'Tis in my memory locked' by Vivien Teasdale

 

I listened to Poetry Please on Radio 4 on Sunday. One poem that struck a chord was One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop, about losing or forgetting things.

This has become a known aspect of the Covid lockdown – people really are finding their memory is getting worse. We have lost the routines, the conversations, the interactions that force our brains to focus, concentrate on what is happening, who we are talking to and why. We slop around the house – many people have said they no longer bother to wash their hair as much or put fresh clothes on every day or wear make-up. It’s not worth it, we don’t have customers to worry about when we send emails out. Zoom meetings can be ‘any time, any place, anywhere’ (for those of you are old enough to remember the Martini ad!)

Of course, we forget things from the past, too. We remember things we want to remember and filter out other things, such as that train fare we ‘forgot’ to pay or that time we tripped over our own feet and felt a complete idiot. We mis-remember because it was a long time ago, or someone else insists that their version of the event is correct and that influences our own memory.

Other times we can’t forget. The bad things, the traumatic events, the times when we wish we had said/not said, done/not done something. Memories that come back to haunt us, even in our dreams.

Then there are the times we forget because we are too busy with other things, and what we should have done just slips out of our head. Even if, sometimes, it disappears between the thought ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ and actually getting to the kitchen and wondering why you’re there.

This, of course, has nothing to do with old age or failing brain cells. Which is why I wrote the following poem:

I listened to a poem yesterday

About forgetting things we say

Like “I’ll take the dog out when it rains”

Or “Yes, of course, invite your Aunty Jane.”

This year I’m going to write a list

Of those whose birthday I have missed

I’ll label all the photos too

So no more arguments about the view:

On whether it was Greece, Japan,

Australia or Isle of Man.

I’ll write down names, and dates I’ve made,

Shopping lists, where keys I’ve laid,

Meetings that I must attend

From whom I borrow, to whom I lend.

And where and why and when and what,

So there’ll be nothing I’ve forgot.

No more apologies I’ll have to say.

Like, “Sorry, this blog was due here – yesterday.”

Title quote from Hamlet.

Hand Warmer by Owen Townend

At market there was a sign:

‘HAND WARMER’.

I have bad circulation this time of year,

so I followed the glowing arrows.

 

They stopped at this stall with a bloke behind.

He looked creepy in his corduroy cardigan.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘come for a hand-warming?’

 I couldn’t see any packets or boxes so I asked,

‘How though?’

He held out his own hands.

I pulled back.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘That’s not decent.’

‘Tis hand-warming though.’

He got me there.

‘I prefer packets.’

‘Packets?’ He scoffed. ‘Bah! I can guarantee true heat!’

True heat? That sounded even less decent.

‘Come on,’ he said, eyebrows waggling. ‘Tis electric.’

‘Electric how?’

He paused. ‘I have a pacemaker.’

I finally had enough and left.

‘Please,’ he called after me. ‘I’m your fellow man.’

But I kept on walking.

A handshake’s all well and good

but not one long enough to keep off cold.

Poles Apart by Dave Rigby

Hi to all you listeners out there and welcome to The Match. Sorry to disappoint any of you who’ve tuned in expecting me to talk about football. But as all you lovely regulars know, we’re here to find out how you met your other half, how you got together.

And today we’ve got a special couple. I’ll start by introducing John North. Hi John, how are you?

I’m very well thanks, Jimmy.

So, tell me a bit about where you live.

Well, it’s extremely cold here. But it’s slowly getting warmer. Meeting people is difficult. There’s just not many of us around. And with the cold, you know, if you do manage to find someone there’s all the business of big coats, over-trousers and gloves to deal with.

But despite all that, I hear you’ve managed to find a partner.

I’ve been very lucky.

How did you meet?

On the International Dating Line which I’ve never used before. It’s always seemed so far distant from my world. But hey…it’s come up trumps!

Well, this is where I should introduce Jane…Jane South. I’m afraid the line to your place is coming and going a bit, but hopefully we’ll be able to chat. How are you, Jane?

I’m good thanks, Jimmy. And hi to you, John. Really enjoyed that meal.

How did the relationship develop after you first meeting?

By degrees really. We charted our progress step by step, didn’t we, John.

You’re right, Jane, but I think there was something in the stars. It was meant to be.

Indeed. Just because we live poles apart…that doesn’t lessen the attraction!

Yes, and we’ve gradually migrated together – if you get my drift, Jimmy.

Indeed, I do, John. So, tell me, Jane, has the path to true love been smooth for you both?

Like any couple we’ve had our ups and downs. But we allow each other a bit of latitude and I think that’s important if you want to stop things going west.

And have you mapped out your future, John?

Good question, Jimmy. It’s a frequent tropic of conversation between us. Let’s say we’re moving in the right direction, but of course there’s still a way to go. You’ll appreciate these can be difficult waters to navigate.

And where would you like your ultimate destination to be, Jane?

Oh, we’ve both decided a desert island would be best – even though it would be so far from our comfort zones.

So, I can hear that theme music already, those seagulls setting the scene. Have you chosen your discs by any chance? You first, John.

Ha ha, Jimmy. Don’t miss a trick, do you? As it happens, we have. Equal shares, four each. The bands I’ve chosen reflect my homeland. The Arctic Monkeys, Snow Patrol, Polar Bear and The Icicle Works.

And what about your choices, Jane? Are they a reminder of where you live now?

No, Jimmy! That’s because I’m looking forward to our new home. The songs I’ve picked are Island in the Sun, Surf’s Up, Good Day Sunshine and Some Enchanted Evening – you know, from South Pacific.

Well – let’s kick off with some good old Rodgers and Hammerstein.

And thanks to John and Jane for taking part in…The Match.

Two Poems for Christmas by Susie Field

Christmas

Christmas time should be such a pleasure,

With precious memories for us to treasure.

So why do we always shop, shop, shop,

Spend, spend, spend, till we’re fit to drop.

And as it draws near, that day in December,

The true meaning of Christmas we must remember.

Loved ones who have left us, but not forever,

Still in our thoughts as we gather together.

Think of others sitting alone,

Those on the street without a home.

Spare a thought for their pitiful plight,

As we eat and drink into the night.

It’s not about money, but giving and sharing,

Christmas time is for loving and caring.

So as we rejoice in endless chatter,

Remember the things that really matter.

A Special Christmas

Frosty fingers on my window pane

Children sledging down an icy lane

A lonesome robin hopping by

Snowflakes fluttering from a darkening sky

A solitary snowman stands alone

As carol singers wend their way home

to hot mince pies and festive sherry

Over indulge - it’s a time to be merry

For Christmas is here  - magic and fun

So let’s make this year a special one.

Dry Stone Wall by Vivien Teasdale

 This may not be quite up to Keat's view of Autumn, but I hope it evokes a positive feeling as we head towards winter and whatever that may bring us. 

“It serves no useful purpose now,” he told them.

“Once it marked a boundary, built in local stone,

the easiest to hand, stretching out across the land,

showing how man divided up his world.

But now, it serves no useful purpose.”

Fallen into disrepair: decayed, dishevelled,

ivy creeping over the coppice stones. And briars,

bowed with luscious fruits bursting in the autumn sun,

or ripped apart by urgent beaks.

Blackbird whistles a warning to the world,

alerting all, freezing the moment.

Scarlet rose hips glisten, polished bags bulging, 

spilling the last pieces onto the dark earth,

and a mouse scurries to snatch the bounty

into the safe haven of the crumbling courses.

The people move on, picking their way over sharp, white stones

fresh laid on the worn-out car park.

They scurry to the tea rooms,

as a wren scolds. A robin sings, drowned out

in the chatter and clatter of distant cups.

On the far side, the sheep snuggle up, sheltering from the coming

storm, safe against the black and weathered stones of the old wall.

Christmas Memories by Anna Kingston

When I was a child, my dad worked away from home and probably missed half of my childhood Christmases (he was in the Merchant Navy and spent his Christmases in many far-flung places).  Money was always very tight, but especially at this time of year, and my mum was used to making it stretch - dad used to joke that mum could make the Family Allowance (now Child Benefit) stretch indefinitely!

One year, things were even tighter than usual, but we children were never aware just how poor we were, thanks to mum’s fantastic creativity with everything she touched.  This particular year, mum not only cooked everything from scratch as usual, but made every single part of our Christmas - no mean feat when you have three little girls!

She sewed dressing up clothes for us from old sheets and fabric she already had, even making a scaled-down version for our favourite dolls. Mum created a peg doll for each of us, drilling holes to poke pipe cleaners through for arms, and raiding her scraps basket to create Edwardian ladies for us.  She painted and printed ferns onto thick paper to make cards for us, and even got some unprinted newspaper from the chippy to print designs on with potatoes to make wrapping paper.

Prior to Christmas, we celebrated St Nicholas’ Day on 6th December and there was always a mysterious delivery of chocolate coins to be found in our shoes that morning.  We never believed in Father Christmas or Santa Claus, but for years she kept up the mystery about St Nicholas, without any outright lying!

In the run-up to Christmas, we’d put up decorations around the room, but the tree itself was bare, but always mysteriously twinkly and dripping with decorations, with beautifully wrapped gifts underneath, by the time we got up in the morning.  We girls would leave out mince pies and sherry for St Nicholas and carrots for the reindeer, and they were all half eaten by the morning - mum always said, quite truthfully, that it was a real mystery how they’d been eaten, and we fell for it!!

I still have my peg doll, and part of my dressing up outfit, and every time I make my mince pies I’m transported straight back to those 1970s Christmases, which were the richest I’ve ever known.

Outside to Inside By Judy Mitchell

Spring. Days of gentle optimism unfurled and grew steadily longer.  Bright lime shoots pushed from the soil and nest builders, eager and bold, darted into hidden places, their beaks full of wriggling food.  The restless wren flew to her new orb of woven grasses, twigs and moss through a tiny door facing away from the chill wind that shook the dry clematis tangled over the arch. In May, bees rushed to the pendulous branches of the apple tree and swooped to trampoline inside the white blossom.  Fat, orange rosebuds swelled in the sun and pots squatted under the open kitchen window, full of crimson blooms like harlots’ petulant mouths. Propped flower spires reached into strangely quiet skies and netted fruit plumped and blushed as the earth grew warm.   Twelve weeks of waiting and watching as the sun climbed higher and the numbers started to fall.            

We came up for air for a few rushed, summer weeks of partial respite but it hadn’t gone away. It regrouped and skulked in corners, a technicolour conker ready to use its grappling hooks to dig into our soft beds of flesh.  Now, I’m inside, looking out, waiting for the rain to stop in these dark, shortening days.  The garden is shucking its wet, green layers down to spiky, bare branches silhouetted against the drab sky over a no man’s land of fallen leaves. A conical tree stands by the fence.  It has only one leaf.  The last remnant of its lush foliage of summer.  It flick-flacks in the irregular gusts.  An obstinate dried leftover, futilely resisting the scourge of the north wind.  I continue reading but am drawn back to the parallel branches until the light fades. I listen to the buffeting rain and wind against the glass and the shushing of the dishwasher full of hot pots.  It’s Sunday. The lingering smell is of lunch, roast meat, vegetables.

In the morning, the solitary leaf has gone. The tree is bare.

The Crowman by Gareth Clegg

A scream split the night. I bolted upright, grabbed my revolver from the bedside table and stumbled towards the door. I fumbled with the lock till the door clattered open onto the dim hallway running the length of the upper floor. The sound had come from the front of the building, and I made my way between the flickering lamps, casting dancing shadows across the hall.

A gunshot rang out, and a dark feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. Something evil was at work. I pushed on, hurrying over the ageing carpets, the once-vibrant reds now faded to brown, discoloured by all manner of spillages over the years. A few faces appeared at doorways ahead but soon retreated at the sight of some half-naked fool toting a pistol. “Get the hell back inside.”

Another gunshot from the main suite at the front of The Lucky Dollar, and I was at the door. I tried the handle, but it just shook in the frame. A single well-placed kick saw to the lock mechanism, and it swung inwards with a squeal.

Light streamed in through the glass doors to the balcony and silhouetted in the moonlight stood a tall shape. It had been leaving but turned at my entrance, sporting a ragged black coat and a battered top hat with a few rotting feathers stuck in the band. The dark sockets that caught my gaze held no compassion. Those black voids drank the light as they measured me, but I was no stranger to evil, and this stank of rancid meat left way too long in the sun.

“Hold it right there and keep your hands where I can see them.” I must have looked a sight there in nothing but my small-clothes. But hell, when you’re in a rush, you don’t always have time to don your best bib and tucker.

The thing watched, dead eyes following me, as a ghastly rushing of air issued from it, and I realised it was speaking in breathy gasps. “My business here is done. I have no quarrel with you, but do not cross me for I will destroy you if you interfere with my work.”

There were a lot of spirits in this accursed land, some natural like the playful coyote trickster, and then there were others, dark and twisted. I didn’t know precisely what it was, but the shivers running through my spine told me it sure-as-hell wouldn’t tip its hat and leave politely.

“Sorry, can’t let you just move on after what you did here,” I said, glancing at Kirby’s body. A pool of blood soaked the sheets at his waist, and a red stream trickled between his eyes from a single shot in his forehead, dripping onto the ruined bedsheets.

My gaze returned to the thing as it wheezed. It took a moment, but I realised it was trying to laugh. Shit, this was unlike anything I’d come up against before. It turned to face me, draped in shadow from the full moon. “You won’t allow me to leave?” More rasping signalled its amusement, but it was through with my petty threats, turning back towards the balcony. “I have things to do, mortal.”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

The door burst open behind me, and the creature spun, pistol outstretched, already cocked and ready. Ruby stood there, scarlet dressing gown shifting in the night breeze, the revolver in her left hand barked as she fanned the hammer.

“No,” I tried to shout, but too late. Hell, she was fast. The rounds tore through the creature, glass shattering behind, and it stumbled. Each of the six shots struck in a tight group, pushing wisps of smoke through its chest to hang drifting in the cold night air.

The sound was like an old man coughing out his last, but it was just another wheezing attempt at laughter. Raising its baleful glare to Ruby, red glowed bright in those dark sockets like the rising sun. “You are quick, girl. I’ll give you that, but now it’s my turn.” Its pistol raised, slow and deliberate towards her heart.

A single gunshot exploded, deafening inside the room, but I was used to the sound of my weapon of choice. An unholy scream rent the air as the round struck the creature in the chest. It stumbled back through the remains of the glass doors, falling in a crumpled heap on the balcony.

“What the fuck was that, a cannon?” Ruby had her hands clasped over her ears, her face pained from the unnatural volume.

“Sorry about that, Miss Diamond. I wasn’t expecting company or else I could have warned you.”

I headed over to inspect the remains but stopped. Despite a fist-sized hole punched through its chest, the damned thing was still there. My gut squirmed. The feeling you get after eating rotten food, when you know it’s riding south for the border at a gallop.

I rotated the barrel of the two-shot, locking the second round into place with a click.

The thing laughed at me. “Too late. You’ve shown your hand. Goodbye, Cheveyo.”

As I pulled the trigger, the creature exploded, an inky stream leaping into the air. It swirled then burst into cawing crows, hundreds of them, streaming into the night sky and disappearing, lost in the darkness.

Ruby appeared at my shoulder. “What the hell was that?”

“Trouble,” I said. Its outline lay scorched into the wooden balcony, and the stench of brimstone filled the night air. “A whole heap of trouble.”

***

The Crowman is the first novella in the Dark Fantasy Supernatural Western series Chronicles of the Fallen available on Amazon in both eBook and Paperback.

We Only Live Once by Yvonne Witter

 

COVID-19, yes that controversy, or global pandemic, does not seem to be abating anytime soon. I am sure that like me, you’ve heard about, nay seen the many mishaps during online virtual meetings. I am not even sure that they are mishaps, because leopards do not change spots. But I suppose that we can all agree that it is easy to forget that there is an embedded camera in play in the heat of the 'office shenanigans' moment though. But what about the current online dating fiasco taken to a new level now, because after you have swiped in the direction of preference, there remains the dilemma of social distancing on a date. So, pray tell when will that sought after first kiss actually happen?  Will it be after using a dodgy or perfectly well-working test kit? Asking for a friend. A woman posted on FaceBook that men have become more confident under lockdown conditions and a bloke replied in capitals that it was about ‘desperation’.

This situation is layered though isn’t it? What about all those couples my legal and psychotherapist mates tell me are filing for divorce, as they now have an enduring hatred of the other, after spending all day in the same house working from home. They say COVID simply shines a spotlight on that which was already present, like the inequities in society. But what about all those illicit affairs that were shrouded in ‘unfortunate late meetings’, ‘extra work’, and ‘a quick drink after work with colleagues’. Might it be those very same people fervently breaking Covid rules and popping out to get the shopping, walk the dog or get some exercise?  Well, you can’t measure how much time someone needs, to feel like they have had a good workout, even if it is a long walk if gyms are closed too.

Seems to me like I have gone all the way around the houses to tell you that although I don’t enjoy regular exercise, I have now found the near-perfect antidote to my love of being sedentary. I should say second love because aqua aerobics is my go-to activity to feel alive and full of beans and satisfy myself that I have done exercise. I mean COVID has unfortunately stripped me of the activities I would not have measured as exercise, like walking around the shopping centre window shopping, or just popping out to an event to network, enjoy the theatre or a lecture.

Have you heard of the Peloton bike? I know, me neither until I was discussing the temporary hire of gym equipment. The cheaper option of a trampoline, hula hoop or skipping rope would simply not have even got the first jump so why even pretend? It took me a month of reading blogs, downloading the Peloton app, and watching the sweating Peloton instructors while jigging around to the music lying in bed, to realise that I had found my second-best stimulating activity.  

I bought one, I should say invested in one, and decided to start saving again for my funeral plan, figured my life would be extended. I recall attending a couple of spin classes with a friend who ignored my protestations and bought me an extra padded seat to attach. I discovered that I really loved Spin classes when I connected with the instructor. If I felt an affinity and the music was to my liking, generally I had a great spin class. So now, in my own home with the aid of a screen, I have the sweaty bodies of gorgeous instructors smiling at me and egging me on, telling me how gorgeous I am and how capable I am. I feel like I am in a special relationship. I also now belong to a Peloton family and even though my own family is not allowed during tier three, I now have a global family of COVID belly carriers, who like me believe that we can ride our way to health and emerge from this pandemic without a middle bulge.

We only live once, so I must try to make it satisfying even under trying circumstances.

Ascension by Nick Stead

Lifeless it sat there on the table, an empty vessel awaiting a soul. Its two eye-shaped holes stared unseeing at its creator, and a slit lined with human-like teeth gaped in a vague approximation of a smile. But there was nothing human about that face. It had no nose like its orange counterparts of the modern world, lacking the character often bestowed upon those distant relatives in the here and now.

A candle passed into the hollow frame, though the lantern was made no less eerie for the orange glow. Its creator didn’t seem to notice. This was her favourite time of the year, and she observed these ancient customs with more than just sacred duty.

Lady Sarah of Wilton stood back to admire her handiwork. She could have had the servants carve out the turnip for her, but every year she insisted on doing it herself. All Hallows’ Eve was one of the few nights where anything might be possible. It was a night for lost souls, their one chance to find their way to Heaven through the prayers of the good Christian men and women of England. But it was also a night for spirits to walk among the living, if the oldest stories told by their pagan ancestors were to be believed. Some might think that idea terrifying. Lady Sarah was not one of them.

She gazed into the flickering eyes she’d fashioned with such love. In the centuries to come, she would refer to it by the name coined from the term ‘Jack of the lantern’ in the eighteen hundreds, but that was still some five hundred years away yet. Her guardian against evil had no name, yet the flame seemed to give it life all the same; a fiery soul to ward off all the unwanted visitors the night might bring.

There came a knock on her bedchamber door. It sounded too soft and hesitant to have been made by any malevolent beings come to prey on the living, and Lady Sarah was fairly confident as to who it was standing in the passage outside. Still, it always paid to be cautious. She looked to her lantern as if for guidance, searching its inhuman features for some sign she was right not to be afraid. The turnip leered back. Its soul continued to burn strong, and that was all the confirmation she needed.

“Yes?” she called out.

The door creaked open, a hand wrapped in a filthy bandage appearing along its edge. A young face peeked round a moment later, her eyes wary and her lips parted with unease. Inwardly, Lady Sarah sighed. The serving girl was practically quaking in the doorway. She grew tired of the girl’s anxieties, but her father had taught her a good ruler should be patient, and consider the needs of her subjects. So she held her tongue and waited for Constance to say her piece.

As always, the girl’s fear of not observing the proper etiquette outweighed the nerves she felt in the presence of royalty. She swallowed and stepped into the chamber with a curtsy. Grime covered her from head to foot, her plain woollen tunic looking especially shabby beside the ornate dress decorated with the finest silks and furs Lady Sarah wore. “Forgive me, my Lady, but the King requests your presence in the great hall. The guests will be arriving soon.”

“Thank you, Constance. Please tell Father I am almost ready."

“Yes, my Lady."

“And bring some more wood for the fire before it dies out."

The girl curtsied again and hurried away, closing the door behind her.

Lady Sarah stayed by her ghoulish lantern a moment longer, her thoughts returning to the dead. Not all the night’s potential ghostly visitors were unwelcome, and while most of the castle’s inhabitants were excited for her father’s banquet, Lady Sarah looked to All Hallows’ Eve with the same hope she did every year. To spend one more night with her dearly departed grandmother, that was all she asked. Every year she wished for the same, and every year she was disappointed. Yet it did nothing to diminish the hope she felt rising in her in the days leading up to the holy night, and this particular All Hallows’ Eve was no different.

But she was ever aware of the duty she had to the living as well as the dead, and she supposed she should finish preparing herself for the festivities. She was just about to turn away from those glowing eyes when a sudden gust of wind robbed them of the life they’d been given, along with the other candles on the table. Her chamber plunged further into darkness. Cursing, she groped her way to the window while her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

A beautiful full moon filtered through the gap in the stones, shining so bright it cast a shadow as she reached out to close the window. The sight of it amidst the clouds was mesmerising. She would have been quite happy to stand there looking up at the sun’s pale sister for hours, had it been any other night. But it would not do to keep her father and his guests waiting, so she pulled herself away and grabbed her brush, then sat down on the bed to tackle the tangles in her dark hair, her back to the window now.

She had barely raised the brush to her head when she saw it. A monstrous shadow, moving along the wall towards her own. Her guardian lantern had failed her. Evil had found its way into the princess’s chamber, and by the time she’d spun round to face it, her fate was already sealed.

The year was 1356, and that was the night that changed everything.

***

Ascension, a spin-off novella from the Hybrid series, out now on Amazon.

Let's Do This by Virginia Hainsworth

 

Calls to act now

Languish on deaf ears.

Images of arboreal destruction,

Melting ice-kingdoms

And flooded plains

Tell us we must do more.

Earth weeps.

 

Champions of the future,

Help those who come after us

And show them we care.

Nurture our precious planet.

Go in search of new ways.

Even now, there is time.

 

Ask yourself – what can I do, today?

Climb out of your habits.

Turn the tide.

 

Not on our watch

Or our children’s,

Will we let this continue.

 

An acrostic poem is one in which the first letter of each line spells out a message.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After All by Chris Lloyd

Margaret, a spinster, mid-fifties, is at the kitchen sink washing up and looking out of the window. She is thinking of the passing of an acquaintance.

Well, of all the things I could think of, one of them was not watching that woman from number sixty-two parading herself on the arm of a swanky looking man in full daylight. Has she no common decency? No sense of grief? And she is wearing red shoes! What is the world coming to, I blame it on the television.

 

Mind you, I always knew it would come to this. I had a feeling when the funeral was on, not that I attended, not for all the tea in China. Not that I didn’t like the husband, no. It was more I that disliked her.

 

He was as regular as clockwork. Walked past me every morning at 7.45 on his way to the station and back in the evening at 5.55, always had a cheery smile for me. He worked in the city, Leeds, in one of the big banks, Midland, I think. I hear he was a big noise in property too. Their house is nice enough but not what you would call grand by any stretch of the imagination. They had a big garage built not long after they moved in but I don’t think they had a car. I often wondered why would they want a garage if there was no car.

 

That’s beside the point. The point is that her husband was cremated five days ago, five days and here she is wobbling along past my house in those big red heels, nose in the air. Then, I can’t believe it, she looks me straight in the eye while I’m drying up and waves to me. What was I to do? So I wave back, one of those sickly waves the Queen does when she’s in her carriage; it is all I could drum up.

Next thing I know she’s opened the gate and is coming down my path. I wish I’d weeded it yesterday but the rain…..

 

The door bell rings and there she is. I’ve still got my pinny on, for pity’s sake but she doesn’t appear to notice. Her fancy man continues along the street, bigger fish to fry no doubt. I show her in to the lounge and offer her a cup of tea. She declines and asks if I have anything more interesting. So, we sit there sipping sherry. It’s only ten o’clock!

 

She says, “Did you know my husband.”

I say, “No I did not, why do you ask?”

She says, “Are you sure?”

I’m wondering what the point is. I think I have only spoken to her twice in all the time they’ve lived here.

I say, “Yes I am sure. I can’t think of any reason I could know him. I mean I did see him every morning and evening on his way to and from work. I wouldn’t call that “knowing” anybody, would you?”

She says, “Well it makes more sense now.”

I say, “More sense? Why does it make more sense? Is there something I should know about?”

She says, “Yes there is. I hope there’s more Sherry.”

 

She eyes me up and down, stands up and says. “My late husband died before his time and it was a big shock to all who knew him. We didn’t have children, a car or any extravagant luxuries. Not even shoes until now……”

I say, “Excuse me, but what is this to do with me? I don’t know how I can help you.”
I don’t like being spoken to when I’m sitting and the other person is standing but it seemed rude to stand, even though she had done so first.

She says, “If you listen to me you will realise why I’m asking you about you and my husband.”

The cheek of it. I say, “Me and your husband? I’m not going to listen to any more of this drivel, I have already said I did not know him.” I stand up. “Please be good enough to leave my house.”

She says, “Be like that if you wish. You will be hearing from my solicitor shortly.”

She walks out without another word. Solicitors, of all the things to say. I could have had a shock. I realise I am shaking. I pour a little more Sherry and sit down at the table and wracked my brain trying to remember if her husband and me did more than pass the time of day, he didn’t even stop to chat. I was at a loss. I set on cleaning and dusting but still wondering what that woman really wants. Not her husband, that was obvious. I finish the cleaning and start to think about lunch. Then I remember it is bill paying week. The cheque book avoids my search in all the drawers. Then I remember I’d used the last cheque. Another thing to do! I make a note to go to the bank tomorrow.

 

Somehow, I feel disturbed by this morning’s meeting with Miss red shoes. There is something niggling at the back of my mind but I can’t put my finger on it. I take the Sherry and glass and retire to the sitting room to see if I can make head or tail of “me and your husband.”

I wake up at a quarter to four with the Sherry bottle empty and the glass upside down in my lap. I didn’t know what to think and was no nearer to remembering anything about that woman’s husband. I decide to make a cheese and cress sandwich and go for a brisk walk around the park to feed the ducks and watch the kiddies playing in the sand.  As soon as I walk through the gates, I see that woman and her fancy man. I turned away but she sees me. She and him run across to me; I feel as if I’ve been ambushed. I notice the red shoes are swapped for a pair of suede court shoes.  All show, I thought so.

 

She says, “Look I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t handle the situation very well.”

I say, “I still don’t know what you want to know. You said I would hear from your solicitor. I am happy to await his letter.”

She says, “Would you come to dinner tonight. I do have something I want to discuss.”

That put me in a quandary. Dinner in someone else’s house? I din’t know what to do or say. I’d never been to another house for any food let alone dinner. Obviously, my house was my parents’ house but that was different. I wondered what Mam would say now.

Anyway I say, nice and natural, “That is very nice of you, Mrs Lund, I am pleased to accept.”

Nice as you like she says, “Shall we see you at seven thirty?”

I say, not believing it’s me speaking, it must be the Sherry, “Yes you shall, I am never late.”

She says, “Neither was my husband.”

 

There it was. The simple thing that linked me and her husband. I could see that she knew that I had caught on.

 

I say, “See you at seven thirty.”

 

I walk towards the gate before she could say anything else. I knew now what it was all about, not that there was any wrong doing or hanky-panky. Every morning him and me checked our watches as we crossed each other’s path. We’d take turns in saying the time and the one that didn’t say it set their watch to the other. Same in the evening. We were fastidious about this for years. It must have been the same for him as me. We must have felt the same joy of a very simple and brief act of friendship with someone who understood why it was a joy. In the whole of our “relationship” the time we were together must have added up to mere minutes. I feel tears on my cheek and hurry towards home.

 

I press the doorbell at exactly seven thirty. I needn’t have bothered. She opens it as I press. As I go through the door the fancy man takes my coat and hangs it over the bannister then shows me in to the dining room. There are just two places. He pulls a chair out and I sit down. He does the same for Mrs Lund.

 

She says, “Welcome to my home, though it was Adrian’s really. I was simply a woman he was married to. I hope you enjoy dinner. François is a master chef, or so he tells me!”

She laughs at this and I must admit to a titter myself.

 

The dinner is not as plain as I like my food but it is very tasty. We drink some wine and talk.

 

I say, “That was wonderful, Mrs Lund, I’m full. Thank you. Now, I think we both know that my relationship with your husband was nothing but a quirky little routine that continued for quite a long time by two people who were obsessed with time keeping. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She says, “Yes, I believe that to be the case but the reason I came to see you was not about that. Adrian was like that with everything. The reason he didn’t drive was because the train was almost always on time but he allowed for possible lateness. Whereas the roads always had long delays and he just couldn’t cope with that. He always walked into his office at precisely five to nine every day. But I have to tell you something else.”

I say, “That sounds ominous.” As soon as I say it, I wished I hadn’t. She continued

“Adrian was a very good judge regarding investments. The same attitude as not being late and his attention to detail meant that his investments have done very well. He invested something for you.”

I say, “Me? Why did he do that?” I am starting to feel nervous again.

Then she says, “Because you were the only person who he thought was the same as him, the same perspective on life driven by time. So, he managed your investment very well. It stands at one hundred and forty thousand pounds in round figures.”

I say, “What? Did I hear that right? How on earth did he do that. I can’t take that sort of money from you, it’s wrong.” My head is spinning.

She says, “But you have to. He wanted to ensure you had, what he termed, your rightful money. If you don’t accept it, I will not be able to access the other investments. You have me at a disadvantage, don’t you see?”

I am flummoxed and don’t know what to do so I say, “Is that what the solicitor was going to say?”

She says that it was so we talk it through and decide to get it all organised at the bank at ten thirty in the morning. 

 

At precisely 10.30 we both walk in to the bank then both of us walk out very much wealthier than when we went in. The time is precisely 11.45, time to catch the 12.15 home.

 

We celebrate Adrian’s success in the garage where no car had ever been but wherein sits his collection of time pieces from around the world.

 

I say to myself as I look at all of the watches and clocks, “I bet this lot goes to auction.”

I say to her, “What are you going to do with all these?”

She says, “I don’t know yet. I wasn’t allowed in here this is my first time. I suppose I will get them auctioned. I have something for you.”

 

She reaches in to her bag and gives me a box. I don’t know what I should do.

She says, “This is the watch he wore every day I knew him.  I am sure you will recognise it. I want you to have it. It means more to you than me.”

This generosity overwhelms me and I start to cry.

She puts her arm round me and says, “His watch will make you think of him and the times you spent together. I am not jealous in the least, in fact it’s thanks to seeing you every day that he tolerated me. I truly loved him but he didn’t get that.”

I am speechless. I nod and hug her too. François brings my coat and walks me home.

 

I sit at the kitchen table holding his watch and kiss it. Perhaps I did love him a little, after all.

Computers by Susie Field

I’m Colin the computer and I work in A and E

No one even knows my name and no one speaks to me.

I’m very stressed and overworked,  I rarely take a break

I sit in line and don’t complain - it’s hard for goodness sake.

They bang my keys and spin me round, they simply do not care

Sometimes they gather in little groups, just simply stand and stare.

I always seem to get the blame when things are not quite right

But I only store what they give to me - morning, noon and night.

An x-ray here, another scan and even a ruptured spleen

Dashing about here and there, switching from screen to screen.

Zooming in and zooming out,  please make up your mind

Something else they must have lost or simply cannot find.

 

Poor Carol’s in reception and she doesn’t like that crowd.

It’s busier than ever and they’re noisy, rude and loud.

Carl has done much better, he’s sitting with a nurse

A private little office, now that must be a first.

Not a major accident or another late night fight

I clearly heard the sirens and saw a bright blue light.

They all descend on Carol who’s always first in line

I think I’ll take a breather, whilst I’ve still got a little time.

Fat chance of that ‘cos they’re heading my way

Coffee cups balanced on a wobbly tray.                                     

Oh no she’s tripped and I’ve swallowed the lot

My insides are melting and it’s burning hot.

I splutter and spark with all my lights flashing

They cannot believe I’m actually crashing.

Their faces contort with absolute horror

Now I know they will miss me come tomorrow.

 

They’re wheeling in Carl to take my place

Oh the expression on his smug little face.

He cannot believe he’ll now have to work

All those duties so far he’s managed to shirk.

Darkness descends and I’m all alone

In a dusty old store room without a phone.

I can hear distant voices and lots of chatter

Everyone’s having a good old natter.

I wish I was back there in A and E

I know it was busy but it suited me.

Missing by Dave Rigby

What do you want, Gav?

There’s been a break-in!

Well that’s a first. What’s missing? Don’t tell me. One of the barrels of embalming fluid? A few sheets of mahogany? Or one of our super-luxe caskets?

It’s worse than any of them. It’s 105/20!

Oh no! That’s Charlie Hughes, isn’t it. He was alright…but his relatives! So how did our Burke and Hare get in?

Well that’s the thing. They must have got hold of a key somehow and what with the alarm being on the blink…

So, it wasn’t strictly speaking a break in at all. Still – it’s not as if we’ll be claiming for him on the insurance.

No, boss. What do you want me to do – call the cops?

I suppose you’d better. Perhaps we can get them to break the news to Mrs Hughes. Wait a mo though. Maybe we should keep schtum for the time being. If we can find Charlie and get him back, she’ll be none the wiser.

The cameras opposite might have picked up the body snatchers.

Good thinking, Gav. When you talk to the police, don’t mention Charlie, just tell them we’ve had some coffins nicked and ask them to check the CCTV. That way we might be able to spot our villains without letting the Charlie cat out of the bag.

Right oh, boss. I’ll call you back in a bit.

…

What do you mean the camera didn’t show any vehicles pulling up outside the parlour?

That’s what the fuzz said. No suspicious vehicular activity. 

That’s a bit weird. Maybe the CCTV’s on the blink – like our alarm.

No, I checked with them. It was working OK.

You are sure he’s missing, Gav. Not been on the pop again!

No, boss – honest. Come and see for yourself. He’s vanished into thin air.

That seems a bit unlikely. You’re going to have to phone Mrs Hughes.

Me? Why me? You always speak to the clients!

But I’m not in the parlour, Gav. She’ll want to speak to the man on the ground. Anyway, I’ve just remembered it’s supposed to be the funeral tomorrow, so we can’t really stall any longer. Just ignore her threats. She probably won’t carry them out. Ring me as soon as you’ve spoken to her.

Why do I get all the difficult jobs?

…

Hello, boss. You’re not going to believe this, but I spoke to him.

You mean her.

No, him – Charlie.

Look Gav, you swore you hadn’t been drinking – or are you about to claim he came to you in a vision?

No, boss. No drinking, no visions. It was the telephone.

Oh, I see. A hot line to heaven I suppose!

No, it was the Hughes’ number actually. Luckily, she was out. But Charlie answered.

OK – I’ll humour you. What did he say?

He said to tell you that next time, you’d better make sure he really is dead.