corner of the room, played ska and blue beat. Milly Small sang about her boy lollypop and Desmond Decker lived in a wonderful world with beautiful people. A world we all wanted directions to.

If you were alive at all, you had to tap your feet or nod your head to the music. The formica coffee table with its matching doily hugging the 3d picture of Jesus, was pushed into a corner and people would get up and dance around the room no matter how old they were. The older men and women were the best dancers of all as feet and hips forgot age and arthritis and put on youth to skip across the carpet. They spoke in loud voices with animated hand gestures and laughed and ate spicy food as the air became thick with Woodbine smoke and the ashtrays overflowed with dimps. The wonderful aroma of thyme, curry and garlic conjured up visions of 'home'. It seeped into my soul, warming and quickening my spirit more than the adult's rum or the homemade ginger beer that scoured the lining off my throat on the way down and resulted in competitive burping among us kids. If the burps continued too long, Mum would give me 'the look', well known to all West Indian children. It held a promise of a later encounter with the belt which quickly brought me to order.

I noticed a strange phenomenon when some of the men brought white girl friends or wives. They also took off their greyness at the door and laughed just as loud once the curry goat and white rum had defrosted them.

I watched my mother wilt as she was forced to give up her training as a nurse because there was no-one to take care of us. She also had to accept what other family members had been saying for some time when my baby brother was diagnosed with severe autism.

Marriage brought my mother no happiness. My new step father was kind to us but he didn't say much and having him around had virtually no impact on my life at all. He went to work. He came home late in the evening after mum had gone to work. When he was at home he watched television or slept. We were all locked in our own little private world, dealing with the hardships of every day life in the Mother Country as best we could. We ate as much Caribbean food as we could afford; comfort foods. My mother would travel on the bus every Saturday with her shopping trolley, doing a round trip of twenty miles from Wythenshawe to Moss Side to buy familiar things… yam, sweet potatoes, spiced bun and hard dough bread.

I watched my parents and their friends grow old and deflate under the weight of life in the country which some of their fathers and husbands had died defending in the Second World War. The country to which they had been invited with its streets supposedly paved with gold. They sent money home regularly with letters brimming with joy and happiness about how well they were doing and perpetuated the myth of the benevolent Great Britain - the Mother Country. The dream of jobs and riches for the taking kept people coming from the West Indies.

My peers, most of whom were born here, rejected and refused to live the lie that sustained their parents. Their anger spilled out in rioting in the eighties that horrified their parents. I didn't take part in any rioting but they had my support. It made me take stock of what I had become but I felt powerless to do anything about it. With a failed marriage behind me, I decided that my daughter would never live a double life and I would do everything I could to ensure she didn't feel displaced.

It took me thirty-two years to return to Jamaica. As I ran down the hill to my aunt's house, I saw a frail, grey haired old lady sitting on the polished veranda that I remembered so well. My daughter Shari followed me at a more sedate pace.

‘Aunt Peach!’ I shouted with tears streaming down my face.

‘Is who dat?’ she shouted, getting up out of her chair and shading her eyes against the sun with her hand. I saw her mouth open in shock and her face lit up with a broad smile.

‘Kelly! Oh Lord bless us and save us! Kelly… my little Kelly.’

It took a counselling course to help me to truly find myself but the process started with the riots in the eighties and continued with my return to Jamaica. I was suffering from insecurities and depression which affected all my relationships because I had been living a lie - lying to myself. I haven't got any problems. This is just a waste of time and money I told myself as I went for the first of my personal counselling session that I had to have in order to qualify as a counsellor.

‘Who are you really?’ my counsellor asked me after we had been going round and round in circles for weeks.

I thought for a long time then shook my head. ‘I don't know any more,’ I replied, truthfully. ‘I'm everything to every one… mum, daughter, sister. I'm running around trying to fix everyone and I'm tired. I blend and fit in according to where I am ... I'm tired of it. All these years I've been searching for me - the real me but I don't know who that is.’

‘From what you've told me, it seems you threw Kelly out of the aeroplane over the Atlantic all those years ago. That little girl has been calling to you… help me Elise… help me Elise. That is why you feel uncomfortable when you look at your passport photograph. In order to find your true self you need to listen to that little girl. She won't go away, she needs to be recognised, loved so she can grow and catch up to you… where you are now.’

We sat in silence for a long time while the tears rolled down my cheeks and I accepted what she said was true. I grieved for my grandmother, for my three abusive years with my cousin, for my Aunt Peach who died recently. I grieved for the little girl I snuffed out on my journey to England because I thought she wasn't good enough for the life ahead of her. I asked that little girl to forgive me. I asked her to come back and be a part of me, to grow and be exactly who she was, not who she had become because of other people's introjected values.

When the tears finally subsided, the counsellor smiled. ‘Elise, who are you really?’ she asked again. I smiled back. I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

‘My name is Kelly,’ I said. ‘I like being Elise. Being Elise has served me well over the years but my name is Kelly and I don't intend to forget it again.

Reclaiming that little girl and all she represented was the most freeing thing I had ever done in my years of denial in England.

By Deanne Heron

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Marching to the Beat of a Different Drummer

It is rapidly coming to the end of what has been a tedious, relentless week of total dysfunction and dynamic arguments. I can state with some relief that my part..., ex partner has done me a favour and sped up the process of separation. A severing that I have been too lazy and too emotionally inept to instigate.

So now I come out of it all seeming the good guy. Wanda had decided that it would be best for the both of us if we had a break. Go our seperate ways. She needed some time on her own. Just for a short while of course; but long enough to establish that an even longer break, well actually a permanent one, would be best for both of us. Of course, there was no one else involved. In fact, I felt I had had a lucky escape when I realised she had completely fallen out of love with me, but for nobody else. Certainly breaking the habit of a relationship can be, at times, quite tough. But it’s a lot easier to rationalise when it concerns the behaviour of two people, not three.

Unfortunately for my pride, it took about two days before I spotted ‘nobody else’. He was a fantastic rower apparently, and when not flexing hois muscles on the water, would play a doorman at the ever popular Red Bus - Orange Peel club. Wanda had talked about the club a great deal recentlyand was hoping to see The Sex Pistols play there in a few weeks time.

In a strange way though, this parting of company has given me the freedom and enthusiasm to enjoy the very things that, as a couple, we were supposed to like, but never did.

I had recently bought us tickets for a West End play that was a second choice to Ralph Richardson’s new comedy The Kingfisher, which had already sold out for the coming weekend, but the alternative entertainment had come highly recommended.

To make a stance and convince Wanda of my indifference to her new-found independence, I decide I would still go to the theatre. A fraudulent show of pride perhaps. ‘Wanda it’s no problem, but ‘m still going to go. Should be a good night.’ Did I really believe this? And then, it dawned on me - Even if I didn’t, I should at least try to.

Perhaps I had answered my own question. Perhaps it was the partnership that was at fault and not the event. I was beginning to believe that I would enjoy the play. Very much. And one day, I would enjoy a similar night out, even more so with the right person. But for now, I had little enthusiasm to round someone up as a last minute replacement from my list of non-existent available and willing friends.

Today is Saturday, 6.50pm. I finish my coffee, leave the cafe and clutching the daily newspaper, get in the first taxi I see. The driver looks down at the ruffled, well-read pages, but tells me the news anyway. ‘Just goes to show. All the fame, all the Nelson Eddy’s, and what ‘appens - wallop! Both on the same day. Car crash for ‘im, heart attach for ‘er. Broken heart more like, good looking bird too. Cor blimey, what a day.’

‘Leicester Square please Guv, ‘ I reply.

The front page concerns itself of the unrelated deaths yesterday of the Greek soprano Maria Callas and the rock star Marc Bolan. I needed no memory jog, no reminder of the demise of T Rex’s androgynous leader. Yesterday, I gazed in horror from my bedroom window to see the burning rubber and hot metal stuck to the tree that was only a stone’s throw from my flat.

Gazing out of the taxi, then pulling my focus in to the raindrops on the glass, I had no time to ponder over the news. I was going to the theatre and I didn’t want to take such sombre images with me. I stepped from, the cab and paid the driver. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘yesterday was exactly one month to the day since we lost the man with the blue suede shoes? Sitting on the toilet when they found him. I bet the three of them are having a right old sing song up there. Here, will you have a look at that.’ He managed to change the subject within the same breath. ‘I’ve never seen queues like it, right round the block and down Charing Cross Road. It’s the same at every screening. Me, I don’t like all that Science Fiction nonsense and I mean, what’s someone like Alec Guiness doing prancin’ about with a load of robots in outer space? No, he was better off sortin’ out that bleedin’ bridge! Oh well, life goes on. ‘Ave a nice day.’

‘And you skipper,’ I added with a slight chuckle at his matter-of-fact statistics. The newspaper continued its journey on the back seat. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said, ‘Steve Bilko, the Black Rights leader, died this week too.’ The cabbie looked at me blankly. Perhaps he only followed the demise of entertainers - or was simply unaware of South African Politics. Probably the latter.

The thatre presented me with thoughts of optimism and excitement. But they were only thoughts. The Front of House Manager confirmed this. It was like having tea in a grey, wet day. Stale biscuits. Chatting to him along a line of withered burgnady rope that, in my mind, had replaced to splendour that once ran amock in such a place of fun.

The light was dim and the dark wooden framework, battered and dirty. The burgandy rope crawled along the empty foyer, weaving through the dull brass supports. Their dented, weighted bases marred by smokes, hurriedly discarded after the last interval bell. The tall man fumbled programmes. It seemd like an empty place, a place to have discarded tea cups stuck by their own staleness and stickiness to ever dusty corner. Cups like the abundant sage green ones, laid out in every village hall.

The tall man looked across. He seemed kind, but uncomfortable with his height. His suit was black with grey spots of wear. Or perhaps the suit was grey with large patches of dirt? Olive tie and shoes to match the rope.His hair was thick and jet black rinsed. It started by his right ear and travelled in one dense strand over the top of his head and met the remaing ear. In a similar swirl, a smaller strand curled round the back, starting and finishing in the same places as its higher counterpart. any hair left over dropped in vertical wisps to the shoulders. The top button of his jacket was buried beneath a dollop of sandwich filling; a blob of which had once dropped, no so long ago, towards the floor, only to be caught between the twists of antiquated shoelace. It now rested there in decay. He offered me a programme. His fingernails were dark and long. He smiled and seemed helpless as the clothes he was wearing.

I looked at the borchure. It was laced in gold and larger than I expected. A theatrical document so grand in its appearance that I failed to see its representation of the play I was about to see. I opened the centre ,a fine sparkling blue cord was rigidly placed between the pages. The document read - ‘The 1st Act of this play is set in the present day. September 1912.’

I suddenly felt icy and I stood at the entrance of the auditiorium, I was shaken by realisation that the street semmend so far away. I cannot remember closing the programme or leaving the theatre. As I stood upon the once grand steps outside, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When I entered sometime earlier, I was sure these same steps shone like youthful marble. Now they had aged. I could faintly hear the noise of traffic, which was indeed very real and very close; a bus, a car, a Pan-Am jet up in the sky. My hand was wet but still held tightly to the programme. I looked down. There was no gold edging, no blue cord. Instead, a fragile, pasty collection of pages enclosing a frayed and withered piece of string.

Where was I? When was I? I looked across the road and saw the reassuring, vibrant colours of McDonalds. The burger joint was real, of that I was pretty sure. As real as the taxi driver who had, in his morbid fascination, told me exactly what I needed to hear earlier. Dates, times - present day, yesterday’s celebrity deaths. September 1977, right? Still, I need further confirmation. I fumbled for my train ticket and gazed at it for what seemed ages.The date, 17-Sept-77. Ok, ok. I looked quickly at my watch and quickly went to calculus. The time now was sixteen minutes past seven. I had got into the taxi at ten minutes before seven. A fifteen minute ride to the theatre, entering there at approximately five past. Yes, according to rational thinking, I was in there for about eleven minutes. I felt relieved at this.

‘Blimey, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost!’ Right in front of me was the cab driver who had dropped me off earlier. In my confusion I hadn’t noticed the taxi pull up. ‘You’ve just seen him, ‘avn’t you?’ His statement was prompted by my bewildered look.

‘Sorry?’ I replied.

‘The geezer in the theatre, poor old bugger. Topped ‘imself just before the Great War. You see, the story goes that ‘e loved that theatre, but ‘e got some sort of illness where ‘e just couldn’t look after ‘imself. Parkinsons I think. ‘E lived on his own. Anyway, ‘e became a right old mess and couldn’t keep the place up to scratch. So the bigwigs give ‘im the elbow. Well, so the story goes. Ta, ta.’

My hand released the programme, the parchment scattered along the pavement. I didn’t even notice the black cab pull away. After walking to the station, I boarded the train. the inspector clipped my valid ticket nonchalantly. I looked at my watch, this time for no other reason than to work out how long until the train would depart. It was close on eight. Beside me was an evening papaer. The front page made my hands grab their opposing arms. my body tensed up. I rocked backwards and forwards in my seat in a manner more familiar with freezing temperatures and devastating stomach pains.

Following the headline, was this report:

‘In the early hours of this morning, a London taxi driver was killed when his cab skidded off a deserted stretch of road near London airport. Forensic experts have confirmed the time of death to be around 2 AM. His body was not discovered until this afternoon. George Host, who was in his mid- fifties, was a popular cabbie amomg London`s theatre- going public.’

Staring at me, in the middle of the page, was a photograph of the dead man.

By Jonathan Pertwee

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Double Trouble

There were several reasons why Katy O’Connor decided to go to confession yet again. She was becoming a regular - more of a regular than the rest of her school friends at Mary Magdalen Elementary. It was all the fault of Danny Malone. Father Cavanagh would tell her all over again that she must learn to control her temper and not to listen to the devil leading her astray. But Father Cavanagh didn’t seem to realise that it was that boy who was the cause of all the trouble. He was the one who was full of the devil.

Katy was nine years old and small for her age, with a fragile look about her which was in direct contrast to her energetic activities and feisty character. She had curly, auburn hair, green eyes and a temper to ‘fan the flames of hell’ - as her daddy always said. When something, or someone, upset her even the boys kept a safe distance - all except Danny Malone.

Danny was almost ten. Not much taller than Katy, he was wiry and light on his feet. He was the fastest on his football team. He had dark brown hair which was always falling into his eyes, and looked as if it had been cut around a pudding basin. His deep blue eyes and cheeky grin endeared him to most people. Even his teachers were won over by his ready wit and cheerful disposition - but not Katy O’ Connor. As soon as the two of them set eyes on each other, the sparks flew. They would be calling each other names one minute, and the next setting about each other until one of the scandalised sisters sent the two of them about their business. There was always the reminder that confession was their next port of call.

Katy and her friend Teresa Murphy had made up their minds to try and avoid Danny Malone and his footie friends in future. If they walked away whenever they saw them coming, it should do away with the need to go to confession so often - after all, it was his fault she ever needed to go at all. Well, maybe that wasn’t quite true, as Teresa reminded her, but almost.

The two of them were in the cloakroom discussing homework one lunch time, waiting for the bell to go for afternoon classes, when in came Danny the Menace with two of his pals. He was carrying his football as usual - it was like a security blanket. Wherever he went, the ball went too.

‘What are you up to?’ he grinned at Katy.

‘None of your business - go away’ she retorted.

‘Oh, Miss High and Mighty, aren’t we now? Mind you don’t get too close to her,’ he winked at the other two boys. ‘She bites and scratches, just like a cat.’ He kicked the ball around the girls’ feet a couple of times until Katy, eyes flashing, moved to pick it up. But Danny was too fast for her. He made a grab for her hair and tugged it. Katy was livid.

‘You think you’re so bloody clever, Danny malone!’ she yelled at him. ‘Even the devil wouldn’t put you in Hell.’ There was a gasp of disbelief from the open doorway and they all turned to see Sister Ignatius standing there, looking - as Katy thought later - like the Wrath of God.

‘Katherine Mary O’ Connor’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘How dare you use such language.’ Glancing around at the others she said, ‘The rest of you - away to the playground until the bell goes. And as for you, Miss’ - looking at Katy - ‘Go into the office and stay there until I come in.’

Katy trailed miserably past her and made her way into school. This was the worst thing that could possibly have happened to her. Sister Ingnatius was the head mistress; second only to Mother Superior, who ruled over both school and convent. Not known to be lenient or to make allowances for misdemeanours, Sister was noted for her piety and strict adherence to her religious principles. School regulations were another priority, and Katy had visions of being expelled for this latest fiasco.

Sister Ignatius was thoughtful as she made her way across the school yard. What in God’s name was she to do with the O’Connor child? She wasn’t a bad girl and her school work was better than average, but that temper of hers had caused her to break several of the rules in recent weeks. Fighting was one of them - but using bad language? Obviously she would have to be punished. But Katy was wrong about one thing. Sister Ignatius might be strict but above all else she was just and fair. She had heard the exchange of words between Daniel and Katherine and knew that, as usual, she had been provoked. So they were equally to blame.

Later, in Sister’s office, after listening to a lecture about the sinfulness of swearing, the sadness of the Almighty at her lack of self control, and the seriousness of once again breaching the rules laid down by Mother Superior, Katy sat waiting for the sentence to be passed.

‘Am I making any impression on you at all, Katherine Mary?’

‘Oh yes, Sister. I’m sorry to be such a trial to you,’ Katy sighed. ‘I don’t mean to be.’

‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Katherine Mary - which you might well find out if you don’t improve yourself. Now then, you’ll stay in after school and write one hundred times: I MUST NOT LET MY TEMPER GET OUT OF CONTROL.’

‘Yes, Sister. I’m sorry, Sister.’

‘Go back to your class now and send Danny Malone in to me.’ Katy turned in the doorway and stared in surprise.

‘... and close the door after you.’

When she entered the classroom, Sister Philomena was in the middle of an English lesson. Katy hovered around Sister’s desk until she had finished the poem she was reading out loud. Danny Malone glanced up from his desk at te back of the class and gave her a cheeky grin. You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face in a minute, soft lad, thought Katy.

Sister came to the end of the recitation and put the book down. ‘Well, Katherine?’ she said.

‘I’m to stay after school and write a hundred lines ... ’

‘Very well, you can sit down now and get on with your work.’

‘ ... and Danny Malone has to go to Sister Ignatius’ office right now’ said Katy, marching to her desk and flashing a triumphant glance towards Danny. The grin vanished from his face when Sister called out: ‘You heard that, Daniel. You are to report to Sister Ignatius. Quickly now.’

Looking crestfallen, he shuffled towards the door and disappeared, only to reappear fifteen minutes later with the report: ‘I’m to stay in after school and write a hundred lines, Sister ... and I’m to clean the blackboards and fill the ink-wells.’

‘Is that a fact?’ asked Sister, masking a smile. ‘Well, now you can sit down and carry on with your work.’

When school finished for the day, the rest of the class filed out, casting sympathetic glances at the two miscreants. Sister Philomena produced several large sheets of ruled foolscap and placed them on two of the front desks. ‘You can both sit up here’ she instructed. ‘I’m trusting you both to complete your assignments quietly while I see Sister Ignatius. I will be back later to check on your progress.’ She opened the door. ‘And don’t be after tearing each other to pieces while I’m away.’

The door closed quietly behind her as they took their places at the front. ‘So, what do you have to write?’ asked Katy.

‘I MUST NOT CREATE CONFLICT WITH THE GIRLS,’ Danny answered. ‘What’s yours?’

Katy told him, also adding ‘That’s not fair. Your lines are shorter than mine.’

‘Ah, but I’ve got to fill the ink-wells and clean the blackboards.’

‘Well, we’d better get on with it.’

They scribed away for the next twenty minutes or so, then Katy put her pen down.

‘That’s me finished’ she said.

‘An’ I’ve only two more to do’ said Danny.

Katy picked up her school satchel and swung it around to put her homework books in it. The strap caught on the edge of the desk and she gave it a sharp tug, only to have it break loose, pulling the buckle out of the material.

‘Oh no. I’ll never get all these books together now’ she moaned.

‘Well, if you wait till I’m finished, I’ll give you a hand,’ Danny remarked casually. ‘I’ll carry some of them for you.’

‘Do you mean it?’ Katy demanded.

‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’

Danny finished writing his lines and looked in Sister’s cupboard for the ink. Katy gave him a suspicious look, but he wasn’t teasing.

‘Alright then’ she answered. ‘I’ll clean off the blackboards for you. Then we’ll both be finished.’

Sister Philomena came back just as they were collecting up their foolscap sheets to put on her desk. She inspected the ink-wells and noted the clean blackboards, nodding her approval. She made no comment about the hastily scrawled pages but watched Katy handing some of her school books over to Danny.

‘Bye, Sister’ they chorused as they set off together.

‘Goodbye, now.’

Looking through her window, Sister Ignatius watched the two of them walking away down the path, chatting amiably. ‘So’, she said to herself. ‘There’s something to be said for diplomatic negotiations after all. God willing, this could be the first sign of an armistice.’

By Monica Cole

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First Day at School

High school - a non-optional nightmare of every teen’s life. Ranging from eleven to eighteen, every child across Britain is made to go to this compulsory hell. And like any other child, I especially hated high school. Really. I hated the malicious girls who teased, and the feline boys who thumped and bullied their way about the place. In particular, I hated the condescending teachers, who looked down on me because of the colour of my skin and the fact that myself, nor any of my family, could speak much English.

I woke up, a cold sweat running down my forehead, winter in England. It was a lot different to any weather we had back home in India. I had a terrible night’s sleep, aside from the fact of the arctic temperatures in my new ‘home’ - more like a dwelling. I hadn’t yet got used to calling this house my home. It wasn’t warm and it had no character. Father didn’t seem particularly pleased with it either. My sister, Arin, and my aunt did their best to make the address a household.

A recurring nightmare I have, is one in which I am back in India, the desert-like sun beating down on my back. I can see tropical green leaves around me, and there is a humid atmosphere which shortens my breath. Screaming, loud and painful, comes afterwards. Then the leaves are replaced by black smoke, and the beating sun on my back alternates to a lashing tongue of fire. The humidity becomes suffocation. It’s more of a bad memory than anything - a re-showing of my own personal horror film inside my head, when my house was attacked by terrorists. Trapped under the collapsed ceiling, I watched devastated as my mother’s life failed before my very eyes. Screaming out for her helplessly, I try to save her life. Failing miserably, my vision fades and then I wake up. Every night this haunts me, which is all I need for starting a new life - not being able to forget my previous one.

I looked to my alarm clock. It was five thirty in the morning. I shook my head, wiping the cold wetness from my forehead. Stiffly I sat up, running my dark fingers through my jet black hair. I sniffed up, catching the scent of my aunt’s cooking. She had been good to us, having no children of her own and adopting our whole family after mother died. She was a kind hearted woman, who certainly knew how to cook. Harsh spices hit my nostrils as I slid off my hard and lumpy mattress. I didn’t care much for where I slept; it made an improvement from where I used to rest, on the cold, dirty floor in the last memory of my home - before it became an assortment of scrap metal, dust and flames. I shook my head again, trying to forget these images. I didn’t like to think about my former life

I laid out my new uniform on my sheets, one of my new sets of clothing from a black plastic bag which was labelled with my name. Two pairs of shoes, three pairs of trousers and six t-shirts, including my school shirt, made up my almost non existent wardrobe. I slid into the rough, itchy material of my new uniform. Like a coat of itching powder on my skin, the blazer rubbed on me. I was unfamiliar to the feeling of these English clothes, and I felt more uncomfortable than usual.

I stumbled downstairs, following the scent of my breakfast. My eyes had adjusted to the little light which streamed through our thick curtains. I traced the rough wallpaper with my fingertips as I walked. I still hadn’t got used to the house. The walls were a grainy texture. I came to a stop when my aunt called out ‘Zea, is that you?’ I heard her clearly and making myself visible to her, I entered the door frame. She nodded at me with a warm smile. I nodded my head, looking glum. She turned sharply, going back to her cooking. I rubbed my face, tired from another sleepless night. I heard thuds from the ceiling, maybe my father or my sister getting up - I wasn’t sure - but they didn’t come down the stairs straight away.

The kitchen was a bright one - different to the type we had back home. There was plastic white flooring, a little yellow with age. The walls were decorated with a floral tile, some decayed from previous mistreatment. But my family knew how to respect our belongings and my aunt kept the house in tip-top condition. My aunt approached, rubbing my head and roughing up my black hair, her hand a little shaky. She set a plate on the table before me. I smelled the morning meal in front of my nose - bread pakora - perfect. I chewed it quickly, swallowing it in a blur. I heard someone outside the front door. A silhouette of a man bent down and then got up and walked off again. Strange. My father came into my vision with a stern look. He opened the door, also wondering what the man wanted. But he was long gone. Father looked down at the two bottles of milk stood on the step. He picked them up, shaking his head and with a strong accent in his words.

‘Ahh, how generous, free milk. Sanita? Make me a cup of tea.’

He walked into the kitchen, setting the bottles on the table. A drop of water slid down the glass. I noticed it and was hypnotised by it. I soon snapped out of my trance when I heard my father’s voice. ‘Zea, looking forward to your new school, eh?’ I nodded at him, as he sighed roughly, looking at a newspaper. I didn’t understand why he’d bother looking at an English paper - it’s not like he could understand the words. The only English I’d picked up was the word ‘yes’.

Nervous and anxious, I arrived at the school early. There were an odd few people dotted around the grey and dismal place, in black blazer, white shirt and tie. They were all matching. I didn’t like this uniform idea. I felt as if I had no personality at all, just a routine robot, following the trend. I sighed, wandering around my new surroundings like a lost sheep. I found a lonely bench and sat on it to give it some company. It looked more deserted than the school itself. I noticed more children arriving, one by one. Screaming and laughing with each other, their appearance varying from small to tall and fat to thin. Shirts were tucked in and out. However, all one language they spoke - English - which I couldn’t understand a word of. A stampede of elephants - and I - a harmless, invisible mouse. At least, I wished I was invisible. But, being the new kid who couldn’t speak English, word would get around soon, so it would be near to impossible. Still, there was always hope.

I stared, still sat on the bench as the flocks of black and white blazers and shirts flooded into doors of classrooms after a bell rang. I sighed, resting my head on my hands. A tall, spindly woman floated gracefully over to where I was sat. Her hair was black and shiny. As she got closer, I made out more of her features; she had cat-like eyes and very alert eyebrows. Her lips were wrinkled and pinched, coated in a very red lipstick. She greeted me with a smile, her voice soft. ‘Hello. Zea, isn’t it?’

I knew my name at least, and nodded. She then continued to talk, while I stared at her dumb founded. I didn’t understand a word she said. I nodded at what seemed to be the right intervals. She took my hand and helped me off the bench. Steadily, my feet hit the floor. She started walking, and I followed quickly. We reached a corridor; the smell of disinfectant and bleach hit my nose and made my eyes squint. I walked down the hallway, my eyes scanning an escape from this nightmare. I was like a reluctant criminal walking death row. - my execution - school.

The lady stopped at a door and held it open for me. I walked in before her and she followed behind. The room fell silent and I suddenly felt at least thirty eyes piercing into my back. The lady addressed another woman; this one younger and a little chubby. She was wearing a pink blouse and a grey skirt. She nodded and smiled at me, hand gesturing a seat at the back. I dragged my feet over there. The tall woman left and the noise started up again. I felt eyes staring at me and heard squeals and giggles as the woman I presumed to be my new teacher told them my name. I was a circus act to them. Their sniggering echoed in my head. It was an unpleasant few moments - which felt like hours - which I wished I could forget. Isolated and alone, they moved away from me like I had the plague. All but one. A round faced girl with vibrant red hair turned around, spectacles pushed to the top of her nose. She gave me a shy smile, moving around to face me. She seemed friendly, I hoped. Her voice was quiet and meek.

‘Is your name Zea?’

I simply replied, ‘Yes.’

By Flinton Barrett

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The Only Fault in Lake Oswego

And before I knew it I launched under the desk, and no, it wasn’t to pick up a pencil I had dropped on the classroom floor. It had started off as a normal day at school. However, my school was more than just a teacher, books and basic maths. The teacher, Miss Bev, was welcoming and bright; the books brought to life through my buzzing imagination; and the maths worksheets somehow managed to capture my interest. The school was a house, the type of house seen in fairytales, tucked away behind the many trees in the forest, waiting to be stumbled upon. It had little lace curtains, bird cages and fish tanks in the office, and welcomed me with warm arms every morning.

I was dropped off as usual next to the yellow school bus, with the words ‘Montessori School’ printed on the side. Every morning, I was excited to see my friends and eager to find out what I was to learn that day. The spicy smell of pine pervaded the air, tingling my nostrils as usual, as I walked through the playground. As normal, most of the kids were wearing Scooby-Doo tops and Barbie flashing trainers, screaming and chasing each other on the ‘teeter-totters’ and the swings. The playground was like toy-town, with children’s fixed smiles, the plastic climbing frames and the cloudless sky. The rocks crunched under my feet, and as usual, worked their way into my strapped trainers, as I hadn’t yet learned how to tie my shoes properly. The blue sky added to the joy of going to school in America, and radiated the positive and happy attitude of the people it held in its grasp. I unlocked the green wooden gate and made my way up the driveway, acknowledging the trees as their spiky pines protected both me and the school, and let out a sigh of whispers that echoed through the forest. I walked past the Indian Tepee where we spent lessons in the summer, the grass tickling our legs as we learned our American history, and ironically for me, how they beat the British. Miss Bev even brought her horse to school one day, and tethered it to the oak tree outside, which no doubt, had experienced hundreds of years of mortal life. It’s a gesture you would expect out of a Puffin Classic such as Anne of Green Gables or Tom Sawyer. Either way, the action of Miss Bev tying up her horse exerted an act of admiration for her. I opened the door into the hallway, where my fellow classmates’ shoes were lined up neatly. Of course, the hundreds of devil rocks were scattered across the floor, as if a brutal battle had taken place, socks versus stones. I put on my Pokémon slippers, as everyone wore slippers, and made my way into the classroom, which had an adjoining kitchen.

At last, the classroom, a haven of all things imaginable. The shelves were crammed with a reverie of colour, the pencils and pens just waiting to be used. All of the various vocabulary books were standing to attention on the shelves, like soldiers ready to march. The counting beads hung on the walls, glinting in the bright light of the room, the cubby holes with their open mouths, hungry for the day to begin, so they could be stuffed full of worksheets. The desks, as usual, didn’t receive the sticky threat of gum or the fear of having a random name etched onto them. However, my favourite feature of the classroom was the window of many emotions, winking in the sunlight or dripping with tears in the rain, overlooking the forest.

Every morning Miss Bev had a shiny smiling apple on her desk, smiling almost as much as herself She greeted me good morning, her silver hair shining. I sat at my desk, next to the window and peered past the ghostly reflection of my seven year old self and into the forest, where the days would beckon my mind to wander. As always the forest was alight, the leaves radiating the pure blue sky, and tattooing the forest floor with shafts of light. The birds were chattering noisily, as if to a neighbour, and sometimes, a coyote could be spotted, howling a long wail. Although it could be interpreted as a sinister sound, nothing could be portrayed as sinister in the perfect town of Lake Oswego.

In summer, the sidewalks would be brimming with tables of lemonade with the familiar ‘Lemonade for sale, 25 cents.’, Girl Scouts going door to door selling cookies, and the perfectly manicured lawns with the neighbourly smiles and beams. Nothing could go wrong, not with Mount Hood standing watch over us, like a police cop with a cap of snow on his head. Yes, for being in a house that wasn’t my own, I felt entirely at home.

So there I sat, eagerly filling in my daily journal, when it happened. The classroom was enlivened with the ripples of laughter and the quietly buzzing radio. A jolt. I thought it was someone stomping across the class. It made me think of a carnival ride beginning, although I couldn’t get off. Again. This time, more of a sway. The room silenced in awe, and the classroom became a cavern filled with curious children. At this, my teacher, who knew what it was, calmly as always, stood up. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with concern. I felt bewildered, alienated, as although we had done drills eagerly, we never thought we’d actually need to do it in perfect Lake Oswego.

‘Everyone get under your desks’ she said, slowly bringing her arms down to her side. Her silver hair looked gray.

That was it, the indication that this was indeed an earthquake. I had found a fault in Lake Oswego. Immediately, we obeyed. Like dogs on all fours, I listened to the tick, tock, tick of the clock. Nature was silent. We were enraptured in a state of panic, or at least I was. My mind blocked out the quiet radio. Outside, the sky was still a majestic blue, wisped with little white clouds. They didn’t in any way hint to me that a foreboding predator was lurking, ready to snatch a chance of scaring children or harming the fairytale house. I knew this was an amazing event to experience in life, like a documentary David Attenborough would narrate, so I made an effort to remember every detail. In a group of six we smiled at each other, because everyone always smiled in Lake Oswego. However, my excited smile didn’t convey the adrenaline pumping through my veins or the lub-dub of my heart in my ears. My bones were stiff, like statues seen in art galleries, and I sat, poised, waiting. All around me, the friendly classroom transformed, as the once glimmering glass jar of pencils danced across the surface and in slow motion, smashed into a million shimmering stars on the floor. I felt like I was in a scary movie, except I couldn’t fast forward it to see what happened in the end. The books began to shudder, one thumping to the ground, pages turning dog-eared, its spine broken. At this I began to worry about the extent of this earthquake. I could smell the pencils as they began to roll along the floor, scurrying for protection.

Suddenly, another ripple shuddered through me, causing my stomach to drop, like the sensation of a plane quickly dropping altitude. I no longer noticed how scared I felt, because I was numb, and endlessly hoping, praying, pleading for it to stop. But no, it rampaged through the class. Suddenly, it appeared. A mound out of the floor, and it stared at me mockingly, as if assessing how much damage it could do to our classroom, and pick out weak victims. It began to roll, straight towards me. The faster it rolled, the more my mind raced, the faster my heart thudded, the more panicky I became. It came faster, speeding, racing. How quickly it rolled, in miles, kilometres, knots . . . a bump, like a gentle wave in a paddling pool, was all I felt and all it had amounted to. In a rasping breath, in a blink, it was gone. The sound of falling rocks, like heavy hail, showered down on the roof of the house, causing me to jump up and bang my head on the desk. I took no time in rubbing the sore lump on my head, as I feared the hail could do worse.

In the adjoining kitchen, the smells of the lunch preparations wafted over. The fresh lettuce on the draining board, or the slices of chicken in the oven, whetted my appetite, as I attempted to focus on something else. I took the pressure off my hands and saw the pattern of the tiles on my palms. In a short, rasping breath, the roar and clattering of books and pencils, of chairs scraping across the floor, had ended. The monster had gone, leaving empty-handed with no victims or injuries.

Only minutes ago, the classroom had been busy, like bees in a hive, and exceptionally tidy. The atmosphere was stilled, chilled, all sense of calmness drained away. Slowly, one by one, like rabbits from a burrow, we all emerged, amazed at what had happened. Did that just happen? We began to laugh, a nervous laughter, our eyes alight and excitedly waiting to spread the news to everyone else. We stood, drinking in the damage: nothing much.

Miss Bev rushed over to the radio to find out what cities had been hit. Seattle, only a few hours away, had a lot of injuries, a few roof collapses, and many splits in the road. I felt ashamed that I had been scared, when I was in what could only have amounted to a five second earthquake. Until that day, I hadn’t found a single fault in Lake Oswego, until I learned that a fault line ran right through the city.

By Lisa Wright

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The Dilemma

The Reverend Father James Murphy stood in the pulpit of his ancient church and listened to his voice rebounding from the stone walls and towering buttresses above him. He could hear his accent, much softened now after years of leaving his Irish home, but amplified and enhanced in the echoes. He gave an involuntary shudder as he saw his breath in the emptiness and smelt the trapped infusion of old incense and lingering mould.

It was an autumn Friday evening, already dark. The church clock struck seven, mournfully reflecting his mood. The only light came from the glow of the red lamp burning in front of the tabernacle, the down-shaded lectern light and occasional flashes through the stained glass from distant passing cars.

Father James had struggled over the preparation of his Sunday sermon, and in his tiredness had decided to read it aloud in the church, to try and judge its effectiveness. He yawned widely, and as the sound flew up into the shadows, disturbing a bat from its slumber, he wondered if his congregation, listening to his struggling words, would feel as sleepy.

Probably due to his fatigue, he felt like two people up there in the pulpit. One who was earnestly trying to fulfil his vocation in shepherding his flock. The other was a man apart, beginning to question his faith, his very worth. He had been feeling for a while now, the stirrings of rebellion and resentment. Was he wasting his life with people who seemed no longer to care for the formal trappings of religion? When once he had been full of the fire of faith, now every day seemed to pose unanswerable problems. It seemed to him that he was playing the part of parish priest, much as an actor dons a character. The crisis of belief seemed to be endemic to the 1990’s and he was contributing to it, he thought ruefully. This self doubt had been insidiously creeping into his daily life for quite a few months now. He gave himself a mental shake, yawned again and shivered in the chill air before bowing again to the task in hand.

At that moment he sensed, rather than heard, a sound, a movement from the deepest recesses at the back of the church. He stood, rigid, and peered into the blackness beyond the stately pews. Slowly he let out his breath and shrugged as he decided it was probably a mouse. Hoped it wouldn’t chew too many hymn books.

Then there came another sound, louder this time - and a shuffling. Fear crawled up his back and his heart thumped in his ears.

Seconds ticked by.

Silence - but for the distant sound of occasional traffic.

He controlled his breathing slowly, and turned, reluctantly deciding he had to investigate. He descended the stone steps, the lectern lights’ glow casting lengthy shadows. He found his way to the side altar and groped for one of the votive candles. With a shaking hand, the candle spluttered to flame from the match and Father James exhorted himself to move to the back of the church, through the flickering shadows.

He was halfway down the side aisle when he heard a whimper. Definitely human he thought.

Holding on to the pews as he moved, he held the candle high, fearing what he was about to confront. He was cursing the lack of light - the dark areas could conceal anything - when his weary eyes discerned a lighter shape bundled behind the font. Quietly he tiptoed nearer to the steps and made out a dishevelled pile of clothing in a Moses basket, together with a plastic bag. He felt he was being watched. Slowly bending over the basket he held the candle high - and a pair of wide dark eyes stared unblinkingly up at him.

‘Holy Mother of God! How long have you been here?’

The babe blew a few friendly bubbles and waved its clenched fists in the air. It seemed glad to see him.

‘Well - however you arrived, it’s much too cold for you to stay here!’ So saying, he pinched out the candle, gathered up the basket and bag and stumbled in the gloom up the aisle to the altar. By the light of the dim tabernacle lamp, he carried everything into the sacristy. The badly lit room revealed the babe wide-eyed, looking up into his face trustingly.

‘Be back in a moment,’ he informed the child and hurried to turn off the lectern light. Before he did so he listened, stealthily, in case there was someone still in the church that he hadn’t noticed in the gloom. Gritting his teeth he made his way down the nave, peering with difficulty left and right into the shadowy pews. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The ancient figures draped in the niches of the walls seemed to tower over him. He arrived at the baptismal font at the back of the church and a glance into the lobby showed the main oak door firmly shut and bolted.

Reassured that the church was empty, Father James gathered his cassock safely and hurried back to the sacristy, shutting the door quietly behind himself.

He noted that in the room, the air was unused and stale so hastily lit the one-bar electric fire, which gave some welcome warmth after the chill of the church. Whilst he removed his collar, he observed the baby who was happily playing with its fingers and stuffing its fists into its mouth, happily gurgling. He watched, considering his options and then made a decision.

‘Come along then - let’s get you into the presbytery where we can greet each other properly.’

He bundled everything together, turned off the feeble fire and went into the comfortable, shabby, old kitchen. The Raeburn was still lit and as he opened its door, the glow from the red embers spilled out into the room. He knelt beside the basket and gazed tenderly at the scrap of humanity inside it.

Cautiously, he pulled back the tightly tucked covers and the little fingers grabbed the toes of its baby-grows as the legs were released from their prison. Father James smiled as the gurgles increased.

‘Well, let’s see what’s in your bag then - I hope you’re not hungry!’

The small array of objects included disposable nappies, a made-up bottle, some formula milk, a change of clothes and a bib. Somebody had made sure that their babe when found would’ve enough comfort to tide them over, he thought.

A small note read My name is Jay. Mummy can’t look after me any more. James frowned and, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the baby.

‘So you’re Jay. Jay a boy or Jay a girl? ... Only one way to find out - here we go!’

He picked up the little bundle and laid her on the table on her blanket and she gazed trustingly at him. He changed the little girl’s nappy efficiently and she smiled comfortably at him. A deep warm feeling infused the very depth of his being and crystallised into a knot of emotion. He cradled Jay in the crook of his arm and fed her, with a warmed bottle of milk, with a naturalness born of long practice.

Gazing at her, he was transported back to his youth where, as eldest of eight siblings, he had frequently to look after the youngest ones and to see to their comfort was an everyday occurrence.

Going into the seminary at age seventeen he had missed most of their growing up. On his infrequent visits home, he had felt already set apart and unable to join in the family rough and tumble.

He now acknowledged to himself how much he had missed the feel of a warm body close to his, as he remembered the crush of his brothers in their bed.

Tucking Jay back into the basket he gently rocked it, until the dark lashes fanned out on the milk-warm rosy cheeks. He fondly recalled seeing the purple shadows of deep sleep on the eyes of the family babies. Not once did he hesitate in keeping her here with him, safe for the night. It was as though she had always been with him. The unreality of the situation failed to make any impression.

Trudging up the creaky stairs with the sleeping baby safe in the basket, the thought came that for the first time, he was glad that he was alone in the big house. As he carried her carefully to his room, he stretched out on the bed and confronted what he had done - and what he was going to do ...

Next morning, he was in the kitchen in his shirt sleeves making coffee, when his housekeeper Mrs O’Hara arrived to cook his breakfast as she did every day except Sunday. He had fed and changed Jay and left her sleeping in his bedroom while he hurriedly cleared all the baby things out of sight.

‘Well - and aren’t you up and about bright and early today, Father James?’ She bustled about, laying the table and preparing the food.

James sat in the old armchair and tried to look nonchalant, but the unmistakable air of suppressed excitement in him made her glance at him several times. He had decided that he would’ve to tell her about Jay sooner rather than later, but hadn’t yet decided what to say.

‘Now enjoy your breakfast Father, and I’ll go up and see to your room.’ She nodded at him and made for the door to the hall.

‘Oh - just a moment, Mrs O’Hara, would you kindly just get me a Saturday paper first?’ he improvised. ‘I have decided to have a small wager today on the 3.30 at Epsom and I want to check the form. ‘ He handed her the money, and grumbling to herself she donned her red woolly hat and her coat and went off to the village, slamming the door behind her.

James rushed upstairs to check on Jay, who was still quietly sleeping.

‘You are leading me off the straight and narrow path, young lady!’ he admonished her sternly, whilst admiring the glow of her dimpled cheeks in the warm autumn sunlight.

At the thump of the front door he rushed downstairs to confront a flustered Mrs O’Hara, who was put out at the change of routine.

‘I have something I want to show you,’ he interrupted her as she drew breath to complain that he hadn’t touched the breakfast that still lay on the table congealing on the plate. He turned to go back up the stairs. She followed, breathing heavily, not a little disgruntled. He opened the bedroom door, put a finger to his lips and led her across to the Moses basket and pulled back the blanket.

‘Bejesus! Where did that come from?’ she turned to him, horrified.

‘Shh, woman - do you want to wake her? Have you never seen a baby before?’ He beckoned her out of the room.

‘What a daft question,’ she retorted crossly. ‘But not in this house! Whose is it?’

‘We’ll talk about it downstairs, where our voices won’t waken her,’ he answered. Descending the stairs, he wrestled with his conscience, but knew he couldn’t give up the gift that had been given him so soon. He sat down with his cold cup of coffee.

‘My sister visited last evening and asked if I would look after Jay for a bit. She has a family emergency and I was the only one she could turn to for help. Now I need your help for the bits I don’t know about babies,’ he paused and eyed her anxiously. ‘It’s only today really and just Sunday morning while I say Mass.’

‘We-ell. I suppose I could come in a bit earlier this evening to help with her bath, ‘ her eyes gleamed with anticipation. ‘And yes, I could come after breakfast to make sure she’s quiet during the Mass.’

‘Thank you so much, Mrs O’Hara. So kind of you,’ inwardly he heaved a huge sigh of relief - so far so good!

‘She’s a dear little thing to be sure. How old did you say she was?’

Flustered - he moved towards the window and murmured over his shoulder, ‘Not sure really. I think my sister had her about three months ago - or it might be four - I know it was in the summer,’ he finished lamely.

‘Well she’s a real beauty, and such a pretty name - Jay,’ she cooed, quite won over.’ Now, if you’re sure you only want me for 10 o’clock tomorrow, I’ll be off now.’

‘Oh - just one other thing. I would take it kindly if you don’t mention it to any one in the village - I know you keep my family business private.’

She drew herself up to her full diminutive height and folded her arms decisively beneath her ample bosom. ‘I wouldn’t dream of gossiping Father. You should know better! ‘ She plonked the woolly hat back on her head, shrugged into her coat and as a parting shot through the door said, ‘Oh and best of luck for the 3.30!’

James raced back to his room and beamed at Jay who was once more chortling contentedly in the basket, which was sitting on the chest of drawers.

‘You’re my angel,’ he said to her, ‘And we have all day to play.’

The hours sped in disordered fashion as James wallowed in the pleasure of human contact. He was so drawn to this child, without knowing why. Her very presence seemed to have released emotions which he could not contain and which he couldn’t begin to understand.

Jay was introduced, wrapped in acres of blanket, to the blaze of autumn glory in the rectory garden. He even scoured his memory for long-ago nursery rhymes and became angry with himself as lines of music and words failed him. He felt foolish at the lapse and every inch of his 38 years.

Tom, the neighbour’s cat, investigated the bundle of clothes sitting on James’ knee, and Jay gurgled and bubbled as she tried to grab the black fur. The child seemed to have an inner contentment and happiness, from which James drew hungrily; retreating from his current confusion and insecurity into the safety of days long gone. He hadn’t appreciated until now, just how much he had missed the noise and bustle of a poor but happy family. Above all, he now realised just how lonely he had become. Reaching out to his flock had only accentuated the solitary nature of his cleric’s garb.

Slowly the realisation of what he had done by concealing Jay, and the lies he had told already, began to nibble at the corners of his happiness (well, not really lies ... he excused himself ... just twisting the truth a bit). He immediately felt ashamed after the thought.

He had fed her, sitting by the warm Raeburn and they had slept again. He had propped her up against a cushion in the basket so that she could watch him make his lunch, and he then suffered agonies in case she was too young to sit. He lay her down again and she had laughed and played with her toes.

He had dozed in the creaky armchair and she, with the fire glow lighting the glints in the soft downy hair, in her haven - the basket.

His own muffled snore awoke him, startled and he rubbed his eyes furiously. The light was fading and it was warm in the kitchen. He felt her dark unblinking eyes staring at him, questioningly.

‘I could drown in your eyes, Jay,’ he told her solemnly. ‘But I must cling on to reality.’ He swung her onto his knee and relished the warm pungent baby skin. Drinking in the innocence of pure childhood, he felt he was storing up all his emotions and senses for a lonely future.

He heard the key in the latch.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ Mrs O’Hara made her noisy entry and Jay stirred restlessly at the intrusion. She hung her coat and hat on the peg behind the kitchen door and made straight for the child on his knee.

Bending, she swooped her into the softness of her generous bosom with a naturalness born of years of practice.

‘Well who’s a little poppet then?’ she cooed. ‘Who’s a little angel? Have you been a good girl for Father then?’

James felt a hot run of resentment at the proprietary way she had taken her from him - followed by a swift feeling of shame. He had no rights: none at all.

She moved seamlessly into attack, ‘So you’ve not yet managed to kill the little mite then! When your sister comes, I shall tell her she ought to have found a good woman to look after the bairn - not a scruffy bachelor like you, who doesn’t know one end of a baby from the other!’

James retreated miserably into the depth of his chair. He felt totally defeated and aghast as to where his lie was taking him.

Mrs O’Hara bustled about the kitchen, the child held firmly and professionally in the bend of one arm. Jay didn’t seem to mind, but he caught her staring at him as the woman passed to and fro. It seemed to him that the look was becoming accusatory.

‘How long can I keep this up?’ the thought crept in uninvited. ‘I haven’t felt so loved and needed for ... oh, it seems like forever. I don’t want to let her go.’ He brooded in the warmth from the Raeburn; the meal preparation noises a harmonious backdrop.

‘But somewhere there’s a mother that needs your help - and yes - your compassionate love, too.’ The unbidden voice of his conscience was now insistent.

Mrs O’Hara slammed down a spoon, startling him and the baby.

‘When did ye say the sister was coming back? She can’t be being too long - she didn’t leave enough things for Jay. We’ll be out of the nappies shortly.’ She prattled on; banging shut the oven door with her foot. ‘And don’t forget it’s Sunday tomorrow - there are no shops open you know - everyone will be in the church listening to you!’ she grinned at him amiably, quite happy to jiggle the child around as she laid the table.

‘She’s happy too,’ James considered, watching Jay’s legs dangle like unconnected pendulums from the sturdy arm.

‘The casserole will soon warm up, so I’ve time to bathe her now - show me where her clean nappies and things are,’ she swept out of the room with James padding after her ineffectually.

Mrs O’Hara expertly bathed Jay in the large washing up bowl in the kitchen sink. She had abandoned his suggestion of the bathroom with a withering, ‘Don’t be so silly, she’ll catch her death!’

Now he stood helplessly by, while she barked orders at him to pass things she needed. At one point she had him scampering up and down the stairs for soap and talcum powder and, ‘Do you expect me to dry her in this scratchy old towel?’

Jay was thrust, sweetly smelling, hair stood damply on end, into his arms with, ‘Now rock her a bit while I get her feed.’

James gazed at the baby with a sense of inadequacy and failure and she gazed with equanimity up at him. As if in slow motion, her face crumpled and an ugly red suffused her skin. She opened her mouth wide and drew breath to cry. He jiggled her ineffectually and realised just how good and placid she had been up until now.

‘Mrs O’Hara,’ he called from beside the fire. The yells became louder and he began to feel the stirring of panic as he realised that he hadn’t a clue as to what could be wrong. ‘MRS O’HARA.’

‘I hear ye - and her!’ she came back into the room with her bottle. ‘Now then, can ye manage this small thing while I see to your dinner?’

Feeling totally foolish that he hadn’t recognised the pangs of hunger, he watched the greedy mouth and talked to her quietly as the milk level dropped. He remembered to put her against his shoulder and patted her gently, touching the fragile bones of her back with awe.

‘It’s no good tickling her! That won’t get the wind up!’ She removed her from his shoulder and she was promptly sick down the back of Mrs O’Hara’s drab woolly cardigan.

James felt a naughty, conspiratorial sense of satisfaction, as Jay regarded him with her bright eyes over Mrs O’Hara’s shoulder. Jay had vented his feelings as well. A sense of unity with the child again filled him.

‘Well I’ll just settle her down and then I’ll leave ye be until the morning - you’ll jest have to cope!’

She made to go past him, but he stood up, asserting himself.

‘I’ll see to her now thank you Mrs O’Hara - I managed quite well on my own last night.’ He took Jay from her reluctant arms and the thought came, that he was good at passing the ball in rugby!

The baby snuggled in to him, seemingly recognising his strong arms. ‘Thank you for all your help, ‘ he said firmly. ‘I am sure I shall be very glad to see you in the morning. The casserole smells delicious; I shall enjoy that when I’ve got Jay in her bed.’

She gave a sniff and the long-suffering woolly hat was rammed onto her head again.

He waited until she had flounced out of the house and then sat down with quiet relief in the deep tatty armchair. Jay was slumbering deeply on his knees in the profound sleep of the very young.

James gazed at her wonderingly, wallowing in the unaccustomed emotions of tenderness.

Slowly hot tears ran down his rough cheeks as the full realisation of the enormity of his deceit came upon him.

‘It’s not as if I’ve stolen her,’ he whispered to his alter ego. ‘I’ve only kept her safe - her mother couldn’t cope - she said so. She left her there for me to find!’

The pain cut deep in his chest as he acknowledged reluctantly that he was acting outside his remit. The dying embers flickered across them both and lit his wet face and her peaceful one.

‘What shall I do? What is for the best?’ he muttered, fumbling for his handkerchief: and heard the answer clear in his head. The faint sound of the church clock reminded him that the hours were slipping by and the shadows were lengthening in the silence.

‘It’s no good - I have to make a decision of some sort ... tomorrow - tomorrow. I’ll enjoy my little angel for the last few hours left to me!’ and he held her close and agonised over what he would lose.

In the morning, the kettle was singing cheerfully on the hob and James had settled Jay in her basket after her feed. His heart was heavy, but he knew that decision and action had to be made this day.

Mrs O’Hara arrived and made straight for the basket beside the Raeburn, humming and clucking to herself as she did so. She glanced up at the kitchen clock.

‘Get along with ye now Father. It’s not late ye wish to be. The babe will be more than safe with me, having weaned five of me own, and a grandmother as well! ‘ She determinedly ensconced herself in his armchair.

‘She’s there for the duration!’ he muttered miserably to himself as he made his way to the sacristy.

Paul, the altar boy, had the vestments laid out for him and he moved through the familiar routine. James was finding it hard to concentrate - his thoughts kept straying back into the house.

He stood for a few minutes, offering up a silent anguished prayer that a solution would be revealed to him. For his sleepless night had only chased weasel thoughts round and round in interminable circles.

Paul rang the entry bell, and swinging the incense thurifer purposefully he led James into the chancel. Mass proceeded with automation, one well known prayer after another. James on auto-pilot (or sky-pilot, he thought grimly to himself). He was mildly aware of his congregation, but his thoughts were totally focussed within.

The Epistle was read and the congregation rose for his reading of the Gospel. James followed the words with his finger, saying them aloud without any interpretation. Finished, he slowly climbed the worn stone steps into the pulpit as the people sat down. He laid his prepared sermon on the lectern and stood there, feeling sick.

‘My sermon today is about the journey into Egypt of the Holy Family.’ He began.

Immediately his thoughts snapped as if on elastic, back to Jay and his insurmountable problem. He settled his glasses more firmly and glanced along the pews at the attentive assembled parishioners.

Suddenly his stomach snatched as his eyes fell upon Bert Garrett, the local bobby, sitting in full uniform in a middle row. Complete panic descended upon him. His vision blurred and he fumbled with the papers, which cascaded over the edge of the lectern to the floor beneath.

Paul rushed forward and collected them anxiously and passed them up to him. ‘Get me some water,’ he hissed to the boy, the sweat beading on his forehead. Taking deep breaths, he apologised to the assembly and asked for their patience and prayers. Paul handed him the glass of water and with a shaking hand he put it to his lips and ventured a glance into the middle distance. The policeman was still in his seat, staring stoically ahead.

‘There’s no hope for me now,’ James thought. ‘I have brought shame and disgrace upon my own head. I shall have to continue Mass until the end and meet my punishment head on.’

A shaft of sunlight streaming through the suddenly opened main door caught his attention. A figure crept in surreptitiously, knelt hurriedly and slipped into the back row of pews.

‘There’s plenty of room further up,’ he called out. ‘Please come forward.’

She sidled up the aisle nervously, conscious of people’s critical eyes and found a place beneath the pulpit.

James put on what he thought was a wan smile and bestowed it upon the young woman. She looked up and he nearly fell over the side of the pulpit with shock! He thought he was hallucinating, for she looked just like his youngest sister. The last time he had visited Ireland, she had been a laughing young teenager; but the black hair and dark blue eyes of this anxious looking woman seemed so reminiscent of her. Smiling at him she settled herself for the remainder of the service.

His heart thudded uncomfortably and a nauseating dizziness descended. James apologised profusely to the waiting congregation for not continuing his sermon and struggled, white and perspiring, through to the end of Mass.

He turned at the altar and blessed the people. He could see only two people grossly enlarged before him. One in uniform and the other a girl who had changed from a fifteen year old into a mature woman.

He hurried into the sacristy, divesting himself and waited. The knell of doom large in his mind.

‘Father, Mr Garrett would like a few words with you.’ Paul had shuffled in, the smoking candle snuffer filling the room with acrid smoke.

‘Thank you Paul. Tell him, please, I shall be with him in a few moments.’

James pulled himself together and went through to the house. His thoughts were attacking each other, cold sweat running down his back and fear acrid in his mouth.

‘Oh there ye are, Father.’ Mrs O’Hara seemed not to have stirred from the chair. I’ll be off now. I’ve left ye something in the fridge for the dinner. But ye don’t look too grand, if I may say so, Father? I hope yer not comin’ down with somethin’ nasty.’

‘I’ll be fine - I am so grateful to you for looking after Jay for me.’

‘T’was my pleasure for sure, I must get after me kids to produce some more grandchildren for meself!’ and so saying she dumped the baby into James’ trembling arms and flapped out with a cheery, ‘see yer in the mornin’ then.’ Closed the door and was gone.

Jay and James regarded each other solemnly. Through misty eyes he felt that the baby knew that the time for parting had come. He choked back a sob as reality took him by the throat. He walked slowly back into the church, carrying Jay with tender care.

Both the figures in the front pew arose. The woman pushed past Bert Garrett and rushed towards him, peering anxiously at Jay. Then to his utter surprise and joy, she flung her arms around his neck and whispered, ‘Thank you, thank you Jimmy, I knew she’d be safe with you!’

Bert Garrett rescued Jay from the crush and said awkwardly, ‘This young lady insisted you were her brother. She told me she had left her daughter with you, but the church was locked and she couldn’t make anyone hear at the presbytery yesterday.’

Eileen’s eyes sought her brother’s anxiously, pleading silence. Bert handed Jay back to Eileen and stood hesitantly, turning his cap round in his hands.

‘Well, if you’re sure Jay is all right now, I’ll be off to my duty.’ And he plodded off down the aisle.

James felt an insane desire to throw his head back and laugh with relief and happiness. For not only part of his long separated family had found him, but Jay was of his blood, his niece. He felt Eileen’s hand creep into his and he led her back to the warm kitchen. She handed Jay to him and watched silently as tears slid down his face and onto Jay’s hair.

‘Jimmy, you’ven’t asked me anything - and I bless you for that.’

He shrugged quizzically at her, knowing the torment he had suffered, the temptations put in his path; the crisis of faith, culminating in the last few days.

‘Well, Jimmy, I did leave her for you to find. Her father left us when I became pregnant and didn’t want to know. So when it all went pear-shaped I couldn’t cope on my own. We lived not too far from here, so I made enquiries as Mam had mentioned where she thought you lived.’

‘I crept into the church on Friday evening after everyone had left. When I was quite sure the church was empty, I left Jay. I walked away. But when I calmed down, I found I couldn’t bear being without her so I went back. But I was too late - the church door was locked. I went back to the bed-sit and returned on Saturday, but the church was locked still and I couldn’t make anyone hear at the Rectory. The policeman found me sitting in the churchyard this morning - I’d been there all night.’

She smiled at James ruefully. ‘He didn’t believe me. You know - he said he knew for a fact you had no relatives. ‘ She ground to a halt.

James had listened in silence, rocking Jay tenderly in his arms. He carefully put the tiny baby into the basket and turned to face his youngest sister. He held out his arms to her and she came into them, seeking comfort for her fears.

‘My lovely, lovely girl,’ he soothed, stroking her glossy dark hair - so like her own daughter. ‘you’ve brought me two precious gifts. Your own sweet self and your daughter. Thanks to you, I have found family again and, if you stay I shall never fear loneliness again.’

By Julie Creaven

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Watching The Funeral

From the window of his office in Corby town square, Jim Carron could see the crowd gather outside the Low Kirk, the minister waiting at the door in his black gown, a bible in his hand.

“Will you be gaun tae the funeral?” Mrs Rennie, his secretary asked.

“Fred Bartley’s funeral? The only reason I would be going tae that one’s funeral is to make sure he’s dead. I’ll take the doctor’s word for that.”

Mrs Rennie sighed.

“That’s a terrible thing tae say.”

Pushing fifty with grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses, she was twenty years older than her employer and had known him all her life. His dead mother had been her best friend. She thought of him as a kind of nephew. She had known him as a schoolboy, with short pants and skinned knees. She had known him as a young miner, studying at night school and working for the union. Her heart had swelled with pride when he left the pits to study law at Strathclyde University, and when he had returned to Corby to open his law office, she’d been delighted to take a job as his secretary.

Jim was a fine lad - intelligent, hard-working, good-looking in a roughly handsome way, with blue eyes and a lock of black hair falling over his brow. Kind-hearted too, but he had his black moods, and he was in a black mood now.

“You used tae work wae him,” she said. “In the pit.”

“Aye, that’s right,” Jim smiled sardonically,” I used tae work wae him. He did no work wae me. I carried him, Mrs Rennie. We were together on the girders. You ken what that means?”

Mrs Rennie nodded. Her husband was a miner and had told her all about the girder men. The heavy squad, who wrestled the half circular iron girders through the underground tunnels, manhandling them most of the way through narrow passages, twisted by the weight of the earth pressing down, so that sometimes they were no more than three feet high. Crawling up the underground inclines as steep as a small mountain. Working like donkeys with the half-ton weight of the girder loaded on their backs and the water dripping constantly from the shale roofs so that moments after starting work they were soaked to the skin.

It was a hellish job - the girders. The worst job in an industry which had more than its share of brutal, dirty, dangerous jobs. The girders demanded strength, dexterity and teamwork. They demanded that everybody pulled their weight. Fred Bartley hadn’t pulled his weight. Which meant that most of the time Jim, his workmate, his neebour as the Scottish miners said, was effectively carrying the girders on his own.

Yet in a way, Jim had thought of Fred as a friend - lazy perhaps, a waster maybe, unreliable for certain, but a friend. They had drank together, and played football together, and gone to the dancing together. And at the dancing Jim had introduced Fred to his girlfriend Sally Burns.

Sally was small and trim with coal black hair and eyes like the midnight sky, with stars in it. Her nose turned up slightly at the tip and her mouth looked as if it was always on the point of laughing. Maybe she wasn’t the prettiest girl in the world, but she came close enough and she seemed to sparkle the way champagne sparkles as it flows from the bottle to hit the ice-cold bottom of the glass. To fill the world with light the way a dark room is filled with light when someone switches on an electric bulb.

She was, by mining town standards, well-off. Her grandfather old Tom Burns’ energetic role in the strikes of the 1920’s had got him blacklisted. Unable to work as a miner, he had set up a small garage and care hire firm, and strangely for such an outspoken socialist, displayed considerable skill as a capitalist.

When he died he left his family a small empire of shops and real estate, not to mention the flourishing garage and car hire business, now run by Sally’s brothers. Sally could have lived as a lady of leisure but that was not the Burns family way. Her family had found her a job working behind the counter in Tottolani’s fish and chip shop. And meeting her one Saturday night, Jim had fallen in love with her. He persuaded her to go out with him, had all but picked up the courage to ask her to marry him, was almost certain that she would accept. Almost.

Maybe the love Jim felt for Sally, was on Sally’s part, mere liking. At any rate, when he introduced her to Fred Bartley, he lost her. Fred had charmed her away from him, the way Fred had been charming the girls since childhood.

“Well,” Jim thought now. “At least I took it like a sportsman, offered my congratulations, presented them with a handsome present, wished them every happiness. Yet even at the beginning they didn’t seem all that happy. Dancing with the bride at the wedding, I saw the sadness in her eyes - the worry. You knew then didn’t you Sally - that you had made a mistake. But why? Why did you marry him and not me?”

Six months after the wedding he had got the answer to that one, when the baby boy called Tom arrived, her first son.

“That should have been mine,” Jim thought. “Just like Sally should have been mine. But if I took the loss of Sally without complaint, I could no longer go on working with her chancer of a husband. And Fred was only too happy to part company. The girders were too much like work for his taste, especially when he knew I was leaving for university and he would be unlikely to find another neebour willing to carry him.

“Through the union I was able to get him transferred to a job on the haulage, operating the engine that raised and lowered the underground tubs ... God forgive me for that, for I knew what he was. The irresponsible, stupid fool that he was.”

At the Kirk on the other side of the square, the hearse arrived, followed by a fleet of long black cars, the whole thing arranged, as every funeral in Corby was arranged by Sally’s family. Sally - a small figure dressed in black, got out of the leading car and shook hands with the minister. Looking at her, Jim’s heart lurched.

“You bloody fool,” he told himself. “You bloody fool - she’s not worth it.”

“They would have sacked him,” he said now. “They would have sacked at the pit you ken, if I hadn’t fought his case, my last job as a union man.”

“They did sack him,” Mrs Rennie said.

“Finally. But they would have sacked him before that, before I left for Strathclyde, when he was working on the haulage, when he let a bogie full of coal run away and damn near killed five men. It was a miracle that they got out of the way in time, the management would have sacked him.”

“That was harsh,” Mrs Rennie pointed out. “Accidents happen.”

“He’d been drinking. The management knew that, though they couldn’t prove it. I knew it, though I had to defend him. And I got him off, I was a damned good union man and I’m a damned good lawyer. Same thing really. I got him off - he has a wife and wean, I pleaded ...”

“A wife and wean,” Mrs Rennie realised, “You think should be yours, you still love her don’t you? There’s never been another woman, not after all these years.”

“I saved his job, for Sally’s sake. But they pulled him off the haulage, and thank God for that, for he would have killed someone. And that night in the pub he was bellowing away, about what a useless union man I was because he lost his easy number on the haulage.”

“I ken,” Mrs Rennie sighed. “I ken he was a poultice, a useless bachle, but Jim ...”

They were moving into the kirk now, the minister ushering them solemnly through the door. Jim felt the rage curdled in his gut, “Useless,” he thought. “A useless worthless piece of trash, and she preferred him tae me ...”

He had spent three years at the university. Three years apprenticeship in Fife. Two working as one of a dozen young solicitors for a large firm in Glasgow, before returning to Corby to set up his own practice. To find the pits on their last legs ... and Fred Bartley ...

“Worst mistake my sister, or any other woman I ever heard of ever made,” Ed Burns, Sally’s brother, successful businessman, and Jim’s first client had told him a week after his return to Corby. “Marrying that load of garbage. A brainless, gutless, drunken, no user, and the other women. You’d think after the hell he put Sally through other women would hae sense enough to stay out his road ... but there you are ... aye and he clouted her too. Only the once. No man hits a sister of mine without spending a week in hospital, after the hammering I gave him he gave up on the wife beating. Speaking as a lawyer Jim ... has she grounds for a divorce?”

“More than enough, but you don’t need me tae tell you that.”

“No I don’t, but it will make no difference, she will no hear of a divorce, she has the weans you see, the boy, and the wee girl born a couple of months back. I can see why she is sticking wae him, but it makes me sick.”

“Is he still working in the pit?”

“Is he hell. They caught him smoking doon below. Aye that’s right. I never worked in the pits myself but you canna live in a mining village without kenning only a bloody madman, the sort of crazy, selfish swine who cares for nobody’s safety, not even his ain, smokes doon a pit. They sacked him, all the unions in the world couldn’t save him, not that they were even going tae try.”

“In my day the union would demand the management sack any one risking folks life like that. What happened to him then?”

“A couple of jobs labouring, which the lazy beggar lost within weeks. Fred of course would hae been quite happy to spend the rest of his life on the dole, but I put him tae work in the garage, cleaning up, which is all he’s good for though now and then when I’m short of men, I let him take a hire. He works for me alright, for he kens if I catch him slacking I will kicks his backside tae a jelly.”

They had left the door of the Kirk open and across the square through his office window, Jim could hear the choir singing.

“Change and decay ... all around I see, you that changeth not abide with me.”

“Aye,” Mrs Rennie’s voice broke into his thoughts. “He gave that lassie a hard time, he was nae good and that is the simple truth of it.”

“I was back in Corby over a month,” Jim remembered. “Before I met Sally, coming down the high street with her new baby in a pram, she looked, washed out, defeated, crushed, and maybe she was thinking, I made a bad mistake when I threw over Jim for Fred. Jim could’ve made me happy. Maybe she was thinking that, maybe not.

All she said was, “Hullo Jim ... that’s you back then?”

“Aye, I’m back noo.”

“It’s good tae see you.”

“It’s good to see you, Sally.”

“I stood aside and watched her pushing the pram down the street, maybe she regretted picking Fred over me, maybe she didn’t, but that wan broken face, the sloped, defeated shoulders told their own story. This was a woman who sucked in sadness with every breath she drew, and it serves her right,” Jim told himself. “The way she hurt me. It serves her right. She is suffering, and I’m glad she’s suffering, I hope she’s suffering worse than hell.”

“Look Jim,” Mrs Rennie said. “I’m going tae the funeral. Whatever Fred was, the dead deserve respect, and Jim, I dinna ken what is between you and Sally noo, I dinna ken if there is anything. But it would be gae the lassie comfort if you were there.”

“I don’t want to give her comfort,” Jim’s voice was ashes and agony. “I want her to hurt, I want her to hurt like I was hurt.”

Mrs Rennie sighed. “I’ll tell you something son, something my granny told me when I was wee. There’s only one sin we ken God really hates, for it is the only he never fails to punish, and no in the next world. It makes him so mad he canna wait that long, he deals with it right away, in the here and now, and that is the sin of being a damned fool. I haven’t kent folk get away wae thieving, and adultery and even murder. But no-one ever got away with being a damned fool. Fred Bartley was punished for being a damned fool, and Sally Burns was punished for being a damned fool, and Jim, you are being a damned fool yourself.”

She left Jim still staring out across the square. Watching as Sally came out of the Kirk and got into the car. The other mourners followed her. It had started to rain. There were three churches in Corby. Two Protestant, one Catholic. But only one of those churches, the High Kirk at the top of Hill Brae, had a graveyard attached, in which everyone in Corby, no matter in which church the funeral service was held, had to be buried. Now the mourners from the Low Kirk must follow the hearse up the high street, some in cars, some walking - walking in the rain.

It had been the drink that got Fred Bartley in the end.

“It had been a busy time for Ed Burns’ car hire business,” Jim remembered. “So busy that when a local farmer phoned, demanding a car to drive him into Glasgow in an emergency, Ed had only one driver available - his useless brother-in-law Fred. The last man in the world he would trust with his best Jaguar, but he had no alternative. Fred had driven his hire to Glasgow safely enough. But on the way back he’d stopped for a drink, several drinks, then just outside Corby he’d wrapped the car around a tree, breaking a leg as the Jaguar caught fire, and Fred was left trapped within the car, screaming in agony as the flames leapt around him.” Suddenly that image, that image he’d buried deep in his mind, forcing it down, shutting it out ever since he’d first heard of it, exploded in Jim’s skull. He could hear Fred screaming, smell the burning flesh, and ...

“Poor bastard,” he whispered to himself. “Poor, silly bastard.”

He seemed to be sucked down into a great wet swamp of pity. Pity for Fred Bartley, for Sally and her now fatherless children, pity too, for himself. For a lost and empty world in which folk could survive only by clinging to gestures and rituals, like drowning men clinging to straws, in which gestures and rituals, however empty, baptisms, weddings, funerals, were the only thing that gave life meaning, and mankind some hope of salvation.

Sighing, Jim went to the drawer in which he kept his black tie. He knotted it around his neck and closed the office behind him as he left to join the solemn procession that marked the earthly passage of Fred Bartley.

By Bert Leitch

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One Step Ahead Of Me

Your autumn arrived earlier than expected, we were all surprised. The old oak was losing it’s leaves, even though the twisted roots hung on furiously to the earth. Your determination to not let go was overpowering.

Your body fought your soul till exhaustion. Scratching marks on the wall were a good omen, no more than that.

The phone rang, it was you inviting us to visit you one last time. Daddy’s expressionless face terrified me. Mummy’s incongruent words made me tremble.

Jimmy was still a baby, but sensed the atmosphere, as did the rest of us. Mum opened the front gate. The creaking noise jarred my spine like an electric shock.

As we were driving through the mountains the smell was familiar, bringing me memories from when I could only sleep to the sound of the soothing cries of the wolves. I dropped the window wide open. Waves of fresh wind touched my cheek and briefly kissed my lips.

The narrow, curvy road took us to the peak of the mountain, but today I did not reach for the clouds or the sky, despite trying so hard to touch them on previous journeys. It did not matter. I had learnt to enjoy the journey to reach them.

I could see the sheep further down. From white sheep you get white milk, and from black sheep you get ... ? Daddy did not ask me this question, that day. This was unusual, as he always did ask it at that point of the journey. I kept looking for wild boars but I couldn’t see any. I wondered why they were hiding.

“Look to your right - it’s Ramona’s house,” Ruben said.

Ruben was three years younger than me and we never got on. He knew naming the old stone house would annoy me. Ramona has lived on her own in that isolated house all her life, waiting for someone or something to arrive, but nobody knew who or what. Ruben always laughed at her, as did the rest of the people from the surrounding villages. I always felt sorry for her.

“You’ll end up like her,” Ruben said.

I realised at that point that we should have visited you more. I did not remember when was the last time I felt an uncontrollable impulse to reply to Ruben because of this matter. I must have grown up.

“Can we stop by the fountain?” Mum asked. This was the first time she had spoken since we left Santander.

The unforgettable legend of The Xanas Fountain was told to all children in the area. At twilight time, we all had heard them whispering.

“It’s strange the Xanas are mute today, they don’t giggle anymore. What is wrong with them today, Mum?” I said.

“Perhaps they have gone on holiday to the river. Let’s us, we have to arrive before it gets dark,” Mum replied.

Uncle Teodoro was waiting for us by the double front door. Grandma’s house had always been cold but that day was annoyingly warm. She was upstairs, waiting for us. The doctor had just left, we just missed his car.

As we went upstairs the muttering rosaries rumbled inside the kitchen. We walked along the corridor and Uncle Teodoro’s bony hand pointed at me. I placed mine timidly on the bronze handle, I pressed it down. Then a sunray, full of dust, escaped from the room to the corridor.

A very calm, but still powerful, “Maria, is that you?” echoed from the opposite wall and left the room through the window’s narrow opening.

“Yes,” I replied.

Everything was in its place, the old iron sewing machine, the maroon-covered double bed and the single bed I used at weekends. Every night Grandma tucked me in, crossed my arms and said, “This is the way Little Blanca slept when her guardian angel took her to heaven.”

Grandma was wearing a baby pink nightdress. I never knew her grey hair was so long, as she used to wear it in a bun. My memories hit my mind like striked lightning. There we were - all of us over the bedside table. My first communion, Dad’s first time he took Mum on his vespa, a picture of us fishing ... I felt overwhelmed by the emotion and my mind went blank. Only the opening cracking of a drawer brought me back to the present.

Grandma took something out of the drawer. It was the shell- covered musical box. I could not believe that she was handing it over to me.

“Thank you Grandma,” I said.

She gave me a knowing smile. I too was shocked for words, but we did not need them as we engaged in a weepy hug.

“Sweet Maria, you will soon become a woman,” she said, with a calming and reassuring tone of voice.

Her weepy eyes were full of faith and hope. It was her acceptance of the eternal life cycle that allowed me to walk free from the emotion, and from the room at the same time.

Uncle Teodoro said we had better spend the night at Auntie Rosa’s house. I was looking forward to it as I could meet with my cousin Arabella. I had so much to tell her since the last time we went to our secret cave.

We had a secret cave, a secret tree and a secret river too. They were just a walking mile from Grandma’s house, but we were sure nobody knew them.

That night Arabella and I slept together in the same bed. We talked and talked for hours, until our mouths became dry and our eyelids dropped.

A wet sensation woke me up, I felt uncomfortable and didn’t dare to move.

Arabella was still asleep, despite the effort of the sun to reach her face. I was brave enough to look down. Oh, no. Oh, yes. Grandma was right, I suppose I am a woman now. I was emotionally confused for a few minutes, until I realised it was just another step in the life cycle.

Later that morning Auntie Rosa confirmed that Grandma had completed hers.

By Dr Emma Allende

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The House of the Amaranth

The charabanc pulled in, and out stepped the young man. It wasn’t his favourite town, but it did have strong possibilities in its equitable, geographic and economic latitude.

The tangy odour was keen, and the unfamiliar sea sound in the far parish would soon submerge into insignificance, as he subconsciously reset his parameters.

She was very nice, not like the previous ones who had almost dismantled him for souvenirs. They assimilated, and were married at the local office. They took to the hills as ramblers, and everything seemed idyllic. As the column moved down from Flasby Fell they could see the flag in the distance.

There had been a building there since time long past, and it’s windows were exquisite in the western sun. He saw himself reflected in the light, impertinent, with an ice in his hand.

His heart slowly bled with the scarlet juice upon the grit stone floor, and a shadow was upon his shoulder. He went about his weekly arrangements, settling affairs so that everything would be in order. His wife was in conduct, very suspicious about him, and regarded with some trepidation. They went off to bed, she a little earlier, as he played his favourite music late. Then he went to bed, cuddled his wife, and went to sleep.

As he dreamed, he awoke lucidly. His dream self-dressed, and amiably beyond to his wife in her repose, and hesitantly her spirit answered. He coaxed her in her dream to escort with him to see the fair Amaranth that he would show to her. He held her spirit, and they left together, handed, her ... somewhat unwillingly.

The building was very old, and surrounded by a clever dome. It was near the beach in the sandhills, but before the forest that led to the fertile fields. The young children were invited through the doors and into the reception hall.

“Is this all that was left after it?” asked the small girl with the green eyes, and the pale blonde flowing hair.

The teacher smiled, and answered, “Yes.”

Their third millennial suits twinkled in the radiance, and they passed into the house of the Amaranth.

There, laying on an ancient bed, was a young man and his wife. He had his arm around her, and a smile. The drip-feeds were working and the air conditioning was sensed but not heard. An old tune was barely audible. The children passed out of the house, and into the auditorium. There, they recorded their visit on the computer, each signing his or her name and planet. They were the first children of the stars.

The little girl shed a very tiny tear, “But why?” she asked. The teacher leaned down and took the child’s hand.

“You have pretty eyes, the colour of mine,” she said with rendered tenderness. “Legend has it, that they were of very different cultures. If she died before him, they couldn’t be together, so he arranged that he would take her into a garden, and she could therefore not awaken,” softly spoke the teacher.

“What do they do in the garden?” the puzzled but intelligent little girl asked. The teacher slowly took off her own necklace with its elementary charm, and placed it on the neck of the child, gently kissing her on the cheek.

“They sit and dream under a tree with turquoise fruits, which they must never ever touch.”

The little girl looked through the door, back at the sleeping couple, and saw that the man was now holding his wife’s hands.

By William Smyth

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The Sailor's Story

Strangely enough, it was an old film on TV which made Dad break his self-imposed silence about what happened in the war. The film was a good one - an exciting thriller with a nautical background - made in the early ’50’s, but when I said to Dad, “Come on, why don’t you watch it with me?” he shook his head.

“Hits too near home,” he said.

“What d’ya mean?” I asked.

“You watch the film,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you the story. A true story,” he added.

I did watch the film. It was about the post war misadventures of an MTB (Motor Torpedo Boat) and her crew. For a film made in around 1951, it had a certain gritty realism which was unusual for the time, and I said so to Dad.

“Yes,” he replied. “They did take that on purpose, so I’m told. Wanted to make the general public sit up and take notice. Back then, there were plenty of demobbed ex-servicemen who couldn’t get a job but had skills that were very marketable, at least, they were where the underworld was concerned. They made the film to show that unless people like us got good honest jobs, we’d only go and get better paid dishonest jobs. It worked too,” he added, as he went out and made cocoa, thick with condensed milk, navy style.

Then he came and sat by me, putting his arm around my shoulders, as he had done when telling me a bedtime story, back when I was little.

I looked over his shoulder at the old photograph on the shelf. I’d seen it sitting there for years, but for the very first time, I realised that I didn’t even know the real names of any of the men in the picture.

There was “Father” the MTB’s skipper, tall, dark-haired and suave, with a startling resemblance to the actor who had played the skipper in the film I’d just seen.

“Jimmy” (short for Jimmy the one, or First Officer) - shorter, cheerfully grinning, already beginning to lose his hair.

“Mac” the engineer, who, since all marine engineers in the early days were presumed to be Scots, was never called anything else. He was fair-haired, tall and looming, with a badly reset broken nose which gave him a menacing look.

Then, there was “Sparks” the radio operator. Small, thin and looking a lot less than his seventeen attested years, They were all standing in front of a damaged MTB, but Dad wasn’t in the picture. He had taken it.

“Underworld?” I asked when it seemed that he wouldn’t say anything else.

“Ar,” he grunted.

“Like in the film?” I asked, aghast. That started him off.

“The five of us were an MTB crew in the war. I was cox’n, at the helm,” he explained. “Sometimes, we picked up downed airmen, them as had baled out, like. It was a race to get them to hospital before they died of their injuries, or of the cold. The channel in winter was no place to go for a swim,” he added dryly.

“Other times we got up to mischief. Spying, raiding Nazi installations, landing commandos, oh, we had ourselves an exciting time. Came in shot up more than once, but then the war ended. It was a year before we all got out, but when we did, we found there wasn’t any work. All we knew was boats and ships, but the shipping lines already had their pick of war heroes from out of the battleships and destroyers.”

He stopped talking and looked up at the picture.

“And?” I prompted.

“Smuggling then was different, not like bootlegging today. For a start, France was in a worse state that we were. We had to go clear away to Tangiers to load up. Cigarettes, silk stockings, French brandy, perfumes, even chocolate. Everything that was still rationed over here. It was illegal alright, but it didn’t seem to us as if we were doing anything wrong. A’ course, we were - wrong I mean,” he said.

“Later on, we got into some really nasty fights with some other smugglers, but we never messed with the Excise and we never killed anybody. It got tough though. Mac died in very mysterious circumstances in 1950 and nobody ever found out the truth of what happened to him, but Father and I were out of it then.”

“It was ’48,” he said, taking a long sip of his cocoa. “Rotten winter, nasty it was. We had decided to make one more run before Christmas, get everybody their presents, see? We went down to Tangiers, like always. There was something bad in the wind, you could almost feel it. We were glad to get out of there, I can tell you. Father took us straight across the Bay of Biscay, he was in such a hurry to get us home. Nothing unusual about that. We often did it, except that this time, the weather broke. Storm force ten wasn’t in it,” he said roughly, his hand clutching my shoulder as if to reassure himself that I was still there and that those days were really over and done.

“Anyway, we were shipping it green, the whole way across the bay. We were near frozen with the cold and so wet it didn’t make no difference. We’d all got our sweaters on and our waterproofs, with towels round our necks to keep out the drips, but the waves broke over the bows and the wind tore into us, the rain so hard that we had welts on our faces for days afterwards. Wasn’t a thing we could do, except wait till the weather cleared a bit. Father had me turn her head into the wind, so’s we wouldn’t roll over, then he dropped the engine revolution, but after that, there was nothing we could do except make as good a course as we could. That was easier said than done, I can tell you.”

I could imagine it as he spoke, the wind flinging the waves right in their faces, the rain drenching then despite the protective clothing, for the MTB’s were not fully decked and in the sort of weather Dad was talking about, the rain and spray would be hitting them from all directions.

“Sounds awful,” I said.

“Known worse, but not often,” Dad agreed. “Anyway, instead of clearing up, the weather just got worse.”

“How could it be any worse?” I asked him.

“Snow,” he said grimly. “This was 1948 remember. No loran, no GPS and the radar was pretty dicey too. We couldn’t heave to, ’cos if we did the wind and the water’d have had us truck over keelson, andwe wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in those seas. All we could do was keep heading roughly north and hope that we’d see a lighthouse before we smashed into something solid, like the Isle of Wight.”

“Where were you headed then ... Southampton?”

“The Solent anyway. Southampton Docks wouldn’t have been too healthily a place for us in those days,” Dad replied with a grim laugh. “Luckily, our cargo was all wrapped up and all battened down. That would have been the end of us, if our cargo had shifted, but it didn’t. So, there we were, smack in the middle of the Bay of Biscay when it begins to snow so hard that we were almost lost in the white-out. Not the best place to be on a cold winter’s night.”

“So, what did happen? The MTB didn’t sink, or you wouldn’t be here today,” I said.

“That’s for sure,” Dad almost snapped. “That night I really said my prayers. After a time, the wind dropped a bit, but we still had no idea where we were. The radar kept showing false returns.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I think the signals got bounced off the waves and the radar thought that they were dry land. The Jimmy seemed to have a pretty good idea of where we were though, and he kept telling Father that we were too far east and that if we weren’t careful, we’d be fouling the Goodwin Sands. About then, the snow started to ease off and the wind dropped a little more, so Father got out his sextant out and tried for a star sight while Sparks was trying to pick up a direction-finding signal off the radio set. Then Jimmy took the helm from me and sent me out into the bows with a pair of binoculars. Hell’s teeth, but it was cold. I scanned the sea in every direction, but it was as black as the bottom of a coal mine. Then I saw it, bright, like a star shining through the clouds. “Light, fine on the starboard bow,” I called out and Father exchanged his sextant for his binoculars.

He must have seen it too, for he shouted, “Full ahead, starboard, full astern port! Port 30! Midships! Half ahead both! Meet her man, meet her!”

The Jimmy was almost as good as me. The engines screamed in protest, but in less time than it takes to tell, we were in a fast turn to port. Midships, the Jimmy reported then, still fighting to get the wheel back. We’d turned 90 degrees in no time and we were heading more or less west.”

“What made Father turn the ship so fast?” I asked.

“Because I think he saw what I saw,” Dad told me. Why else would he turn us round so fast, so dangerously? We could have turned turtle if the wind had caught us wrong.”

“What did you see?” I asked curiously.

“I’ll swear to my dying day that what I saw was a castle,” Dad said, almost defiantly. “A medieval castle, with soldiers walking the battlements and torches blazing. It was all lit up bright, like it was a moonlit night in summer, rather than dark of the moon in a winter snowstorm.”

“Dad,” I warned. “This isn’t one of your old sailor yarns is it?” I asked, before adding, “Couldn’t it have been some kind of pageant?”

“No.” Dad said."Not in the middle of a winter’s night, and anyway, have you ever been to Hastings?”

“I’ve been to Folkestone and Dover, but I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hastings. Why?” I asked thoughtfully.

“’Cos if you’d have been there, you’d know that there’s almost nothing left of the castle. It fell into the sea years ago. There’s a wall or two, but that’s it. No battlements or nothing. And that’s where we turned out to be ... off Hastings.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“’Cos what happened next was that Sparks got us a radio fix off of RAF Manston’s beacon, bless his little heart. We were too far east, just like the Jimmy had thought. Well, once I saw the castle, I knew that too.”

“Dad,” I exclaimed.

“Most sailors know the story,” Dad said slowly, almost reluctantly, “but of those who ever saw it, damn few of ’em ever lived to tell the tale. It was Hastings Castle. Hardly anything there today, but so the story goes, if you’re coming into Hastings in bad weather, look out for the castle and if you see it, sheer off, or you’ll wreck yourselves for sure.” Dad sounded so certain, but he’d told me so many tall tales in the past that I was still doubtful.

“Maybe there was some kind of display?” I suggested.

“Like I say, Hastings Castle is in ruins. Most of it fell into the sea years ago. There were no soldiers on the battlements in 1948, ’cos there weren’t any battlements left.” Dad saw my face and went on. “We made the Solent about six hours later. Once we’d unloaded, Father told us that he was getting out of the trade right away. We’d been paid for the trip and now would be a good time to get out. I went with him. The Jimmy, Mac and Sparks decided to stay, but a few months later, the Excise caught up with them and they all did time in prison, then Mac disappeared and his body was found in the Solent, a long time afterwards. The last I heard of Jimmy or Sparks, they went off to Canada and we soon lost touch. If I hadn’t seen Hastings Castle that night and Father hadn’t sheered us off, I reckon we’d likely have all been killed ourselves, one way or t’other,” he exclaimed. “Reckon that castle saved my life,” Dad finished off his cocoa and stared at me, as if challenging me to disbelieve him.

By Dana Adler

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Thistledown Fairies

It should have been a beautiful day. One of those rare English summer afternoons where it is possible to sit in the garden with a sleeveless t-shirt and an iced cold drink, admiring the flowerbeds and shrubs which seem to have come alive with colour all at once, and the cool breeze skips lightly against bare skin in a pleasant, almost caressing manner.

As it was, the mood was flat and depressed. People shuffled up the garden path individually or in small groups, in tight uncomfortable clothing. Men pulled irritably at tight stifling collars and women continually ran their hands down the front of their thighs to remove invisible creases from their skirts. Once inside the house, conversation was sparse and minimal and at one point, the outbreak of high-pitched laughter sounded odd and eerie and was quickly stifled.

The garden was empty now except for a young boy who had remained unnoticed, crouched under the shade of a large apple tree, collecting thistledown flowers. Nothing about the boy would have seemed out of the ordinary if it hadn’t been for the unusual way in which he was dressed. His mother might have put him in his best suit and combed his hair smartly for the occasion but today he had been left to dress himself. His choice of clothing was his grandmother’s purple tights pulled up to his chest with his yellow Speedos and a vest over the top. He still wore his favourite Superman slippers and the ensemble was completed by a folded shower curtain tied around his neck as a makeshift cape, and a sparkly cowboy hat left over from last Halloween covered his tangled hair.

The boy moved into the centre of the lawn to give himself plenty of space, clutching a bundle of thistledown flowers close to his chest protectively. Then he picked one and inspected it, before holding it out at arm’s length and beginning to spin as fast as he could, closing his eyes as he did so. When he eventually stopped and opened his eyes, everywhere he looked he was surrounded by the beautiful seeds floating away in all directions and the result seemed to please him, so much in fact that he let out a small chuckle and proceeded to repeat the game again and again.

At length he ran out of flowers and as he turned to go and collect more he saw his father coming down the path towards him. He sighed as he realised the game was probably over and it was time to go somewhere important. He turned his back on him again, pretending not to see him but the deception didn't work and his father reached him and paused by his side. They stood together in silence for a few minutes, staring at the beautiful garden but not really seeing it, and the thistledown seeds one by one floated away to become snagged on nearby bushes or in the long grass, until only one remained. The boy’s father reached out with disinterest and caught the seed between his thumb and forefinger, much to the alarm of the boy.

"Let it go Dad, let it go! Or else my wish won’t come true!"

The man looked slightly amused but then stopped as he saw the consternation on the boy’s face.

"I'm sorry son. I didn't realise it was a wish."

The young boy continued to frown."Don’t you know anything? Everybody knows that thistledown fairies contain wishes. Mum says so."

"Fairies?" said the man, confused. "I thought you blew the seeds to tell the time?"

"No," said the boy. "Mum says the seeds are carried by fairies that take your wish away with them and if they manage to float all the way back to their home, then your wish comes true. I felt sad today. That’s why I told her I was going to make wishes in the garden."

A pained expression briefly crossed the man’s face as he looked down at the boy.

"Yes, of course - I speak to her all the time - silly."

The man looked skywards, blinking back tears and quickly changed the subject. "So son, what did you wish for then, or can’t you tell me?"

The boy tilted his head to one side briefly, as if deciding whether or not to answer, but then replied:

"I wanted to go back in time."

"That sounds exciting. What did you want to do that for?"

"I wanted to go back and save her."

Then the father understood the reason for his son’s unusual clothing and decided not to tell him to change, as he had originally intended. He knew it was not healthy to allow his son to believe that dressing as a superhero or making his wishes would help in any way. But at that moment a feeling of relief took over; relief that his son understood what had happened to a certain extent and that he wouldn’t have to explain the concept of death to the small child again. He smiled briefly as he could almost hear the boy’s mother chiding him for what was not his first and certainly would not be his last parenting mistake. She had always been the stronger and wiser of the two.

He sighed and, realising he was still holding the “fairy” in his hand, gently passed it to the young child, ensuring he didn’t damage it. The small boy placed the fairy on his open palm and gently blew on it. They stood and observed the fairy float away up into the air for a few moments, watching it get smaller and smaller.

The father didn’t speak but merely squeezed the boy’s shoulder to comfort him. Then he led the now-weeping boy slowly down the path towards the street, just as black cars arrived and people began to emerge from the house. High above their heads the single thistledown fairy still drifted slowly upwards with the breeze, carrying with it a little bit of hope. Unseen, it reached as high as the tallest tree in the garden and it looked like it might just escape. But at the last moment it became snagged amongst the uppermost leaves - and the hope was gone. As the party made its way onto the street, the little boy ripped off his makeshift cape in despair. Nobody mentioned what a beautiful day it was.

By Elizabeth Anne Holt

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Bare Wolf

I'd never seen Tom like this. “The Trowel” - as he was affectionately known - poked his head around the door of The Wander Inn and scanned the room with quick Terminator-like glances. Fortunately for him, his arrival coincided with that instant straight after one receives his pint and sups that first sip -that moment, with the glass to your lips, when you turn around and assess your new surroundings - before proceeding to conjure one last scrap of decisiveness from your overworked brain.

Unfortunately for me, my assessment was passing over the door and we locked eyes for a split-second, before he brought his right hand into view and beckoned me toward him in a movement of anger and desperation.

I'd have been foolish to ignore him. They call him “The Trowel” because he makes a coal shovel look like one.

“It's Vinegar.” He shook his head in distress.

“Malt or cider?” I joked, but quickly regretted doing so. Tom composed himself and thrust his face within six inches of mine.

“My dog Vinegar, the beggar's gone off again.” He turned around and brought his hands to his face, “Vinnie!” he boomed. His voice rattled the surrounding windows and prompted echoes from the remainder of the search party scattered throughout Pooty village.

“I'm sorry Tom,” I took another sip ... to highlight the important deeds he was interrupting. “I haven't seen him.”

“Haven't, eh?” He relaxed a little, ignored my tongue, my obvious slurp, and continued down a different route of conversation. “You don't see much do you?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“You ... don't ... see ... much. Do you? What with your nose being buried in your sieve o'dirt all day. And then being at the chip bar, or this here ale-bar the rest of the time.”

“W-w-well,” I stuttered. “I do see it as sort of my duty. This Saxon history is certainly not a holiday. The work we do, well it's for the benefit of all of us with a specialist knowledge on the subject ...” I trailed off.

“Of course. Of course. I'm sorry,” he replied. “I'm worried - that's all. Little Vinegar, and what with all the dancing lights and everything.” He began to back away.

“Lights?” I looked down into the bubbles of my pint. “You don't seriously believe ...”

But Tom was already hiking off into the summer dusk.

“Vinnie! Vinnie!” he shouted.

You don't see much, do you? The words haunted me for a second. But I soon snapped back as “The Trowel” moved further away. Well, no Tom. No. Someone has to keep their eyes on the task at hand. We can't all get caught up in this hokum! Finally he rounded the corner at the end of the road.

“See you later then Tom,” I called to no-one, slipped back inside, and sat down.

The next day we all saw it. Tom saw it, I saw it and a throng of UFO spotters came to see it too. A crop circle that might as well of spelled “HOAX” due to its elaborate swirls and patterns. It was impressive. But I wasn't best pleased with the carnival atmosphere that descended on Pooty Hills once Tom began prattling to the visitors about his dancing lights.

The scene was beginning to remind me of a previous dig at The Standing Stones of Casunt. Strangely, there were further similarities to those eerie few days spent digging in the area. I will never forget hearing of the way dogs acted at that place. Although they never went missing, they developed a frightening habit of emitting a wolf-like howl anytime they entered the stone circle. Of course I couldn't tell Tom about this.

I didn't want to encourage his misplaced eagerness to analyse the sky at any possible moment. However, we were all more than relieved once news arrived of Vinegar's safety in the company of some ramblers. They'd found him in a salt marsh nearby, though I presumed that Tom would not see the funny side of this.

Soon enough, a far more impressive phenomenon was exciting the villagers at Pooty. After a day of ignoring the furore over in the adjoining field, I came across something.

“Tom! Bones, Tom! It's a burial mound, a Saxon burial mound!”

“So it is,” Tom bent down over me. “Wow. Some day we're having?”

“Get Jenny over here ... and see if Bert's got a tent in the van, we need to get it covered.”

“Yep,” Tom replied and got to his feet.

I knew it! I knew it! “Hey Tom,” I called after him. “Don't see much, aye? The chips are on you tonight, mate.”

I think I even saw the brute smile.

We called him Bare Wolf. The excavation work was painstaking and continued long after the sun had given up on the summer altogether. Tom didn't give up on the lights though and the crowds continued to flock to Pooty. Jugglers and clowns entertained the masses and a giant straw woman was constructed in celebration.

Additional discoveries provoked more theories about the events that had once taken place at the site. First was the curious manner by which Bare Wolf had met his death, signified by nothing less than a smash to the skull.

But it was our cool blonde assistant, Jenny, and her blipping metal detector that caused the uproar. She photographed the evidence and we reconvened at The Wander Inn for an emergency meeting.

“Is that what you want?” Tom asked. “The police to come in, smash up your precious Bare Wolf? It won't do any good.”

“Well they'll have to know at some point.” I looked to Jenny for assurance. “Tell us about those scraps of material you found. I mean, they were under the body weren't they. I'm certainly more willing to believe that Bare Wolf is some sort of elaborate red herring, rather than anything extra-terrestrial.”

“The material ... ” Jenny started. “It's of a very high quality. Expensive. Even by modern standards.”

Everyone listening went quiet for a moment, silenced by their own bafflement.

“And the other thing.”

Jenny looked back at me and then fixed her eyes anxiously on Tom. “Well, it's sort of like ... a mobile phone.”

Again there was silence. But all the eyes of the room were now on “The Trowel”, each of us expectant of some vulgar display of excitement. Instead Tom leant back in his chair and began to stare at nothing in particular. He then took a great slow gulp from his ale and finally began to speak.

“Time travel,” he muttered.

“'What? What?” I pleaded in disbelief. “Time travel! You've lost it mate. Seriously lost it.”

Thankfully the street was deserted when I got outside. I took a brief moment to collect my thoughts. Well, the carnival of crazies has gone. Maybe Tom can join them. For no reason really, I headed back up to the site. My feet just seemed to walk me there. It must've been force of habit.

When I got there, dusk had settled. The smell of scorched grass filled my nostrils before I could guess the position of the straw woman or the tent but I soon realized where the stench was coming from. They'd destroyed the structure. After kneeling to touch the burnt patch with my hand, I hurried to the tent with disbelief that we'd left it unattended in the heat of the moment. The moonlight cast some light through the door and into the excavation.

It was gone. All of it - Bare Wolf and all our hard work.

I went to the van to find Jenny's folder and fished out her photos of the day’s finds. Under the interior light I examined and re-examined the photo. It looked like the thing was malfunctioning. But there was a message there, on the screen that read “Castle Hunting”.

Castle Hunting? What could that mean? I sat back in the driver's seat and looked through the rest of the photos. The skull. The bones. The crop circle. But my head was thinking one thing only. Castle Hunting? It doesn't even make sense. Who'd hunt castles? How could you hunt a castle? It needed to be deciphered, but something interrupted me, a distant sound - somehow familiar but altogether unexpected. It came closer.

“Vinnie! Vinnie!”

I looked back at the photo and thought about Tom and his theories. The dancing lights in the sky. Time travel. His shouts were getting louder as I stared deep into the message. Was it in code? It didn't change exactly, but the letters of those two words seemed to re-assemble themselves and begin to say something new.

“Launch Testing”.

By Vann Scytere

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Heart Found

It was a warm and calm November afternoon. The Adelaide sky was a deep shade of blue and completely cloudless.

Paul Stevens walked along War Memorial Drive, returning from the statue of Light's Vision. Over to his left, a cricket match was in progress at the Adelaide Oval. To him, it was another memory jerker. It brought back the enjoyable days when he watched cricket there in the past.

He turned right into King William Road. The traffic was heavier there but the warm, slow-moving air seemed to mute the sound. He came to the bridge and leant over for a moment, looking down at the quietly flowing Torrens. Along the bank, the shade of a golden wattle looked inviting. He went down the steps and walked along the bank. He settled himself gratefully on the grass under the yellow blossoms, his feet feeling a little tender.

“And no wonder,” he mused, “with all the walking I've done.”

He'd spent the day walking around the familiar memory-laden parks and gardens, seeing again some of the beauty that had given him so much pleasure in happier days - like the startling blue of the jacaranda trees against the quiet, green backdrop of the ever-present eucalyptus. Janet had always said that was her favourite sight.

As he thought of Janet, the old tenderness came into his mind. There was no bitterness now - time had softened his tragic grief into sorrow. As he lay back on the warm grass, idly watching a bee nuzzle the wattle blossoms, he let his thoughts turn to the past.

He remembered when they first set foot in Adelaide, about six years ago. It was the culmination of months of preparation after the decision had been made. He'd been nervous in case things had gone wrong, but once the idea had been born, both he and Janet knew it had to be carried through.

With Janet and six-year-old Sarah beside him, he'd set himself to meet the challenge of their new life. At first it hadn't been easy. The way of life was so different, it wasn't something you talked about in the pub for a few moments. The change was twenty four hours a day, and much more of their time was spent outdoors than they had previously been used to.

Anyway, slowly they adapted. After the initial struggle, things started to go well. As an engineer he had a reasonably good job, and later he branched out on his own.

For four years they settled comfortably into the Aussie way of life. Bush barbeques, Christmas Day on the beach, lots of swimming and sometimes, when things got hectic, he'd spend a few quiet hours bream fishing in the Port River. He even started to understand the peculiar Aussie rules football.

Sarah liked her school. Her accent, the source of much amusement, was a comical mixture of Australian and her native Yorkshire. Janet had become even more beautiful, reacting to the climate like a hothouse flower. Life was easy and good - too good.

Tragedy had come in the shape of a school-organised trip around the vineyards of the Barossa Valley to the north of Adelaide. On the way back, the bus had left the road and hurtled a hundred feet down a wooded slope, smashing trees and bushes on the way, before rolling over. The driver and two children were killed and ten children were injured. One of the children killed was Sarah.

Looking back, he realised how much Janet must have needed him, but at the time, his mind-shattering grief enveloped everything he thought and did. Janet became very unsettled, and began to talk about getting away from everything that reminded her of Sarah.

Very soon she decided that she wanted to return to their home town in England. He agreed, not caring much where he lived. They sold up and moved back to England.

It hadn't been hard to start up again in business. This was mainly thanks to the expertise and experience he'd gained in Australia. He'd thrown himself into it with such vigour that he'd become quite successful. Unfortunately for Janet, there was nothing that needed her total commitment. She was lost and lonely, with Sarah's death weighing on her constantly.

He thought of the hurt in her eyes when he had to go out of town for a couple of days, or was late home from another business dinner. He knew she'd begun to imagine there was someone else. There never had been, of course, but in his bitterness he refused to reassure her. Of all the things that had happened, he thought, that was the hardest to understand. How two people as much in love as he and Janet could allow their relationship to deteriorate so much.

It became too much for Janet. He came home one evening to find she'd left. There was a note explaining that she needed time on her own to think things through.

Even now, his blood ran cold at the memory. She must have been desperately unhappy, and he'd been worse than useless.

At first, it served to increase his bitterness, but as he began to miss her, he also began to realise what she must have been going through.

As he rested comfortably on the warm grass, he thought of the months of searching. Frantic at first, but with each disappointment becoming more subdued, until he finally realised it was hopeless. No one had seen or heard from her since she left a year ago.

In that year he'd become a solitary, lonely person - once again immersing himself in his business, giving himself as little free time as possible. It wasn't just the loneliness that saddened him, but also the realisation that he'd failed Janet when she needed him most. He couldn't have stopped her from grieving after Sarah's death, but he could have helped her share the burden of her sorrow. Now he couldn't find her, even if she wanted his help.

Paul raised his arm in front of his face and squinted against the bright sky to see his watch. It was four o'clock. A few more minutes and he'd make his way back to his hotel. He knew it was unsociable staying in a hotel when he had so many friends in and around Adelaide, but he'd no wish to meet anyone and have to explain his situation.

Ever since he’d landed in Melbourne a couple of days ago to attend a business conference, he knew that he wouldn't be able to leave without seeing Adelaide again. What had drawn him? He wasn't sure, but he booked an early plane and sat nervously through the journey, wondering if the tragedy of past events would blot out the earlier and happier memories.

He needn't have worried. From the time the plane flew out across the Gulf of Saint Vincent, to bank steeply for the run into the airport runway, the happy memories flooded back.

In those earlier days, even the steep turn of the aeroplane had fitted like an exciting entrance into their new life. Janet had gripped the seat nervously, saying later she felt sure the plane would slip sideward into the sea.

Today, as soon as he landed, he took a taxi to nearby Glenelg and booked into a hotel. His flight back was early in the morning. He chose Glenelg because that was where they had lived when they first arrived in Australia.

After a quick cup of tea, he set off on his tour of memories. A short walk along the jetty, marking in his mind their favourite places on the beach. He then gazed out over the Patawalonga boat haven, the crisp sun turning the lake into unruffled silver in places. Such beauty they had known. Then he took one of Glenelg's unique trams to Adelaide.

Now his day was nearly over, and he was glad he'd come. It had been a pleasant interlude in his glum life. Maybe now he'd laid his ghost - he could snap out of the past and live life with a bit more hope. He didn't really believe it, but he would have to try.

He sat up as the sound of a motor caught his attention. A Popeye pleasure boat was coming into view round a bend in the river. The Popeye boats were simple hulled boats, with rows of seats covered by a basic canopy, used for sightseeing trips along the river.

He gazed at the brightly painted craft, the sound of Sarah's excited laughter ringing in his mind. How she loved going for a trip on the Popeye. They used to play a game, pretending that the banks were peopled by imaginary creatures, hiding amongst the sometimes strange-looking gum trees. Her big brown eyes would get even bigger as they approached a bend, ready to imagine something even more exciting.

The old familiar depression once again clouded his mind as he compared his life then to now. He quickly shoved the thoughts away. That was enough of memories - it was time to go - time to start being realistic. Dream time was over.

He stood up and took a last lingering look at the nearing boat. It was about half full, mostly of children bunched tightly to the front. There was an attractive woman sitting alone a couple of rows behind the main crowd of passengers. Surely it couldn't be? He gasped in disbelief. The sudden emotion surged through his body, making his voice shake as he almost screamed her name.

“Janet! Janet!”

She turned, rising from her seat as she saw him, her hands gripping the side of the boat. Even from where he stood, he could see the tears of joy welling up in her eyes. She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

He started to run along the bank, up the side of the bridge and down onto the other bank. The Popeye had docked at the little board jetty. Janet was running to meet him, tears streaming down her face. She threw herself into his arms, clinging to him.

“I knew you'd come,” she gasped, “I knew you'd come.”

There was no need for explanations, no need for apologies. They only wanted each other, whatever the terms.

By Cyril Dick

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The Girl In The Opticians

Dazzling clouds hung pendulously overhead. The city sweltered with the moisture and closeness of a sauna as Sunny Meadow, freshly awoken, peeled himself from his sweaty, sticky bed and stepped out into the midday sun; eyes still glazed and crusty, his short uncombed afro looking uneven and patchy. He made the same fifty metre walk from his guesthouse to Seven Eleven that he made every day to buy his breakfast.

Stood behind the counter, like every day, was Fon, but - unlike Sunny - looking wide awake and so fresh and so clean. He imagined she smelt as fresh as she looked, but he hadn't got close enough to know for sure. Once again, her face was just one big beaming smile.

"Sawasdee ka," she radiated as he opened the door and entered the shop (the familiar beep-beep alerting her of his presence).

"Sawasdee krap," came his routine, shy reply. This was always as far as their conversation went.

Despite living in Thailand for six months, he was unable to muster enough for a conversation in Thai, and she, only coming into contact with the odd tourist who wandered into the shop, was unable to speak English. And so, this had been the extent of their relationship for six months: He'd walk in, she'd smile. He'd pull a funny face, and she'd smile some more. He'd buy a yoghurt or a bottle of water, and then he'd leave again. This day was no different. It was the way he liked it.

He'd become far too familiar with far too many women in Hua Hin. It had got to a point where he couldn't go anywhere without bumping into a woman he'd shagged, or a friend of a woman he'd shagged. Sometimes he'd bump into an attractive young lady but he couldn't remember if he'd shagged her or if she'd just jacked him off in one of the numerous massage shops he frequented. Or was she just a familiar, friendly face from one of the bars?

It was refreshing for him to have a woman friend in this town he hadn't shagged and he knew he probably never would, or could. She was a nice girl; a good girl with no interest in tourists and their money. He believed her choice in men was driven by the heart, not her financial situation, and he admired that.

He ambled back to his room with his purchases where he wasted no time getting stuck into them. Once they'd been tucked away and he'd had a shit, shave and a shampoo, he walked 100 metres or so in the opposite direction to Seven Eleven, his favourite coffee-shop. He'd go there almost every day to crack on with his writing (the main reason he was in Thailand).

He liked the air-conditioned surroundings and the view through the huge, plate glass windows, watching the hubbub of activity on the street outside. But most of all he liked the fact that the coffee-shop was positioned directly opposite an opticians staffed by six very sexy ladies who all wore identical all-white uniforms, save for the cuffs and collars which incorporated a grouping of navy stripes, giving the outfit a vaguely nautical feel. (However he'd never before come across a sailor in such a tight-fitting skirt that ended so far above the knee, leaving so little to the imagination. Nor had he before had the pleasure of meeting a sailor who stirred things up for him quite like one of the sexy minxes in particular).

Like with Fon in Seven Eleven, this relationship hadn't gone anywhere either. For a few months he just saw all the girls in the shop as one big, sexy, white untouchable blur. He failed to pick out individuals' features and faces. In fact for a long time he didn't look at their faces at all: He was much more interested in admiring and fantasising about their long, brown, slender, stockinged legs, and the way they tapered into unfeasibly high-heeled stilettos. Anytime he was stuck for an idea when writing, he'd glance out the window and across the street, and found they made more than an adequate form of entertainment until something else to write about popped into his head.

But, after a while of general lustful admiration from afar, one girl in particular came to the fore. Of all the girls, he decided the uniform fitted her best, perfectly accentuating her tiny waist, perfect booty and toned, ample thighs, which he imagined felt like silk and smelt like honey. She wore high, white stilettos (the shoe of choice for the stereotypical Essex girl) but her fantastical figure combined with her beautiful face, which seemed to perfectly combine almost childlike innocence with a very knowing, womanly sexuality, enabled him to see beyond this little faux pas on her part. In fact, on her, even the shoes held great sex appeal.

The first time they made eye-contact was one lunchtime. He was in his usual window seat, hunched over his pad, scrawling down very scribbly words (probably only readable by him) when she and a friend pulled up outside the shop on a moped, having popped out to buy a takeaway lunch. She was on the back, riding side-saddle, holding a see-through bag containing white polystyrene trays full of spicy salad, chicken and rice. Initially his eyes were drawn to the girl’s majestic legs, and he briefly mused what lay between them, but as his eyes ascended her body and finally reached her exotic, cherub-like face he noticed she was staring straight at him.

Embarrassed, he looked away. A moment later, when he felt enough time had passed for him not to appear creepy, he looked again. She was still looking. For that split-second when their eyes met again he studied her face, trying to gauge her thoughts. She neither looked happy nor sad; pleased nor annoyed by his attention. She just reflected his gaze back at him. Being a fairly shy guy and unable to smile convincingly in awkward situations, and feeling the penetrative force of her piercing brown eyes (still not knowing the feelings behind them), once again he averted his gaze, and once again appeared to earnestly scribble in his pad, pretending he was writing.

The third time he looked, her eyes were already on him as if she was waiting for him. This time she allowed a small smile to escape her pouty, red lips which shot a tonic of embarrassed shock through his veins. His cheeks flushed and his eyes dropped to the page in front of him momentarily, before lifting again and returning her friendly offering in the form of an awkward, forced smile which he knew was inadequate and looked ridiculous, but it was all he could muster under pressure.

As days went by, he relaxed considerably. Every day - he behind the glass of the coffee-shop window and she that of the opticians - they would glance across the small road between them and wave or smile at each other before he went back to his writing and she went back to staring into space. For the majority of the day, the opticians was completely devoid of customers, leaving the girls looking very bored and with oodles of time for the application of make-up and space-staring. He often thought she probably only paid him attention out of boredom and if she had things to do she wouldn't give him the time of day.

After a week, her glances became gazes. After two, she seemed to beckon him into the shop with her eyes and body language, sitting as close to the window as she could, right in his line of vision so he couldn't miss her. All the time she was flicking her dark, reddish hair and crossing and un-crossing her legs (not an easy feat in such a tight-fitting skirt), trying anything to attract his attention. But he snubbed her attempts and snuffed out her advances, always just responding with a distant wave or a hint of a smile (the kind one gives their postman when they pass them on the street) and then going back to his work.

It wasn't that he didn't find her attractive. Quite the contrary; in some ways there was nothing he'd have liked more than to walk around town with her baby-soft hand in his, to have shared romantic, moonlit seafood platters at one of the pier restaurants, and to have made love to her smooth, vanilla-fudge-coloured, delightful body. But one thing he'd learnt during his time in Thailand was such activities are a lot more pleasurable when confined to the imagination. The ease with which he'd been able to share intimacy with almost any woman he'd found attractive in Thailand (whilst having its benefits) had managed to destroy the so powerful feelings of eroticism and romance. How could such feelings exist among people who'd drop their knickers at the flash of a debit card or a thousand baht note?

When he looked at the girl in the opticians, his mind was able to wander. She could be anything he wanted her to be. For him that was highly romantic and often erotic. He knew if he spoke to her, he'd almost certainly pull. Whereas, back home, that was far from a guarantee, and therefore quite unnerving and thrilling. (He recalled Oscar Wilde's quote about romance only existing where there's uncertainty). Then sooner or later he'd be in her knickers, and she'd be just another notch on the bedpost and the illusion would be shattered. For him, this way was much better. He didn't want to know her name, her age, where she came from or even the sound of her voice. He wanted her to remain the girl across the street. The girl inside his head. The girl in the opticians.

When his stories were written and his money spent, Sunny left Hua Hin and Thailand and returned home. Now all the girls from all the bars he shagged whilst there, are a big, brown blur he struggles to remember. But the girl in the opticians; he still thinks about her from time to time, and when he does, he thinks about what could've been. It gives him a good feeling inside.

By Richard Bennett

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The Clydebank Blitz

Clydebank was experiencing a warm, sunny, spring day. It was March 13th, 1941 and the Tivoli Cinema in Crow Road, in nearby Hyndland, was showing The Great Dictator starring Charlie Chaplin. Some of Bob and May McGarvey’s neighbours had gone off to watch the “picture”. The family was staying at 19 North Elgin Street, only a few hundred yards from John Brown’s Shipyard and about half a mile from Singer, which was now manufacturing munitions. Although the shipyard was building warships and Singer munitions, Clydebank had so far been spared the attentions of the German Luftwaffe. That was about to change. The town of Clydebank had been built during the late 19th century, along the banks of the river Clyde, approximately 10 miles from the city of Glasgow. It was world famous for its shipbuilding; and with the conversion of the Singer sewing machine factory to the production of munitions, it was one of Britain’s most valuable resources. The authorities considered it only a matter of time before it was attacked, and measures had been put in place for this inevitable eventuality. The Kilpatrick Hills towered over the town and anti-aircraft guns were set on concrete platforms built into this natural protective feature. Amid great secrecy the townsfolk were even prevented from rambling “their” hills and rumours were rife that a dummy town had been constructed in the Kilpatrick Hills to fool the German bombers. Specially constructed shelters for hiding beneath stairs, tables and beds, were installed by a few. Anderson Shelters (part-underground little burrows, roofed over with corrugated steel sheeting) were sited in gardens and backcourts. These could take up to six people. Baffle walls of corrugated iron frames filled with sandbags were put up a few feet in front of entrances and exits of tenements. The closes of the tenements were strengthened with metal supports on both sides and under the roof. Children were also evacuated to the country. May and Bob had decided against sending their children away. May in particular had bitter memories of being sent away from home as a child and vowed that she would not let her weans out of her sight. They would all stay together.

The children who had been evacuated had returned to Clydebank only a few months before. They had marched proudly through the streets of Clydebank as they returned to spend Christmas with their families. Their hosts in the country had pinned lucky white heather to their small chests, and they sported these like bemedalled soldiers returning from war. The people of Clydebank had been lulled into a false sense of security. London and other English cities had been taking the brunt of the bombing, and many “Bankies” thought that they would be unscathed. They understandably were loathe to part with their children when they had returned in December, so on March 1941 the vast majority of them were still there. Clydebank cinemas were also functioning as usual on the evening of Thursday 13th. At about 9 p.m. the patrons of the Regal Cinema, who were enjoying a feature starring Shirley Temple, had their programme interrupted. A message appeared on the giant screen informing them that the air-raid sirens had just sounded. However they were advised that they could stay, as no imminent danger was expected. After a short interval it was announced that since the “all clear” had not yet been given, people should remain in the cinema. Some people, ignoring this advice, quickly got to their feet and headed out of the cinema to be with families. As they stepped out of the cinema they were taken by surprise by the intensity of the light from the moon. All of Clydebank was bathed in its glow; it was a radiantly-beautiful clear and still night. As people hurried along the pavements, towards home, a droning noise cut through the stillness, immediately followed by a high-pitched scream which rent the air. The scream grew louder and louder and as terrified Bankies looked upwards, they saw the sky over their town growing momentarily darker as wave after wave of enemy German planes swept over. The Great Dictator was now paying a visit to Clydebank.

May and Bob were at home in North Elgin Street, with their three children; Eamon, Jean and Frances, when the sirens went off. They lived on the second floor of the tenement building. Frances, who was only seven years old, was in bed. Bob rushed in and lifted her, while May quickly wrapped a coat around her; then, in an agitated state of panic, they rushed down the stairs to the dunny (basement cellar). Neighbours were pouring out onto the landing. Doors were thrown open and collision after collision occurred as people hurtled down the stairs seeking shelter. Children screamed as they were dragged; with some being almost thrown down the stone steps. And as they descended, the shrieking from the sirens was being blotted out by the sound of loud explosions as the tall building shook and vibrated, throwing the people into an even greater state of confusion. Young Mick King, a neighbour who was at school with Eamon, had fallen and was hurtling headlong down. May heard his loud scream, and just as he was about to crash to the stone landing she threw herself in his path and cushioned his fall. Momentarily dazed she got back on her feet and pulled young Mick up. They dashed inside the pitch-black dunny, which was as cold as a tomb. The door was slammed shut as soon as it became apparent that all had made it inside. The dank dampness of the place intensified the chill, and people shivered as the building trembled. Dust and debris were being dislodged and came tumbling down on top of them. It got in their eyes, in their ears, inside their mouthes, in their hair, and covered them in foul mire from head to toe. They coughed as they tried to speak, and groped in the darkness seeking loved ones. Explosion after explosion threw them off balance as bombs fell directly on the tenement toppling it on top of them. Massive chunks of masonry, broken lintels, mangled railings, enamelled toilets and shards of glass plummeted towards the dunny as the building was being obliterated.

People panicked and threw themselves at the dunny door, terrified at being buried alive; and in their madness were intent on rushing outside amidst the bombs and the flames. The door was jammed. It could not be opened. Some men shouted for people to stand aside, and Bob led the charge as they battered and pounded and beat frantically upon it. And a cacophony of wailing and despaired howling rose up, as it became apparent to those looking on that they would never, ever force open that door. May stood in a corner, with Eamon and Jean and Frances smothering her with their bodies and she loudly prayed. She entreated and implored the Blessed Virgin. Prayer after prayer issued loudly from her and the children held onto her as Bob and the other men attacked the door in a wild frenzy. Suddenly a loud blast stopped the men dead in their tracks and the door was blown wide open.

Out on the street all was chaos - all around was pandemonium and bedlam. Clydebank was being systematically destroyed; swirling dust spiralled demonically, covering jagged and broken buildings in spectral shrouds; and the ghostly faces of people could be glimpsed through this ever-shifting curtain of death. Bodies lay on the streets; and crazed mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, searched frantically among the living and the dead for those they loved. And still the bombs fell; pulverising whole streets into mountains of rubble; blowing trams and trucks high into the air to come crashing down in myriads of pieces that scattered deadly cocktails of fire and petrol in their wake. The petrol sprayed and spread over the ground, momentarily benign, before being inevitably ignited and metamorphosing into tongues of flame which spat out in all directions. People dodged and weaved their way to safety. The herd instinct took over, and individuals and couples became groups, and groups became crowds, and these crowds rushed around for some place of sanctuary. Some unseen force was at work, for the crowds were drawn away from danger and led into open spaces where they clung close together in families, and lay down in fields as their town was being pounded to oblivion. Bob hurtled out of the dunny, holding Frances tight against him. After the door had blown open he had turned when he heard her scream, and in frenzy had tore at the rubble that was threatening to engulf her. His hands were cut and torn and his blood was congealing with the dust and dirt that was smeared across his face. A gash had just opened up above one eye and as he wiped his face he shouted loudly as he spun around again and again, “May ... May! Eamon! Jean!”

And all the while he was moving away from what was left of their home, with Frances tightly clinging to him. Where could they go? Explosion after explosion caused the ground to rock and tremor. Flames lit up the sky and people appeared as shadowy silhouettes amidst the fire and the smoke and the dust. Bob found that they were being sucked along in a crowd and he frantically scanned the faces for his wife and weans. Momentarily standing stock-still, he searched the faces of the people rushing past. A man stood beside him - when suddenly Bob felt a sudden rush of air and the man’s head seemed to explode and he crumbled like a pack of cards. A massive piece of flying debris had taken off his head - and he was no more than a couple of feet from Bob. They had made it to the greyhound kennels in Elgin Street and Bob lay down with Frances, using his body as a protective shield. He kept whispering in her ear, “Don’t sleep wee pet, don’t sleep.” Frances lay there feeling safe in his huge arms; and secure that dad would protect her, she drifted into a disturbed sleep. In her fitful sleep, visions of stone steps rushed past her; the dark dunny packed with screaming people; the door being blown open; being buried in the falling rubble; safe in her daddy’s arms: they kept playing over and over in a seemingly endless loop until she felt herself lifted and her dad placing her on top of his shoulders.

May, Eamon and Jean clambered precariously over shifting rubble as they rushed out of the dunny and spun around, shouting out for Bob and Frances. May was about to rush back inside, when what was left of the building cascaded down, burying the dunny beneath it. Eamon was certain that dad had carried Frances out and he grabbed his mum and pulled her away. They ducked and dodged as they ran towards the open fields, constantly expecting to be struck by any number of projectiles that rained down on them. The people running with them were swept up in one great wave of energy, and as they left the collapsing buildings behind, began to walk. May spotted a small distressed child howling for its mother and she bent down and picked the infant up, hugging it and repeatedly telling it that its mammy was safe and they would find her very soon. A man was laughing loudly as he shouted at his wife, who had suddenly realised that she had left her teeth in a tumbler by their bed, “It’s bombs they’re droppin’, no’ pork pies.”

This was met by almost hysterical laughter from those who had heard it; glad of the opportunity to let some of their anxiety subside. May kept a tight grip on Eamon and Jean, and although they searched and searched, they saw no sign of Bob and Frances. At last they lay down in a field. Eamon lay perfectly still but Jean couldn’t, because she was so terrified. Lying down in the grass, she imagined that the Germans were targeting her; so suddenly she would spring up and race off, with an exasperated May chasing after her. Eventually the combination of May’s entreaties and her own exhaustion brought some element of calm to her and she lay down beside Eamon, while May cradled the child she had rescued. Planes were clearly visible in the moonlit sky, and they spun and turned in a macabre waltz, dropping load after load of bombs. Flames rose high in the air and a cacophony of crashes and eruptions shook Clydebank and brought it crumbling down.

Bob walked through what was left of a bustling, vibrant, community. Charred buildings smouldered and collapsed inwards. Men could be seen running around searching in the rubble and directing fire hoses on the fiercest of the flames. People covered in grime and muck and soot, stumbled around, searching feverishly for loved ones. The ground was scarred and broken; huge craters had opened up with remains of buildings tottering on the edges. Crash after crash punctured the air as these buildings finally succumbed and plummeted downwards, roaring and rushing and tumbling down like glaciers in an alien landscape. Tramlines stood up from the ground, twisted and broken, their bizarre shapes resembling giant mutant ribs.

Bob hurried through the apocalyptic wasteland with Frances high up on his shoulders, her arms wrapped tightly around his head. Eventually Bob arrived at what was left of Mary Cannon’s house in John Knox Street. “Aunt Mary!” Frances shouted as she ran to meet her. Bob didn’t have to ask Mary to look after Frances. He just turned as he walked away, “I’m away tae find my wee May an’ my weans.” Mary Cannon’s son George would later marry Nessie, who became one of Jean’s closest lifelong friends.

May walked disbelievingly through the carnage, with Eamon and Jean beside her. She was carrying the infant in her arms. Approaching a crazed-looking woman, May was almost knocked off-balance when the woman suddenly slapped her hard across the face and snatched the child away. The woman fell to her knees, weeping and smothering the child in kisses. The baby cried in excitement at being reunited with its mother. May spoke to Eamon and Jean. “The poor soul - she’s in shock,” and they continued on in their search for Bob and Frances.

Bob was walking past Elgin Street Primary School, near to the fields where May, Eamon and Jean had spent the night when he spotted them. “My wee May! My wee May!” he roared as he spotted them. He rushed to meet them. He grabbed May in an enormous bear hug and lifted her off the ground, twirling her round and round. “Frances ... where’s wee Frances?” May frantically asked, as Bob put her down and turned to hug Eamon and Jean. “Safe May ... safe! The wee pet’s with Aunt Mary.” They stood in a state of shocked horror as they surveyed the rubble that was once their home and they thanked God that they had been spared. “That’s it then, wee May ... we’ll have to go back to Ireland,” Bob said as he made his way over the uneven mounds of bricks. “You go back if you like Bob. I’m taking my chances with Hitler.” And with that May walked towards Aunt Mary’s to be reunited with Frances.

By John Norry

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A Walk In The Garden

It was something Alice said, she reflected. It wasn’t kind, in view of their long friendship from school which continued into their forties. What did Alice mean when she said, “Success has made you a bit too self-sufficient, Marie.” ? She pushed the barrow briskly along the garden path beside the shrubbery. Of course, success was important. Why be anything else, when one could so easily be the best? “Alice says some very strange things sometimes!” Marie muttered as she plucked the fading blooms from the azalea bush and threw them into the barrow. Such a pity when beautiful things begin to fade, she thought. Just like poor Richard when his illness took such a toll on his brilliant mind. Friends had been very good about visiting him when he became bedridden. His face always lit up when Alice called with her little presents of chocolates and comforting words. The fact that he couldn’t eat solid food anymore didn’t seem to register!

Marie propped a supporting cane beside the tender growth of a new hybrid rose and admired the healthy green stems tipped with tiny buds and leaves. “There’s something wonderful about spring, with its promise of regeneration,” she had remarked to Alice the last time they walked in the garden together. Alice had nodded and slipped a comforting arm through hers. It had been a bad week, with Richard battling uncomplainingly against his increasing disability and the side effects of his drugs. “The night carer was worse than useless,” Marie complained. “I could hear her snoring even through my bedroom wall!” She pulled impatiently at the bindweed which threatened to swamp the tender young rosemary bush which she had planted early last year. “We can only ameliorate his condition,” the specialist had warned her when Richard’s early symptoms started. “His condition is progressive - either his mind will deteriorate first - or his physical abilities.” Marie had looked up “ameliorate” in her dictionary. She had no patience with vague understatements, “Ameliorate - to make better.” What good was that when he had a disease that was as relentless as bindweed itself? “At least you’ve had a few good years together,” Alice remarked in that compassionate voice which never failed to irritate Marie. “A few good years,” Marie repeated, “Is that what you call our marriage? Sure, there were good years in both our lives - with Richard’s good looks, brilliant mind and my career. Who could fault that?” Alice’s smile faded into bewilderment, then she placed her hands across her mouth. “Oh Marie! Is that how you really see it? A success story?” “Oh for goodness sake, Alice! What do you expect in a middle-age marriage? His second and my first. Hardly teenage euphoria.” “I married Bill because I loved him,” Alice replied. She always had a habit of standing still and staring when something shocked her, Marie reflected irritably. “And far too young. But you wouldn’t listen, would you? Bill may be kind but a quiet life is not what you expected and that’s exactly what you got!” Marie was adamant and Alice was too stunned to answer. She stayed long enough for coffee in the conservatory, admired the garden and returned home for lunch with Bill. She helped in the charity shop in the afternoon.

Marie returned to the garden where she inspected the daffodils growing under the trees in the orchard and looked wistfully at the snowdrops drooping their pretty green and white heads. Richard had always liked them. “The first sign of spring, a crown of new beginnings,” he’d say. The orchard was suddenly a lonely, bleak place so she pushed the barrow quickly onto the compost heap where she dumped a heap of wilting greenery and kitchen peelings before moving on to the rose border. “I don’t care what Alice thinks,” she muttered. “Life is what you make it ... and ‘It’s all about choices and what you do with them’,” she could hear her father’s voice echoing down the years. Success had been his too. Mum was left behind somewhere - a calming influence in the fever of a household where father and daughter competed towards ever greater achievement. She dug vigorously to uproot the new dandelions growing secure and fixed in trespass amongst the deep tangled roots of the roses.

She stood up to ease her back and wondered whether it was too early to prune the roses or if she should leave them until later. There were always problems to solve in a garden. maybe that was why she enjoyed pottering about. It had been so much more difficult trying to decide the best way to help Richard. Nurses came and went in an endless flow at the beginning and then began to suggest hospice treatment. “What do you think?” they kept asking. Unable to sleep one night, she had crept quietly into his bedroom and found the night carer sleeping uncomfortably in the armchair near the window. A dim light glowed above Richard’s bed. He stirred at the sound of her step and murmured a greeting - his face hollow with pain, his eyes heavy with drugs. “Richard, do you want to go to ... a nursing home?” Marie whispered. She couldn’t say “hospice” - she just couldn’t. It was too final, too bold an acknowledgement of the end. He looked at her and shook his head very slowly and painfully, “No, I want to stay here. With you. And see the garden.” “So that was that!” Marie told Alice the next day as they sat in the kitchen waiting for the nurses to finish giving Richard a bed bath. The house seemed to be full of people helping and Marie felt tired to her bones - of everything. “Let’s walk in the garden, see the flowers and talk,” Alice suggested as she led the way outside. “Perhaps there is something more we can do. Like moving his bed so that he can see more of the garden through the window!” Marie exclaimed. They would have to move his side table, chairs, oxygen mask, television and extend some of the wiring for Richard to have a really good view of the garden. The helpers objected and so did the night nurse, who even claimed that it would make it awkward for them all to wash their hands “with the wash basin so close to the bed”. Alice left as soon as she could, explaining that she was no good at disagreements. “I know,” Marie said, her mouth firmly set, her eyes bright as cold steel as she stood her ground and dismissed any further objections from anyone. “What about his radio - where will that go?” “Where he likes it - on his bedside table, of course!” The nurse followed her into the garden where Marie used her mobile phone to call the electrician, and called the gardener to help move furniture. “He would be so much better off in a hospice,” she said, in that gentle, reasonable voice reserved for difficult patients. “I’m sure,” agreed Marie icily. “However he stays here - it’s what he wants.”

She heard the nurse suck her teeth in annoyance and return to the bedroom. Marie sank down on the grassy bank near the conservatory, closed her eyes and let silent tears flow down her cheeks. Much later when she went into the bedroom to see Richard, he removed his oxygen mask. He greeted her with a happy smile and pointed out of the window to see the setting sun. When Alice arrived two days later, she could see that Marie was very much in charge. “Come and see my herbs!” Marie called, dressed in a blue sweater and old jeans, her face white with fatigue. “I’m going to see what I can find for a pick-me-up, for me this time. Richard is so much happier, I can hardly believe the change in him.” “Oh, that’s wonderful Marie. I’m so glad.” Marie tugged at the greenhouse door and they wandered along the alleyway between rows of herbs in small pots. Parsley, marjoram, early lettuce, lemon balm and mint. “Even I don’t know them all - I need the gardener to tell me sometimes,” Marie confessed, picking a sprig of lemon balm. “This’ll do - makes a lovely soothing bath. Now let’s go indoors and see Richard, if he’s still awake.” “She’s a bit overwrought,” the nurse whispered to Alice and nodded towards Marie. “But she insists on staying up late with him every night. Can’t rest, I think.” “Whispering about me again,” Marie thought. “As if I don’t know.” And Alice had that compassionate look again. Richard was much happier. She knew that he was growing weaker and was aware of what she had to do. “You look so tired, Marie. Do let me know if there is anything I can do.” It was a kind but fruitless gesture. “What could Alice do that I can’t?” Marie reflected, leading her friend out into the garden and carrying coffee and biscuits on a tray. Alice noticed a small tremor in Marie’s hand when she offered her the plate of biscuits - and she had deep lines of anxiety etched on her face. Alice wondered how much longer Marie would be able to cope. “Let’s sit here,” Marie said. “It’s warm on the terrace and Richard sleeps such a lot these days. Look, the camellia has started to bloom. I love the red flowers against that glossy foliage. It was the first thing we planted when we came here.” Alice looked anxious. “I know you sit with Richard most evenings to give the nurse a break. Would you like me to take a turn?”

“It’s our time together. Surely you understand,” Marie replied, full of a quiet anger. “Life’s all about choices, you know, and what we do with them.” It was not too long before Alice left, with two pots of herbs out of the greenhouse and an apology from Marie. “I don’t mean to be rude, Alice. You know that, as you’re one of my oldest friends, when I need help I will ask. Just now, I know how much Richard needs me.” There was not much more Alice felt she could do - and she didn’t call again for several days. It was a phone call from Marie in the middle of the night that made her think she had stayed away too long. “Richard is so weak, I don’t think he will last the night!” Marie’s voice broke and Alice heard her take a deep, shaky breath. “Do you want me to come?” “No, but perhaps in the morning.” She heard the sudden click of the phone being replaced. It was something Marie said when she was scattering Richard’s ashes in the orchard that Alice remembered. “This is what Richard wanted and what I must do,” she announced to the gathering family under the trees - all sheltering from a sudden shower of rain. Marie looked exhausted. Her face was ashen against the severe black of her coat. It was as if without Richard, she was lost in a world where no one could reach her. Not even Alice. At last, after family and friends had left the house, Alice stayed on to clear up. She found a huge vase of pale lilac flowers in the hall. She wondered who had brought them. They had to go. They were wilting badly in the warm house and looked too dismal on such a sad day. “Where can I put these?” she asked Marie. “My mother always thought they brought bad luck to a house.” Marie stared at them for a long time with a stunned expression on her face. “Well, outside on the compost I suppose,” she answered so quietly that Alice could barely hear her. When she returned, Marie was standing on the terrace looking out across the garden. Alice took her friend’s arm and they sat together on the low wall bordering the terrace. “What is it that’s upset you? Something about the lilacs?” “Their pale colour, just like Richard’s face after I lifted the pillow,” Marie whispered. Alice felt an icy tremor of fear tingle down her spine. “What do you mean Marie? Lifted his pillow?”

Alice was suddenly afraid. She didn’t want to hear her friend’s reply and she shivered in the warm air. She knew that Marie was capable of making decisions which no one else would even consider. She felt a pounding in her head. Her heart raced and she worried about her friend’s extraordinary determination to take risks, no matter what the outcome. The doctors had remarked that Richard’s death had come a little sooner than expected, Alice remembered. Marie had been so calm at the time and even today when all the family were around her, there were no tears and no drama. Marie was at her social best, making sure everyone felt at ease and welcome. “She’ll take a fall one of these days,” Bill had remarked long ago, easing his portly frame into the armchair by the fire, “Mark my words - too bold by far.” “Alice, Alice! What’s wrong? You look awful!” Marie took off her jacket and wrapped it around her friend’s shoulders. A sudden chill breeze whipped briskly across the terrace. “We’d best go in and have a coffee in the kitchen. It’ll be warmer there and you look as if you need one,” said Marie, leading the way indoors.

Alice followed in a dream. Marie made two mugs of coffee, raided the biscuit tins and pointed to a tall vase of bluebells standing in the centre of the kitchen table. “Richard loved bluebells and every year, I would pick some just for him. Just for us,” her voice faltered. She coughed unsteadily and tried again, “How was I to know he would never see them this year? It’s all so sad!” Her eyes were filled with unshed tears and she looked like a lost child. “Never see them?” Alice repeated anxiously. “Well, of course. It was taking his pillow away to let him lie flat that caused the problem. He asked me, you see. He was so tired of being propped up all the time. When I did what he wanted, he gave a long, tired sigh,” Marie’s voice broke. “Gave such a lovely smile, closed his eyes and he was gone.” Alice sighed and put her arms around her friend to comfort her as she sobbed, for Richard and all that was past. Alice shed tears of relief for Marie.

By Aphra Marshall

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Sorry, we're closed

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was beaming all over the sky, acting as a spotlight on the myriad of brightly coloured flowers in the village gardens. The delicate scent of each intricately painted flower seemed to fight a battle for control of the gentle breeze, carrying the aroma like a blanket of fine dust; a friendly enemy invading the nostrils.

As the sun left the shadow of one of the few white puffs of cloud, its golden light seemed to chase along the hillside, turning dark to light, almost tempting the observer to chase it to the next dark spot.

The water in the hillside brook danced as the sun lit upon its gently rippling surface, cascading over smooth stones and darting through the narrow channels, created by small walls of pebbles. Birds were taking their early morning baths, dipping one wing at a time into the sparkling flow and beating them dry, before repeating the process.

Even the sheep and cows seemed at peace, sharing different fields of bright green and tasting the sweet dew-drenched grass. They were at peace in nature’s grandest restaurant.

But there was also hurt in the village - deep, painful hurt. Today was the last day. Today, the village post office and general store were to close forever. There was to be no reprieve. All the talking was over. The facts were very simple and couldn’t be altered. Kingsbury Westwood couldn’t support a post office.

Such was the fate of many countryside communities, where the local shop couldn’t compete with the massive out-of-town megastores.

Alice Turnberry was bitter. Bitter for herself and bitter for the community. Bitter against the bureaucracy that made such life-changing decisions. Faceless people who knew little about village communities, and cared even less. And yet one of the faceless bureaucrats actually lived in the village, though he was seldom seen. He drove a smart red Porche and occasionally he, or his equally smart wife, called in the village pub for a drink before the red car carried them far into the night.

Alice Turnberry was sixty years old, with a delicate persona of old-fashioned charm, eloquence and sobriety. She was diminutive. At five feet, one inch, she had to stand on boxes in the shop to reach the high shelves. She was still fit for her age. Her long white hair was a distinguishing feature. Whilst she was serving in the shop, the long tresses were trapped inside a hairnet, seeming to fight a continuous battle for freedom. When she promenaded through the village, the hairnet was banished to the sideboard and her hair flowed behind her like a bride’s wedding veil.

She had endured a hard life, like so many people trying to run a small business. When her husband was alive, they’d made plans for retiring on the wealth earned from the shop. A small bungalow at the seaside maybe.

But wealth never came, just more hard work.

She had a generous heart, exposed and available to all who needed her ministrations. She was always ready to help and advise with her unique talent of resolving neighbours’ problems without appearing in any way supercilious.

But she must face today alone, bereft of the help she afforded to others, left only with her bitterness. She’d anticipated the dawning of this sad day for many months. Only a few days earlier, she’d read that over thirty village post offices had closed within one week. Why should hers be different?

There’d been many tears - the feeling of being discarded, no longer wanted, the fear and anxiety of not knowing what lay ahead, too old for changes.

But she wouldn’t allow these thoughts to affect her final day. No, for her the day would be like any other day, and her routine wouldn’t change.

The arrival of the electric milk float brought her thoughts back to the present, as Ted Young, milk bottles precariously held between spread fingers, deposited her morning supply on the doorstep.

“I’ve run my shop like this for over forty year,” she said to herself, as she drew back the curtains of the white stone cottage. “And just because it’s all over, I see no reason to make today any different.”

She cut through the string surrounding the bundle of newspapers, folded one of them neatly into shape and clipped it into the wire holder just outside the shop’s front door. The Daily Telegraph always took top place, above The Times, The Guardian, The Daily Express and The Daily Mail. They’d enjoyed their respective positions for over twenty five years, ever since the post office decided to sell newspapers. The other daily papers weren’t displayed outside. They joined weekly magazines and periodicals on the counter.

The post office and store were small, having been converted from a thatched cottage in 1910. Peter Cavendish from Whalley Farm reckoned he could remember the shop just after the first world war when new windows and a new, strong front door were fitted. It hadn’t enjoyed any refurbishment in the intervening years - just a splash of paint when absolutely necessary.

Anyone over five feet eight inches tall had to dip their head when entering, or suffer the consequences. Alice’s husband, dead for fifteen years, had always chuckled when unsuspecting shoppers banged their heads against the old oak beam. Always having a sense of humour, he made a sign saying “Duck or Grouse” for those people who didn’t watch where they were going.

Inside, the shop had a smell of antiquity - smells of herbal salts and roots which had been the mainstay of medical treatment, firelighters which had their own peculiar odour of paraffin, soap, humbugs, all mingling into one. That odour, combined with the smell of old age, exhausted timbers almost breathing out like tired old men, the signs on the wall slowly fading from age and sunlight. It was a comforting smell, almost a smell you expected. It seemed to indicate permanence. Tragic really, when just the opposite was now true.

There were deep, dark recesses holding mysteries of years gone by, in boxes which hadn’t seen daylight since the coronation of King George the sixth. And the shop was so small that when three people were waiting to get their postage stamps, or draw their pension, the third one was almost outside the door. Not that there were many occasions when more that three people used the shop at the same time.

Perhaps if they had ...

The little bell jingled and danced gaily on the coiled silver spring as the door opened.

“Mornin’ Alice,” offered a smartly dressed, elderly gentleman, carefully ducking lest he find the beam.

“Another nice day, what?”

“Morning, Sir Charles,” Alice replied.

“That’ll do Alice. Charles will be more than enough. And seeing as how you asked, I’m fine, thank you.”

“And how’s Clarissa this morning?”

“Baking ... can’t think what for ... don’t eat much pastry these days.”

Alice selected a neatly-creased copy of The Telegraph and placed it on the counter.

Sir Charles Nichols was the local squire. He lived at Oakfield Manor, or “The Big house” as the village people called it. Once, he’d farmed over two thousand acres, rising with the sun and retiring as soon as farm duties allowed. At seventy five, he was past all that. Now, a consortium - businessmen and accountants - ran the farm.

His father had established the farm, working himself to an early grave. Initially, Charles spent all his time developing the business and was regarded in the village as a recluse. All that changed when the business team took over. At first, it had been a slow, insidious progression - his direct responsibilities slowly eroded. The takeover, for that’s how he saw it, was fait accompli before he realised what had happened.

“You’ve to move with the times,” they kept reminding him.

From being a recluse, he had become gregarious, even to enjoying and sharing a fermentation at the local inn. He was always smartly dressed, his tweed jacket and plus fours supporting his role as country squire.

“Tube of those extra strong mints please. She doesn’t like me smoking the pipe indoors. Can’t think what she does like,” he muttered, more to himself than to Alice.

The shop door opened again, the bell ringing merrily.

“Mornin Elspeth,” said Sir Charles, clutching his newspaper and gently squeezing past the generous proportions of Elspeth McGregor, and walking out into the sunlight.

“He’s up early this morning,” suggested Elspeth McGregor. “I don’t remember him out much before ten o’clock.”

“Clarissa’s baking and I reckon she wants him out of the way.”

“I don’t blame her. Do you know, he was in the King’s Head with his usual captive audience, boring the pants off them - all about how the first world war had been harder to fight than the second. Leave ‘em both alone I say. Don’t like talk of war.”

“What can I get you?” Alice asked.

Elspeth was looking at the biscuits - the selection boxes with creams and chocolate ones. She picked up a pack of mixed chocolate biscuits and enquired, “How much are these?”

“One pound, nineteen pence,” advised Alice.

“Good heavens,” retorted Elspeth, quickly replacing the offending item, almost as if it was on fire.

“And these?”

“The mixed creams are seventy pence.”

“I’ll have those, then.”

Alice was busy until lunchtime. She always shut the shop at precisely one o’clock, until two fifteen - no exceptions. She’d closed the door and clicked the lock into place. Her sandwich awaited her in the small kitchen and she filled her thirty year old kettle from the tap in the stone sink. She’d listen to Radio Four for the news, then have a little nap. There was no danger that she’d oversleep, dear me no. She set her mind-controlled alarm clock every lunchtime and it never failed her.

Radio Four didn’t usually play brass band music. It wasn’t what the patriarchal monocled gentleman who planned programmes would have considered appropriate. However, there was no doubt. She even knew the tune they were playing. She first heard it during the war. What was it now? ... ah yes, The Liberty Belle. She neared the radio to advance the volume, noting with some alarm that the radio was emitting voices, not music.

Yet the music persisted.

She turned down the volume, but could still hear The Liberty Belle. Gradually it dawned on her that The Liberty Belle emanated from an alternative source.

She listened.

“Why,” she suddenly realised. “It’s coming from outside, from the street.”

What on earth was happening? Her controlled and sensible world was turning upside down. For too many years for her to remember, nothing had interrupted the closing of her shop. But today, of all days, someone had contrived to breach the protocol, to cast aside the conventions, to disturb her solitude.

And of all things - a brass band, playing an American tune.

Still disturbed at the breaching of her routine, she opened the front door of the shop, there to be met by a spectacle of such proportions and imagery that she was temporarily disorientated. The road outside the post office had been transformed. Almost directly outside her front door, and the whole of the left side of the village square had been invaded by trestle tables with gaily coloured covers, sagging under the weight of delicacies designed to tempt the palate - vol-au-vents, sandwiches, savoury pies, quiche, salads, sausage rolls, fruit pies, cakes, cheeses, assorted cream biscuits.

The right-hand side of the square was taken over by the Kingsbury Silver Band. As Alice walked into the street, the band embarked upon a medley of tunes from well-known musicals. A huge white banner had been stretched across the street about twelve feet off the ground.

“Happy Retirement Alice,” it read.

The villagers and children cheered. The band played its tribute. It was all too much for a white-haired elderly lady. She was bemused and wobbly on her feet. Most unusual, most distressing.

She suppressed the tears forming at the edge of her eyes. She was not the sort to cry. Oh dear me, no. That was for weak people, not for Alice.

There was a pregnant moment, then the town clerk paced with deliberate steps to the front of the post office. He signalled to the band, who stopped midway through a tune from South Pacific.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. Relishing his big moment, he continued. “As your town clerk, I often have to perform civic duties ...”

“Get on with it!” shouted a voice near the band.

“Yes, well,” he continued looking directly at Alice. “I’ve great pleasure as the town clerk to present to you the keys of the village of Kingsbury Westwood, and an illuminated scroll which reads, ‘To our worthy retiring postmistress, Mrs Alice Turnberry for her many years of service to the village.’ ”

The entire square erupted in applause just as the smart red Porche sports car drew to a halt outside the post office. A smartly-dressed young man stepped out, and almost oblivious to the crowds, walked up to Alice and said, “I need some stamps please.”

Alice Turnberry looked at him, then at the crowd which had become strangely silent.

Suddenly, all the bitterness drained out of her body. She felt warm inside - no longer a tight knot of anger. It was just as if a headache was going away.

She stepped forward to the trestle table displaying all the fine food, and she selected a chocolate éclair - just about the biggest éclair she had ever seen. She took a generous bite, the cream oozing out of each side of the confection, and turned to the young man.

With a beaming smile, the cream still around her mouth, she announced, “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

By Derek Dunn

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Howard's Imaginary Friend

Sometimes, children have imaginary friends, particularly if they have no brothers or sisters. The friend may be a toy, or an animal, or a person. But of course, nobody else can see them. Parents, friends and teachers smile, knowing it’s just a phase, because the child is lonely and sooner or later the imaginary friend will disappear, never to be mentioned again.

Howard had an imaginary friend. He first mentioned his friend when he was three years old.

“His name is William and he has red hair,” said Howard, proudly.

“That’s nice dear,” said his mother, smiling at him.

“Can he sleep in my bed with me?” asked Howard.

Three years later, William was still around, but Howard’s parents started to notice something strange. Whenever they went out in the car, Howard would always shout, “Goodbye William,” as they reached the garden gate. His father asked, “Doesn’t William want to come?”

“Oh no,” said Howard. “He never leaves the house.”

“Why?” asked his father.

“He’s not allowed,” said Howard.

The family lived in an old stone house. The date above the front door read 1892. It was situated in the Cotswolds and had real charm. Howard’s parents fell in love with the house the moment they laid eyes on it. It felt just like home. It was comfortable and although they added some modern features - like a new kitchen and bathroom - they tried to maintain the old features which they first fell in love with.

Howard’s room was large, light and airy. The stone walls were very thick and there was a huge fireplace which had been left untouched for many generations.

One day, Howard was really ill. His mother told him he’d have to stay in bed.

“I think you have the flu,” she said. “I don’t like the sound of that cough.”

She sent for the doctor and he told Howard that bed would be the best place for him.

The first couple of days Howard wasn’t very hungry. All he wanted to do was sleep. On the third day he woke up feeling much better. His mother was so relieved as she watched him enjoy his soft boiled egg, bread soldiers and glass of milk.

“That’s more like it,” she said.

Howard asked if he could have some coloured crayons and a pad to write and draw. His mother brought them, along with a new pencil.

Howard chewed on the end of the pencil for a little while, until eventually he began to draw. He drew a picture of a little boy. The boy’s clothes were old-fashioned and he had bright, red hair, which was long and wavy. His suit was blue and had gold buttons down the front. His trousers were tightly-fitted below his knees and were also fastened with gold buttons. Underneath the drawing Howard wrote, My name is William Talbot. I am seven years old and I live at The Laurels.

Howard’s father entered his bedroom.

“You look much better, Howard.” he then noticed the drawing. “Goodness, I like your drawing.”

“I didn’t draw it,” said Howard. “William did.”

His father looked at the picture again. He didn’t argue with Howard.

“It’s such a nice picture. May I keep it?”

Howard was pleased and gave the drawing to his father. His father went downstairs, very puzzled, but decided not to say anything to Howard’s mum.

The next day, Howard’s father went to see an old man who’d lived in the village all of his life. He’d often speak to him as he walked past his cottage. The old man would lean over his gate, smoking an old clay pipe.

“Lovely day,” said Howard’s father. The air was perfumed with roses and honeysuckle.

The old man nodded.

“Have you always lived here?” asked Howard’s father.

“Yes,” replied the old man. His name was Henry Pickles. “I’ve always lived in this cottage, just like my parents did before me. In fact, I think about six or seven generations of the Pickles family have lived and died in this very cottage. They’re all buried in the churchyard at the top of the hill.”

“Do you know anything about the house I live in? It’s only a short distance away from the church. It’s called the Laurels,” said Howard’s father.

Henry sucked on his pipe for a moment. “Yes, I know the house. Lovely old place. It dates back to the eighteen hundreds. I believe that a man called Talbot built it. He was a country gentleman who inherited his wealth. There were always Talbots in the village, up until the day when old Tilly Talbot died about seven years ago, before you moved in.”

“You don’t know if the first Mr Talbot who lived there, had a son called William, do you?”

Henry looked up at Howard’s father. “Well, there’s a story about a boy called William I once heard when I was a nipper.”

“Can you tell it to me please?”

“Aye, certainly. William was only seven years old. He loved his father and was loved in return. He and his father went everywhere together, until one day the boy just disappeared. There was such a hue and cry, because he wasn’t a boy who’d go wandering off on his own. He had his evening meal and went up to his room. He was really good at drawing and painting. His father encouraged him. There are a couple of his paintings in our museum.”

“Did William ever turn up again?” asked Howard’s father.

“No. And his father never recovered from the sadness. He died about five years later. He’s buried in the churchyard too. He had other children, but William was definitely his favourite.”

“Thanks for telling me that, Henry,” said Howard’s father.

When he got home, he went up to Howard’s bedroom. “Hey, Howard. Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, thanks Dad, but the doctor says I must stay in bed until the end of the week.”

“Never mind,” said his father. “You can do some more drawing.”

The following night, Howard showed his father two new pictures he had drawn. The first was a beautiful drawing of the house. And a man and a boy with red hair were each riding a horse. The second drawing was of Howard’s bedroom. The fireplace was enormous - twice as big as the rest of the picture.

“Howard, why did you make the fireplace so large?” asked his father.

“I didn’t,” said Howard. “William did.”

His father got up from the bed and walked towards the fireplace. The hearth was wide and it went back such a long way. It obviously hadn’t been used for years. He walked to the back of it and looked up. It was so wide and there were bricks where you could place your feet and climb. He had such an eerie feeling while standing there.

“What are you doing, Dad?” asked Howard.

“Just looking,” replied his father.

The next day, Howard had drawn another picture. It showed a small boy who was crying and looked very dirty. Later that evening, Howard’s father climbed up into the attic of the old house. He shone a torch, looking to see where the chimney was placed. He found what he was looking for, but there was a pile of brick dust and rubble. As it was too late, he decided to investigate further the next day.

As it was a Sunday he went to the pub as usual, while his wife cooked a roast dinner. He saw Henry Pickles, so bought him a pint and they sat down together.

“Henry,” he said. “There’s an enormous fireplace in my son’s bedroom. It can’t have been used for many years. I was thinking of using it. Do you know of any chimney sweeps?”

“I used to work at that house when I was a nipper,” said Henry. “I used to help in the garden. No one used that room. It was the boy’s you see - William’s room. It was kept as it was for the boy to come home to, then years later no one would sleep in it. Some even said it was haunted.”

That afternoon, Howard was much better. As it was a warm day, he sat in the garden. He went inside to get a drink of lemonade. His drawing book was under his arm. Howard showed his father a new picture.

“I don’t like William’s picture, dad,” he said.

His father looked at the picture. His mother stopped clearing the table and looked at the picture too. It was a drawing of a boy. His arms were stretched above his head, his face dirty and streaming with tears from crying. He looked as though he was climbing. His father immediately stood up and left the house. He got into his car and drove to the police station where he asked to see the inspector.

“I’ve a strange tale to tell you,” he told the inspector. “I want you to listen without comment, and then I want your help.”

The inspector listened quietly as Howard’s father told him his tale.

“This is quite some story,” said the inspector. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want to get a builder in and have him open the roof from the point of where the broken bricks are. I want you to be present when we can see inside the chimney pots.”

“Well,” said the inspector. “I’ve never believed in ghost stories, but I’ll do as you ask.”

A few days later, when Howard was back at school, the builder arrived. He too had been told the story. The three men crawled through into the space in the roof. They straightened up and carefully made their way to the spot where the rubble lay. The three of them worked in silence, moving the bricks, one by one. At last, the builder broke through into a hollow space. He looked down and could see the foothold bricks leading to the room and fireplace below. Above his head was the bottom of one of the huge chimney pots, but he noticed there was no light. He suddenly realised what he was looking at. He turned round to the other men and nodded.

It took over an hour to release the small skeleton. It was dressed in what looked like had been a blue suit with gold buttons. It was William. He must’ve gone exploring and got stuck.

“Poor little lad,” said the police inspector. “What a terrible end.”

They wrapped William in a blanket and his remains were quietly taken away.

A few days later there was a short service in the churchyard and William was laid to rest beside his father.

Howard had been told about William. He cried for his friend. He stood at the graveside.

“I’m so glad that he’s with his dad now,” said Howard. “He said goodbye to me last night. He gave me this drawing and hugged me, then went away. I know that I’ll never see him again, but I’m so glad that he’s happy at last.”

His father looked at the picture. It showed a little boy with red hair running from the house up to the church where, waiting for him, was his father. They were reunited at long last.

“Come on, Howard,” said his father. “Let’s go home.”

His father put his hand in Howard’s and they set off together.

By Freda Rudman

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Like Clockwork

Like clockwork, that’s how Morrie said it would go. We’d sussed it all out, done our homework, so to speak. It seemed a piece of cake.

A few weeks before, Syd Crocker and myself, were on our usual day job - down Cathcart Street, just off Portobello Road. Flogging video games and CD’s we were, off the back of Sydie’s van. Lot of pirate stuff, most of it rubbish, but just knock the prices down and watch Joe Public fight over ’em.

We’d shut up shop, because one of the Old Bill’s patrol cars was cruising around. We figured it was about time for a tea break. Anyway, we goes for a cup of char in this café. Cor - call it tea? I thought our lot taught them all how to make a proper cup of tea when we was the Raj out there. Seems to me when they was liberated and come over here, they got their own back.

We were still trying to get it down, when this geezer comes in. Little, skinny, rat-faced bloke, wearing a suit that looked like it was a hand-me-down from his dad. Straight away I remembered him. A few years ago he’d been doing a three year stretch in the scrubs when I was there. Nice bloke - quiet, not the mouthy sort.

He nodded as he came past our table, so I invited him over to join us. Seems he’s got a nice little caper going - selling gold watches outside some big store just up the road. They weren’t real gold. What he did of course, was buy a load of nickel plated, elasticated-strapped old watches, then his mum and sister would dip them in this stuff for a while. Did it in the kitchen they did. What you might call a home industry. It turned the metal to what looked like real gold. Only trouble was, he had to flog them within a certain time, otherwise they all turned black.

We sat a bit, chewing the fat, gazing out the dusty window. Morrie nodded towards the street.

“Now there’s a nice little tickle,” he murmured.

I looked, but couldn’t see what he was getting at.

“What is?” Syd asked.

“That security van that’s just gone past,” answered Morrie, steadily.

“Security van,” I snorted. “You must be joking, they’re done up tighter than my aunt Aggie’s girdle, they are. You’d never get near it.”

“Yes,” Syd agreed, sipping his tea as if it was poison. “That’s how the Bates boys got caught.”

“I don’t mean turn the van over,” Morrie explained. “I mean I know where we could take out the guard, just as he’s going back to the van with the dosh.”

Well, we all sat quiet for a minute, sort of digesting it. I mean, me and Syd are just small fry, selling and running, no fixed type of work, and here’s this Morrie, setting us up like the Brinks Mat lot. I mean, it took a lot of absorbing, especially for Syd.

“What we’ve got to do is check on his time, when the van arrives at that big jewellers in the arcade, and when it leaves, over five days I reckon. Once we get it all sorted, we can take him in the street. Lots of people around. We can be off in the crowd before he knows what’s hit him.”

Morrie seemed quite enthusiastic about it all. His little ferret face was getting all worked up.

“How do you mean check?” asked Syd.

“Time him, like I said. He might vary it a bit.”

“Well, I could do that,” Syd remarked, thoughtfully.

“Good, do it every day this week. Write down the times - we’ll see if there’s a pattern, like.”

Me, I was a bit dubious, but if Syd was game, then so was I. We agreed to meet up the next Monday at the café and compare notes.

Sure enough, next Monday, there was Morrie, waiting for us. After ordering some grub, we settled down to working on our plan. It was decided to make our move on the next Friday. Judging by Syd’s notes it had to be three-thirty prompt. That was where we hit our first snag. Syd’s missus insisted on having his van to pick up her old mum and take her shopping around that time on a Friday. That put the mockers on a getaway car for a start.

We were stymied for a minute. Syd suggested changing our move to another day, but Morrie insisted that Friday was when the most money would be collected.

“I know - could you get us some bikes?” he asked Syd.

“Bring them in your van early, all ready. You can all ride, can’t you?”

Of course we said yes, although the last time I sat astride a motorbike I’d been in my teens. I did sort of wonder if it was the right thing to be making a quick escape on. Then we talked about how we’d actually do the job, and what else we’d need. Syd wanted us to wear masks, said he knew where we could get some cheap, but Morrie argued we’d hardly melt into the crowd looking like Mickey Mouse or Superman. Finally, we called it a day and split.

Friday dawned, as they say. Proper brass monkey weather, but dry. We all met up at the little restaurant. Slowly we strolled up to the arcade, where the jewellers was, trying to look normal and unhurried. Syd told us he’d parked the bikes just around the corner earlier. I hoped he’d remember to give us the keys, and that he’d put in plenty of petrol. Then we walked up to the corner and he showed us the bikes. Now, I knew Syd was a bit thick, not completely daft like, but as if his old mum had dropped him on his bonce a few times when he was a nipper. But now I looked at him in total disbelief. I thought Morrie was having a heart attack, his long face got redder and redder.

“Them our bikes?” he choked.

Syd nodded happily.

“You pillock. You moron. I meant motorbikes.”

Morrie snarled, almost spitting the words out. Syd’s face was a picture.

“You should’ve said,” he muttered.

I must admit Morrie seemed to lose heart at this, but I tried to rally him round again.

“Come on, look at it this way. No one would ever suspect a gang of robbers to make their get-away on three BMX’s.”

“No,” he admitted sourly. “Even the plod wouldn’t believe anybody’d be that stupid.”

Syd hung his head in embarrassment.

We wandered back and forth, waiting and waiting. Still no sign of the van.

“You sure you got the time right?” Morrie asked Syd.

For an answer, Syd rolled up his sleeve and him and Morrie compared dials. Morrie almost doubled up in anger.

“Can’t you get anything right?” he said in frustration. “Even your bloody watch is slow.”

Just as I thought it might turn nasty, the van slowly appeared through the traffic and stopped near us. We stood, window gazing, while a Schwarzenegger lookalike swaggered into the jewellers.

My job was to get a gun to hold up the guard - push it in chummy’s back like, while Morrie and Syd grabbed the money bags.

Me, I don’t like guns, never have. They’re nasty, dangerous things, so I’d put a piece of lead pipe up me shirt instead. I figured - shove that in a man’s back - he wouldn’t know the difference.

As the guard cleared the building, I moved in behind him and dug the pipe in his back.

“Don’t do anything stupid, “ I whispered. “And you won’t get hurt.”

Morrie’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he caught sight of the pipe sticking out of my jacket. Anyway, he recovered enough to grab one bag while Syd took the other. As they did, I hit the big fella on the back of his neck and he went down like a poleaxed bull.

That was when it all went wrong again. Instead of scattering and letting us get away, some big blokes around us, grabbed Morrie, then tripped up Syd and fell on him. I picked up on of the bags and managed to back out of the scrum. I ran to the corner store - the big one that sold all that souvenir tat. I knew it had another door leading to the street around the corner. As I walked quickly out of the door, a big tourist coach swung in close and caught the three bikes, knocking them into the road like dominoes. Just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse, a taxi reversed over the bikes. I hoped the kids Syd had borrowed them from didn’t need them for school! I looked round, wondering just what to do, when a big, red double decker bus slowed down right close. I ran up and jumped on. As I climbed the stairs, I figured no one would think of looking on a bus for a hold-up man.

It was crowded on top, but I got a seat near the front. Morrie had insisted none of us wore our own clothes - no labels, no name tags, nothing to say who we were - so I’d got some workman’s overalls and an old jacket on, only I’d not figured on needing any ready cash. So here’s yours truly, upstairs on a big red transport bus, and not a cent on me. Then I almost laughed out loud as I realised I’d got a bag of the stuff clutched in me grubby hand.

As I heard the conductor climb the stairs, I undid the bag. There was a small leather satchel inside. Grimly, I struggled with the hasp. It snapped open all at once, and I dived in to get out my fare. That was when the final stroke of bad luck hit me - properly.

Some demented, over-security minded twerp had put one of those things in the satchel, so that unless it was opened properly, it detonated, covering everything in a bright red dye. Everything was covered in the stuff - the cash, the bus and especially me.

I’m back in the scrubs again. So are Morrie and Syd. We didn’t speak anymore though.

I wonder if CD’s will still be the “in thing” when I get out again?

By June Jennings

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The Birds, The Bees and the Sunflowers

“Mummy, where do babies come from?”

There it was. The question. The one question that could reduce normal, level-headed, perfectly calm adults to gibbering nervous wrecks. Shocked, I admitted to myself that I hadn't seen it coming. I had always known that this day would come. Had known I would be asked sooner or later - later being when they were about sixteen or something! But not now, not today!

Not while on the way to the supermarket with my brain full of shopping lists. Not without having the whole conversation in my head first and certainly not with a four year old.

My heart flipped into my throat before falling like a stone into my boots. Swallowing hard and gripping the steering wheel harder I knew what I should do instantly. I'd pretend that I didn't hear him and he wouldn't ask again. “Yes, that's the way to deal with it. I'll just pretend that it never happened,” I said to myself. Having made the decision, I glanced in my rear view mirror.

I could see my son sitting in his car seat with his head bent to one side. Sitting next to him, my daughter, who was a year and half older and had never brought this subject up, looked from Alex to the back of my head with interest.

Alex caught my eye in the mirror and said again, a little more urgently this time, “Mummy, where do babies come from?”

Oh no, I shouldn't have risked looking in the mirror! Now I've got to answer him. What do I say? How far do you go? Do I use the proper names or make names up? It's okay using the name willie; it's very commonly used, but what about lady bits? There were so many names for them - made-up or scientific. This whole conversation was full of pitfalls - it was delicate and complicated. It was a conversation you could only have when you were prepared for it.

My sister-in-law had a lot to answer for - this was all her fault. It was her baby that had started all this. I gave myself a mental slap. What is wrong with me? I'm not a prude, at least I have never considered myself to be, but now the question was “out there” I found that my throat was restricting and my month had gone dry.

Just get a grip, it’s not that bad. You're his mum - you will know what to say. Just be honest and tell it as it is. Don't complicate things and don't panic - all will be fine. Okay, deep breath - keep the answers short and sweet. He will soon move on to the next subject.

“Well it's like this,” I began, “When a mummy and daddy love each other, they make babies together so that they can be a family, like us.”

What a cop out - I hadn't answered his question, I had just skirted round the outside. I know Alex - he won't leave it at that. And sure enough he didn't.

“But how do they make babies?” he pushed.

“Okay, when a mummy and daddy love each other, a daddy puts a seed into the mummy's tummy. It mixes with the mummy's egg and a baby grows.”

Alex was quiet - so far so good. I had given him the bare facts. No need for using “names”. Yep, that was okAY - my job here was done.

His little face was screwed up in concentration. “How does the seed get into the mummy's tummy?”

I realised he wasn't going to go easy on me and there would be no fobbing him off. Okay, let's keep this clear and precise. Eliminate any confusion. Here goes …

“Do you remember when you planted Sunflower seeds last spring?”

“Yes.”

Good, that's a start.

“Well Daddy planted a sunflower seed into a little pot of earth and you watched it grow into a really tall flower. Well the same thing happens when a baby grows.”

Surely that was clear enough - precise enough.

“So if it's the same, how come the seed grows into a baby and not a sunflower?” Jordan piped up.

That's not what I meant. This wasn't going the way I wanted it to. So much for clear and precise - this was starting to confuse me.

“The daddy doesn't plant a sunflower seed into the mummy he plants a different type of seed that grows into a baby.”

“Does he use a stick, like daddy did with the sunflower?”

What had I done? My kids were going to go through life thinking that all babies came out of the end of a stick, at this rate! I've got to nip this in the bud - so to speak.

“You couldn't poke a mummy with a stick Alex. that wouldn't be nice.” Nice try Jordan, but it still doesn't let me off the hook.

“No, not exactly. He uses …” I have just got to say it; I haven't got a choice, not if I want them to grow into complete level-headed, mature adults with a clear understanding of the world around them. “He uses his … his willie.” There I'd said it.

Silence. Jordan giggled. Is that enough information for him? Will he drop the subject now? Can I get back to thinking about what we’re having for tea?

“How?”

He was going for the jugular. He was going to squeeze every last bit of information out of me that he could. Perhaps we would have to go back to the stick thing after all.

“Does it hurt planting seeds in a mummy's tummy?”

Oh no, both of them look horrified at the thought. Could I get away with saying - Actually, it hurts a lot and if you try to make babies before you’re sixteen years old, your willie will just turn green and fall off? Okay, probably not!

Just keep a cool head. There can't be many more questions. This conversation needs to end before I get to the supermarket; I'm not talking about the facts of life over the fruit and veg!

“Of course not sweetheart. It didn't hurt planting the sunflower seed did it?”

There. Throw a question back at him - perhaps it will put him off asking any more questions of his own.

“You and daddy don't do that, do you?” Jordan looked disgusted.

“I don't want daddy doing that to you, you're my mummy,” Alex's bottom lip was quivering.

Okay, enough. How did we get from where babies come from, to my sex life? More to the point, how do I get out of this? This is all screwed up. I think I may have mentally scarred the pair of them for life. I know it’s scarred me.

Perhaps it was too much too soon. Perhaps I wasn't clear enough and all this talk about sunflowers has messed with their heads. Perhaps I should look in the library to yake out a book on the subject, just to put their minds as rest. Yes that's what I'll do - better late than never. Everything will be fine.

“Don't you worry about that, either of you. Having babies is a lovely thing. That's all that matters and anyway, how about getting a special yoghurt from the shops for after tea?”

There, change the subject. They can't resist chocolate yoghurts. Could that be classed as bribery?

“Mummy?”

Oh please - no more questions! Haven't you put me through enough already!

“Yes, Alex?”

“Jordan won't let me watch Barney when we get home. She said we have to watch Cinderella. I don't like her any more. It's not fair - she always gets to choose.”

And there it was. The change I had been praying for. Thank God for short attention spans, early bedtimes and bottles of red wine!

By Susan Feeney

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Priority One

I arrived outside the building at precisely one minute to nine. Racing up the steps, across the lobby and into the empty waiting lift, I urged the ascending box to fly with all its power, or I was going to be late at the office - again. “Come on ...come on ...” I thought urgently, as I watched the snail-like crawl of the floor indicator, inching its way upward through the numerals. In anticipation I could hear my boss’s sarcasm now “... and do you have we a more original excuse today, Miss Beaumont?” The journey into London was always horrendous, reliant upon imponderables - timed to the split second. Flying downstairs, thudding across bridges, racing up escalators - catching a bus - or trying to. The final dash past the uniformed major-domo (who always gave me a sympathetic grin) and then a wild run across the slippery marble hall to the lift, waiting to transport me to the seventh floor - which usually shut its doors in my face.

I stood in the enclosed space, peering into the dim mirror at my reflection and hurriedly re-pinned my hair so that I could appear a little more composed. Groping around in my handbag for my lipstick; it had, as usual, separated from its lid and was now resplendent with bits of fluff and debris from the deep recesses. Sighing, I touched the colour to my lips and decided to set a new fashion in appliqué lipwear as I picked off the fuzzy remnants. I glanced again at the indicator. It seemed to be taking forever today. The lever was hovering between five and six. I looked at my watch anxiously. The minute hand was ominously close to upright. A sudden squealing noise and violent juddering threw me off balance and I hit my head hard on the projecting ledge of the mirror. The lights went out.

I knew the raid must have been on for some time. I had dived for safety under the nearest desk when the windows blew in. There was dust and glass everywhere and falling plaster and furniture. The building had shaken to its very roots from the force of the explosion nearby. My boss, Mr Brinkley-Wood had previously sent me with a huge file and a top priority message to the operations room in the basement. “No-one else to spare,” he said. “Off you go, fast as you can - and don’t lose your way - this file is urgent and vital. Priority One!” Off I hurried, full of self-importance, well aware that if there had been anyone else available he would have used them. I had a scatty reputation. I clattered down fifteen flights of stone stairs, pushed open the heavily-curtained door and found myself in an immense, darkened room, the central focus of which was an enormous table, lit by low-hanging overhead lights, dramatising the scene beneath. Blue wreaths of cigarette smoke laced lazily through the shafts of light. Bigger than a billiard table, I had thought, in my youthful irreverence. (Because that had been the largest thing, in my experience, with which to compare).

Uniformed arms stretched into the brilliantly-lit area, pushing with long, flanged canes, models of ships into numbered squares. Convoys of merchant vessels, surrounded by their guard dogs of destroyers were moved, square by square into new positions on the plaster model of an ocean and cliff-edged shoreline. WRNS personnel (Women’s Royal Naval Service) surrounded the whole of the relief-map perimeter and the synchronised movements of their moving arms were like a surrealist ballet, punctuated by expectant pauses and urgent directions. In the blackness surrounding the arena of action, glowing cigarettes and heavily-shaded soft lights pin-pointed the support team dealing with the shrilling telephones and the de-coded messages, which were handed immediately to the officer-in-charge, to action. Dimly seen on a raised area behind a balustrade, an imposing uniformed figure was relaying the decoded instructions of the fleet positions, barking out orders to the map operators at the table. “F45, submarine torpedo attack, 25 degrees south on starboard bow. E360, steaming 25 knots full ahead to assist. Enemy aircraft approaching west-south-west. Convoy under full attack - sea and air.” A pause and then the next flurry of messages. “F30, on fire and sinking. E210, moving in to pick up survivors. E360, damaged by air attack. F52, damaged fore and aft. Hove-to. E110, relocating to rear of convoy.”

By craning my neck, I was able to see that each model ship had a code number on it. I could see the little group re-forming as the escort moved position to assist and protect the dwindling flotilla. In my imagination I could sense the submarines waiting to pounce - to force an opening through the destroyers’ guarding patrol. As the officer had announced which convoy was under attack, some were abruptly removed as the code numbered ships were sunk. A palpable heaviness of heart and spirit was felt, by all present in the room. He turned occasionally to check the code position on a vast wall map behind him and pointed with his baton at other groups of flags which indicated further convoys struggling towards these shores, laden with desperately needed provisions through mountainous seas. Black, ominous, single flags indicated the lurking enemy battleships and clusters of smaller black flags betrayed the known presence of submarines. Our merchantmen fought twin ongoing enemies - the weather and the foe. I stood, awe-struck that I had been allowed to observe this confirmation of a sea battle, as the convoys were re-grouped and moved continuously during the progression of the enemy action. “You’re taking up room ducks - d’you want summat - or just enjoyin’ the scenery?’” The voice in my ear had made me jump. ‘Er - no. I’ve been told to bring these down, it’s a de-coding and I don’t know where to take it. There’s a file too, for the convoy involved.”

“Right - follow me.” The young chap had led me (rather cockily I thought) to the far end of the room and up to the balcony area. “See that gent? - ‘im with the stripes and braids?” I nodded, trying to look intelligent. “Well ‘and ‘em to ‘im - then scarper, quick, or you’ll collect an earful! Make sure you get a signature though, or you’ll really be for the ‘igh-jump!” So... I had delivered my precious file and puffed my way back up the flights of stairs, filled with the enormity of the scene I had witnessed and proud to have been trusted with the important message. The air-raid must have begun whilst I was in the sound-proofed room, for I hadn’t been aware of the siren. As I had opened the door of the office, the explosion had occurred outside and I had just managed to scramble under the nearest desk as showers of glass and debris rained down. When I reached the office, everywhere seemed dark and there was a heavy weight across me. My head hurt and although my eyes were open I couldn’t see anything. There was an awful taste of dust and dirt in my mouth and the smell was horrible. I wondered where Mr Brinkworth-Wood was. He was in here when I came in. I didn’t like it - I was afraid. “Help! Somebody help!” I screamed. I could hear creaking, and somebody groaning... groaning.

“‘Oooh,” I moaned, “My head hurts.” My fingers gently probed the swelling where I had hit the mirror ledge and came away stained with warm blood. “I feel sick,” I told the world at large. “Is somebody in the lift?” A voice echoed down the shaft, sounding strangely disembodied. I raised myself to a sitting position and shouted, “Me!” with all my strength. “We’ll wind you up to the next floor and get you out. You’ll be OK. Were you hurt?” “What happened? I just want to get out of here.” I had never felt so relieved. “What’s the time?” “Just on eight o’clock - you’ll be in plenty of time today. Bet you forgot to put your clock back!”

By Julie Creaven

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Rachel Davies

It was one of those raw days. The early March wind was biting cold. Heavy slate grey skies over North Yorkshire made it dull. Winter hadn’t run its course. The countryside still exposed the marks of grass, rendered yellowish-brown by ice, cold winds and snow. Trees were still bare and the evergreens had not regained their lustrous foliage. I was driving south on the A1, running low on petrol and down to one cigarette. My eyes searched the road ahead, looking for a petrol station. It seemed to take an eternity before a green and yellow sign appeared, “Services - half a mile.” I slowed. There, in my view, was a rather shabby-looking transport café which had seen better days. Any port in a storm, I thought. I filled my car with petrol and bought some cigarettes. As I was paying, an inexplicable urge came over me for a cup of tea. I wasn’t a great tea drinker but there were times when only a cup of tea would satisfy a certain need. I’d stop, have some tea and finish reading that paper on artificial knee joints. Although I knew that the knee was such a complex mechanism, no one had come near to constructing an artificial one. The café part of the establishment was a typical greasy spoon. However, it had one advantage as far as I was concerned. It was completely empty apart from the woman behind the counter who was vigorously polishing everything in sight. I ordered a pot of tea.

“Small, medium or large?” The question was staccato in a broad Yorkshire accent.

“Medium please.”

“Sit down, I’ll bring it to you,” came the instructive voice. I made my way to a freshly polished table. These places always have that particular smell of stale fried food mixed in with cheap cleaning fluids containing a lot of bleach. I wondered why the stale smell left from the cooking process was so unpleasant, yet the smell of freshly cooking fish and chips made you want to eat some? I’d look that up if I remembered. I took out the research paper and began to read. After some time I was aware that two people, a man and a young woman, were sitting a few tables away. I hadn’t seen them come in. They were locked in very serious conversation. I continued with the difficulties encountered in obtaining all the required movements of the human knee. I don’t know how long had passed when a voice asked, “Can I sit here please?” The voice contained an irritated edge. I looked up and saw the young woman who had been sitting a few tables away. She was now staring down at me. She wasn’t smiling. Her dark gleaming hair had fallen, covering part of her face. A flick of her head sent it back into place, revealing a very attractive face.

“Yes - yes of course,” I hesitated. She placed an expensive-looking black leather briefcase on the table. Putting a pair of black leather gloves with slim red leather cuffs on top of it, she sat down. “I’ve just been sacked,” she blurted out in disbelief, “Sacked!” She took a deep breath and began talking in an agitated, deliberate way. “Did you see that man talking to me? We were sitting just over there. He’s a vice-president from our head office in California. He sacked me or, as he put it, ‘due to necessary structural changes in the organisation we have to make you redundant. The terms of the redundancy are all contained in this letter. I’m very sorry’.” “‘No, you’re not sorry’, I said. ‘How can you be sorry? You don’t even know me. To you I’m just a name on a list. Where’s my regional manager?’ He looked me straight in the eyes as cool as a cucumber and said ‘I’m afraid he left the Company yesterday.’” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“‘Why do you Americans always use words such as sorry and I’m afraid and necessary when you don’t mean any of them?’ I asked him. He said, ‘I don’t wish to argue with you Rachel, this isn’t easy for me.’ I told him, ‘It’s a sight easier for you than it is for me.’ He continued to look me straight in the eyes and said, ‘Good luck for the future.’ He picked up his briefcase and was gone, leaving me with my redundancy letter in front of me, unopened. I opened it and read it - it didn’t say much. I wasn’t entitled to a redundancy package. I hadn’t been with the company long enough to qualify. “The whole dismissal had taken less than five minutes. I get a month’s salary in lieu of notice. An instruction to hand in the company car by the end of the month. Sacked, on a depressingly ugly grey, freezing cold day in a poxy, greasy transport caff on the A1. The least he could have done was chosen the lounge of a five star hotel in Harrogate.” The tears welled up in her eyes, “I’m sorry about this ... my name’s Rachel Davies.” “John Garton,” I paused a few seconds looking into her bright blue tear-stained eyes. I hadn’t seen anyone so upset for a long time. “Tell me, why did you decide to relate this dreadful news to me?” “You have nice hair. A nice face and nice hands. I noticed your hands in particular. You were reading that document in front of you, following each word with one hand and making notes with your fountain pen using the other. You look dependable and approachable.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks. I took out a dark blue dress handkerchief from my top pocket and handed it to her. “Please, dry your eyes. Nothing’s as bad as it first appears. You just need time to think. Let the news settle in your brain, get the thing into perspective. The most important thing is to think about the future.” “I know, I know,” she sobbed gently. “But to be sacked in a poxy, greasy transport caff. Without a word of warning by an American I have never met before who is so full of s**t he might as well be an overflowing sewer. I can’t believe people can be treated like this. I suppose that’s what you should expect when you work for a crappy American company. I’m so sorry about this.” You can tell when someone is genuinely worried. The way the voice stays under control by it’s very seriousness. The look of deep concern in the eyes. Her hand was pumping my blue handkerchief. “Don’t be sorry. You’re very angry and disappointed at the moment, Rachel, and naturally so. You’ve passed from a situation where you were in total control. Now the control has gone. The entire structure of your life has changed and it took less than five minutes.

“An hour ago you had a job. A company car. A salary providing money each month. You could do as you wished within the constraints of a job. Stay in, go out, visit a restaurant or a country pub. Go on holiday, go to the cinema or theatre. You have a car for maximum convenience always there for you. So it’s a pretty good way to live your life. “Then, ten minutes in a greasy spoon on the A1 with the odorous atmosphere of stale fried food, changed all that. It was changed by a man you’ve never met before. Right now you feel empty and frightened. What is this company, and what did you do there?” I smiled at her and she managed a half smile back. “The company is Manning Data Processing of Campbell, California. The UK office is in London. I’m the North East Regional Sales Representative. They manufacture data writing machines which produce punched paper tape. The tape can then be fed into telex machines enabling very fast transmission, minimising the cost of sending telexes. “It can also be used to capture written static data. An important application is feeding information into mainframe computers. There’s one major drawback - the machine has no calculation function. Therefore it’s not suitable for many standard applications which require the calculation function. This in turn means ninety odd percent of the market is closed to you. So the clever sods in America who designed this machine weren’t so clever after all. Every member of the sales force has reported this huge drawback. Many of the enquiries we get are from people just wanting information - to let their boss know they are aware of the Manning 200B and it’s disadvantages. It is not as good as IBM or ICL machines and it’s just as expensive.” Her face changed. Her lips pursed. Her eyes grew bigger.

“Of course, the reason for this structural change is due to product failure in the marketplace, I wonder how many people have gone? I could find out but what’s the point? It won’t do me any good.” “No it won’t,” I interposed. “You’ll be better off thinking about the future. What did you do before you joined the technological revolution?” “I was a secretary in a large firm of solicitors in Leeds. I’m a very good legal secretary. My typing skills alone, easily got me the job at Manning Data. Very often we have to demonstrate the machine to potential clients. I received a much better salary plus commission, company car and expenses. I was looking forward to a bright future. “My father died when I was eleven. I’d just heard that I’d passed for the grammar school. He was so proud. He bought me a black pen with a gold clip, similar to yours. Before I started in the September he had died. The next years were a struggle for my mother. I was always clothed and fed. It seemed to me that my mother could make a penny stretch to a pound. By the time I was eighteen I left school with three good A levels but the years of hard work had taken its toll on my mother.

“She needed a rest, so instead of going to university I got a job at Empson Merril and Dykes - Solicitors. I attended a commercial college, part time day release, to study shorthand and typing and secretarial studies. I flew through the courses with top passes and soon became a secretary in the firm. That’s where I was until eighteen months ago when I saw the advert for Manning Data Processing. I matched the requirements perfectly. I now wish I’d never heard of Manning Data Processing.” “I don’t think you’ve too much to worry about Rachel. You’re attractive, obviously intelligent and you possess a certain quality which is hard to define, but you have it. Plus you have fire in your soul. You’re like a tiger. Perhaps you should make the tiger your motto:

Tyger tyger burning bright

In the forests of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry

“There are two important words in the last verse of Blake’s poem: immortal and frame. Immortal means undying, godlike. Frame means fashioning or constructing, order, shape and mental disposition. In other words would even God dare to question this magnificent creature? It’s always been my own watchword since it was given to me when I was a young man. An old homespun philosopher I worked with gave it to me. It turned out he wasn’t as stupid as lots of people used to think. “The burning bright stands out. Puts you above others. It therefore makes you a target, but which mortal would dare to take you on? If you’re aware of these people it’s not easy for them to stand in your way. Even a boss has to think twice, especially when you sow seeds of doubt in his mind. Introduce possibilities he hasn’t considered or didn’t know he needed to consider until you pointed them out. “Did you have a car before you took this job?”

“Yes I did. I’ve still got it. They offered me a ridiculously low price at the garage so I decided to keep it. Good thing I did now. Do you think I could have a cup of tea please? I’m so very dry.” She smiled like a little girl who has just asked a big favour. I caught the eye of the polishing tea lady and ordered a pot of tea. There was still no one in the place. I wondered how this run down diner paid its way. “I think you should look for a job back in the legal profession. It’s stable, not like the ups and downs of sales jobs in commercial organisations. Your brains should enable you to qualify as a solicitor. It can’t be that difficult. You would also be working with well educated English people. These Americans are strange. They seem to think that moving around and being sacked is good for you.

“The mobility of labour I think Economists call it. I used to work in America. They have a sort of rough-edged attitude in general in business. Hiring and firing is a way of life, employees seem to expect it. When it happens they don’t get all exited. They accept it and move on, looking for another job. Quite different from the English. “So you have a car, that’s a distinct advantage. It means you can get around easily. All you need now is a local paper. A copy of the Law Gazette or whatever they call it. Get registered with the agencies. Search the situations vacant adverts. Buy some good quality typing paper. Envelope and stamps. Soon your letters of application together with your CV will be winging their way to potential employers. All immaculately presented.” “I hope it’s as simple as you make it sound. Have you any more pearls of wisdom I should bear in mind? I may have a lot of time at my disposal, being unemployed.” “Yes, I always bear in mind the speech of Polonius to Laertes in Hamlet:

This above all: to thine own self be true;

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not be false to any man

“I always interpret it as ‘define your own capabilities and needs and aim to satisfy them.’ On the way you carry no falsehoods, therefore nothing can worry or distract you. I really must be making my way back to London. Here’s my card Rachel, I do hope things work out for you. I’m sure they will.” She read my card aloud, “John Gorton, Managing Director, Greerson and Page Limited, Church House, Kensington, London SW8 6PL. What do Greerson and Page do?” “We manufacture medical instruments and components used in orthopedic surgical procedures.” “Thank you so much for listening to a complete stranger in her hour of need. I really have appreciated it.” We made our way to the car park. Within minutes of our last goodbye and a final good luck, I was speeding south on the A1. A strange way to spend part of a Friday morning, I thought. I settled back and listened to the concert on the Third Programme - Beethoven’s first symphony. It must have been three or four weeks later when my secretary entered my office and gave me an envelope with a Private and Confidential stamp on the front in red.

Dear John, It has been just over a month since I met you in the run down greasy spoon on the A1 and burdened you with my problems. I would be embarrassed but you were so kind to me that embarrassment is not a feeling I have. The feeling I do have is one of immense gratitude and good luck. The probability of meeting someone like you in a second rate tea room, reeking of stale chip fat and cheap disinfectant has to be extremely remote, I would think. Hence my good luck and gratitude. I managed to get a job with my second application at a Solicitors in Leeds - Grayson and Company - it comes with sponsorship to study for the Law Society examinations. It’s quite a relief I must say. Many thanks for listening to me and for the good advice. If you’re ever passing this way and have time I would love to meet up with you. Perhaps we could go to that hotel in Harrogate for lunch. I have re-read The Tiger by William Blake, I think it is an excellent poem. I also bought a literary critique of Hamlet. I remember doing it at school and thinking it was complex and contradictory. My opinion hasn’t changed. Once again, if you’re passing, please get in touch. With grateful thanks, Sincerely Rachel.

Well done Rachel, I thought. I’ll count that chance meeting as another one of my successes.

By Terence Johnson

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September Affair

Steven awoke in a sweat, his dream still vivid in his mind. The image of the lady in white haunted him. Memories of the tale he had heard in the bar last night flickered around his consciousness. The island, just a mile off the coast, was shrouded in mystery, but there was a sadness to the story that gripped his soul. He knew he had to visit it to find out more, despite the warnings he had heard.

A good breakfast and strong coffee helped to revive his spirits but he was unable to concentrate on the smalltalk the fat waitress fired at him. Shaking her head, she left him alone after delivering his third rack of toast. Steven’s life on his father’s farm had left him with a healthy appetite and he was making the most of a few days’ rest away from it all, while his younger brother was back from university to take the load. His passion was bird-watching and the coast had seemed the ideal place to indulge.

Steven donned his heavy coat and pulled up the collar, just as an icy squall - totally unexpected at this time of the year - greeted him at the door. He beat his way down to the harbour to hire a boat.

“I wouldn’t go out today,” advised the boatman, appearing not to notice the torrents of rain cascading down the deep channels in his leathery face. “Sea’s too choppy f’r a landlubber.”

Steven looked at the swell and crashing waves and decided to take the advice. The island could wait, and there were plenty of seabirds to be seen along the cliffs.

As he trudged along the cliff-top on the springy grass he re-lived the events in the bar the previous evening. He had just arrived and after a big meal in a deserted restaurant, followed by rather too much cheese and biscuits, he returned to the pub he had booked lodgings in and found his way to the public bar. He bought a second pint and tentatively engaged the landlord in conversation concerning the island he had caught glimpses of through the sea mist.

“Don’t know much about it,” said his host in an accent more associated with city living. “Other than the gossip …”

“That b’ain’t gossip. That be true,” piped up a weather-beaten old man further along the bar. “I could tell ye about it if I wasn’t so thirsty.”

Steven turned on his stool. The pale blue eyes twinkled and the old man rattled his empty mug on the bar.

“Pint for the gentleman,” Steven countered, not taken in the least by the ploy, but interested to hear more - even if it was just gossip.

The old man watched with satisfaction as the ale was eased into his glass, and then took a long draught. There was a scraping of chairs as several other locals pulled themselves nearer in anticipation of the tale. With froth still clinging to his smoke-stained moustache, the man grinned round at his audience, smacked his lips twice and began his tale.

“I’ll tell it how my old dad told me.” He paused for effect, taking another swill of his beer.

“Get on with it, Jake,” prompted one of the audience. “We ain’t got all night.”

“Yes, we ‘ave,” piped up someone else. “Where else would we go in this dead end village?”

Jake frowned at the heckler. “Shush yourself Pete or I won’t tell the tale.”

There were ugly mutterings around the group and Pete slapped his hand over his mouth in comic submission. Silence fell and after a telling pause, Jake continued.

“Well, nigh on eighty years ago there was this hoo-hah at the big house …”

“Big house?” Steven was intrigued.

“Shottlebury Grange,” explained the landlord. “‘About ten miles inland; it’s a ruin now. Never taken on after the old lady died.”

The old man shot him an irritated glance. “Thankee Ted; I were going to explain.” He took another swig of ale and paused again, just long enough to avoid losing his audience. “Anyway, apparently the squire had this love affair with one of the servants. She was married too, and they both had children. The lady of the house found out, of course, and there was this terrible row. The squire walked out and the domestic disappeared at the same time. Well, ‘e can imagine the scandal …”

Steven nodded. He was aware of the double standards of the early twentieth century.

“Well, nothing is heard of either of them for a while, and then old Gaffer comes back in his boat one night with a right tale. Seems there’s ‘Keep Off’ signs all round the Island. Bein’ old Gaffer, he stopped off to investigate of course. He says he seen this woman chained naked to a tree and he reckoned she was the domestic. The squire had taken her there agin’ her will, he said, and was usin’ her and other women for orgies an’ the like.” The old man’s eye’s glinted and he spluttered into his beer. “There was some funny things like that goin’ on in the village a few years before. Seems one or two farmers was losing sheep …”

“But what about the island?” Steven interrupted to prevent the tale wandering further into the realms of pure imagination.

“Ar, yes, the island,” said the old man mysteriously. He took a pipe out of his pocket, and deliberately ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ signs around the bar, proceeded to stuff it full of tobacco and light up. He blew a chain of smoke rings at the landlord. Steven exchanged a glance with the man behind the bar who just shrugged and replaced both drinks. Jake drained half the glass in one swig, cleared his throat and resumed the story.

“Anyway, the squire eventually tires of this lifestyle of booze and sex …” (Cries of ‘shame’ and ‘surely not’ from around the audience) “and lets this woman free. She could be seen wandering along the shore when he was away. But then, one day - this time of year it were - come to think of it, she disappears and the squire, he comes back to the mainland and, not so long after, dies of remorse for what he done.”

“So what happened to the woman?”

“Who can tell? I reckon he did away wi’ her and buried the body, ‘cos she ain’t never been found. But her ghost - I seen her, I tell e, many times since then, standing on the beach, gazing towards the mainland, waiting for the squire to come back. She can never rest, never rest.”

The old man paused and looked around at his audience to see the effect of his tale. The regulars had lost interest, but Steven felt a shiver run down his spine.

The landlord smiled. “Jake - the stories you’ll tell for a pint …”

“Aye, but it be true …” The old man’s protest died as a fresh pint appeared in front of him. Steven had mumbled his thanks, paid and retired to bed to nightmares of the lady in white and drowning.

***

The rain slackened as he walked, and the wind gusted off the sea, fresh and invigorating. Steven’s outdoor lifestyle meant that his body was ideally conditioned to such weather - which had not been uncommon this year. He felt as if he could walk forever. The gulls cried and wheeled over his head. He found an overhang in the cliff out of reach of wind and rain, and settled down, his binoculars ready, for anything interesting that might fly by. Eventually, his eyes closed, heavy with sleep after his disturbed night, and a warm glow flowed through his limbs.

“Steven, where are you? I am waiting.”

He jerked awake at the sound of a voice close beside him; a sweet voice full of passion and desperation. There was nobody there; a dream? He stood up and stretched and his eyes were drawn out to sea. He saw an island, looming out of the mist.

“What? I thought I was miles away from there.”

As he stared across the sea, a shaft of sunlight illuminated the beach and picked out a figure. Steven grabbed his field glasses and fumbled with the focus wheel. His heart thumped. There on the island was a woman clad in white; the woman in his dream? Long blonde hair seemed to flow round her head in slow motion. She raised a hand to shade her eyes and seemed to look straight at him. Steven stared, transfixed, for several seconds until the sunlight failed and the island disappeared back into the mist.

Steven ran. Along the cliff-top, brambles tore at his legs and coat, but he felt nothing in his haste to return to the harbour. He hadn’t gone as far as he imagined and a quarter of an hour found him panting on the quayside. The boatman was nowhere to be seen, so he jumped straight into the boat he had tried to hire and started the engine. The little craft shot smoothly past the harbour bar and into the open sea. Steven gasped as the full force of the wind hit him and he failed to see the boatman running along the bar, shouting about lack of fuel in the tank.

The boat rocked dangerously as a wave swamped the gunwales. Steven turned it directly into the wind and opened the throttle as wide as it would go. As the boat ploughed further out into the sound, the waves became more wild and unpredictable. Memories of dreams of drowning came back to him with a vengeance. Why had he not put on a lifejacket? What was he doing out here anyway? There was no escape now; he had to keep going; the dark mass looming in front of him must be the island.

A huge wave swamped the boat, tossing it angrily sideways. His binocular case broke free and disappeared into the foam. Steven was soaked through; the bird book in his pocket swelled as it absorbed the water. The engine spluttered. Steven cursed and worked the throttle backwards and forwards. The engine roared back into life and shot the boat forward as the wind died. He was in the lee of the island at last. The engine coughed and stopped dead as the petrol ran out. Steven uttered a prayer, and as if someone had taken pity on him, the sea gave up its attempt to murder him and threw the boat and its saturated occupant on to the coarse shingle of the beach.

He lay, winded, bruised and shivering, on the beach for a few minutes and then heard a crunch as the sea gripped his boat again. He caught the painter just in time and dragged his little vessel out of harm’s way. He sat on a rock and contemplated his fate as a shipwrecked mariner. As he looked around for inspiration, a flash of white caught his eye.

A small lace handkerchief lay on the shingle. He stopped to pick it up and smelled the faint trace of a haunting perfume still clinging to it. He smiled.

“So our ghost has a degree of vanity. Well, well, well, not a ghost then. So where did she go?”

He looked round, and his eyes were drawn to a path disappearing into the undergrowth.

“Well, she can’t have left the island - not in this weather. Only idiots would be on the sea on a day like today. Let’s see if we can find her, seeing as I’m stranded.” He paused. “At least I won’t starve.”

An apple tree had dropped a few fruits at the start of the path so he stuffed them in his pocket on top of the lump of mash which was originally his bird book.

He followed the path across the island and emerged right into the teeth of the gale. The wind bit through his wet clothing; he had never felt so cold in his life. He forced himself to run along the cliff edge, following the path. The sky darkened, threatening another heavy downpour. He looked at his watch.

It was blank. The electronics were obviously not waterproof to 50 metres - as the advertising had boasted. He guessed it was getting late. “I’m going to have to find some shelter,” he muttered wearily to himself. “This path must go somewhere.”

A droplet of rain fell on his head but at that moment the dying sun forced its way through a crack in the heavy clouds and an angry red beam fell directly on a cottage nestling in the trees to his right.

“Salvation,” he muttered and ran towards it as the rain resumed. The ray vanished and he found himself standing in front of a derelict Victorian villa.

The dusty windows glowered at him, as lifeless as the eye sockets of a skull. He paused as the menace of the building held him back. The storm exploded around him and he forced his way through the door. As he passed the doorway, he felt a brief resistance as if he was pushing through a thick curtain, and then he was in the silence inside.

His eyes became accustomed to the gloom. His heart stopped as he was confronted by a tall figure in white; a figure without a head; the ghost? For what seemed like a lifetime, Steven stood, shaking with cold. Prickly sweat poured down his face, mingling with the water from his saturated hair. He shut his eyes, hoping for the thing to go away. When he opened them it was still there and he laughed out loud, feeling totally stupid.

The “ghost” was actually a tailor’s dummy - a wickerwork bust on a stand, clad in a long white dress in the “Twenties” style. Then his smile faded. A lump came into his throat as he realised that its previous owner was probably the lady of the island. Had she really been a prisoner? He looked around at the rest of the room - a pair of faded armchairs, a treadle sewing-machine, a Welsh dresser, a rough wooden table and various other items of furniture suggested more of a Spartan lovenest than a brothel or gaol.

The rumours were untrue. What the squire must have given up to live here with his love. What Steven did not notice with his own particular form of “man blindness” was that the stone floor was not quite as dusty as it should have been after eighty years of neglect, nor did he notice the ashes of a recent fire in the huge inglenook.

He shivered again and set out exploring the rest of the cottage. It yielded only a rough kitchen and a simple bedroom, the mouldering bed covered by a white blanket. He took the blanket and a couple of smaller pieces of cloth he found in a chest, and returned to the living room. He draped his wet clothes over the table and wrapped the blanket and cloth around himself. It was getting dark now, and, exhausted, he settled into one of the armchairs and fell asleep.

***

Crash! The front door swinging back against the wall, shattered his repose. The dim light outside silhouetted a figure in the doorway. Steven leapt to his feet, the blanket draped around his shoulders. There was a cry of alarm; a girl’s voice, sweet and clear above the roar of the storm. Steven fumbled for the blankets to cover himself up, lost grip and the whole ensemble dropped to the floor. The girl screamed and backed off into the storm.

“Keep away!” Her voice rose hysterically. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, you pervert?”

Steven coloured as he reached to pull the blanket around himself again. “Look, I’m sorry. I got caught in the rain. My boat ran out of petrol.”

“What on earth were you doing out on a day like today?” She fired the question at him with obvious suspicion, as she came back into the cottage out of the storm. A river of water gushed over the floor from her clothes.

“I saw you on the beach; the stories; the ghost of the lady …” he faltered as he realised he was digging himself deeper.

“Get away!” she spat. There was menace in her voice. “I can do karate, you know.” Steven suddenly realised that the reason for her hostility was that she was terrified of him - she was trapped on a lonely island with an unknown man.

Understanding softened his voice. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, please believe me.”

“Why should I believe you? You are trespassing. I can call the police you know.” She fished a dripping mobile out of a pocket and studied it with dismay.

Steven shrugged sympathetically. “My watch went the same way. Look, I saw you on the beach earlier. I thought you, er, needed rescuing. The old time stories, you know.” His blanket slipped again and he fumbled to cover himself up.

The girl eyed him up and down. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I guess I can forgive you, especially with, er, legs like that. It’s going to be a long night, so if you aren’t going to murder me, I suppose we might as well try to get on. Your name?”

“Tremayne, Steven Tremayne.”

The girl was silent for a second and then simply walked past him as though he wasn’t there. She fished a candle and matches out of a drawer in the table and lit up. The light reflected from her smile.

“Well, Tremayne Steven Tremayne, I am Evelyn Pengelly; Eve if you like.” She flicked a sodden blonde curl from her forehead and shook it, spraying water from side to side. Steven stood speechless at the change in her demeanour as she opened a drawer in the dresser and extracted a towel. She grinned at him as she started to rub her hair dry.

“You don’t know my name? Well, you should. We’re almost related. If you’ve heard the stories you might like to know it was your grandmother the squire ran off with. I’ve done a lot of research and was going to contact your family anyway. The squire was my great-grandfather. Sorry about his behaviour, by the way.” She looked sheepishly at him. “They were in love, you know.”

Questions welled up in Steven’s mind, like a saucepan of milk about to boil over.

“Well, Evelyn Pengelly Eve-if-you-like, you could tell me a bit ...”

The girl gave him no time to speak and rapidly changed the subject, energetically kicking off a pair of green Wellingtons. “Can you light fires? I’ve got some wood and matches, and all I need to get it going is a useful man, as I used the last of the firelighters yesterday.”

They worked together at the grate. Steven found his eyes drawn to the slim, athletic girl as they arranged the wood in a tepee over a nest of twigs. He struck a match and the creation burst into flames. Eve’s grey eyes swept up to stare directly into his, and held his gaze for a few seconds. She grinned as he self-consciously covered his exposed knee with the blanket again.

“I’d better get these damp clothes off too,” she said, and then added in answer to his faltering offer of the blanket. “Don’t worry, I’ve got something else.” She looked pointedly at his ensemble. “I keep it for when I’m hiring out my bedding to total strangers. I’ll put this away.” She grabbed the bust and disappeared into the bedroom. She emerged a few minutes later, in the white dress. It fitted the curves of her body perfectly.

Steven let out a gasp of disbelief. “But it’s been here for eighty years; it can’t possibly be fit to wear ...”

The girl smiled and started arranging both of their sodden clothes on hangers inside the fireplace. “Don’t be silly; I brought it with me to frighten the locals. I heard they were starting to visit my island so I wanted to keep them away when I was here. They are a superstitious lot.” She peered at Steven’s face, pale under the tan after this new shock. “I see it works then.”

“So it didn’t belong to the lady ... er ... my grandmother, you say?”

“No, I had it made specially.” She finished the clothes drying arrangement and settled herself in the armchair opposite him.

“I believe the squire did buy his lady a dress like this, but she never wore it. A very sad story. Anyway …” she pulled herself away from the subject. “I know a bit about you. You live on a real farm don’t you?”

“A dairy herd.”

“A bit different from my job.”

“Which is?”

“Trader in the City”

“What, a market stall?” Somehow, Steven could not see this elegant girl with the cultured accent, selling apples from a wooden barrow.

Eve laughed out loud, her voice tinkling round the room. Steven was hooked.

“No, of course not. Trading is something we do in banks; buying and selling currency, stocks and shares.”

Steven’s face was blank. “Sounds like a waste of time.”

“Not really.” The girl grinned again. “One can make a lot of money on the deals; commission and suchlike. Anyway, I come here as often as I can. I paint landscapes to relax and get the fumes of the City out of my lungs.”

“It’s a long way to come. It must cost a bomb …”

“Trading is a fairly lucrative profession.” The girl smiled. “What about you?”

“We make ends meet.” Steven felt a little intimidated.

Eve reached over and squeezed his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound condescending.”

“No offence taken.” Steven ignored the shocks of electricity running up his arm from her touch. He frowned. Can you tell me a bit more about the squire then? How much do you know of the story?”

“Most of it.”

“I’d like to know. After all, I don’t think we’re going to be short of time tonight, if not food?” He looked hopefully around.

“Sorry, I forgot to stock up the freezer. I thought I was off this afternoon, but the weather, you know … I could do with a bite, now you come to mention it.”

“Have an apple?” He proffered one of the apples he’d picked up earlier.

Her face puckered. “I wouldn’t even sell that from my barrow, but I’ll give it a go - I’m so hungry.”

“And the story?”

The girl took a deep breath and bit into the fruit. “Well, as you probably know,” she said, her mouth full, “The Squire did run off with a servant - your gran - but it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime affairs.”

A dreamy expression came into her eyes as she added another log to the fire. Steven knew exactly what she meant. She was rapidly becoming the most attractive girl he had ever seen. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

“Of course the family disowned them, sent the children away and his wife, who owned the Grange, started the rumours about what he was up to. They eventually came here and lived in this very cottage, of course - in utter bliss.”

“Of course.” Steven looked around and could almost feel the happiness of the runaway couple. He inadvertently let out a long sigh as the girl continued. “The squire used to visit the mainland to sell fish and the produce he could grow - and he would buy other food. One day though, he spent all the money he earned on a dress as a birthday present for his lady. On the way back to the island, he got caught in a storm, such as this one today, I suppose. His lady was waiting for him on the beach as she always did when he went away. Just as she caught sight of him, his boat was swamped and capsized, throwing him into the storm.

“She was a good swimmer and threw herself into the sea to try to rescue him. He eventually struggled to the shore alone. He frantically searched all night for her, but all he found was the dress he’d bought for her - washed up. He brought it back with him when he left the island for good and died of a broken heart not long afterwards.”

Steven nodded his head. “A sad story, but I think they were really happy here. I can almost feel their presence in the cottage.”

Eve tore her eyes away from the hypnotic glow of the fire. “How strange that we should meet on a night like this; same month too.” She shivered.

Steven took a chance. “Eve, would you mind if I held you? I know we’ve only just met but …” The girl moved from the armchair and banked a few more logs around the fire.

Steven blushed. Had he been too forward? Eve turned to face him, standing upright between him and the fire, her hands on her hips. He could not see her expression.

“Yes, I am still a little cold.” For a moment she didn’t seem totally sure, but then appeared to make her mind up. “After all, we almost know each other.” She snuggled into his chair with him and he wrapped the blanket round them both. “You’ll catch your death of cold like that,” she said, squeezing his bare shoulder. “Perhaps I can keep you warm as well?”

***

Morning dawned fresh and fair. The clothes had dried and they dressed slightly self-consciously. Eve collected her artist’s materials from a cupboard in the dresser. As she unceremoniously stuffed them into a holdall, she smiled at Steven.

“Can I give sir a lift back to the mainland?”

“I meant to ask you how you got here.” He tore his gaze away from her figure to look back into her eyes.

“With your imagination, I suppose you think I arrived on the wings of a supernatural dove,” she grinned. “Actually, I get a boat to pick me up. If the weather’s bad they just come when they can. It is Monday you know. Some of us have to work for a living.”

She laughed as Steven bristled with indignation and she took his hand to lead him down a cliff path to a little jetty hidden in a sheltered bay.

They sat together in the stern of a tiny fishing boat. In a few minutes the island would be out of sight around the headland as they made for a port some miles along the coast from Steven’s village. The wind tousled the girl’s hair like the leaves on a willow tree.

She pushed it out of her eyes and studied her new friend. He returned her gaze and asked the inevitable question. “Can I see you again?”

Eve looked thoughtful. “It’s a long way from my flat to your farm.”

Steven’s face fell.

She grinned. “Perhaps I could stay for a few days?”

He smiled. “Of course. You can stay as long as you like.”

“You can teach me about dairy farming.”

“And you can teach me about trading.”

She roared with laughter. “You wouldn’t want to know, but I’m sure we’ll find something ...”

A voice on the radio in the tiny wheelhouse made her pause.

“A shock hit the City today as four of the major banks announce details of record losses and expectations of mass redundancies amongst their trading staff …”

Eve gave a shriek, jumped up and dashed forward to listen to the bulletin. Steven let his eyes wander back to the island, rapidly disappearing behind the headland. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the figure of a woman, dressed in white, on the beach, watching the boat.

Even though she was a long way away and rapidly disappearing from view, he knew she was smiling.

A hand fell on his shoulder. Eve had returned to Steven’s side and was peering anxiously at him. She followed his gaze, but the island was already out of sight. Eve shook his shoulders.

“What did you see?”

He blinked hard and then turned to smile at her.

“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”

By Robert Wingfield

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Sting In The Tale

Beth stretched lazily as she slid out of bed, a lady of leisure at last. She had waited too long for this. For the past twenty three years she and her husband, Colin, had travelled around Africa for his work, sometimes living in the most hostile places. But now they were back in England, thanks to Colin’s promotion.

They had bought a house in the country six months earlier. Since then, they’d been busy decorating and buying new furniture. Now it was all finished, looking the way they wanted it to.

Beth and Colin never had children, not that it mattered, they were very much in love. Beth could be totally dependent on Colin. He fulfilled her every wish and always had her best interests at heart.

Life was perfect. She could now please herself and potter in the garden, take the dog for a walk or fuss over the cat. Better still, she could go hunting for bargains at the shops. They were hardly short of money. They’d both worked hard. Colin supervised the work in copper mines, while Beth busied herself with clerical work. They’d managed to save enough money to be “comfortable” when they returned from Africa. It all seemed so long ago now.

Beth went to her bedroom window and opened the curtains. It was a lovely day. Acres of fields and meadows stretched out before her, bathed in the morning sunshine. As she gazed out at the blue sky, she noticed a black cloud that hovered menacingly on the horizon. It was thickly massed and appeared unstable as though it were alive. She stared at the cloud, her mind racing through the cause for such a spectacle. Could it be what Beth dreaded most? Surely not here in England? As she stared at the cloud, fear welled up inside her. Experience of African skies had taught her to recognise this threatening formation. There was no doubt in her mind.

Panic wasn’t her normal reaction, nor could it be now. Beth knew the situation called for a clear sequence of events - men had died for less.

Every window, door, nook and cranny must be sealed. The way must be barred for such an onslaught.

She worked swiftly and precisely - double-glazing was a Godsend. The dog and cat were gathered in, their lives were at risk too.

Everywhere was double checked - openings blocked with bits of rag, blue tac, whatever she could find. Her heart beat rapidly as she went about her work, but time passed quickly and eventually she was finished. Everywhere was now sealed.

She went back home to her bedroom. From here she could watch the progress of the cloud, which was now almost upon her.

Time hadn’t lessened the dread of this awesome sight. The cloud loomed dark against the sky. This scene was common enough in African skies, but Beth had never heard of this in England before. Could it be the result of global warming?

The weather had changed over the years. The variations in the winter months were great, causing intermittent heatwaves during January and February. Would this cause the threatening cloud of plague? What was the cloud made of? It was difficult to tell. It could be locusts, or worse.

Beth turned on the TV for the news. The swarm had obviously passed over land, and details should have filtered through to the media by now. There was nothing. Just the usual humdrum of women’s chat that usually churned forth at that time of day. She tried the radio - same thing.

Beth sat on her bed, the cloud was almost overhead now. She could hear the occasional ping on the window pane as a vanguard made its way ahead of the swarm.

Straining her eyes, she thought she could see bees. She then recognised the drone coming from the skies. She hadn’t noticed it before, but yes, it was definitely the sound of bees.

The pings grew louder and more frequent on her windows as the swarm advanced.

Beth thought of her elderly neighbours. Would they have the sense to batten down too? She then thought of Colin. He knew the danger as well as she did. Had the swarm passed over his office? She decided to ring him.

She lifted the receiver, but the line was dead. Beth knew that, apart from her dog and cat, she was quite alone, unable to contact anybody. Still, maybe the swarm would pass over. Bees didn’t necessarily descend upon the first thing in their path. Sometimes they’d fly for miles before they came to ground. It might be possible that she would be lucky and they’d pass her by.

In her mind, she ran through a list of precisely what she had secured. Windows - they’d be strong enough against bees. Doors, especially outer doors - she’d sealed with blue tac. Even the letterbox was taped down. The loft was quite secure, no bee could lift the hatch. The fireplace - she’d forgotten the fireplace! The sense of urgency now overwhelmed her. How stupid she’d been to forget the fireplace. She must work swiftly. The chimney was an open chasm if the bees chanced to go to ground on her house. What a good thing she’d eventually remembered it.

She searched for something to block it. The best thing would be a piece of board, but there was nothing in the house. It was too late to venture outside - the bees were overhead. The danger of them swooping down on her was too great.

She gingerly opened the lounge door and her worst fears were confirmed. Several bees were already in the room. This meant the rest would follow. She had to block the chimney.

She grabbed an aerosol can and sprayed it around the room and up the chimney. That should at least slow down their progress until she could think of something else to use.

Everything was either too small or impossible to fix securely. A blanket! That was it! She’d have to get the blanket from the airing cupboard.

Beth rushed upstairs and brought down the blanket. She managed to fix it tightly around the chimney breast with the aid of some ornaments. She sprayed the blanket with flykiller for added protection.

The room was choking with aerosol spray, making her confident that the bees wouldn’t survive in that atmosphere.

Beth returned upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door. She thought hard - was there anywhere else she might have forgotten? The sky was now black, just like the swarm directly overhead.

There was a continual bombardment on her window pane as the bees flew straight into it. The drone overhead sounded like lawnmowers labouring on her roof.

She closed the curtains, unable to watch the little bodies as they slithered, stunned to the sill. She turned on the TV to try to drown out the sound of buzzing from the unwelcome visitors. The picture was blurred, probably because of the bees flying into the aerial, she thought.

She listened for the news, but there was no mention of the bees. She’d have to sit it out until either the bees had gone, or until she was rescued.

As she waited, she became aware of a buzzing noise coming from the other side of the bedroom door. She turned down the radio and listened closely. She was sure they were in the halls, but didn’t know how they managed to get inside.

Beth’s anxiety grew as she remembered her pets downstairs. Carefully, she opened the door, but several bees quickly flew through the gap. She slammed the door quickly. Her worst fears were realised. Not only had the bees managed to find a way inside her house, but they’d chosen her house as their next nesting place.

She needed to rescue her pets and find out how the bees were getting in. She thought for a minute. She took out some large jumpers, long socks and a scarf from her wardrobe and put them on for protection.

She grabbed a magazine and dashed into the hall, making sure to close the door behind her. The bees were everywhere. As she darted down the stairs, she swirled her magazine from side to side, but this didn’t prevent the bees from stinging her face and hands - the pain reaching intolerable levels.

She made it to the kitchen and soon realised that the bees were entering via the cooker hood. She switched on the appliance, knowing the bees couldn’t contend with the force of the air blowing out.

Beth looked for her animals but could not see them and by now the bees were swarming round her face. She couldn’t stop them. In a mad panic she swung the magazine wildly at them, but this only aggravated them more. She tried to clear her mouth, eyes and nose. The bees were relentless in their attack, forcing Beth to drop to her knees. The pain was now excrutiating.

Horror swept into her heart as she realised there was no escaping this onslaught. She could never make it to the safety of her bedroom. In utter despair she threw her head back and let out a blood-curdling scream that seem to come from the bowels of the earth itself. She collapsed in a heap in the floor, slipping into unconsciousness.

As she lay there, time itself seemed to stop. The sound of bees had gone and what felt like a lifetime had drifted by.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Light filled the room and warm a glow filled her heart. She could see familiar things around her. She felt safe again, safer than she could ever have imagined. She was alive! She’d managed to survive the onslaught of the bees.

Someone was gently touching her.

“Beth,” said the voice. It was Colin. “Beth, wake up.”

Beth sat up, relieved to see the man she loved.

“Are the bees gone?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine now darling. They’re all gone,” said Colin. “You’ve had a nasty shock, but the doctor said you’re fine. A few stings, but nothing more.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Since yesterday. The doctor gave you something to make you sleep.”

“Oh Colin, I was so scared.”

He embraced her gently. “I know, darling, it was a terrible experience for you.”

“I thought I was going to be stung to death,” she said, with a tremble in her voice.

“If you hadn’t collapsed to the ground, it would’ve been much worse. The bees that attacked you are a special breed that only swarm in the air,” explained Colin. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Where did they all come from?”

“From the local honey factory across the fields,” said Colin. “The factory caught fire and caused the bees to swarm. Unfortunately, our house is nearest to the factory, so naturally they used it as a hive.”

“So that’s why it wasn’t on the news,” said Beth. “In Africa, they can fly for miles before descending upon their prey.”

“They’re not that type of bee,” said Colin. “These were very valuable and used for making honey. They’ve been bred over many years to produce a very pure type of honey, the sort that people will pay top money for. The company could’ve lost a lot of money if the bees hadn’t been found.”

“Anyway, you’re famous now,” he said, tossing her the newspaper. “You made the local news.”

“Goodness,” said Beth, as she began to read the article.

Tragedy was narrowly averted yesterday when Hortons Preserving factory caught fire, causing bees to swarm into the home of Mrs Beth Carpenter. Mrs Carpenter had the sense to block all the entrances to her house the instant she realised she was in the direct path of the swarming bees. Mrs Carpenter, recently home from Africa, escaped with just a few stings and a nasty shock.

The article went on -

A home is desperately being sought for the bees, until the factory is rebuilt.

“Who on earth would want to give them a home?” thought Beth. “It’d be too soon if I never saw a bee again.” She continued reading the article.

It could take six months to rebuild the factory and a foster home is desperately needed. The bees are of a very rare and valuable breed and it’s vital they are preserved.

“I’ll go and make some breakfast,” said Colin. “You get dressed and come down when you’re ready.”

Beth put the newspaper down, then washed and dressed herself. It all seemed a bit unreal now, to think that she’d been in such danger just a short time ago.

As she moved towards the bedroom window, she felt relieved that all she could see was a bright blue sky; a beautiful spring day and nothing on the horizon. She sighed and gazed down at the garden below. Her eyes were met by a sight which caused her heart to skip a beat. She couldn’t believe it. She felt her blood freeze. In blind panic she let out a piercing scream.

Colin burst through the bedroom door, rushing to her side.

“What is it, Beth?”

She was shaking from head to foot as she pointed to the bottom of the garden. Standing there, erect and proud, were row upon row of beehives.

Colin hesitated for a moment.

“I was going to tell you about them. I’ve agreed to foster them, until the factory is rebuilt.”

By Val Harvey

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The Rug

Charlie was worried, he had never seen Bill so depressed. Normally he was the life and soul of the party, bursting with energy and full of fun. As Charlie walked along the pavement towards Bill’s cottage, his mood began to brighten. He loved the seasons, in particular, autumn. Today was glorious. The leaves were still gently lowering themselves down from the trees, creating dazzling patterns of colour on the ground. He would drag Bill out for a walk, maybe even a game of squash.

A couple of weeks ago they had gone along to a car boot sale. Bill had been on the lookout for old tapes and records. His taste in music was rotten; Patsy Cline, Slim Whitman, Jim Reeves - that sort of thing. Not Charlie’s cup of tea, but Bill was very much into it. You just had to open the squash club door to see if Bill was there. He’d place a tape in the ghetto blaster, turn up the volume and lock it inside his locker. You got used to it. Most people had been missing it lately. Charlie occasionally popped in to see him, trying his best to cheer him up. Okay, he’d just lost his job, but he’d been idle before and usually didn’t bother too much. “Something will turn up,” he always said.

Turning into the lane that lead to Bill’s, he was surprised at the number of leaves on the ground. The lane was strewn with them, and as he neared the cottage he practically waded through them. Pushing open the gate, its ancient hinges creaked and groaned, while the solitary tree in the yard swayed in accompaniment. Ringing the bell once, he opened the door and walked in.

“Hi Bill. You’d better get the old wellies on and start clearing the path, otherwise you’ll end up covered in leaves. They’re practically bursting through the front door.”

“It’s coming at me,” said Bill, suddenly. He was staring down at the floor. Charlie was alarmed. Bill looked awful. He was sprawled out on the couch, he didn’t look as if he had moved since his previous visit, still unkempt and unshaven. Charlie was concerned.

“Who’s coming at you Bill?”

“The rug.”

“What do you mean, Bill?” Charlie wasn’t too sure of what to say. Bill was a great practical joker, but something in his voice alerted him, he was serious.

“The rug, Charlie. The rug. It’s coming towards me!” Charlie looked down at the rug. It was unusual looking. A strange mixture of shades and patterns. It looked different compared to when they bought it from the back of a man’s stall. Mind you, that was usually the case. You saw something in a shop you liked, took it home, placed it in a room and most of the time it didn’t look the same. “I suppose it’s the same for people too”, Charlie thought. “They behave differently when in their homes”.

As Charlie scrutinised the rug, it reminded him of something else, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what.

“Haven’t you been to bed, Bill? You look like death warmed up. You’d think you’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Shift yourself and put the kettle on. I’ll make us both a sandwich.”

Bill sat in a stupor for a few seconds before making, what looked like a major effort, to stir. He walked into the kitchen and deliberately walked around the rug, as if too frightened to tread on it.

“We’ve missed you down at the club. I’ll need to haul you down there so that you can turn on the old style and show us how the game should be played.”

Bill wasn’t the least responsive. True, he’d appeared to cheer up marginally, but nevertheless, he still looked dreadful. Carrying their tea and sandwiches from the kitchen, Bill skirted round the rug as they made their way to the couch. Charlie sat opposite him.

“What a day! An absolute cracker. Once we’ve finished off this little lot, we’ll go for stroll. The fresh air’ll do you good.”

“I’m not at it, Charlie. That rug is moving across the room and coming at me. No, listen to me, Charlie! I don’t know how to explain. I know it’s irrational, illogical, crazy ... call it what you like, but the simple fact is that, that rug there is slowly, but surely, coming to get me.”

In the silence that ensued, the dripping of a tap could clearly be heard. Each drip serving to elongate the awkwardness of the moment. Charlie was worried, and decided to humour Bill. In the circumstances he didn’t know the best way to go about this, but felt that talking would help.

“Bill, of course the rug’s moved, that’s what all rugs do. As soon as you walk over them they shift a little. Mary got me to attach little things to ours to stop them moving. You know the sort of thing I mean, sort of velcro like. I’m sure we have some left over. I’ll bring it round tomorrow.”

“Thanks for trying to help, Charlie, but you don’t understand. This one’s different. I keep away from it, but it still keeps coming. Very, very slowly. It’s in no hurry, but it’s coming just the same.”

“Come on, Bill, you’re on a bit of a downer. It happens to us all now and again. Let’s go for a walk. I’ll get rid of that rug.”

“Don’t touch it!” snapped Bill, so suddenly and decisively that Charlie dropped his cup.

“Hell almighty, Bill. Calm down. I’ll clean up this mess. Get your jacket, we are going for a walk. I’ll let you buy me a couple of pints. We could both do with a good, stiff drink.”

Practically dragging him out of the front door, Charlie thought to himself, “I must get him fixed up. He’s lived on his own now for far too long. He’s obviously depressed. A bit of company is what he needs.”

“In the name of the wee man, look at these leaves. We can hardly get out of the door for them, they’re knee deep. All the leaves in the neighbourhood are trying to get in your front door. There must’ve been a bit of a wind when I was inside. It’s stopped now. Lovely and calm.”

They waded through the leaves with some difficulty and constantly had to brush them off their ankles, as they appeared to cling, unwilling to let them go. “Weird”, thought Charlie, involuntary shivering. Bill’s mood must be getting to him too. There and then, he decided he was going to take him to his home after the pub. Mary would be delighted to see him. After a good meal, he would persuade him to stay overnight. A good night’s sleep would put everything into perspective.

* * *

Charlie was feeling despondent. All attempts to cheer up Bill had failed miserably. Indeed, he’d been downright rude. Whenever any of their friends had come over to join them he’d been so sour faced and morose, they left. Not that he blamed them. They were having a night out and had no desire to babysit Bill. Not on a Sunday, of all nights, with Monday morning to look forward to. Bill had been unbelievable. I’m going round to his place after work tomorrow and I’m going to chuck that bloody rug into the first skip I find, even if I’ve to hit him in the process.

“How was Bill?” asked Mary.

“Don’t ask. He was hellish. I’ve never, in all my life, listened to so much guff. He’s becoming paranoid. He needs a wife. We’ll have to ask him round to dinner one night when he’s back to his old self and see if we can get him to take an interest in one of your friends. I’m sure he took a bit of a fancy to Shelia a few months ago, but you know him. Talk about slow. When it comes to women he operates at two speeds - dead slow and stop. You’ll never believe what he was on about tonight. Remember I mentioned that he’d bought a mangy old rug last week? Well, he’s convinced that it’s after him. That it’s stealthily crossing the floor and out to get him. I’m telling you, I only had two pints and you know Bill, never a great drinker. Wouldn’t even touch an aspirin. You know I don’t think that he’s ever taken one pill in his entire life. Oh, it gets worse. The piece de resistance. I was listening to him rambling on about that blasted rug when, just to lighten the conversation, I jokingly remarked that he must have annoyed it. Well, he went whiter than a ghost and was shaking like a leaf. He leaned over, and gripping my arm said, That’s it, and told me that when we took the rug home last week, he decided to give it a good hoovering, but the vacuum wouldn’t work, so he gave it a good shake instead. Then he had an idea. You know how People’s Palace fascinates him and they shouw what life was like in the old tenements? He remembered from a previous visit that one of the displays reminded him of his mother dragging her carpets out into the courtyard when they needed cleaning. He laid the rug over the drying line and broke a branch from the tree in his garden. Pulling the leaves from it, he started beating the rug. As he beat it, he imagined that the colours started to fade. The wind gradually increased, with leaves being blown up and getting in his way. Eventually they became a real nuisance and he stopped before he had intended to. Taking the rug inside, he told me that he had this eerie feeling that the the rug was ‘furious!’ He admitted that it sounded crazy, but that was the only way he could describe the atmosphere, that had quite suddenly descended on the house. Anyway, he promised himself that he’d go on holiday soon and went to bed.

“The next day he felt lethargic and slumped onto the couch and attempted to watch the telly. He said that no matter how hard he concentrated on what was on, he spent most of his time looking at that daft rug. I told him that says a lot for the quality of television these days, but I don’t think he even heard me. He’s adamant that as he looked at the rug, not only was it slowly coming to get him, but the colours were also gradually returning to it and, as the colour returned, he became pale and less compelled to do anything. In actual fact, he even went over to the mirror now and again to look at himself, until even this became too much effort. I asked him why he hadn’t just binned it. It’d only cost peanuts. He’d no answer to that. It’s as if the damned thing has mesmerised him. Tomorrow, after work, I’m heading over and that rug goes.”

* * *

Marching purposely towards Bill’s front door, Charlie noticed that the leaves were even thicker. It was as if someone had dumped a truckload. Then it struck him. He remembered what the patterns on the rug reminded him of. Leaves. Not just any old leaves as in some quaint, pastoral scene, but leaves being blown and buffeted, whipped by the wind and thrown wildly into the air. Clearing a path through them, he pushed open the door, not even bothering to knock.

“Bill?”

There wasn’t a sound. It was quiet as the grave. There he was, fast asleep on the couch, with the rug wrapped around him.

“Bill?” Charlie said once more, gently shaking him by the shoulder, but he wasn’t sleeping. Bill was dead.

By John Norry

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Tears to a Glass Eye

In 1961, Scotland had one of the best summers for years. When the two union men, Johnny Burke and Billy Orr, stepped off the bus at the corner of Burke Avenue, the sun was blazing down on the council estate, like it was the Sahara. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen anywhere and the only shadows were those of the council houses. In spite of the heat, both men were wearing suits with black ties. This was a formal visit. The street had been named after Johnny Burke’s grandfather, a famous union man and local hero. He himself had joined the union as soon as he’d finished school, to work down the pits at the age of eleven. His activities had led him to spend six months in jail during the general strike in 1926. A squat, burly man, his bull like face was marked with the blue scars of a miner. For the past ten years he’d been the union delegate at Colham mine, where three weeks before, Andy Wilson, had been crushed to death by a runaway bogie.

Johnny had helped carry him out of the pit. He didn’t die right away, and as they manoeuvred him out of the pit cage, he was howling in agony. Even the morphine they had pumped into him wasn’t helping very much. The manager and the deputy in charge were waiting on the pit head as they lifted Andy into the waiting ambulance, Johnny remembered the look on their faces. Showing nothing but concern for Andy, for how badly he was hurt, for whether or not he was going to live, though it was pretty certain he wasn’t. There was no fear in their faces, no selfish anxiety. They hadn’t had time to get scared, to think about themselves, or about how much trouble they were in. That would come later.

Johnny had come up the hard way. Since childhood he’d been breathing hardship and tragedy into his lungs, with the coal dust. Billy, on the other hand, had never known a world in which the unions weren’t strong, the coal mines publicly owned, miners well paid and the pits as safe as human beings could make them. Which meant that by any normal standards they were still extremely dangerous. Billy, to his outrage, had failed his eleven plus, which meant that he had to go down the pit when he was fifteen, instead of going to college and then onto university like he’d planned. But the union had found a use for his gifts for organisation and administration. At twenty-three, he was the youngest secretary in Scotland and the area leadership had their eyes on him. He was president of the National Youth Division, a member of the Scottish Executive, tipped for a full-time job, a future General Secretary, almost certainly an MP for on of the parliamentary seats the Minor’s Union then controlled.

Burke Avenue was built on the top of a hill and to the west they could see woodland. Beyond the woodland was the Loch - its waters silver in the noonday sun. The council houses that lined the east side of the street were of very good quality, each with a neatly trimmed lawn and a front garden festooned with flowers. For all their socialism, the miner’s had their class division and this was where the upper class among them lived. The people who never missed a days work, who drank moderately, if at all. Church goers, people with books in the spotlessly clean houses who struggled hard to ensure the best possible education for their children. The working class aristocracy. The “respectability”. Most of the pit managers and the union men alike had been drawn from this section of the community and they took care of their own. That didn’t worry Johnny at all. He was of the “respectability” himself, and proud of it. He shared their values. Billy, however, regarded those values, and practically everything else, with contempt.

Billy had already figured out that the union was the first stop for him. It wasn’t just that union work opened the door to a paid career in politics, there were plenty of big businesses on the outlook for smart, young fellows with a trade union background, prepared to let them use the knowledge thus acquired to help keep their own workers in line. A job in industrial relations could be made to pay even better than politics.

Mrs Wilson’s garden was the neatest and tidiest in that prim and proper street. When they rang the doorbell they had to wait a few moments before she opened it. A small woman, about forty, still pretty, with remarkably clear blue eyes. She was dressed in a white blouse and blue frock, but the front part of both were covered with a flowered apron. Indoors, Mrs Wilson almost always wore an apron, for she was always engaged in some sort of house work or other. She greeted them, “Hae you come aboot the money?”

Johnny sighed. He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d had to call on widowed women in circumstances like this. He knew how careful he had to be.

“We’re here on behalf of the branch committee,” he explained. “To offer oor condolences ...”

“You’d better come in,” Mrs Wilson snapped.

She led them to the living room . The furniture was polished so brightly that it almost hurt Billy’s eyes. He glanced around the room, noting with a kind of disgust, the television set in the corner, the photographs on the mantle piece. He recognised one of Mrs Wilson’s late husband, Andy, in the Sappers uniform he’d worn in the war. He then spotted a photograph of one of their sons, Jimmy, who’d passed the eleven plus and gone onto university, wearing his graduation uniform. He felt a pang of jealousy as he looked at it. “Lucky bugger,” he thought.

Above the mantle piece was a picture of Rabbie Burns. There was always a picture of Rabbie Burns, it was a symbol of respectability. “Jesus Christ almighty,” Billy thought. He too was a scion of that world, that hard working, house cleaning, Kirk going, world, but it was something he took no joy in. It was something he wanted to get away from as far and as fast as possible. Mrs Wilson didn’t ask them to sit down, or even offer them a cup of tea, something people automatically did whenever someone entered their house, even if it was only the rent man or a travelling salesman with his suitcase full of samples. It was a common courtesy, but Mrs Wilson wasn’t in a courteous mood.

“Whit aboot the money?” she demanded.

“The men took a collection on the pit head,” said Johnny. “Four hundred and thirty pounds.”

“Four hundred and thirty pounds! My man worked with them for years, an aw they could manage wis four hundred and thirty pound.”

Each man in the pit had contributed at least a pound. Given the average wage for miner was fifteen pounds a week, Johnny knew it had been a generous collection, but so did Mrs Wilson he suspected.

“And there’ll be a claim against the coal board,” Johnny explained. “Billy here is the Branch Security, and he’s handling it ...”

Billy interrupted. “I hae been in touch wae the union lawyers, Mrs Wilson. The coal branch hae admitted liability an they are going tae make an offer. Six thousand pounds ...”

“Six thousand pounds,” butted in Mrs Wilson. “I want mair than that. I want a lot mair than that.”

“Aye, that’s right,” thought Billy. “You want a lot more than that. So dae I.”

“Annie,” Johnny called Mrs Wilson by her Christian name. “Dae you mind the dancing at the Merrick Hall?”

Mrs Wilson’s clear blue eyes strayed towards her husband’s picture on the mantle piece.

“Aye, I mind. First time I remember seeing you, as a grown up, I mind you as a wee lassie of course, running aboot the miner’s rows before we built these council hooses. But that wis the first time I saw you grown up and you were a handsome lassie, dancing wae Andy who wis a right guid looking fellow. You never had a boyfriend, but Andy. And he never had a lassie, but you. You were made for each other and you made a braw couple, a fine looking lass, a fine looking lad.” Mrs Wilson jerked her eyes away from the photo. “Aye, a fine looking lad. And noo he’s deed. Tell me hoo he died Johnny?”

“You ken already Annie, he was hit wae a running bogie.”

“Tell me whit it did tae him? Tell me hoo it crushed him against the wall o’ the tunnel. Tell me hoo it crushed his guts flat and they oozed out through his belly. Tell me hoo the broken rope lashed round his legs and neck and across his face. Then tell me six thousand pounds is enough for the loss o’ my man. Six thousand pounds, I want mair than that, a lot mair.”

“We can get mair,” said Billy, softly. “That rope wis frayed. The management had been warned it was no safe. We could get mair. Maybe as much as ten thousand.”

“But if we use that, someone will get the sack,” pointed out Johnny. “The manager and the deputy ...”

“They aren’t in our union. They’re management,” insisted Billy.

He was right, but Johnny felt sick A true union man, a true socialist, a true Christian, was big enough to see beyond the immediate interests of his own members. He knew the manager and deputy concerned. They weren’t the only ones who’d made mistakes in their day. Everyone had, the miners had too, and more than one man would’ve lost their job if the manager and deputy hadn’t been prepared to ignore their errors, pretend they didn’t know, what they bloody well had to know. They were decent men and they deserved some protection. He didn’t want their lives ruined, but he knew Billy didn’t give a damn about that, or about Mrs Wilson. All he could see, all he wanted to see, was the more money he could screw out of the coal board, the better he would look, the further it would advance his career.

“They’re just working men. Working men who made a mistake any one o’ us could hae made. Decent men tormented wae guilt over the whole thing,” said Johnny. “They’ll be ruined. Dae you want that on your conscience Annie?”

“They hae my man’s death on their conscience. I want money, mair money. I’m no staying here. I’m for London tae live wae my boy, and I’m for a guid holiday abroad. France or Spain maybe. I am going tae lay on a beach and drink champagne, and I’m going tae need money. Lots o’ money. Mair than ten thousand. I dinna care who gets the sack. I want mair money.”

“I’ll speak tae the union lawyers then,” said Billy.

Annie Wilson screamed, “F**k the union lawyers!”

It was the first time in all the years Johnny had known her that he heard her swear.

“F**k the union lawyers, they never lost a man in the pit. The Queen and prime minister, they never lost a man in the pit. Whit dae they care? They dinna need tae care. They hae money and nothing can hurt you if you hae money. Wae money you can buy cars and big hooses and never need tae think. I want money. Money, money, money, so I never need tae think.”

“Gaun yourself, Mrs Wilson,” Billy chuckled inwardly. “Gaun yourself,” he chortled to himself like he was cheering on a winger at a football match. “That is what I like to hear, the voice of the miners. The miners’ women. For all their talk of solidarity and sticking together, all they care about at the end of the day is them own hides, their own interests, their own greed and money. Just like anyone else, like any fat stockbroker in London, just like me. You’re just like me Mrs Wilson, and at least you’re no longer pretending you’re any different. Look at that big gawk Burke, all shocked and embarrassed like it was the first time he smelt shit. But we like the smell of shit, it smells like money.”

“I’m sorry lass,” said Johnny.

“Sorry. Tae hell wae your sorry. Everybody’s sorry. Sorrow dinna put food oan the table. Sorrow disna pay the rent or holidays abroad. Only money dis that and I want money. Noo get o’ here and dinna come back till you hae something better tae offer.”

As they left the house she slammed the door behind them. Billy then laughed. Only it wasn’t a real laugh, more of a snigger.

“Now would that no bring tears tae a glass eye?”

Johnny snapped. All the anger and contempt he’d felt for the younger man that he’d managed to keep bottled up, suddenly exploded.

“Shut up. Shut your stupid mouth.”

They walked in silence towards the bus stop. “Annie would come round”, Johnny thought. “That wasn’t the real Annie Wilson talking. That was a woman driven mad by grief, anger and loss. Obsessed with money, because the only other thing she had to think about was how her husband had gone. How for the rest of her life she’d have to sleep alone. Mining folk, management and worker alike, lived too close together to risk hurting each other. They looked out for each other, covered up each other’s mistakes. Annie Wilson was a miner’s woman. She’d come round.” Billy was wrong about human nature and how a man should live his life, but he was right about one thing - it would’ve brought tears to a glass eye. A lot of things would.

By Bert Leitch

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Butch The Badger

“Why is the Badger’s fine home called The Meek?” asked the Rat Reporter. Why would no-one tell him?

A roving Rat Reporter wanted a scoop for O2G News. This paper is enjoyed by the older reader, already O2G - Out To Grass. Such wrinklies just love trying to solve, not just crosswords, but the riddle of life, death and everything in between. By then, Butch the Badger was certainly in between. And his fine house, like his wrinkled self, was suspiciously well preserved. So why was the home of such a self-centred old bachelor called The Meek? Would he ever own up to his dubious past? The Rat Reporter was hot on the Badger’s trail.

As darkness descended on the forest, a fizz of fluorescent fireflies said they might throw a little light on the matter. For that, they pointed out, some flashbacks were necessary. Fireflies are good at flashbacks.

Butch the Badger had been born not-so-brave. So early in life he’d decided to find more devious ways of getting his own way in, what he saw as, a wicked world. Soon though, his old soldier father, a badger who’d survived three gas-attacks in trench warfare, wearied of always helping Butch. He instructed his younger offspring to help Butch no longer. That is, until and if Butch ever showed signs of trying to help himself first. Becoming sidelined, Butch started to look for help further afield, away from his family.

“I want to get to the other side. Help me!” pleaded Butch, meekly. His helpless gaze was pinned on two young hedgehogs hoping to set up home together. Yet so loud were the constant cars swishing past, Horace and Hilda Hedgehog could hardly hear Butch’s plaintive calls for help. Anyway, the Hedgehog Motto being Keep Death Off The Road, they should have turned down flat the badger’s reckless request. Especially when he accused them of drinking cow’s milk. Quietly, they instead accused badgers of giving cows TB. His pride punctured, Butch ranted, “A lot of bull! Tests show seventy per cent of TB is cattle infecting cattle. If I die before I reach the other side, it’ll be all your fault!”

Gazed upon by Butch’s big wet sorrowful eyes, they relented. It was part of the hedgehog religion to help others by quickening up rebirth. Heaven, to them, is a hospital. Hence both young hedgehog lovers happily ran into the road to hold up the traffic so that the homeless Butch could safely pass on to the other side. Instead, they found themselves swiftly transported to a bright new homestead. One on which no deposit was required, apart from laying down their lives for others. Yes, that hedgehog heaven, a-glitter with silver snails and golden slugs, was their brand new celestial home.

Half that night the big badger blubbered like a baby. His down-to-earth tears filled his trench boots to overflowing. After tiring of grieving for Horace and Hilda Hedgehog, he decided that to be heavenly-minded was too heavy and anyway, of no earthly use. He needed to get grounded. To a flickering flock of shy fireflies, he implored help.

“Act as traffic-lights for me, fellas,” he cried out between mock sobs. “Will you stop the cars while I pass over peacefully, earn myself a better abode?”

As they seemed uncertain, Butch sobbed even louder. “What you got wings for if it’s not to help your more earthbound brothers? Stop all cars so I can cross!” he blubbered, somewhat crossly. “Stop the traffic!”

The illuminated insects, not wishing to lose voltage through lack of good deeds that dark night, put their heads together; then their tail-lights too. Like flurries of bright driving snowflakes in headlights, they crashed head first into fierce, on-coming windscreens. At one cruel stroke these wiped out all physical life, light and vision. They had stopped short their quickly passing insect lives ... but not the traffic ...

“Will I never get to the other side in one safe piece?” whimpered Butch the Badger, deliberately catching the concerned eye of the elegant, but elderly, Zebra, who was wearing a clerical collar and praying over page three of the O2G News. Before grazing on the other side, he explained, he said grace first, crossing his chest with the tip of his whiskered chin.

“Simple as black and white actually, dear chap,” enthused Zappo the Zebra. “I’ll help you to help yourself.” He sounded like that fierce foot soldier, Butch’s late father. “So young Badger, fight the good fight!”

“But that might hurt me,” whined Butch, edgy with anxiety.

“Nay!” whinnied Zappo. Though doddery with old age he was still talking, as it were, straight from the horse’s mouth. “Make heavenly hay, dear chap, while the sun shines!” It would be many years before Butch would hear those words again.

“But it’s getting scarily dark,” droned Butch, with obstinate sulkiness. “And if you drop down on your duty Zappo, I can’t undertake to bury your dead body,” he added gloomily. “Makes my back ache something chronic, Zappo, digging graves for holy zebras.”

Feeling flattered by Butch’s obvious concern for his future welfare, Zappo let go of his better judgement. Almost gratefully, on wobbly legs, he started to help the timid Butch cross the busy road.

Not just flattered, soon the old and dapper Zappo was flattened. So shocked were the juggernauts to see a zebra crossing, not one belesha beacon in sight, they failed to apply brakes in time. Then the final blow. A fast-travelling horsebox galloping, as it were too fast, knocked Zappo the Zebra for six. That violent act was almost as bad as a rabbit being hit, not by a car, but being punched by a night driver who hated being glared at in that glassy way.

At the scene of the accident, surprised drivers gathered round like ghouls to gawp at the clerical zebra crossing himself. Knocked off his last legs, in the middle of the road, Zappo gasped out his final martyr’s prayer. Laid out on his own red carpet, the zebra’s blood was mobbed by thirsty horseflies as his soul rose ever upward through smelly traffic fumes.

Butch the Badger bellowed to the few who’d listen, “I keep losing all my friends, friends. What in hell’s name can be wrong with ’em?”

The drivers were so appalled by spilt blood and by the lack of horse sense, they ignored Butch and his whining complaints, his bids for pity and his repeated requests for help. But seeing the two-way traffic was in a state of unexpected truce - truce being stranger than fiction - Butch saw his chance. Hoping against hope the cars would rest in peace long enough, Butch unnoticed, tiptoed across the road, arriving there safe as houses, home and dry.

Butch had made a successful crossing to the other side. Any day now, he reckoned, he’d own his own sweet home, The Meek, the posh one he’d always dreamed of commandeering. There’s no place like someone else’s home.

Thanking the Great Big Brock above for safe deliverance, Butch the Badger, feeling free of all dirty deeds and almost human, settled down in his own foxhole. He’d deposed no fox family. The previous occupants had, in fact, been lured there by dishes of mincemeat left outside the hole to entice foxes into taking up residence. Later, that same fox family had been hounded out of house and home by redcoats, horns and harriers, those bloody-minded hunters and their yapping, snapping foxhounds fed on mincemeat. Above the gaping hole where the earth had been pockmarked with paw prints, a notice read, “The Meek”. Feeling at home at last and extremely virtuous, even though he’d alerted the fox hunt, Butch dug himself into an even deeper hole.

Years later, the riddle remained unsolved. When roving Rat Reporter for the O2G News, doing research on badger baiting, asked why Butch’s old home was called, The Meek, most shrugged off the question. They were simply not interested in such a grumpy old codger who kept himself to himself. Never had Butch helped anyone, never mind himself, to make life one mite brighter. Full of self-righteous pride, Butch the Badger had truly gone to earth.

Still, some surviving fireflies never quite lost faith in him. On certain dark nights a sprinkling of the more kindly fireflies would visit grumpy old Butch. Dancing a dizzy halo around his sleeping head, those kindly insects tried to illuminate his lonely dreams, even when he snored after over-eating worm spaghetti. All night long those flying filigrees of fairy-like fireflies circled his badger head until, one by one, sunrise slowly extinguished their tiny flicking taillights.

Even the friendliest fireflies were never going to budge Butch the Badger’s obstinacy with their light-hearted goodwill freely given night, after night. And that, well after he was too old to hunt for himself, the grubs and beetles becoming too quick and slippery for him. Irritated by that, he fatally flicked away the more insistent fireflies. Not one bright insight would Butch allow. Any disquieting insights might singe his fireproof pride.

Quizzed by the Rat Reporter, the ageing brock let years of suppressed steam off. After all, hadn’t he made his own way in life with flare and daring? Not one good deed did he owe any single creature alive, he claimed. “Why? ’Cos all my nice close friends accidentally died,” he explained, pain pricking his weepy eyes more than his conscience. “No one ever gave me a helping hand. Not even the Great Big Brock above. See, young Rat, heaven helps them what helps theirselves. Me, I were always strong, see. Full of enterprise, me, a natural survivor. I earned this ’ere earth, my posh home.”

“Perhaps the fireflies knew better,” suggested the Rat Reporter.

“They never did tell me,” complained Butch. “You ask ’em, lad, not me, son. Why’s my foxhole called The Meek?”

The fireflies whispered their answer. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” they said. Somewhat mysteriously, they then added, “This side, if not the other side ...”

But even if the Rat Reporter had intended to share such an explanation, it would’ve been too late. Butch the Badger was again dodging the wisdom of the fireflies. So sound became his sleep, his bellowing snores would’ve blocked out even the sweetest of home truths. After all, isn’t he the meek one? And aren’t the free worms of the earth worth inheriting, especially for a weak old bachelor threatened by younger brocks?

Butch snoring, the Rat Reporter left the Badger’s earth still pondering. He’d a lingering soft spot for the crotchety old blighter that no other creature found helpful. His editor only wanted passing trade and trivia. So sadly, no scoop, no expose, no press report. Not unless he could come up with some novel twist in the tale. But what?

Maybe by him personally finding out where non-believing badgers go after possessing the earth without paying their rent. But no. That idea was as silly as having old Butch disporting his wrinkles in a g-string on page three of O2G News. All the same, for a piebald wrinkly, he’d kept himself in fine fettle. What’s more, so far he’d suffered from no feelings of shame about his past bad behaviour. What a model he could prove to be. So many angry young badgers were being accused of far worse than not helping young toads, rabbits and hedgehogs to cross busy highroads successfully.

Oh, but yes! The local Mare, a glittering golden halter around her noble equine neck, she never said “neigh’” to anyone in her field of vision. Currently, she was offering Oscars to those who make hay in the sunshine with random acts of kindness to all creatures great and small. Maybe the Rat Reporter could sponsor Butch as their local long-lived novelty eccentric. If only they could come up with some plan worthy of such a sought after Oscar. The trophy to be won was a transparent bright Blue Globe. Endangered species had nicknamed it “Our One Earth”. Annually, the gracious Mare awarded it to the most worthy of neighbours. That’s to say the one whose sincere efforts most aimed at worthy acts of honesty and kindness to their field of endeavour. In that fine category, Butch was bound to fail. So Rat Reporter needed better ideas.

Unlikely as it seemed Butch could win, the Reporter who specialised in personal exposes what other hacks didn’t know. The Mare was sympathetic to the underdog, especially to those who refuse to bite to death badgers in their underground home. So, as an example, the Mare always wanted to give more horsepower to the frailest in the field; to any meek creature dedicated to transporting his or her self into higher realms of honesty that could lead other into better good deeds.

Could Butch become such a success story praised on page three of the O2G News? Even though the Badger hated being exposed, the Rat Reporter persevered. “Butch, to the Mare will you at last?”

Meekly, saying yes, he owned up. “Your worshipful I confess, all my past helpers I helped into heaven so I got more earth to myself.” More misdeeds between sobs, he then related to the applauding crowd.

Butch wasn’t awarded the Oscar, but the Rat Reporter. The Mare praised him for keeping faith with the tired old codger’s brave attempts to own up in public.

Astonished, the Rat Reporter immediately handed the Blue Globe trophy back to Butch. That apparently gallant and newsworthy act he aimed at the perching pigeon photographers. But before camera shutters could snap, the Mare, keeping the press at bay, told all assembled there she’d hidden a surprise in her horse handbag.

“Butch the Badger,” she announced. “You reigned in all acts of random kindness. Trues, we own no wild oats to sow, no matter how stable our upbringing, even on a stud farm. Indeed, even without your grooming reporter turning into a nag, you gave us only a partial confession. Here, however, is his full list of the accidents you caused. Always jockeying for your best advantage at the expense of others. But here in this fading paddock twilight, kindly helped by surviving fireflies, you Badger, have shown enough brave and honest horsemanship.”

“I have?” gulped Butch, amazed.

“By frankly admitting how saddled with sadness you are now.”

Sniffing, Butch agreed, “I grieve for my mistreatment of so many late departed friends now, yeah.”

“So you Badger, might inherit the earth. And for these few confessions, for these pleas for understanding and belated forgiveness, I award you this surprise.”

Out of her horse handbag the Mare produced, for Butch the Badger, another Oscar. Instead of a Blue Glass Globe, his trophy she held aloft. That gilded horseshoe she lowered over his head to be worn like a tarnished halo. Inscribed on it were the words, Butch the Badger, Heroic Failure.

Orchestrated by the happy Rat reporter, the pigeon press photographed the ecstatic old Butch from every angel imaginable. No longer was he afraid of being exposed, even on page three.

By Christopher Gilmore

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The Fat of the Land

“Maria, you are very smart,” Papa said. “I think you should take over the chip shop now ... with Marco of course.”

I detected that he’d added Marco as an afterthought. Marco is a lovely husband and a good dad to our boys, but he doesn’t have the head for business that I have.

“Your college course will be useful,” Papa continued.

I had just completed my business management and marketing diploma at college, and Papa was duly impressed and ridiculously proud of me.

“You must not let Guiseppe come back and work for you though. He is out of this family.” Papa reached into the large sack of potatoes beside him and plucked out a bad one, which he flung forcefully into the bin.

“A bad potato will rot the sack.”

It seemed harsh, but I knew Papa was right, the takings of the till would never be a match for Guiseppe’s gambling debts.

I did miss Guiseppe, but I didn’t worry about him. He had many well-off lady friends who were always happy to have him around to add glamour to any occasion. If he was the bad potato or rotten apple that Papa insisted he was, then his packaging disguised the fact. He stopped going to mass and confession years ago. Probably just as well, there would be little time left for other penitents by the time he’d confessed all his deadly sins.

I’ve always had an ability to relate to sinners far more easily than saints. Sometimes I wonder whether it would be a good idea to have statues of great sinners in church, as well as holy saints. It would seem right in this age of equal opportunities. Maybe not though. It’s good to have something in life that’s constant. I always go to confession and feel much better afterwards. I feel it gives me a fresh start. Sunday is important to me. After mass I go for a walk and that’s usually when I have my best ideas. I use the ideas during the week and if I feel I’ve done wrong, I simply confess again on Sunday.

Things are going well at present and Papa is really pleased. The restaurant is so popular we could even fill it on a Sunday, if we were open, but I’m keeping Sunday special.

It’s no longer the ordinary fish and chip shop of six months ago. Guiseppe had run it into the ground, but even without his help, it would have struggled. I’ve noticed how much people worship their bodies at gyms and health clubs. They have personal trainers, life coaches and special diet plans. They feel guilty if they consume unhealthy and fattening foods.

It was shortly after I took over the chip shop that the ideas for the necessary changes came to me. The fitness fanatics from the local health club were sashaying down the road in their colourful lycra, bright as a herbaceous border, and naturally they caught my eye. Beneath the clothing that looked so cheerful, I could tell there were empty bellies, cravings and savage hunger. They looked so skinny, I just wanted to feed them up, flesh them out a little ... they’d be happier for it. Two of them stopped outside the shop and gazed longingly at the menu, before a third one chided them about calories and moved them along.

At that moment I knew exactly how to get their custom. I would change the menu, the name and the interior. I started planning straight away. “Make it inviting,” I said to myself. The over-large store room would become a seating area making it a restaurant as well as a takeaway. I’d have round tables, green linen table cloths, baskets of bread on the tables, fresh flowers and carafes of chilled water. The white tiles and fluorescent strip lights would go, replaced by terracotta walls and soft lighting. Comfortable chairs too, so that diners could relax and enjoy their meal, and go away feeling pampered ... and be sure to return.

There were very few customers that day, so I spent my time re-wording and re-designing the menu. I replaced “chips” with Patatas Tuscanese ... I felt that had a lovely ring to it. I followed that with: Locally grown potatoes cooked to a golden brown in extra virgin olive oil and served with sea salt and white wine vinegar. Once I’d started I couldn’t stop. Couching things in marketing speak was rather fun. I did get carried away to the point of lies at times. I did have to refrain from describing the fish as locally caught as we’re too far from the sea for that. The batter was described as wholewheat and organic though. By the time I’d finished redrafting the menu I had the whole restaurant plan visualised.

That evening I told Marco about my ideas when he had just come back from the cash and carry.

“I’ve just bought all the usual things,” he said, looking bewildered.

“That’s fine,” I replied. “The ingredients are basically the same. It’s just that the descriptions that are changing.”

Marco scratched his head. “Why change anything?” he asked.

Marco is not a lover of change. He does however, let me have my own way. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked at my new menu.

“Sounds very good,” he said. “But how do we make low calorie batter?”

“Leave that to me,” I assured him.

Then Marco glanced in the mirror, pulled in his stomach and asked me if I thought he was putting on weight. Knowing he’s proud of his looks, I wasn’t going to let honesty spoil my answer, so I told him he was just perfect the way he was, and gave him a hug. He responded passionately and then added that I was perfect too and how he loved a woman that he “could really get hold of.”

Shortly after, the lycra brigade came by again.

“Not much to get hold of on them,” he said.

“If they come in for chips I’ll give them extra large portions, shall I?”

He agreed and we laughed and hugged again.

We were still smiling when two of the fitness fiends walked in. It was the same two who’d been tempted before, this time without the friend who’d urged them away.

I smiled my warmest smile and piled up the chips. I must have put twice the usual amount in the bag. This pair were so skinny that they’d practically disappear if they lost any more weight.

Well, my changes went ahead. The business was transformed. It attracted a great deal of attention. I’d changed it from a failing chip shop to a thriving and stylish restaurant and takeaway. I’d been confident that I could succeed but I never imagined just how quickly it would happen. Word gets around though, and happy people with full bellies are generous with their praise.

My favourite idea of all, my brainwave, was installing the slightly convex mirrors around the room. Very flattering. People look slim without being all hungry and bony. I’ve noticed how often the customers glance at themselves and walk off smiling. It’s deception I know, but all in a good cause. People feel good and then make others around them feel good too, the opposite of “the rotten apple effect” I suppose.

I think I’m doing my bit to save the human race from extinction. I’m giving my customers the satisfaction of apparent weight loss ... much safer than actual weight loss. No risk of eating disorders. It occurred to me last week that weight seems to be the only loss that’s celebrated.

Guiseppe turned up to visit a few days ago and was really impressed, as were the diners witnessing such glamour in their midst. He looks like a celebrity and people feel they ought to know him.

We’ve had some actual celebrities too and each time we’ve featured in the local papers with headings such as “Celebrity Chip Chat”, “Fit and Chips” and “Fish and Chic”. I’m keeping all the clippings in a folder and I know there’ll be many more. I’m proud of my ideas and the success we’ve enjoyed so far. I know pride is a sin and I’ll have to confess next Sunday. It’s a pity that the Catholic church doesn’t have the opposite of a confessional - perhaps a “celebrational” where you can tell a priest about the good deeds of the past week. In my case I could offset some of my sins. I’ve certainly saved the tragically skinny from vanishing, and turned them into satisfied, well-rounded characters.

I truly believe that the “Fat of the Land” was made for sharing.

By Dawn Thomson

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The Staircase

Alan “Ginger” Rogers, a tall red-haired adenoidal young man, was posted from the Metropolitan Police Training School at Hendon to Leman Street police station, H Division, in February 1956. He had spent his boyhood around the flat open fields of Fakenham in Norfolk and much of his youth trying to get away to the bright lights of London.

His ambition was only partly fulfilled, for the area to which he had been posted comprised that part of the East End closest to the City of London, bounded by Whitechapel Road to the north and the River Thames to the south. His allocated number was 198H.

The Borough of Stepney had changed very little from pre-war times; the roads were still paved with granite sets, the street lighting was generally poor and many of the buildings were Victorian or earlier. Several of them had been destroyed or badly scarred by the intense Luftwaffe bombing aimed at the nearby docks. Little had been done at that time to restore or rebuild. Street prostitution was rife and doorways in dimly-lit back streets often served for what the local girls referred to as a “short time”. Many of the buildings which had not been reduced to rubble served as sleeping quarters for a motley group of “methers” - urban vagrants who dulled their misery and need by a steady consumption of methylated or surgical spirits. The local population was nothing if not cosmopolitan. There was a large Jewish population of varying degrees of poverty or wealth, some of whom carried on the business of wholesale dressmaking.

Their “sweat shops” were even than attracting poor immigrants from Asia. Some of the first wave of West Indian immigrants also found accommodation in crowded tenements in the vicinity of Cable Street. PC Rogers found the patch to which he had been posted fascinating. For a lad from quiet rural northern Norfolk, forays into pubs to break up drunken brawls were great fun. He was also pleased to team up with more experienced colleagues for arresting prostitutes for soliciting “to the annoyance of the inhabitants or passengers”. The fact that they hardly ever annoyed anyone was beside the point. It was part of a game. The “toms” all knew they would be arrested in rotation, and if it wasn’t their turn they would complain bitterly.

The night of the 14th of September, following earlier rain, was muggy and slightly misty. At 10-15 a trolleybus, whooshing along Leman Street, tyres crackling, made the granite road surface gleam like wet sealskin as its headlights stabbed the gloom. A large tank locomotive rumbled over the bridge at the bottom of the street, taking the last of the commuters home to Tilbury and Southend. Into this night scene strolled PC Rogers who had, a few minutes earlier, been posted to 5 beat, a parcel of land bordering the City and the northern walls of the Inner London Docks. In the southwest corner of his beat were the extensive grounds of the Royal Mint. He was not alone. Patrolling with him was PC Gregory Wood, a probationer who was “learning beats” - familiarising himself with the neighbourhood and the type of work expected of him. This was the first time he had been on Night Duty and he was understandably a little on edge. Indeed, as he and PC Rogers approached the railway bridge a group of Swedish seamen boiled drunkenly from the door of the nearby Brown Bear public house like a hoard of invading Vikings. Two of the seamen, however, were not drunk and, seeing the officers approaching, smiled, one of them saying, “OK Bobbies ... we see them back to their ship.” Rogers, who knew of the problems arising from arresting foreign seamen, restrained his colleague eager for his first arrest. Beyond the bridge they turned into Cable Street where, twenty years earlier, local Jews aided by Cockney allies had defied the police and refused to let Oswald Mosley and his Blackshirts march through the area bearing anti-Jewish banners. Crossing the narrow street, they turned right into Ensign Street and then left into Grace’s Alley which led into Wellclose Square, an oasis of spaciousness surrounded by elegant houses built for Georgian shipping magnates. Ship Alley at the opposite corner took them into The Highway, a narrow and gloomy street leading east to Limehouse. The two young men stood there for a few minutes then turned west towards Tower Bridge.

The prison-high brick wall of the London Western Dock loomed on their left and shortly after they crossed the broad Dock Street which led back to their police station. A little further on they passed the huge vehicle entrance gates of the dock. Thomas More Street branched off to the left just beyond the gates, pursuing a winding course to Wapping and the River Thames. PC Rogers could have led his colleague up Dock Street back towards their station, but he didn’t. The course he chose, as though it were his destiny, was along the same narrow road, although, since passing Thomas More Street, The Highway became East Smithfield and the high wall on the left was that of St Katherine’s Docks. With the dock wall on one side and the tall frontages of warehouses opposite, East Smithfield resembled a dark canyon in which their footsteps echoed. There was no traffic and there was an eerie silence. They passed a few more warehouses when an alley appeared between two of them. Dimly lit on one corner by a light attached to a bracket halfway up a warehouse wall. An old sign opposite simply read “Loat’s Buildings”. It was a narrow street between the cliff-like walls of the warehouses. Another dim glow further down made a pool of yellow light. Whether PC Rogers had decided to take his next course of action beforehand or on the spur of the moment, no one can say. Certainly, PC Wood was unable to clarify this point, merely saying that his colleague told him there was an old warehouse at the end of that gloomy alley which methers used as sleeping accommodation, and that they were going to have a look. There was a shelter in Camberwell where vagrants were bathed and their clothing cleaned but most of them preferred to remain drunk, filthy and free. Unfortunately, the buildings in which they sheltered stank indescribably, and it was unsurprising that these people were very unwelcome as overnight prisoners in a police station.

The two constables turned into the alley and it was only when they reached the courtyard at the end that PC Wood realised that there was another alley on the right which, after a few yards, turned sharp left, ending at the towering wall of the Royal Mint. On the right of this final alley stood a two-storey warehouse with sheets of corrugated iron. These were nailed over the entrance on the right corner, and all visible windows. PC Rogers pulled back a corner of the iron sheeting covering the entrance and they both crawled in. Their torches revealed an entrance hall with a flight of stairs leading upwards. The building was semi-derelict with a floor covered in rubble and dust. Several footmarks hinted at frequent trespass. There was a pervading smell of plaster dust and rot, mingled with the pungency of stale urine. PC Wood was about to ascend the stairs but his colleague said that they would start by searching the ground floor. A doorway on their left led to a very large room with a ceiling supported at intervals by square brick columns. Progress was difficult owing to the litter of broken bricks, and plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. At the far end of the room a great ragged opening where part of the wall had collapsed allowed glimpses of the night sky. What followed can only be based upon what the young, impressionable probationer told his superiors some time later. It is therefore unsurprising that much, if not all, of his account, save the mysterious disappearance of his colleague, was treated with incredulity. PC Wood’s account of these events can best be presented by setting out what he told his supervising officers before a more formal statement was prepared in the sort of official form that robs any tale of its character.

“Ginger - I mean PC Rogers - was in front of me when he suddenly said, ‘Hello!’ He was shining his torch on the wall opposite the windows. A bit away from the corner furthest from where we came in, we saw a dark opening like a doorway in the wall.

“We went a bit closer and we could see sort of steps - you know - like stairs but with a space between each step. They was wood and quite thick but worn in the middle like they’d been used a lot. They went up quite steeply, and higher up they curved round to the right so you couldn’t see nothing - except we both saw what looked like a flickering red light. Ginger - PC Rogers - says, ‘It’s them methers - the buggers have got a fire going up there.’ I was all for going up but he says, ‘No. They may get away down them other stairs.’ So he told me to go up the steps while he nips round quiet, up the stairs by the front entrance. Then he changed his mind. ‘No,’ he said, ‘You go up them other stairs - I’ve been up them a couple of times but I’ve never seen these before.’ So he started going up them worn steps.

“No, I didn’t wait to see him go up more’n two or three steps before I scrambled back to them other stairs by the entrance. There was an open door off the landing leading to a biggish room. It stank of pee and … other things ... and it was empty except for an old mattress near one of the walls. There wasn’t no one there so I opened the door on the other side of the room. There was another room, big as the first but it didn’t have no wall on the far side and the floor was dead dodgy. There wasn’t nothing there neither.

“I looked in the corner where them other stairs should’ve come up but there wasn’t nothing there. Then I looked out of a window but all I could see was a dirty great pile of bricks with weeds growing round, but no sign of Ginger. I called out three or four times but there wasn’t no answer. I just couldn’t see where them other stairs come up so I thought I’d better get down and see where he’d gone.

“I fell over when I was scrambling over the bricks in the room downstairs and me torch went out. It was then I heard, a long way off like, someone screaming and a nasty laugh. I kept quiet and listened but I didn’t hear nothing else. I got the torch working again and shone it towards that place where the steps was, except that … except they wasn’t there no more. There wasn’t nothing there, Sir - honest to God. But I saw the doorway and the steps, I saw them. Them steps had gone and so had Ginger.

“I managed to crawl out of a window at the back. There wasn’t nowhere them steps could’ve gone to. I even climbed over the pile of bricks, calling his name, but I couldn’t see nothing disturbed. I got real panicky then and I ran out of that bloody building and, well - you know the rest.” The Duty Officer, an experienced Inspector, organised a search of the area. Officers with powerful search lamps inspected the building and the rubble at the back. A dog handler was called to the scene but his alsation only scratched around where PC Wood had been searching. There was certainly no trace of the mysterious steps or any indication of an opening along the wall, the plaster of which was largely undamaged.

It seemed impossible that any steps had ever existed where PC Wood said he had seen them,and the feeling was that PC Wood had been the victim of a practical joke, but when PC Rogers failed to appear at 6 am to book off duty, the Superintendent was called. After long interview which left the young probationer exhausted and distressed he was taken to his Section House at Shadwell under strict instructions not to speak of the incident to anyone. He was in no doubt that his story was disbelieved and that he had, at that time, hallucinated. PC Rogers never returned and PC Wood was transferred to a police station in West London. He was warned not to mention the incident to anyone except those senior officers who had been given access to his statement. He continued his probation at his new station with little distinction, tending to shun the company of his fellow officers and at all times avoiding dark streets.

His services were terminated with an ill-health pension following a nervous breakdown in June 1960. Already taciturn, he virtually stopped speaking at all and was sent for psychiatric treatment. He would not explain to anyone what troubled him, but when his room was cleared out following his retirement an cutting from a respected newspaper was found at the back of a drawer. It was not without interest. The article was headed, “Skeletons Found Near Royal Mint”. It reported that when an area of derelict warehouses close to the Mint was cleared for rebuilding, excavations beneath the rubble of one revealed several human bones, including skulls. What particularly caught the attention were the findings of a pathologist called to the site. In short, it seemed that many of the remains showed signs of torture. One skeleton in particular was almost intact although at some stage the head had been struck off. It was of a young male, unusually tall for the period which other bodies and artifacts indicated was the mid-sixteenth century. The disposition of the spine indicated that he had been severely racked, and scorching of the eye-sockets suggested that a very hot implement had put out the eyes. What puzzled the pathologist more than anything was that the teeth contained amalgam fillings, a technique not known to have existed prior to the 19th century.

But what had almost certainly driven Gregory Wood to the edge of insanity was news of the finding, close to the tall skeleton, of scraps of dark blue serge not coinciding with materials known to have existed in Tudor times, together with five badly rusted buttons bearing crown emblems. There were also six small chrome-plated numbers and two letters that were clearly anachronistic. There were two 1’s, two 8’s and two 9’s. The letters were the same - the letter H.

By Ted Dilley

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