Gone but hopefully not forgotten

Due to an awful calamity I am unable to use my laptop and using this tiny gadget takes hours to do. Thank goodness, though, that my neighbour let me write this on hers. I will, of course, explain as soon as I am able. Behave yourselves in my absence.  I can however read blogs even if I cannot comment.
Happy new year to you all

AWAY FOR CHRISTMAS

#

The magnolia-painted window-sill in the hotel bedroom was wide enough for Hilary Barnes to sit with her legs drawn to her chest, arms encircling her knees in a pose reminiscent of dreamy childhood days. The room itself possessed a charm that reminded her of the house she grew up in, but the view through the window was as bleak as her state of mind. It was Ted's idea to come away for Christmas, declaring that their house would be lonely and far too depressing. She was equally depressed here, even the virgin snow shrouding the fields and hanging from the branches of an elderly oak did nothing to cheer her. It only served to remind her of Greg's childhood love of coasting down the road on a makeshift sledge, annoying neighbours with his spirited yells of pure joy.

‘I'll be home before you know it,’ he said when he rang to break the news. 

Would he? Or would he be maimed or killed. 

She stared through the window, looking beyond her own reflection at the white hedgerow where houses now glowed, transformed by fairy lights twinkling in the descending gloom. 

Christmas Eve. It wasn't a time for sadness, but how could she not be sad when Greg's regiment was this very day flying to war zones, where God only knew what might transpire. She ran a finger over a slat in the wooden shutter, suddenly driven to check the whole thing for dust as though some sort of action would make things right. 

Then, for the first time, anger swelled within her and she pounded the shutter with her fist. How dare they whisk a young man into danger without any regard for his tender age. She sucked her knuckle, grateful for the hurt yet moderately stronger for having released some of her fury. In the corridor, the maid loaded her trolley with discarded glasses; remnants of celebrations. Hilary wiped her hand on her plaid skirt. Maybe tomorrow would be better, by then Greg would be installed in new barracks. However, no matter how long he was to serve there, she would never become accustomed to her teenage son being in the firing line. 

The snow fell steadily during the night and by morning the landscape was an unsullied wonderland. Christmas Day. A day of celebration. A day to give thanks for life's blessings. 

Hilary contemplated the white world, seeing a young couple trudging arm-in-arm along the lane, heading towards the church, two enthusiastic little girls following behind, slipping and sliding in fur-topped boots, their laughter-lit faces encompassed by red-striped pompom hats, matching scarves taking wing as they scampered in the drifts. As she watched, she had an urge to attend a Christmas service, to sing carols with Ted at her side, to pray for Greg and plead for his safekeeping. 

Ted needed no persuading. As soon as she mentioned her intention, he opened the wardrobe and took out their coats. 'Let's get there early,' he said as he helped her into the yellow sheepskin. Understanding her need he made no mention of her customary absence of spiritual leanings. 

Outside the hotel, Ted took her arm, guided her down the drive, circling the frozen fishpond and passing between barricades of newly-cleared snow until they reached the wrought-iron gates. Five minutes later they walked into the ancient parish church. It was alive with the atmosphere of Christmas. The grey stone walls were festooned with holly, an elaborately-carved pulpit decorated with berry-laden foliage. A colossal Christmas tree dominated one corner, adorned with gold and silver baubles, shimmering tinsel, and a gold star at the top. Hilary could smell the pine even from where she stood. To the right of the tree, reverent children viewed a glorious nativity display, quietly uttering ooh's and ah's as each one pointed to something of note. 

Hilary and Ted slid into a side pew behind the buzzing congregation. Hilary breathed in, enjoying the sting of cool air entering her lungs, for her insides were aglow with the character of her surroundings, and she wondered why her inaugural Christmas Day worship had taken so long to achieve. 

During the ceremony she joined in the carols and intently listened to sermons and messages. She prayed with others for compassion, for liberation, and good will, as well as for Greg and his colleagues somewhere in a distant war-torn country. 

With the closing carol sung, she felt in her pocket for her sheepskin gloves. A few couples rose to depart, but the minister held up his hand and they sat down again. 

A small group advanced towards the altar as the minister announced that a christening was to take place; he invited the congregation to attend. Hilary nudged Ted and looked at him enquiringly. He nodded and smiled, and squeezed her hand. 

The christening was soon over, a quiet service which could barely be heard at the back. After a final hymn, the minister toured the entire church with the child in his arms, her fingers clutching the stole around his neck, her shawl draping the front of his surplice, her residence in his arms making him beam with pride as he introduced her to everyone as Christine Beverley Anne.

Hungry for the Christmas festivities, the repast which the hotel predicted would be the best ever tasted, the Queen's speech, a quiz before tea, and, later on, a fancy-dress ball. Leaning sideways, she kissed Ted's cheek. 'Merry Christmas, my dear. And to Greg, too.'

How I I spent Christmas Day

Unlike the scene above, Christmas Day where I live was sunny and dry, with no hint of snow. I spent the day with Charlie, the cat, but I wasn’t at all depressed. I crawled out of bed thinking the day would be unbearable but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

First of all, neighbours on both sides rang to see if I was okay, both families inviting me round for coffee. After that I received my usual phone calls, first one from Australia – from my lovely stepdaughter who never fails to ring me on Christmas Day. Then my invalid son rang, he also never fails to call. Before I knew it was time to organise lunch.

Organising lunch is no longer a major task, unlike the days when it used to be. Not so now. I order my daily food from one of those firms that cook and deliver ready meals. This year I chose turkey and all the trimmings and all I had to do was heat it in the oven. Honestly, it was delicious. Can’t be bad, eh?

The rest of the day was my own, shared only with Charlie. Watched a lot of television and gave thanks that I was fit and well and able to spend the day doing what I liked. How was your day?

MORE THIS AND THAT....

MORE THIS AND THAT….

1. About time I did another This and That...

2.Spent what is left of the afternoon watching two foxes. One was asleep, the other  trying to climb the bird table.

3. Charlie watched in great anticipation of a fox hunt. I told him, the only way he would capture a fox was to get out there and have a go. 

4. This is my second attempt at This and That on account of my brain being a bit on the lazy side. 

5. Ordered a pre-cooked Christmas lunch. Apparently all I have to do is heat it up and eat it up. Will report back.

6. Let down by family... a cousin's son called round for a chat. Only see him every other decade. On leaving he said he would come again in two days and bring his mother. Neither of them seen or heard!I I hate that.

7. Two neighbours, two cars, two flat batteries. Rather them than me.

8. Gets dark early now, roll on Spring and more clock changes..

9. I think there must be a party up the road, three young guys walked by wearing fancy paper hats. I wanted to yell IT ISN'T XMAS YET but I'm a coward.

10. Wishing you all....

A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS

 AND

 A HAPPY NEW YEAR

A VIEW OF CHRISTMAS

The scene beyond the rustic garden gate was like a Christmas card. Outside the ivy laden cottage a robin was perched in a holly bush. A recent snowfall covered the thatched roof like oddly shaped clumps of cotton wool. Leaded light windows reflected the orange flames from the fire. Beneath those windows a wooden wheelbarrow filled with logs. The bare beech tree looked strangely out of place, dull brown when everything else was highly coloured. The cottage door, as red as the holly berries, was adorned by a festive  wreath. The door was ajar and inside could be seen a Swedish Pine of mammoth proportions ablaze with twinkling lights. And the aroma that emanated from within was of turkey, slowly roasting .
In the snow-packed lane, an elderly itinerant peered over the boundary hedge, white unkempt hair wafting skywards in the biting wind. With ice-cold fingers he smoothed it over his crown then pulled his shabby grey coat closer to his chest. The motions were entirely mechanical for he was truly not conscious of the cold. He had no need of fires or Christmas fare for his soul was warmed through with love for the Lord God, who kept him safe and whose birthday they shared.

After the Rain

 

AFTER THE RAIN

The evergreens looked much fresher after the rain but the flowers around the front lawn looked quite downcast. Of course, they would soon recover when they dried out and at least the Montbretia still looked showy. That’s what attracted the old man’s attention.

For a man of such obviously advanced years he was stylishly dressed in well pressed jeans and an open necked pale purple shirt with a jacket in deeper shades of purple and green. It reminded Beverley of a poem about wearing purple,’ except that she thought it related more to women than men. Certain she hadn’t seen him before, Bev wondered if he was new to the area.

The stranger extended a gnarled hand and gently touched the flower before looking up and spotting Bev standing by the front door. She felt suddenly as if she’d been caught spying but the feeling vanished when she saw his face light up with a beaming smile. A remarkable face, she thought; though heavily wrinkled the skin seemed soft, almost girlish. Treading carefully on the still wet path, ducking to avoid a random shoot of Wisteria, Beverley Wilson walked towards him.

‘My wife loves Montbretia,’ he said.

‘So do I,’ Bev replied. ‘Perhaps I could cut you a bunch. The blooms are almost done but there might be a day or two’s beauty to enjoy.’

The man thanked her, saying she was very kind, and could she put some paper round them.

Rather taken aback, Bev agreed. ‘I don’t take the newspapers, I’m afraid, but I’m sure I can find something.’

The man grimaced as he picked up a paper carrier bag from between his feet and took a faltering step towards her. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble, only my hands can’t grip too many things at once. Arthritis, you know!’

Bev did know, hadn’t her mother been crippled with it for years.

‘I’ll go and get the cutters and perhaps you can choose the best flowers.’

Hurrying into the house, shutting the door behind her, she raced through to the back garden and grabbed the gardening scissors from a hook outside the door. The thought entered her head that at least she would be armed if anything should happen.

When she returned, the old man was sitting on the low wall which started where the privet hedge ended. He was nursing his paper bag, his wooden cane propped between his knees, his right hand fondling the head of next door’s tabby cat. Obviously an animal lover, he made soothing noises as he worked his fingers through the black fur. Beverley thought how kind-hearted he was.

He tried to get up when he saw her.

‘Stay there a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the flowers for your wife.’ Quickly she sorted out the best, all the time complaining about the effect of recent rain on her beloved flowers. She was aware that she was babbling and tried to stem the apprehension. It was always the same when faced with strangers yet deep down she knew that on this occasion there was no need to feel anxious.

When she had finished she wrapped the flowers with some of the long leaves in several layers of tissue paper and took them to him, hoping somewhat childishly that he would like them. As she approached she thought how tranquil he was, so completely at ease. The word contentment came to mind. She could almost feel his calm, deep inside. Surprisingly, she experienced none of the tummy lurching that preceded apprehension. It was replaced by a sudden confidence, an amazing sensation. She could feel the future opening, welcoming.

‘Aye,’ he said as he admired the arrangement, ‘my wife will be delighted with these. She had a dress in that colour and the Montbretia flowers remind her of it. It was her going away dress on our honeymoon.’

Bev felt a lump in her throat. Her mother had fond memories of a particular dress she wore when she married, only hers was Hyacinth blue. It must be a thing about growing old, she thought, and wondered why she couldn’t recall the outfit she’d worn when she and Ed went on their Irish honeymoon. Perhaps it was because her marriage hadn’t been a happy experience. Ed was not the gentlest of men, he scared her most of the time. They parted after just six years and she’d been alone ever since; her own choice.

Pushing away all those thoughts, she asked the old man if he would like a cup of coffee and maybe some cake? Her boldness startled her. Had she taken leave of her senses? What on earth had possessed her to invite a complete stranger into her house, let alone offer food and drink? She wasn’t usually so sociable but there was something about the man’s demeanour that drove away her customary fear.

Once again she cursed the day of the burglar, that ruffian who burst in while she was in the back garden and made off with her purse, jewellery and several valuable ornaments. Since then she had diligently locked all doors and windows and earned a reputation for over-zealously locking herself in the house. The neighbours thought she was a bit odd but although they knew of the incident they couldn’t know how her nerves had been shot to pieces.

‘Cake would be very nice but with tea, if you don’t mind.’

‘Come on into the house, then,’ said Bev, then paused and asked if his wife would wonder where he was. A last minute excuse to back out.

‘Nay, lass, she’s a patient soul. And she’ll be right pleased to see me turn up with flowers.’

Beverley led the way, guiding her unexpected guest round a rather elderly black Vauxhall and over the step by the door. For once the Wisteria stayed where it should be. She wanted to ask his name but courage failed her … a remnant from the past when her mother chastised her for being forward. At fifty-five she should have grown out of childish worries but old habits die hard when they were drummed into you by a dominant parent. 

She did ask his name but not until she had made a pot of Assam tea, sliced some Battenberg cake and arranged them on one of her best Spode plates with a white paper doily to make it look nice. She felt quite comfortable in the old man’s presence, not in the least anxious; in fact, as she looked at him she thought how well he suited the surroundings, the eau de nil paintwork and lilac flowers in the wallpaper were in complete harmony with his clothes.

Pulling the smallest table from the nest by the hearth, she invited him to sit down. Helping him into the winged fireside chair, she suddenly asked, ‘What should I call you?’

‘Call me Harry. It’s Harris really but my wife thinks it sounds a bit stuck-up.’ Harry took a bite of cake, then smilingly added, ‘Her name’s Gertrude, Gertie for short. She prefers Gertie for the same reason.’

‘Do you live locally? I mean, I don’t recall seeing you before and wondered…..’

‘Just round the corner from the cemetery. Don’t get out much though with this arthritis and the relentless rain stops me from venturing far.’

Beverley felt the same way about the rain. It seemed that every time she went out of the front door the heavens opened. She could recall better summers but now they seemed to be buried in the mists of time.

Harry agreed about the rain. ‘Gertie hates it, she always says a little is worth a fortune but too much drowns the plant life.’ Harry paused to remove some crumbs from his jacket before going on to describe his wife.

Gertie and Harry lived next to each other when they were children. Although she was four years older she spent a lot of time with Harry. As children they did a fair amount of squabbling and as they grew older each took an interest in other children of opposite and respective sexes. However, there was no comparison for the friendship they shared; a friendship that matured into love. By the time they were old enough for University they prepared to go their separate ways, Harry to Guildford and Gertie to Leeds. Those were nightmare years and no amount of correspondence could bridge the loneliness each one experienced. ‘We were a couple and couples should never be apart,’ explained Harry, somewhat wistfully.

With parental permission they married young and set up house in Guildford, enjoying the experience of being together under one roof. But their hearts were in the Midlands where they grew up and after a few years they moved back to Tamworth. ‘But our wonderful marriage produced no babies,’ Harry said. ‘That was a downside for us, a real tragedy.

‘But you had each other.’

‘Aye, we did that.’

According to Harry, Gertie was a cracker which Beverley assumed meant she was a good looking woman. He wasn’t so complementary about his own appearance and offered the opinion that he had never been able to work out what she saw in him in the first place. Bev, though, could see exactly what Gertie could see. Although she had only just met him she could tell that he was a compassionate man, full of character and understanding. There was gentleness in his movements and his blue eyes and generous mouth seemed always to be smiling. She imagined him to be quite benevolent.

Harry drank some of his tea then replaced the cup in the saucer and reached for another Battenberg slice. He remarked on the china, explained that Gertie adored Spode. Bev was impressed since he hadn’t looked under the plate to see where it was made. She had a feeling that she and Gertie had lots of things in common.

After pouring another cup of tea Bev leaned back in her seat. In a short time he had told her so much about his life yet he knew nothing about her. She wasn’t inclined to talk about her lonely life either, yet when Harry said he really must go Beverley felt at a sudden loss. It had been a long time since she’d had such pleasant and interesting company.

She helped Harry to his feet, handed him his cane and his bag. She had put the flowers inside the bag so that he wouldn’t have too much to hold. Harry led the way to the door then turned to thank Bev for her kindness. Seizing her hand he leaned forward to peck her cheek.

Agreeably surprised, Beverley felt the blush creep up her neck. ‘It was my pleasure,’ she said, and meant every word. Opening the door, she saw that the weather had turned again, it was pouring with rain. ‘You’ll get soaked if you go out in that, I’ll just get the keys to the car and drive you home.’

‘That would be helpful,’ said Harry. ‘But I have a stop to make before going home.’

‘That’s fine,’ Beverley said, ‘I don’t mind dropping you wherever you like.’ 

The route was unfamiliar but Harry directed her like a true navigator. After five minutes driving, he asked her to pull up by the cemetery gates. Pointing to the sky, he whispered, ‘Look, the rain has lessened. See the sun coming through the black clouds?’

Bev looked out of the car window and sure enough the sun was like a beacon shining through the grey. She hoped there would be a rainbow; she loved rainbows.

Harry smiled. ‘It always does that when I come here.’ He gathered up his bag, gripped his cane, and went to open the car door. But then he turned back and asked if Beverley would like to meet his wife.

‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all, Gertie will be delighted to have company. And she’ll want to thank you for the flowers.’

Without waiting for assistance, Harry climbed out of the car. ‘Come on,’ he said, a trifle impatiently, ‘she’ll be waiting.’

Bev grabbed her raincoat from the back seat, locked the car doors and followed Harry through the immense wrought iron gate, thinking he must have easy access to his house from the cemetery path. But instead of following the path round he stopped in front of a grave with an angel at the head. ‘Gertie,’ he said, ‘I’ve brought a visitor.’

For several years Bev maintained a friendship with Harry and, through him, with Gertie. He’d been right, if weather conditions were bad when they visited the cemetery, the sun always came out the minute they arrived at the gate. Bev liked to think it was instigated by Gertie, using sunshine to welcome her husband.

Beverley’s loneliness disappeared the day Harry stopped to admire the Montbretia. He brought purpose to her life, she had someone to do things for, to look after, to laugh with or console on a bad day. She was happy; through him she acquired more friends. He was a popular man. Although he lived alone Gertie’s presence was very real, it was all he wanted.

Now Harry lies beside his wife. Bev visits often, always taking flowers from her garden and her thanks for their friendship.  And the sun never fails to greet her even on the wettest day.

THE END

THIS, THAT, AND THE OTHER....

1.  Was awakened by my crying cat who was stuck in a room. He had tried so hard to open the door he lifted the carpet which only made matters worse. Had to send for the neighbours who hurried round and cut a square out of the carpet. It did the job, but I now have to replace the carpet. Poor Charlie, no wonder he looked scared.

2.  I always close all doors, so I am wondering why I forgot last night.

3. Carpet fitter booked. Seemed like I had to wait a whole year.

4. Gee, I didn’t realise I had so much stuff in the welsh dresser, jigsaw puzzles galore, not to mention everything to do with my writing which took over all the shelves. Looks like a bonfire is due!

5. Jigsaws gone to charity. Can no longer bend over to do the damn things.  

6. Shifting furniture in my bungalow is a nightmare. I knew we should have bought a bigger house!

7. Hairdresser comes to the house now. Never heard such a chatterbox, she quite wears me out!

8. Still hauling stuff out of the room, hoping carpet fitters will help with heavier stuff.

9. Room looks nice with its new carpet, but I am besieged with worry about where everything is. I can’t seem to find anything.

10. Most common thing to lose is my walking stick. Heehee, bet you didn’t know I used one! You should hear me ranting when the stick goes missing! 

I'm back

I hope you all missed me like mad!! 
I had a carpet fitted in the computer room. No problem there, you might say, but there was when guy pulled the wall plug which disconnected Broadband. Hence the absence. I mean, it is difficult to get on line when Broadband disappears. The length of time I had to wait for yet another guy to come and put things right was unbelievable. Finally, though, that last guy was an expert and put things right in no time at all. And I lost no time in posting this. 
Must go, I have a room to see to. I just wish I could remember what went where!!

DOUBLE CROSS

Still clad in stripy blue pyjamas and heavy dressing gown, Philip Abbott stood at the sink washing breakfast things. Outside, raindrops sprayed the window, driven by squally winds, to match his   mood. Except for the clatter of plates, the ticking clock, and the thrumming of the fridge-freezer, the room was still. Pam had gone back to bed, claiming to have a migraine. As he stacked plates on the draining board, Phil’s mind raced through their rare night of passion. Pam was like dynamite. Once her touch paper ignited, she went at sex as if she was running out of future. The experience had left him thoroughly enervated. And unhappy.

            

The last plate stacked in the drainer, Phil wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the mixer tap. Leaning his belly against the sink, he stared trance-like through the net-draped window, totally oblivious to the antics of two very wet fox cubs trying and failing to drink from the garden pond. Had Pam told him the truth, he wondered when questioning her unintelligible, frenzied cry? Without exception she cried out when roused, usually repeatedly uttering his name whilst scraping her nails down his back, but in the early hours he could have sworn the name she called was Jerry. Jerry? It had stopped him in his tracks. Coming as it did mid-copulation it doused his verve and ultimate ejaculation.

            

Jerry!

            

Overcome by surging grief, Phil had a mental image of his wife’s boss, Jeremy Ifield: a maddeningly handsome face with prominent eyebrows, arched in perpetual bewilderment above sharp eyes that blazed vitriolic scorn. The hewn cheekbones and fashionably styled grey-streaked dark hair were more like an all-American movie star. At first meeting he seemed like a nice guy but longer acquaintance revealed a superficial personality.

            

With a heavy heart, Phil pushed away from the sink and balanced on one of the tall kitchen stools. His mind darted from one incident of Pam’s unpunctuality to another, all of them assigned to pressure of work. Her work. Her excuses. Excuses he had no reason to doubt until a few hours ago.

            

He had challenged her. It transpired that he had mistaken Pam’s utterance for ‘hurry’. So why did he feel encumbered by sickening qualms? If she was having an affair with Ifield … Violently shaking his head, Phil tried to oust the notion, insisting that Pam’s persistent absence was valid, that her breathless diction was easily distorted. If it wasn’t, he would surely kill her. Or him. In a short space of time he had learned to hate Jeremy Ifield with all the passion of a practised killer.

            

Yet, he told himself, it took two to make a deal. Ifield was a free man who had nothing to lose by seducing Pam. But, she had a man of her own, a husband, a legal lover, one who had given her everything her heart desired. Seemed she wanted more. Didn’t she realise that Phil could provide her with more … much more than she bargained for?

It was cold in the kitchen, the sort of damp cold that seeps into the soul. Phil started to dry the crocks and put them away. Only one knife remained; the sharp one used to slice bacon. Catching the light from the window, the shiny blade almost beckoned. Slowly and quite deliberately Phil picked it up. Watched as dribbles of water rolled from blade to handle. It crossed his mind that a wet knife might lose its edge. Carefully, almost lovingly, he wiped away the remaining drops and rubbed the blade dry. Pam hated to see smears on cutlery. Well, she wouldn’t see any on this knife ever again.

            

A rerun of 2l21

2121

My name is Dorothea. I did have a surname but it was forgotten long ago. In this place people are known by their forename. It seems like only yesterday since I came here. Reflecting back to those dreary rain filled days when the sun rarely shone I acknowledge that to go back would be a catastrophe, yet that is what my family did. They thought returning to live on war-torn Planet Earth would be an exciting adventure. Not me, I’m happy with the adventures I get here.

Space travel has its advantages. If it wasn’t for winning the pools and booking a trip in the space ferry I would never have discovered this tranquil place where age is no longer a worry and termination nothing more than a distant dream.

Young Quamlo was my salvation. He originated from the place where I had landed and where I now live, a place called Sol Vellow which is on the coast of Swentiva. I’d never heard of either until I encountered him on a rocky haven at the foot of Jungos Mount and he gave me a brief history of the place. That was at a time when I longed for the green fields I’d read about in my early years. Because of that the rocks were disappointing. It was my first experience of such terrain; I always imagined it to be tough on feet and heart but there was a surprising softness about the walkways and an agreeable ambience that seemed to wash over me like soothing dew. The humid air seemed permanently scented but since there are few flowers I have yet to discover the cause.

I refer to Quamlo as young but when I listened to his tales I realised he must be at least a hundred. The place, he said, was magical; youthful looks lasted for the rest of one’s natural life … however long that was. I used to laugh at the phrase eternal life, until I arrived here. Quamlo was quick to put me right. ‘It is not to be laughed at, Dorothea. Eternal life is something to be grateful for. Only souls filled with wickedness need have fear.’ 

Quamlo is an Independent, a term given to free spirits, although his feet are firmly on the ground at all times. He instructs the androids kindly but firmly to ensure his wishes are carried out with the minimum of fuss. I found that remarkable. When the cooling system failed he only had to raise a finger for Enrico to steer his great metal frame into the yard to get it fixed. 

My house is built in rock. On Planet Earth it would be known as a cave. It consists of six equal sized compartments, or rooms, if you prefer, in circular design. The kitchen is in the middle with five windows, each one picking up light from the adjoining rooms. Next to that is the feast room, the pool room, and three rooms designated as accommodation for guests, a bedroom for me and Quamlo, and a room designed specifically for gaming activities. The guest room is seldom used but it is always kept in pristine condition for visiting Nationals, they rarely give much notice and Quamlo believes in taking no chances.

The house once belonged to Umulo, once recognised as the Great Ruler of Swentiva until he was assassinated. The perpetrator of the monstrous crime was put to death in a painful manner.

It was about a year after the death that Quamlo approached me on the subject of us living together. He had been Umulo’s man, they had done everything together and the sudden loneliness did not sit well on his well shaped shoulders. I thought about it for a long time, weighed up all the consequences, taking into account the advancing years and the certain loss of youthful features. Since I was not born here I sensed that eternal life might not be mine. This belief, though, was kept from Quamlo lest it should arouse his wrath. Selfishly I decided that the prospect of living with him had its merits. Physically he was well endowed, his small stature complemented my lack of height, and I have evidence to verify the fact that he is a good provider. I want for nothing.

Over the years I grew stronger, more in control, able to give my own commands. I learned to stand up to the new Great Ruler so that his heavy handed behaviour meant little or nothing. Best of all I was able to protect the women who would otherwise have succumbed to his brutal ways. He thought nothing of shaving their heads if they dared to outwit him or cutting off fingers and toes for greater sins, betrayal being one of them. The Great Ruler possessed enough charm to lure the younger women to a marriage bed, but once there they were subjected to the most atrocious behaviour.

Whilst Quamlo worried about it there was little he could do to save the women from their fate if they fell for the false appeal. He was at a disadvantage because of his size.  In height he merely reached the Great Ruler’s hip. So at Quamlo’s behest, I became established on the council as Director of Women and Children. Consequently my battles with the Great Ruler were numerous. The fact that women turned to me for help immediately placed them as betrayers so I arranged a secret meeting place where they could not be seen discussing their affairs with me.

The location was on the far side of Jungos Mount, in a long forgotten cavern that had been occupied and then deserted by nomads. The entrance was almost concealed by unruly undergrowth; indeed I only discovered it when I tripped on a sturdy tree root. Qualmo agreed that it was a good place for the women to go if they needed help.

Confident that my plan would be kept secret I arranged secret sessions at the cavern.

There were many meetings with women who felt powerless to stand up to the Great Leader. One of them, Heliona, a rather handsome girl, tall and willow thin, was one of those to consult with us. Apart from a young son, she had no family and she was having a hard time brushing off the Great Ruler’s advances. She had already lost two fingers, both on the right hand, and she feared that more pain would be inflicted unless she succumbed to his evil desires. Her son was unable to help since on the nights she was sent for he was shackled to the wall of their home. 

After great discussion, amidst tears and tantrums and nowhere near finding a solution I suggested a consultation with the Wise Woman.

The Wise Woman was known as Mylha but hardly anyone used her name. She was a genius. Single handed she prepared potent and effective remedies for sickness and disease, healing lotions for the blistered feet of wretches who were forced to toil on stony ground, and aphrodisiacs for the Great Ruler. The latter were said to be concocted from thistle juice and frog spawn flown in from Planet Earth. Mylha kept a serpent in her stony yard.  She kept it for protection and that I could understand for who would dare to cross a serpent?

The plan was to remove the Great Leader by fair means or foul, with Quamlo’s help and that of the Wise Woman. Ordinarily I am not vindictive or even malicious but the plight of the women, and especially Heliona, was serious enough to take drastic action.

We met often in the cavern, which was considered a safe place. On those occasions ideas were submitted on how best to dispose of the Great Ruler. After many weeks of hard deliberation it was eventually agreed that only his demise could save the women of Sol Vellow. My idea was to use the serpent but Mylha disagreed. She decided that a tainted aphrodisiac would be a good idea. Since the pilot of the space craft was a relative she would have no difficulty getting the required items to mix into her brew, the brew that formed the basis of the formula.   

Together, Quamlo and I spent many hours devising a plan. We would invite the Great Leader and numerous other guests to dine with us to celebrate the legalisation of our union. We had lived together long enough to know that we were well suited so an exchange of rings at this time seemed not only appropriate but it provided an excuse for a feast.

The Great Leader would be guest of honour, and the women would act as hand maidens to his entourage. Mylha, the Wise Woman, would also sit at the feast table as the Chief Overseer was entitled to do.

The preparations took two months. Much effort was put into polishing the gold vessels which had once been in Umulo’s possession. It was thought they originated from Planet Earth but no-one was entirely sure. It was too long ago. As well as cleaning the house and making it pleasant for our guests, Mylha created a fashionable atmosphere to the main room.

Many ornaments were placed in strategic places. On a small marble bench she laid out trays of highly perfumed flower petals, the secret of where she acquired them a closely kept secret. In the centre of the table, opposite the place where the Great Leader would sit, she deposited a wooden carving of a bowing serf which she considered to be highly appropriate. She draped the ceiling with strings of colourful lights, the sight of which evoked an elusive memory. Familiar, yet unknown.

The room took on such a distinctive appearance I could barely recall what it was like before Mylha took over. She delighted in filling every space, a gap to her was unthinkable. And there was one, an opening right between two ornamental shelves. Spotting it, the Wise Woman cried in horror. ‘It is a bad omen,’ she cried. It cannot be allowed. A vacant space leaves room for hostile intrusions. That was how she came to change her mind about bringing the serpent to the gathering. The basket in which it lived would be ideal for filling the gap.  

On the day itself Mylha’s serpent was brought in. Its basket was tall with a tight fitting lid so that daylight and prying eyes were excluded. In its place between the shelves, behind the Great Leader’s chair, it looked exactly right though I did not care to think of the consequences should one of the serfs bump into it. Mylha laid a small pipe alongside, explaining that it was the pipe with which she would charm the snake.

Taking me to one side, she explained her change of mind. The potion she had so carefully prepared was not up to standard. A particular item had not arrived in the consignment from Planet Earth which meant that without it the other ingredients would not ferment. It was not clear to me since I do not possess the power of witches. However, seeing my growing agitation that our plan would be ruined she quickly assured me that the serpent would, in the end, play its part.

Since Mylha often states that she doesn’t expect to live long it crossed my mind that this might be the last occasion she charmed her pet from his basket. I remembered Quamlo’s theory that only souls filled with wickedness need have fear. It must mean that the Wise Woman and I should feel some apprehension for the malice in our hearts concerning the Great Leader.

I discussed the matter with Quamlo but he, whilst understanding my state of mind, persuaded me that we were merely punishing the Great Leader for his cruelty to women. He added that to allow him to continue brutalising, torturing and raping the womenfolk would make us as evil as the man himself.

The ceremony of union was conducted by Junson, a young man of 50 years and the son of Heliona. Junson was dressed in loose, white clothes with an ornate sword hanging from his waist. The sword was a symbol of union, although I was unable to make the connection. He didn’t have to do much except to read lines from an old book, but the placing of hands was important so Quamlo kept an eagle eye on that part of the rite. Quamlo and I stood side by side and every time I turned towards him I could see his surreptitious gestures. It made me smile with affection. At the end of the reading Quamlo and I were declared truly bound in legal confluence.

And so the reception began. The Great Leader took charge of proceedings by inducing the guests to partake of wine and make merry with each other. Having such freedom was rare so the men took him at his word. The few women who did not join them sat around as if they were waiting for something to happen. Passive, silent and fearful.

Eventually the Great Leader moved among them, tweaking ears and pulling hair. One woman was pulled to her feet so that he could kiss her, another was forced to accept his caress, and yet another was taken by him to the games room. Her cries could be heard from where Quamlo and I were sitting. That was when Mylha decided to act.

She moved back to the banqueting table, picked up the Great Leader’s goblet and filled it with an intoxicating substance. Upon his return from the games room the man was invited to return to his place and enjoy the substance the Wise Woman held out to him. Quamlo and I moved to sit nearer and I saw that as he tipped the goblet back so the serpent’s head emerged from his basket. Mylha played a tuneless air to encourage the serpent to rise forth and attach itself to the man’s back. The Great Leader knew nothing about it until the creature slithered up his back and bit his neck. With one drawn-out scream his flailing body fell onto the table. 

Death was quick. And there was much rejoicing. My guilt is hard to bear, more especially since Mylha died at the same time. She was right about not living long and it was her own serpent that killed her. Once it tasted blood there was no stopping it.  The creature was slain by Junson’s single blade.

‘So be it,’ whispered Quamlo, as he led me away.

For several days the memory of that awful time when Umulo was killed was uppermost in my mind. The punishment was execution and I couldn’t help but wonder if the Wise Woman’s death was her punishment for the present crime. If that was the case, shouldn’t I and others have been punished given that we planned the killing.

It was a tragedy all round but because of it the women now have the freedom Quamlo wanted them to have, to speak their minds, to say No when they want to, and finally to enjoy their lives on Sol Vellow. The Great Leader’s shadow is no more and my mind is finally at rest. It had to be. For the sake of mankind.

Since that time the population has grown, we have new babies, and new families. Quamlo is our leader and although he got there by foul means the people have accepted him. He is kind hearted but firm. People live by his rules and are grateful. Heliona and I are good friends. We often visit the cave where Mylha’s body was placed. We go there to pray and to offer our thanks for the risks she took on behalf of womenfolk.

A few more thoughts.....

1. Have been forced to change computer repair man. The other one says he will come out but doesn’t show up. That’s no good to me! Printer has taken a turn for the worst. New expert booked for same day visit.

2. New expert knew straight away what the problem was. He stayed long enough to adjust a few things so now I know who to call when things go wrong again. Above printer fine… I was using the wrong number ink! No wonder the other guy doesn’t show up - it was him that put the wrong number ink in my machine !!!!!!!!!

3. Fireworks not too bad this year, I wonder how many folk just couldn’t be bothered.

4. Fed the birds early this morning. They were queuing early and I felt sorry for them on such a chilly day.

5. Did I tell you that a lady is paid to keep me company twice a week. I had gone through a bad patch of silent loneliness which has eased through her companionship. Comes to something when I have to pay someone to visit but it has been worth it. Actually, she doesn’t get the money, it goes to the firm she works for.

6. Supermarket gave me 3 tubs of creamed potato mash which I didn’t ask for or want. Am asking all the neighbours if they want some!!

7. Complained to the firm who sent the potato mash and they refunded the money.

8. As I type the sunshine is blinding. Pity there’s no warmth in it.

9. My knowledge of mechanical things is leaving me. Is this normal when old age creeps in?

10. Finally….. ok, I’ll call it THE END and sign off.

A Blend of Families

'Why are you cleaning the taps with your toothbrush, Grandma?' The child sat at a pine table, busily pouring water into tiny cups, her small hands awkwardly tilting the plastic jug. She wore an apron covered with bears and pots of honey and one of her blonde ringlets was caught in the strap. Her granny stood at the sink scouring the taps. At least I presume she was scouring the taps, I could only see the top half of her slight frame from where I stood, hidden by a burgeoning wisteria, outside the open leaded window.

'Because it's the only small brush I've got,' Jane Goodman said. 'I've no use for it any more.' She beamed at the youngster and I thought what a shame it was that the smile would soon be wiped clean away. When I was ready, that is. There was no rush. Nothing would be gained by rushing.

'My toothbrush is smaller than yours, Grandma.'
'I know, pet.'

'You can use mine if you want to.'
'S'all right, petal, I can manage with this one.'

Maintaining my position behind the wisteria, I continued to gaze into that comfortable kitchen, relishing the aroma of roasting meat, so inviting to a hungry man. Eleven o'clock and I was ravenous. I moved a low-growing blue raceme from my ear and tried to work out how old the child was.

The Goodman family moved to the village around the time my Sammy was born, twenty-five years ago. He courted Belinda, the child's mother, from fifteen to twenty-three, when that vixen Michelle turned his senseless head. Against my advice he married her - and Belinda bounced into an unsuitable marriage of her own. So the little girl would be three. I looked again at young Bethie. It was like looking at a portrait of Sam when he was a nipper, 'cept he never had no ringlets.

I gazed at the yellow envelope in my hand and wondered how Jane would take the news. Would she rant about Sammy's shortcomings like she did when he was a kid? It was too late for recriminations but I bet she'd have a go. Never did like my lad, she didn't. Leastways, that was the impression I got.

Pushing her blue sleeves up her arms, Jane Goodman walked to the stove and opened the oven door. The meat sizzled louder than ever and the juices ran amok in my mouth. Bethie leaned sideways on her chair and peered around her Gran's back. She licked her lips. Perhaps she hadn't had breakfast, same as me. But Jane wouldn't allow that. For all her faults, she wouldn't neglect her daughter's child. My granddaughter, and I never knew until the letter came from Spain. The envelope burned into my palm. Safe in the knowledge that I couldn't be seen I withdrew the letter and skimmed through Sammy's words, though they should have been imprinted on my brain the amount of times I'd read them.

"This may come as a surprise, Dad, but I have linked up with Belinda again. We met by chance last week, though Belinda puts it down to fate. And guess what I've discovered. Young Bethie is my daughter - your granddaughter. You always wanted a granddaughter, didn't you, Dad? I can't describe my joy. Marrying Michelle was an idiot thing to do but it's not too late to make amends. That's why Belinda and I have decided to get wed when I've settled my divorce. You always had a soft spot for her so I know you'll be happy. I'm not so sure about Mrs G. She doesn't know I'm Bethie's father. I wondered if you would break the news and pave the way for us. Just fancy, in a week's time I'll be seeing my daughter. I can't believe it. See you then, Love Sam".

So tomorrow they would be home. No longer could I put off apprising Jane Goodman of the facts. I slid the letter into my back pocket and buttoned my coat so as to look respectable, hastily plucking dog hairs from the sleeve. I wished I'd worn my brown jacket instead of the blue which only now struck me as looking the worse for wear. Too long ago I had a wife who took care of things like that. Far above, a lark sang and I gazed upwards for a minute or two, then, taking a deep breath, I left the sanctuary of the wisteria and advanced along the narrow path to the door. Goodness only knew what I was going to say.

The pain in the gut was acute. Nerves probably, but I didn't give in to it. Instead I rapped the door. I heard Jane say, 'Who on earth can that be.' She sounded a touch irritated and so would I be if people came calling when my dinner was waiting. The door opened and the widow stood there, drying her hands on a green towel, her greying hair scraped back off her face. There was a smear of grease on her cheek. Her expression was severe until it registered who was visiting, cap in hand and wincing with cramps.

'Good gracious. Desmond Bowers, as I stand here breathing.' Bethie clutched her Gran's skirt and peeped shyly at me. Seeing those deep blue eyes brought a lump to my throat. She was like Sam but she had Belinda's nose, turned up and cute. Jane relaxed and took Bethie's hand. 'Come in, Desmond. How are you keeping? And Sam ... how is he?' Her voice wavered as she spoke.

I thought, She's as nervous as me.

Jane drew me into her kitchen and closed the door behind me. She indicated a chair. 'Sit down, Desmond. Can I get you something? Bethie and I were about to have dinner. You're quite welcome to join us. As I remember you were partial to a slice or two of roast beef.'

I mulled the offer over but rejected it, stating that I didn't mind coming back when their meal was done.

Jane laughed. 'Don't be silly. I can tell you're dying to sample my Yorkshire pudding.'

'Has the man got a toothbrush, Grandma?'

Jane ruffled Bethie's hair. 'I imagine he's left it at home, petal.' Then she addressed me. 'We wouldn't mind having company. Gets a shade humdrum with just each other to talk to.'

I looked at the topside and the crisp potatoes on the willow-pattern plate. Wisps of steam rose from a dish of buttered sprouts. The smell was pure heaven. I said, 'You might regret the invitation when you hear what I've come to say.'

'I suspect not,' said Jane, 'but we'll worry about that when you've had your fill.'

The matter which had brought me to Jane's door was finally raised when Bethie took her afternoon nap, but to my astonishment it was Jane who raised it. 'So, Belinda and Sam have at last sorted themselves out.'

I was bewildered. 'How did you know?'

She took a yellow envelope from the dresser. 'I received this a week ago. You can read it if you like.'

I declined. It didn't do to read other people's mail. 'Did you know...'

'About Bethie?' Jane lifted a framed photograph of her granddaughter lying in a crib. 'I guessed. Even as a baby she looked like Sam, same features and colouring. I didn't question. I knew the truth would emerge in its own time. I was right, Desmond, and I can't tell you how pleased I am.'

'I always wanted a granddaughter,' I said.

She placed the frame on a small table. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. 'And I wanted a decent son-in-law,' she said. 'A proper family.'

I took her hand in my calloused one. How could I have been so wrong about this woman. We'd got what we dreamed of, her and me. Sam and Belinda too. But Bethie most of all. What a day she'd had if she did but know. Gained a Dad and a Grandad in one fell swoop.' I glanced at the baby picture on the table. The kitchen window was reflected in the glass, framing the tiny face. A frame within a frame. Inside or out the sheets, what the hell. This mite had allied two families, blended them together by the consequence of birth. I looked at Jane Goodman. 'Her family's complete,' I said, 'and so are ours.'

More this and that....

1. Why the bin men leave my bin half way down the road is a mystery to me. Their head office issued the instruction that they were to be returned from whence they came which to the men means half way down the road.

2. As a child I was always told to ‘act your age’. I gave up trying a few years ago.

3. Charlie the cat has developed a liking for the new ‘soups’ now made specially for cats.

4. Laptop died on me but came alive when an expert repair man came. What a fool I felt when he switched on and found nothing wrong. He didn’t charge me for wasting his time.

5. Wondering what it would be like to go on a hike! Hiking was something we all did but age is now a preventative for such pleasures.

6. After three/four years living with me Charlie is still nervous of sudden moves and new people.

7. Molly Maid still does my housework. The ladies do the heavier work and I do the rest. Fortunately, they don’t leave much for me to tackle.

8. How time flies. In case you forgot, it will soon be Christmas.

9. Cottage pie for lunch today, I love it so much I could eat it every day.

10. Had a man in the house the other day. Well, someone has to repair things when they go wrong.

Dare to be Scared (by special request)

The room was cold. The fire, now no more than dying embers, made the fireplace look like a cavernous hole surrounded by a black marble mantelpiece. The unfinished drapes hung at the window awaiting final measurement. In the swelling silence Ellie Peterson was thankful that she couldn’t see outside.

An hour ago the sound of footsteps had unnerved her. Petrified she had waited for the door to open but nothing happened and the footsteps died away. Now, except for the creaking stair, the house was eerily quiet. She sat on the hard wooden settle, her body taut against the high back, feeling the terror in her spine. Dare she move? Would the spirits know of her presence if she did?

She wanted to believe the occupants had returned but they knew she was there so they surely would have called out. Her mind switched. Maybe it had been a burglar. If it was he was being terribly quiet. There were no other noises to indicate that drawers were being searched or cupboards ransacked.

The New Year’s Eve party seemed so long ago. The usual gang had turned up at Lacey’s Wine Bar with one extra, a boy called Ram who told stories about ghosts. While they drank in abundance someone mentioned the big house on the hill, saying it was haunted.

Ellie was taken aback for that house was where she would soon be working. The owner had commissioned her to replace the drapes in the dining room while the family was away in Tobago. In a mildly drunken state, she had scoffed at the suggestion of the place being haunted, saying it was all nonsense and bragging that she wasn’t in the least scared of ghosts. She didn’t mention that as a child she was scared to walk past the turreted property in case the ghost came out to get her.

It was Tom who dared her to spend the night there. Ellie had laughed and joked that she wouldn’t mind spending several nights there. And so she was dared so to do.

She had telephoned Jacqueline McCleary the next day, asking for permission to stay until her work was completed. It would be so much better, she’d said, if she could devote all her time to the task and not have the inconvenience of travelling to and fro. Mrs McCleary was delighted, saying it would be useful to have someone in attendance during her absence. She would make up a bed in the west wing.

Ellie remembered trembling with the excitement of spending nights alone in a supposedly haunted house. Now she trembled with fear in the icy room.

The musty smelling room was lit by a dim lamp on the antique bureau, out of reach from where she sat. She couldn’t remember putting it on but she did recall switching on the central chandelier before lighting the fire, then switching it off because the light was too harsh. Although she didn’t doubt her action she looked up, seeing only flickering firelight reflected in the clear glass. But the fire was dead and she half wondered if she was too.

She twisted round to check the door, wondering if she had the courage to go into the huge, cold hall that led to the west wing. She decided against it. It would be better to stay where she was, maybe close her eyes and try to sleep. The hard settle didn’t encourage sleep but she was too afraid to move to the comfort of an easy chair. Folding her legs beneath her, she eased the tartan blanket over her arms and prayed for daylight to come, wishing she’d ignored Tom’s stupid dare.

Outside the wind howled and rain lashed against the glass. The chandelier shook and the new drapes swayed in the half light. In a room in the west wing a shadowy figure rose from a winged armchair. Her skirts floated behind her as she noiselessly glided through a heavy wooden door that led to an imposing staircase. At the top she paused and listened as the first musical notes filtered through the air.

Ellie stirred, shifted her position on the settle. In the distance she heard faint music. It took her straight back to her childhood, when she’d been so afraid. Straining to listen she became aware of an indistinct soprano voice intoning the words of The Londonderry Air.

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

Ellie shivered as the eerie singing grew louder, swallowed to suppress a ripening scream. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that spirits didn’t like screams and anyway, wasn’t she a grown up, sensible person who wasn’t afraid of ghosts? Hadn’t she said so repeatedly before… before coming here?

The crash completely unnerved her. It sounded like something smashing against the far door. Hardly daring to breathe, Ellie pulled the blanket round her shoulders and slid from the settle, grabbing the wooden arm to keep from falling. Against her better judgement she felt she had to investigate? Fearfully, she tiptoed across the polished floor and eased the door open.

On the floor was the oil painting that had been hanging in the hall, to the right of the door. Its heavy gold frame was broken, the glass lay in smithereens, but the picture seemed unmarked. Inches away lay the picture hook complete with fixtures, the screw ends coated with plaster. Ellie stooped to examine the painting, a naval officer. His stiff posture and stern expression was a little forbidding as he sat on a long wooden bench. The name at the foot of the painting indicated that this was Daniel McCleary, presumably a family ancestor Behind him, one hand on his shoulder, stood an attractive lady dressed in grey. Ellie stretched out an arm to touch her solemn face. The eyes seemed moist as if tears were falling. So sad, she thought, as she made to wipe them away. Ellie shook herself, reprimanding her foolish imagination.

Unsure about how to cope with the picture at that late hour and reluctant to delve further into the mysteries of the house she returned to the room where she had briefly slept. In the morning she would clear up the mess.

Sitting again on the settle she let her mind drift back to the picture, remembering the story of the young diva being killed, stabbed by her lover. So much for respectability, she thought.

Light was beginning to penetrate the room, making the shadows seem less creepy. Soon she would hear the dawn chorus; only then would she be able to relax. Ellie thought about the picture. Knowing she would have to explain to Mrs McCleary filled her with trepidation.

As more light seeped in Ellie found the courage to move about. Throwing aside the blanket she went to draw the curtains. She had to admit they looked good; the burgundy velvet went really well in the room. Since taking the commission she had worked hard, sewing well into the night on some occasions. Now all she had to do was measure and complete the hems. She would start early, after a drink and maybe some cereal. The need to move on with the work and leave the house couldn’t be ignored. But first she must clear up the mess in the hall.

Ellie stretched and yawned and tried to suppress a sudden desire to sleep, a long sleep in her own bed, in her own apartment. A cup of tea would revive her, she thought as she moved towards the door, reminding herself to tread carefully to avoid the broken glass.

Somewhere in the distance she heard a tinkling laugh that seemed to echo through her head, a young voice. Braver now the gloom had dispersed, Ellie flung open the door, stepped into the hall, prepared to see an expanse of broken glass on the floor. But there was not one sliver to be seen. Looking up, she saw the picture on the wall. Intact. Except that the man now had streaks of blood on his face and at his side the young lady smiled.

Completely disregarding the waiting drapes Ellie Peterson fled to the sanctuary of the outside world.