In the Triangle by Judy Mitchell

Inside the Forcing Sheds at the side of the Volga, the crop of crimson and red stalks with their yellow, tightly wrinkled heads, failed to appear. The growers silently watched and waited. They tested the soil and the air but there was no explanation -except the unthinkable. Sabotage. Not one of the stern-faced experts dared to voice their suspicions but as the days and nights passed, it became the only explanation.  Some foreign force had invaded the Sheds of the Motherland and committed an act of cold, calculated, international, agro-warfare.

Across the city, a man was being briefed on this latest act of aggression. Rhubarb was a vegetable he had adored since childhood. Its laxative properties had often been called upon to work their relieving magic on the most stubborn days. There were moments when he allowed himself to remember growing up, the days of rhubarb crumble, sticky-fingered rhubarb and ginger jam spread thickly on homemade black bread. Only those in his very innermost circle knew he was vegetarian. A fact kept from public view as he felt that such an image might hint at some lack of manliness for a former soldier and officer.

Within days, hidden in the crowds of tourists journeying to the area known as England’s Rhubarb Triangle, a stranger mingled with the crowds of revellers. His face was uninteresting, bland, the sort of person you would never find from a wanted poster. On his back, a rucksack contained the most potent chemical for his mission. Isocyanorhuberide. He watched the growers rubbing their raw, red, English hands, in capitalistic glee, as they eagerly anticipated the profits from a bumper crop.

He struck on the last day of February as the Festival celebrated the new crop of luscious pink stems. He had slipped inside the Sheds as the wind whipped and whistled around the dark, red buildings and as the temperature had started to fall.  The snow drifted against these prize growing sanctuaries where the forced roots planted indoors in November had sprouted, row after row of ugly stalks thrust upwards, lit by candles to stop photosynthesis.

When the growers’ attention returned from the Festival to their crops, there was a collective gasp heard across the English Forcing Fields. Candles stuttered as the doors slammed on the disaster scene. All that was left were acres of slimy, black, stringy puree. The smell was overpowering. Growers and their loyal employees wept and moaned in a mass outpouring of grief.

His mission was accomplished. He had not lost his touch and he made ready to return. But, in an unguarded moment he agreed to join some of the men at the Rhu-bar in the centre of Wakefield.

The last thing he saw were the expressionless faces of three Special Forces men.  He felt a sharp stab and then, within seconds, a hot bubbling feeling running through his organs as the Isocyanorhuberide coursed through his body. When they lifted the short bundle of flesh into the Calder, he was already quite dead.

The Death of Amos Oddy by Vivien Teasdale

 

My uncle, Amos Oddy, was dying, though he didn’t know it. Yet. Everyone around him knew it and that was the problem. How do you convince someone to write their will, which you know will be needed sooner rather than later, when they think they’re invincible?

‘I’ll sort it,’ Aunty Gilly said. ‘He’s my brother and I remember how difficult it was when grandma died intestate. That will get him started.’

It probably would, but she’ll make sure he started with her as the first and main beneficiary. Her daughter, Agnes, was just as bad.

‘I think he should see a solicitor straight away. Mine is very good. I’ll make an appointment for him,’ she said.

Amos’s other nephew, Bill, intended to take him round the animal home and discuss leaving bequests to charity in wills, while Bill’s brother, Max, wanted to have a real ‘heart-to-heart’ with his uncle and explain how upset they’d all be at the time and how much easier he’d make it for all his loved ones if he just thought about how to distribute his wealth before anything happened. And so on with the rest of them – Aunty Margaret, Cousin David, even second cousin, twice removed (usually to the county gaol) Clifford, wanted to get in on the act.

Now my father left me very well off, made out his will in good time, all done properly through a solicitor. All he asked of me was to keep an eye on his brother. So I just carried on looking in on Amos now and then, when I was in the area and said nothing, just continued our usual conversations about the army and how it differed now from when he was in Africa in the last century. In fact, when he commented on the family concern about his health, I just told him it was all nonsense, no point in worrying about it and changed the subject.

Naturally, when two months later, Amos passed away very suddenly, the first thing to be searched for – well, once the ambulance had removed the body and the police had accepted it was a natural death – was the will.

Agnes’ solicitor hadn’t seen Amos since the very first appointment when they’d discussed how big a share of the estate was appropriate for a niece – an only niece – to have. Agnes searched the big bureau that had belonged to Grandma. It was where Grandma should have put her will if only she’d written it and Agnes was sure Amos would have put his there.

Bill rested contentedly in the lounge, planning the new dog kennels, while everyone else ran themselves ragged trying to find the will. Neither Aunty Margaret nor Clifford, or for that matter, any of the others were allowed near the house and had to make do with long phone calls full of advice, pomposity or shrill smugness.

I just carried on with my life as usual, until one day when my solicitor rang to say I needed to see him about a will.

‘But why?’ I asked. ‘I’m perfectly fit.’

‘No, not to make one. Though that would be a good idea actually. Amos Oddy made you a beneficiary.’

‘Oh, yes, I know he said he’d leave me his old army knife, but that was a joke between –’

‘No, you’ve come into quite a lot of property. Most of it, in fact.’

‘But why me?’

‘Well, when he came into my office to sort the will, he said you were the only one who told him not to bother and left him in peace.’

Sometimes, you know, psychology can be useful when dealing with a contrary old bastard like Amos Oddy.

Oscar by Dave Rigby

Pushing on, Ork thought about what Martin had said.

    “’Tis clear Lambert’s paper-dead, but that don’t mean he’s actual-dead.”

So, Martin could read. The sly dog.

Up till that moment, Ork hadn’t considered the possibility that Lambert might still be alive.

Victor continued the rhythmic movement of his hooves, until a patch of thistles caught his eye and steady progress became no progress. Well, if the horse was going to have a bite to eat, so was he, Ork reasoned. Reaching into a saddlebag, he pulled out a dark blue cloth. Inside were two hunks of bread, a slice of roast beef and a small wedge of cheese. As he ate sitting on a grassy knoll by the side of the track, it dawned on him that the third member of their party had gone missing. Putting two fingers to his mouth, he let out a few sharp whistles. Within a minute, Digger pushed his way through low bushes and emerged, evidence of his own very recent meal, clear from the state of his chops.

As Ork continued to chew on the beef, tossing a stray piece to the dog, he wondered about the chances of finding Oscar. Still – first things first. Find Lambert!

They’d been travelling for most of the afternoon. Woodhaven was just over the brow of the next hill. Ork would need to be careful. If Lambert was alive and got wind of Ork’s arrival, he’d be off like a shot and Oscar with him.

Riding down into the village, Ork headed to The Falconer. Good move or bad? He couldn’t be sure. The landlord knew everything that went on, sometimes even before it happened. But would he be tempted to send a warning signal to Lambert?

Ork hitched Victor’s rein to the rail and with Digger by his side, pushed open the inn door.

    “I’m after Josh Lambert,” he said, deciding that direct was probably best.

The innkeeper looked shifty.

    “He ain’t about. Gone to Faversham. Won’t be back until the morrow. Leastwise, so he said.”

So, obviously not dead then, Ork chuckled to himself.

    “Still up by the beck bridge, is he?”

    “No. Can’t say where he stays now. Flits about here and there.”

Can’t or won’t? Ork wondered. Start up by the bridge. Got nothing else to go on. And as Lambert would likely not be back in the village that day, they could search undisturbed.

The cottage, best described as tumbledown, was tiny. The barn at the rear was a more spacious, better kept building. Ork looked inside. It was dry. No beasts. A few bales of hay and a water trough. Victor took his fill.

Ork reached into a saddlebag for reins and bridle and held them out to Digger, who sniffed repeatedly and barked briefly. Then, nose to the barn floor he sniffed and snuffled like a professional, made his way through the open door and was off. Ork did his best to keep up as Digger sped away from the village and hared up a rough stony track into woodland.

Ork whistled. It would be too easy to lose the dog in the tree-covered twilight gloom. Digger waited for a moment before continuing along the trail at a slower pace, picking his way through lines of gnarled oaks, alongside impenetrable thickets of holly. Just as Ork was thinking that the dog’s scenting sense was failing him, he saw a stone building up ahead.

The worn timber door was locked. Digger jumped around, then, paws up against the entrance, barked like mad. There was a whinny from inside. Justification, Ork reasoned, for a break in. A tool from his belt made short work of the lock. Oscar was so pleased to see man and dog.

Only when Ork turned did he see the silhouette of a man in the doorway.

    “The magistrate would be interested to know about you breaking into my property and stealing my horse!”

    “And, no doubt, also interested to hear how a man can lend a horse in good faith, provide a helping hand, only to find the loan becomes a theft. And how come you’re alive when you’re supposed to be dead?”

Lambert removed a felt hat and scratched his head.

    “You still got to get past me!”

Normally Digger was of sound temperament, but if he took against someone …

Fangs bared, a deep growl, he padded slowly and menacingly towards Lambert who stood his ground, but only for a moment. Then he was gone.

    “Go to Victor!” Ork said in a low voice. The dog was gone.

Ork led Oscar through the wood and back to the cottage by the bridge. It was no surprise to see Lambert again. And no surprise that Digger, running his tongue over each side of his chops, had him pinned against the barn wall.

    “Unusually clever of you to realise Victor would be here,” Ork said, with a smile. “You so nearly made your escape. Such a pity to be foiled by a dog.”

With Ork saddled-up on Oscar, who was fresh for the road, Victor tethered behind and Digger running alongside, the quartet headed homewards through the moonlit night.  

I Deal In Words by Juliet Thomas

 

 

I deal in words, the flutter of notes

High pitched, low drawl, hand-written scrawl

Connection exchanged

 

I credit in words, the currency rich

A Thank You, A Bless You!

Compliments paid

 

I withdraw in words, sometimes miserly

Few spoken, broken  

Words fail

 

I spend in words, sometimes too much

Rushing, gushing instead of shushing

Listen carefully

 

I tip in words, a cheque to help

Suggestions, recommendations,

Selling belief

 

I save in words, precious treasure

Nurture until ready, steady

Go

 

I bank on words, to tell the truth

Stand up, voice up

To be heard