'The Daughter’s Wedding' by Joyce Hayward

The big day arrived,
the farm tasks were done -
now was the time for the bride to come.

The limo was there and the weather was great.
The bride looked radiant but did hesitate.
The chauffeur beckoned, and she got in
but sat there alone looking quite glum.

‘Who’s giving you away?’ the chap enquired.
‘My dad when he comes,’ she meekly replied.
‘So, where is he now?’
‘He’s having a soak,
he won’t be long, it’s his little joke.’

Half an hour later to their utter surprise
He’s spruced up and ready with a twinkle in his eye.
‘What’s all the rush – it’s only one day,
and after it all - it’s me who's to pay.’

'The Evil Face' by Elisa Hill

Sally went into her mother’s house.
"I’ve got the new photos, you know the ones of the Queen Mother going to the army base?"
"Oh wonderful, I’ll put the kettle on!"
They both sat down while the children worked their way through a box of toys.
“Five minutes peace for you."
"Yes!” Sally replied, already troubled by one of the photos. “Can you see anything strange, in this photo?"
Her mother studied it intently. "No, what is it?" She sensed her daughter’s unease
"What does that look like in the corner?
"It’s the reflection of a doll, isn’t it?”
Her daughter agreed, not wanting to worry her mother any more. Her mother sat down and played with the children. She tried not to think or talk about the disturbing things that happened when she was at there: the foot steps at night when everyone was in bed; the strange bangs, as if a large metal object was being dropped in the kitchen; things which fell off the shelves when no-one was in the room; ornaments which flew off the top of the t.v, and, the most disturbing so far, was when her daughter had been coming through the back gate and had an apple thrown at her from an empty garden.
She stared down at the photo, aware that her mother was trying not to watch her. There she was alone in the house, her husband across the road taking the photo of the kids in the pushchair outside in the garden. All the neighbours were waiting in anticipation of the royal car, waving flags and talking excitedly. She saw herself in the bay window, smiling and next to her there was that shimmering, evil, little face.

'A Rainbow Life' by Barbara Chapman

Pink is the morning

 delicate dawning


Violet is midday

 vibrant and hopeful


Red is the forenoon

 passion and heat


Blue is the late noon

 logic’s bold blooming


Gold is the twilight

 glow gently fading


Grey is the evening

 cold stone and sluggish


Black is the night

 dark wing descending

'A Love That Was Lost' by Rosie Pugh

Amanda lay on her bed, resting her head on the soft pillow. Her mind went back to a time long before, a memory brought on by the sight of a beautiful pendant worn by a lady who had sat opposite to her in the dining room. A tear trickled down Amanda’s cheek for a love she had and then lost. Would her life have been different if she had been brave and faced the world with the young man she loved by her side?
It had all happened when she had been on holiday in Guernsey with her friend Pat. They had arrived on a Saturday in June in the summer of 1963. The guesthouse and the island were beautiful and right by the sea. It was the first time she had been on a plane and her first proper holiday.
On the Sunday night they were taken to a dance in a lovely hotel and it was her first dance. The lights dimmed. The music filtered through. It was a recording of ‘Living Doll’ by Cliff Richard. Suddenly, there was a gentle touch on Amanda’s shoulder. She looked up into the deepest of blue eyes and a smile that was like the reflection of the sun. Her heart was fluttering as she felt the colour rise into her cheeks.
‘Will you dance with me?’ he asked.
Amanda’s feet turned to jelly and her heart soared as high as an eagle as he led her to the dance floor. All night they danced. She felt she was in heaven surrounded by angels. They were lost on the crest of a wave. They spent the rest of the holiday together, exchanged addresses and promised to meet again as soon as they could.
He sent Amanda a birthday card and the most beautiful pendant with a blue stone encrusted between a gold hoop like a horseshoe. Life was wonderful.
But Amanda was unaware her life was to change. Her mother entrusted to her with a secret that would change her life. So with a broken heart she turned away without saying a word and he was never to know the reason why. She was to take another path; and a path that would lead her further and further from him But many times her mind has drifted back to those days and thoughts of what might have been.

'Cordelia's Secret' by Jan Lloyd

Flora gripped her sister's hand as they stepped off the train onto the cold, damp platform. She shivered and held Betty closer to keep warm. They had arrived in Shropshire for "safe keeping". That's how their mother had phrased it when she told them they had to leave their home in Cable Street, London.
It was 1940 and the docklands area had been subjected to the terrible atrocities of World War Two. The bombs had destroyed many buildings and families feared for their lives. Flora and Betty's Mum had reluctantly agreed to the government scheme for the evacuation of children and allowed her daughters' departure to a safer place. Her heart was breaking as she waved them goodbye earlier that day.
Flora was only twelve but her mother's strict instructions to look after Betty still rang in her ears. Betty, at just 10 years old, looked tearfully up at Flora as they waited to be collected by their new carers.
Later, as Flora and Betty jumped up into the carriage that came for them, they felt a surge of contentment as they sat besides Mrs Baxter. 'You must call me Beattie,' she said to the girls with a beaming smile, 'and me 'ubby, e's Harry'.
Flora felt at ease with her new minders and her fear started to fade as she imagined where they were being taken. They had been the last of a group of children who had been deposited at various points during the train journey. She stared out of the window at the countryside. Flora had never seen such greenery in her life and sat gaping at the delightful, landscape that passed by.
Harry Baxter was driving the horses that pulled the carriage and that too was a wonder for the girls from London. 'Ere we are at last,' Mrs Baxter whispered to the girls.
Flora had drifted off to the gentle clip, clopping of the two horses. She sat up as the carriage was entering through some large, black, wrought iron gates. She saw a sign which read, "Merrington Estate", and as the carriage turned she saw a hugh, imposing manor house at the end of a tree lined avenue.
Betty stirred and looked up, 'Blimey,' she gasped, 'is this our new 'ouse?'
'Is this your's?' Flora enquired of Mrs Baxter.
'Bless you, no, me and Harry are housekeeper and butler to Lord and Lady Lydbury. They're goin' to be yer new Ma and Pa for a while.'
Flora and Betty were helped down from the carriage by Harry and they stood wide eyed before the dark, stone facade. Flora pulled her coat tighter as the weather had worsened and black clouds were gathering above the tall, swaying, oak trees rising on both sides of the manor. As she looked up at the gloomy building she noticed a small child gazing down at her from a leaded window in the roof. 'Is that the Lord and Lady's little girl?' Flora asked Mrs Baxter.
'Yer must be tired and yer eyes playing tricks, there's no children 'ere m'dear, c'mon lets get you in to the warm.'
Flora looked up once again and saw a shadow move behind the lace curtain at the window. As she climbed the steps to the entrance she felt rain on her cheek and an impending sense of doom, worse than she'd ever felt when the bombs had been dropping back home.
This was not like the picturesque cottage on the Bluebird tin of toffees she'd been given the previous Christmas and how she'd imagined where they would be living. The contentment she had felt on first meeting Mr. and Mrs. Baxter began to fade as she walked through the arched, wooden doorway. 'I am tired and weary', she thought, 'but my eyes are not playing tricks, I know what I saw.'

'The Party' by Louise McClean

We sit together, Mandy, Peter and I , happily and comfortably enjoying our after-dinner coffee.
The TV drones on in the background and I am just about to get up and clear the table when Mandy says, “ Maggie’s having a party for her birthday.”
“That’s nice,” I reply, “How old is she?”
“Sixteen. It’ll be something special I’m sure, knowing Maggie.”
“Where’s she having it?” I ask with interest.
“At home. We’re all going to stay the night. It will be a laugh,” says Mandy, smiling at the thought.
Peter turns his attention away from the TV and casually enquires,” Is it going to be a big do then?”
“Sure to be, she’s very popular. She has loads of friends,” says Mandy, glancing at her father.
“Are there going to be boys at this or is it a hen party?" he quizzes her.
“Oh Dad, don’t be so silly, of-course there’ll be boys there,” laughs Mandy, in disbelief at her father’s silly question.
“Will they be staying the night too?” he enquires casually.
“I expect so. Why are you asking me all these stupid questions anyway? Do you think it’s going to be an orgy or something?” asks Mandy, her voice rising slightly.
I say nothing. I have been here before, because Mandy has an elder sister.
“Where are you all going to sleep? Does this Maggie live in an hotel or such like?” Peter continues, warming to the subject.
“Don’t be soft. Of-course she doesn’t live in an hotel. She lives in an ordinary house like ours. We’ll sleep on the floor and all over the place I expect. Who cares anyway?” replies Mandy, in exasperation.
“Well I certainly care,” says Peter, “and I’m very sure your mother does too. We’ll need to know a few more details about this shindig before we decide if you will be going or not. Is there going to be booze, for example? You will all be under age you know. I was young myself once, believe it or not, and I remember all that horse play and groping that went on.”
Suddenly, Mandy jumps to her feet and shouts at her father, “ You are unbelievable!. You’re the most suspicious person I have ever known. You always think the worst of everybody. You have no right to judge us by the way you and your friends behaved all those years ago. We’re different now. We know how to behave, we’re responsible people,” and she bursts into tears and makes for the door.
Her father shrugs and turns his head away. I jump up and put my arms around her and want to kill Peter because I know, from past experience, that he is only teasing her. I also know that she will be at that party and enjoy every moment AND her father will drive her to it!
As Mandy calms down and leaves the room, sniffing loudly, I turn to her father.
“You are horrible,” I laugh.
“I know,” he smiles, “but I have made my point. Haven’t I?”

'Tales of a Carer No. 3' by Peter Hodges

She's got wireless headphones now. She wanders the house looking like one of those moon-men out of a fifties' comic: glassy-eyed and abstracted, things clamped on the ears, an aerial looped like a tiara except it's black and plastic and not at all regal but modern and oozing communication. But not to me.
"Shush, I'm listening." Not to me of course. Or to you. Not to anyone but to it: the book, the blessed Talking Book.
It's wireless headphones now. No longer tied by wire to the machine that lives in the living room. Free to wander now. I never know where she is. In the loo, in the kitchen, sorting washing in the laundry. It's like a disembodied soul about the house.
My doing of course. I bought them, those wireless headphones. Currys--£35--and a spare set of batteries. Technology was never so good, so easy, so cheap, so impossibly non-communicating. The very impossibility of it, of ever getting a word in. Oh Lord, now where is she? I call out but….
"Shh-h-H-H-H!"
She's in the garden! Through the gate at the top and into the vegetable patch. Now down again, the front garden. It must be the last chapter, it has to be the last chapter--the hero gets the girl or gets shot, or the plane's about to crash. The very climax of it, and I sneak a peek through the curtains. Oh Lord, she's coming in, running. Missed a word, I'll be bound. Nearly knocks me over in the hall, into the living room, smacks the player, searching back.
"SHHH-H-H-H…! "
My heart races… but now she sits. And at last a smile comes and with it glorious peace. "So it was him after all. I knew all along." The headphones are hung up and she's my wife again. "Put the kettle on, there's a dear."

'My Father’s Father' by Elisa Hill

I found an old book, and was about to put it away when I looked at the title page, "to Jon, from Father". It was written to my dad from his father who I never met. He died before I was born. A gift to a 14 year old boy who had shown an interest in art.
It was incredible to see the handwriting of a man who was a complete stranger to me - a neat copperplate style. It was from another era. He was born at the end of the eighteen hundreds and worked as a clerk. Yet he managed to continue even though he had only two fingers that worked on one hand as his hand had been shot through on the Somme. He told people he didn’t know why he had put his hand out from the trench. It was shot and then he put his other arm out and they shot the other off from the elbow!
He started life in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, the eldest son of seven children, the son of Irish immigrants. His own father had been killed riding a horse. The local Freemason community wanted to share out the children, to help his widow but she refused , and set out back to her family in Ulster and nearly lost her eldest son from sea sickness.
Later in life, having never married, he met and fell in love with a young Catholic girl; not a wise thing for a staunch Protestant and member of the Orange order! They were married and she had to leave the Catholic church.

'The Insurance Policy' by Rosie Pugh

I remember an incident when I was thirty. We were going on holiday to Spain and needed some extra money. Mike, my husband, the father of my three sons, Andy, Garry and David decided to surrender an insurance policy.
Mike and I went to the Prudential office and made our request. The manager was lovely and very helpful. He explained this and that but when it came to the end we hit a problem.
To save time the manager wanted Mike to sign for the cheque before he received it so that when the policy came through there would be no hold-ups.
Where this idea came from I don’t know as I was not that aware of how things worked - but I felt it was the wrong way to do things. We spent some time discussing and arguing and in the end the manager gave in; but he was not a happy man.
The next morning the phone rang and it was the manager with an apology. He told me that when he arrived home his wife asked him how his day had been. ‘Terrible, he had said. Then he told her about the event that took place. He got a shock because his wife told him he was out of order. You tell that young lady, ‘Well done. I would have done the same!’ she informed her husband.
I thanked him and felt quite proud for standing my ground.

‘Mind Your Manners Young Man’ by Angeline Wheeler

In the beauty section of Debenhams I was looking at skin creams and my grandson was following way behind.
“Look at this one this one,” he called out, “contains collagen to firm wrinkles.”
“Ooh this one is age defying,” he said, moving along the row.
Holding up the third jar he called out, “Rejuvenating filler for lip lines.”
An elderly lady overheard him when she was passing with her trolley. She stared at him and said, “Mind your manners young man if you don’t want a slap.”

'A Cheap Thrill' by Jan Lloyd

It was the summer of 1966 and my friend, Jenny Blake, arrived at school announcing that The Rolling Stones were playing in Shrewsbury that night. "You've got to come with me," she pleaded. I knew I hadn't enogh money so reluctantly said no.
Jenny was persistent and when it got to "play time" her powers of persuasion were compelling so I found myself agreeing to go, even though I wasn't that keen on The Rolling Stones, I preferred The Beatles.
As I walked home I desperately thought about where I would get the money to buy a ticket for the show. I knew my parents would be at work. My brother was away in Italy on a school trip. The only money in the house was in the sideboard drawer waiting to be collected by the "Pearl" insurance man who was due later that week. Could I dare to just "borrow" the money and miss the next two weeks pocket money. I opened the drawer tentatively and took twelve shillings out, the ticket was 10/6d so I could afford the bus fare and a bag of chips later. I felt a pang of guilt but hoped that the message left, explaining my dilemma and my promise of foregoing two weeks pocket money would be enough to pacify my parents. I then set about getting ready and made attempts to look older than my age of thirteen.
I called for Jenny later and we caught the bus into town. We arrived at the Granada theatre to a crowd of screaming girls and joined the queue to get in. Once inside, the atmosphere was electric and I began to sense how lucky I was to be here amongst these devoted fans. I thought about how annoyed my brother would be to miss this very important occasion.
The concert started with the supporting act, Unit Four Plus Two, I was more mesmerised by seeing this group as their single, Concrete And Clay was currently in the Hit Parade. It was one of my favourite songs so duly joined the rest of the audience by cheering, screaming and clapping along when they finished with this classic hit. They left the stage to a standing ovation then the MC announced the star line up, he had to shout out over the cacophony of noise. The Stones ran onto the stage and it all became a frenzied blur of screaming girls running down the aisles to get a closer look at their idols. Jenny and I stood up and strained to hear the first number, "Not Fade Away". We gazed in awe at the band members, Brian Jones was wearing a fur coat, Keith Richards and Charlie Watts had dark, shiny suits and ties on and Mick Jagger looked cool in a striped teeshirt, jeans and a leather jacket. Mick Jagger strutted around the stage throughout the performance playing all their well known hits. We could barely hear above the loud screeching crowd but I was enthralled by my first experience of a "grown up" concert. It finally came to an end and the girls continued to jump up and down, screaming, whilst the men in the audience remained seated, looking fed up, as they'd not heard any of their favourite music.
Afterwards, Jenny and I followed the hysterical throng to the back of the theatre where we all hoped we'd catch a glimpse of our new heart throbs. As we chanted out their names Mick Jagger suddenly appeared at a high window and waved. I swear he was waving at me and had picked me out of the mass of faces so I let out a squeal of delight. The other band members appeared one by one and leaned out, waving and grinning at the crowd below. There was a sense of sadness amongst us as we drifted away knowing that small glimpse of the stars was all we were going to get and we all felt this overwhelming need for the exciting night to continue. Instead we bought some chips and walked home, chattering about the thrilling evening. Any telling off from my parents would be worth it as I realised how lucky I'd been.
I still tease my brother about not seeing his favourite band for a mere 10/6d. He did finally get to see them, on one of their many final tours, in 2006; he paid £50.00 for his ticket!

'My First Day at Slater Street School' by Marina Jeavons

Slater Street School lay on the outskirts of Darlaston right opposite the public baths and near to rough, open and hilly ground that was a favourite playground for us kids.
It was a red and grey brick building that adjoined the senior school.
My life there was very happy.
I started school in September 1939 when I was almost five and just as war with Germany was declared. From the very first day I loved it.
I remember being taken to school that first day by my mother. That was the only time she accompanied me. I always went on my own after that, until my brother started school, that is, then I became the parent.
I vividly recall sitting at my desk that first day and feeling important but apprehensive, I ran my fingers along the pen and ruler place and around the ink well and wondered how anyone could have dared to scratch those initials in the desk top lid. Then Miss Fullwood entered.
She sashayed into the room. A tall, slender dark-haired lady with her hair swept up at the front and a little knob of hair caught up with pins at the back. She was wearing a green shiny sort of dress which came almost to her ankles and some sort of laced boot. There was some frilly white stuff around her neck. She was smiling serenely.
“Good morning children,” she boomed. 'Silence! I said 'Good morning children.”
This time a stutterings of “good mornings” greeted her.
“That’s better.” She smiled and school life began.
We sat in stupoured silence while she gave us all a brown pencil and placed a piece of lined paper with our name on it, clearly and carefully printed, on the top of our desks. I remember watching carefully as she formed the letters of the alphabet on the blackboard which was positioned on the wooden easel. I was enthralled - I was going to learn to write.
Next we were given a small chalkboard and we had to sit patiently while the teacher went round the class writing each child’s name on their own chalkboard. Then Oh Joy! Miss Fullwood beckoned to me and indicated with a smile that I was to give everyone a piece of chalk. I was smitten. From then on I was her slave, following every instruction avidly.
We were encouraged kindly to copy our names, again and again. I was left-handed and Miss Fullwood tutt-tutted at this as she endeavoured to encourage my efforts at forming letters. There was total silence in the classroom that first day (not always so later) as we all sat in a sort of fear of uncertainty and apprehension.
I can’t remember how long it was before I achieved the ultimate aim of writing my name with my lead pencil, but I do remember the glow of pride when I did so.

'Sender Unknown' by Maureen Bradley

‘Who’s it from?’
‘Why?’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘No one you know.’
‘So why the secrecy?’
How could Jill tell her best friend Jane that it was a love letter to her from Jane’s boyfriend. Jill thought she would try to bluff, ‘Oh no one you know, just an old school friend.’
‘I noticed the postmark was from Scotland - that's where Mark is from, perhaps he knows your friend,’ said Jane.
‘I don’t think so’, Jill replied.
They had never had secrets from one another before. Jane tried to snatch the letter out of her hand.
There was a bit of a skuffle. Then Jane shouted, ‘I recognise the hand writing - it is Mark’s. Why is he writing to you? You cow have you two been carrying on behind my back. Some friend you are.’
With this she left, slamming the door behind her