Care-Write, 2010

Carewrite Final Posting

2011-03-10T02:18:00.000-08:00

After a successful year, in which we have posted ninety-six poems, short stories or pieces of autobiography, the Carewrite blog is closing down.
A selection of the work from this blog is available in our anthology 'A Door Wide Open'. It costs £2.50 and is available from The Gateway Education and Arts Centre in Shrewsbury ( Telephone: 01743 355159 )

'The Girl with the Perfect Smile' by Maureen Bradley

2011-02-28T11:51:00.000-08:00

The girl with the perfect smile.
I see her every day.
She has finesse and great style,
The girl with the perfect smile.
Seen no one like her for a while,
I cannot keep away.
The girl with the perfect smile.
I see her every day.

Under the Weather' by Jan Lloyd

2011-02-28T11:47:00.000-08:00

It is a terrible thing to have a bad chest
with pipes all clogged up and wheezing.
To lose valuable sleep, vigour and zest
unable to leave the warm feathered nest.
Wrapped up snugly, with bed socks and an extra vest
winter's upon us, fires burn brightly to keep us from freezing.
It is a terrible thing to have a bad chest
with pipes all clogged up and wheezing.

' A Special Treat' by Jan Lloyd

2011-02-28T11:45:00.000-08:00

Mrs Brown was delighted to receive her card
a voucher, she was informed, to treat herself.
The previous year had been difficult and hard
so this was a present to indulge and not be marred.
To be pampered and preened and shine like a star
to feel like a new woman and brought back to health.
Mrs Brown was delighted to receive her card
a voucher, she was informed, to treat herself.

'Cerys and Connie' by Jan Lloyd

2011-02-28T11:40:00.000-08:00

Cerys had packed an overnight bag and was sitting patiently awaiting her taxi. She clutched the bag as she clung to the hope of what was awaiting her. It had been arranged that she would meet Sarah under the clock at the railway station, she thought this amusing and felt like something from a detective novel or a 1950's film. The hoot of the horn jolted her from her thoughts and into action. Jumping up, she checked that all was safe before embarking on her journey north for the meeting.
As she sat on the train gazing out at the fleeting scenery flying past she began imagining what she would look like. Sarah would be in her mid forties by now so still quite young, would she have dark or fair hair, green or blue eyes. Cerys thought about her years of growing up, going to school for the first time, completing her degree and receiving her diploma, all this without ever knowing Sarah.
Sarah was preparing for the meeting and agonised about what to wear, how to style her hair. She tried on several outfits before settling on a pale cream trouser suit which she felt was smart but not too severe. Grabbing her bag she locked her front door and hurried to get the bus.
Cerys was thinking of her parents, Hilda and Charles. Always old and fussy and never interested in anything that she followed, traits that Cerys found continually irksome and frustrating. There was never any common ground that she could talk to her parents about. They had always been strict, very religious and dull.
Sarah tried not to think about her past, she was now safe and secure living in her small but comfortable flat and worked as an administrator for a firm of solicitors. Her daughter had moved to Australia two years ago and she now lived alone. She had a few friends but didn't really socialise much. Occasionally she would go out with her work colleagues but preferred to stay in the security of her cosy flat, reading, watching television or listening to the radio.
Although Cerys was irritated by her parents she'd had a priviliged upbringing and never had to struggle. This didn't sit well with Cerys. She had a vivid imagination and would invent stories about herself and her family. This would relieve the hum drum of everyday life and take her into the different worlds of being a princess or a rock star.
Sarah would go to work every day from nine to five. She worked hard and had been with the same firm for twenty years. Sarah enjoyed the routine, it made her feel safe.
Cerys stared out into the mist which had started to decend and the train windows began to steam up. She felt a chill pass over her and pulled her coat around her shoulders. The countryside gradually began to change from lush green scenery to an urban landscape. Industrial buildings and rows of brick built houses. Cerys caught glimpses of families carrying out their daily routines. People sitting in their homes, grass being cut and children playing on garden swings oblivious to the train speeding through their cosy lives.
As the train pulled into the destination Cerys was brought back from her thoughts and felt a hugh weight in her stomach. Her nervous apprehension caused her to freeze but managed to force herself up to join the queue waiting to climb down onto the platform. She looked up and down the gloomy station and saw the clock at the far end, near the exit. What was causing her to shake? Was it the prospect of the meeting or just the late September weather turning autumnal. She bought a large mug of tea from the station buffet and clasped her hands around the mug as she drank. After the comfort of the warm drink she went out to sit on the bench near the clock to await the arrival of Sarah.
Cerys gazed up at the clock to confirm that she had been sitting for over an hour, the late afternoon was turning to dusk and the sky had a red glow as the sun began to hide behind the clouds. Cerys looked up again and saw a a leaf float down from an oak tree which stood majestically above the edge of the station.
Three weeks had passed before Cerys was contacted and heard the devastating news. After the shock of the phone call a lady named Linda from the adoption society visited Cerys to offer her some comfort. Sarah was on her way to the meeting under the clock but her bus had been delayed so had tried to catch a taxi. A witness had seen her waiting at the bus stop and after about 15 minutes, it appeared, had frantically ran across the road to hail a taxi. It was instant, the driver of the car had no chance of stopping as Sarah rushed out into the road. Linda offered her deepest condolences for the tragic accident and for the sadness of the incident. The funeral had already taken place so Cerys never had the opportunity to say hello to her real mother and was now unable to say goodbye. She had assumed that Sarah had felt unable to attend the meeting which had been arranged by the adoption society through Cerys investigating her true roots. Cerys had returned home feeling angry and tormented at the thought of her mother not bothering to meet her and on arriving home sobbed all night with a mixture of anguish and frustration. This led her to stubbornly bury any thought of contacting the adoption society which was her only link with Sarah. She had been born in 1950 to Sarah who, due to the stigma attached to single mothers, was unable to keep her. Hilda and Charles, already in their forties, chose Cerys and Sarah was forced to sign the adoption papers when Cerys was six weeks old.
The scenery was now full of promise as Cerys travelled once more for a meeting under the clock. The daffodils were now in full bloom and there were patches of fluttering yellow petals as she sped to her appointed rendezvous. Six months had passed since the heartbreaking news of her mother's devastating accident.
She had found it difficult to endure the loss of her real mother despite never having known her but the grief of loosing her was almost too hard to bear. Her imagined future with Sarah had been blown apart on hearing the news. Once more she stepped onto the platform with the other travellers going about their business. She looked hopefully toward the clock with an even greater apprehension than when she was last here. She saw a lady leaning against the pillar beneath the clock wearing a red jacket. It was instant recognition and knew this was her half sister, Connie, who had contacted Cerys a month earlier.
As they hugged each other the tears flowed freely and they were unable to speak for what seemed like an eternity. Connie commented on their shared likeness to Sarah, the dark hair and green eyes and the same smile. When they had overcome their highly charged emotions they travelled to the cemetery to visit Sarah's grave so Cerys could get a sense of closure to her pain. The headstone immediately offered some comfort.
" Sarah Langley 1930 - 1975. Sadly departed this world leaving her beloved daughters Cerys and Connie. Now sleeps soundly and free of pain".
Sitting in the warm cafe later Cerys and Connie chatted comfortably together like sisters who had been brought up together. Connie filled in the big gulf of information that Cerys needed to know. Connie told her that Sarah had never really recovered from giving her up for adoption. Having had Connie three years after Cerys was born Sarah had spent an unhappy marriage with a boorish drunk, Connie's father. They split up when Connie was three and never saw him again. There was no indication in any of Sarah's effects as to who Cerys's father was so Cerys realised there was no point in searching and was willing to draw a line under that part of her background. Connie gave her a photograph of Sarah holding Cerys aged four weeks old. Written on the back of the photo was,
"My beautiful daughter, Cerys, aged four weeks".
Connie said that Sarah had always told people that she had two daughters and treasured this photograph. It had been in her handbag when on her way to meet Cerys. She gave it to Cerys and said that she should treasure it now.
Sarah had led a reclusive life probably because she needed to protect herself from the continued pain she felt after giving up her first daughter. Connie did say however that she had reached a contented period in her life and would have been so happy and excited about meeting Cerys.
Connie was now living back in England having returned from Australia after the death of Sarah, so they parted both promising to remain in touch.
Cerys and Connie were now united and continued to visit each other over the years and became very close. This deep frienship helped Cerys overcome the missing years and helped her appreciate the hardship that Sarah had endured. No longer did she feel the selfish ingratitude to her adopted parents and had reached a contented acceptance with her life. With the knowledge that, despite her real mother not being a queen or a rock star, she had possessed the most important thing and that was her never ending love for her.

'Excerpt from a Teenage Diary' by Elisha Hill

2011-02-28T11:33:00.000-08:00

1973

12 Sept

'Oh God, the most hysterical thing has just happened!! Sally has just phoned up Debbie and in a really sexy voice asked for Kev’s phone number (her boyfriend), and she wouldn't say who she was, at least she said she was Karen Robinson.

13th Sept

Bet you are all on tenterhooks cos you are dying to find out about Sally and Debbie and the phone calls!.. Sally phoned me up about 9.15, and i gave her all these phone numbers, Debbie, Kev, Darren, Tracey, Mitch, etc - she said she was going to phone Debbie and ask for Kev, when her mum answered and asked who it was she said, ' Lets say it’s a friend.’ When Debbie came she said, 'Hello Debbie, have you got Kev’s phone number( in a sexy voice)!!!.., they went on for a bit, and then Sally said, 'Was it 45876? ' Debbie said, 'No of course it’s not!' Sally said to Debbie, 'Do you think Sarah Smiles would have it?’ And that's why Debbie phoned me up!! in quite a state!!.. 'Sarah,' she said, ‘this girl has just phoned me up and asked for Kev’s phone number.' I was just about hysterical but Debbie didn't hear me!. After Debby rang off Sally rang me back and she was just about hysterical as well!!!...( as well as Debbie she had phoned up one of our teachers as well. She said in a very country deep voice, ' Is that the gasworks' ' No!' Then she phoned up Kev and said,' Have you by any chance got Debbie’s number?' 'Uh who is this please?’ And i can’t remember what else she said.

'Alien' by Elisha Hill

2011-02-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

Sudden awareness, mind fuzzy, she could not gather herself together, could not make her mind clear. She felt a stab of fear because she could not remember who or where she was. Panic rose and there was pain, great pain somewhere in her body. She sensed a small snuffling sound nearby and a warmth next to her. An alien creature? It was not part of her body, but familiar somehow. She tried to turn her head; but it felt like a dead weight. She was numb she felt herself drifting away....
Awareness again. The memory of the alien seemed urgent. A woman leant over her - mouth moving, sounding just like a trumpet; and there was a loud clanging. Then a man; a handsome man; smiling ....did she know him? He lifted a small bundle, showing her the small creature. It was ugly like a small skinned rabbit; red, like a monkey. Then the awful sound it made! She wanted to run; that urgent painful sound rattled her nerves. He looked at her quizzically. Did he want something from her? A reaction maybe ...
Awareness. She knew who she was. In a hospital. The pain in her stomach. She lay on her side and her husband smiled.
'How are you feeling? They are going to give you some more pain relief'.’
She tried really hard to answer him. It just came out as a murmur.
'Do you want to see him?' He put the bundle next to her... a baby!

'The Balrog' by Elisha Hill

2011-02-12T02:32:00.001-08:00

The Balrog in the Dragons Keep
All earth around he burned and wasted
His burning fire raged in the deep
The Balrog in the Dragons Keep

'A Child Cries' by Maureen Bradley

2011-01-31T09:03:00.000-08:00

I am hearing a child cry
Who can it be, I wonder.
I really want to know why
I am hearing a child cry.
I must search and look nearby.
Oh dear, I can hear thunder
I am hearing a child cry.
Who can it be I wonder

'Missing You' by Maureen Bradley

2011-01-31T08:59:00.000-08:00

I miss you and I always will
Your smile, your touch, your kiss.
The memories my life will fill,
I miss you and I always will.
Life can be a bitter pill.
I've known no greater loss than this
I miss you and I always will.
Your smile, your touch, your kiss.

'My Time in the WRAC ' by Rosie Pugh

2011-01-28T06:11:00.000-08:00

I sat on the bed with an empty suitcase by my side and tears streamed down my face. Once more I was on the move. How many times in my short life had I moved and it was not from choice. I was nearly eighteen. I sobbed, ‘What will become of me?’
The coach would be arriving and I needed to get on the move or my parents would be calling me. I was on my way to train for the WRAC. ‘You’ll make friends, see the world and learn a trade,’ my father kept telling me and it’ll do you good. My father had been in the RAF. ‘It did me no harm,’ he said. Those were the days when you were under the control of your parents until you were twenty-one and you had to have permission for everything you did. Now I was on my way to the women’s barracks in Guildford. A new barracks I had been told. Fear gripped my chest. ‘What lies before me?’
I arrived at my destination where we were greeted by a woman sergeant. ‘Stand to attention,’ she bellowed. They marched us into an office, information was exchanged, then we went to another room to be fitted for a uniform and then we were shown our bedrooms all before we could eat. I was to share with three other girls. So many rules to know and obey, how would I remember all this. My roommates were nice but different to the girls I had known.
We had to be out on the parade ground by six in the mornings, marching around and learning all the different ways of right and left turns before breakfast. My head was buzzing. Later it was education, different flags of the world had to be learnt as well as other issues. Then lunch was served, but everything one had you had to salute for even down to collecting your wages. I did not like this and felt very uncomfortable with.
After dinner you had to clean your room and those in charge would arrive unexpected then everything would be inspected even down to your shoes, which were cleaned with spit and polish and that was hard work.
Days rolled into weeks and I was struggling to cope. Nothing was sinking in. Rules I could cope with but it was the attitudes that were the hardest. One of my roommates was from London and quite a tough cookie; but there was a search party out looking for her as she had gone A WOL.
I learnt swear words I had never heard before and about certain issues like lesbians. ’What were they?’ I thought; but I had no one to ask as I had been warned not to discuss certain things as it could cause trouble.
‘I can’t take any more, it’s all too much,’ I cried. But what could I do? I had nowhere to go, as there was no room at home. My parents had let my room go, as it was an extra room to their apartment they were renting.
As if in answer to my cry I received a letter from my friend Violet saying her son Michael was going to Earl’s Court to see the motor show and if I could get away he would meet me as they were concerned about how I was coping. It was a letter inviting me to leave the army, come and live with them and they would travel there to bring me home. ‘Let me know,’ Violet said.
My sergeant helped me to get there and told me when I arrived I was to go to get someone in authority and get them to make an announcement as Michael did not know when and where I was arriving. But once again it was not easy as they had changed the rules and would not make the announcement. I crumbled and felt gentle hands lift me and a hot cup of tea was given. I heard a familiar voice, turning I saw Michael standing in the doorway. He asked me questions and could see from my answers that all was not well.
Next morning I made an appointment to arrange for permission to leave the WRAC and it had to be then before my six weeks were up, as after that it would be more difficult to leave. The sergeant asked so many questions and informed me that they would have to write to my parents for them to agree with the situation and also they needed to contact the family I was moving to. My heart sank, what if they refused? The days moved slowly.
Eventually, I received the call to go to the office. What was my fate? I was greeted with a salute and ordered to sit. ‘Your parents have agreed for you to leave the army and to live with Violet’s family. Please make your arrangements to leave within the week and pay the £4-10 shilling that was given at the beginning of your arrival.’
Saluting, I left the office and got permission to use the phone to make the arrangements. Violet and her son Michael would arrive the next day.
‘What is to become of me?’ I thought as I packed my suitcase once more.

'The Adventure of a Lifetime' by Rosie Pugh

2011-01-17T02:54:00.000-08:00

My journey to Snowdonia for a workshop was an event that would prepare me for the adventure of a lifetime. I was taken to the bottom of a slate quarry and then I had to walk to the top. It was very, very steep and I had to walk over broken slates. It was made more difficult as I was, at the time, recovering from ME; but I managed with the support of the group I was with. When I reached the top we had to enter a large, dark cave in single file. I had to learn to trust the person in front and have confidence in myself. It was hard. The journey was fearful and had to be completed in complete darkness except for the beam from a tiny light. Finally we reached the centre of the cave that was lit with tiny, tea-light candles. It was amazing. We had reached our destination.
I was unaware, at the time, that I was training for an adventure that would take place years later in Egypt in September 2003.
I travelled to Egypt with a party of thirty-nine and there was only one person I knew, the lady who organised the trip. I did not know the history of Egypt but was open-minded to the experience. We flew from Heathrow to Cairo, stayed one night at the Sheraton Heliopolis Hotel, then in the morning we left by coach to Tel-el-Armana for the beginning of our desert adventure. First we had to pick up an army escort to take our coach through the desert. It was in case of bandits. I was thinking, ‘What on earth am I doing here?’ Believe me if I had known beforehand what I was going to be doing I don’t think I would have gone.
Eventually we left the coach and wandered the desert sands and felt the atmosphere of times long ago. The experience was breath taking. We travelled to many places: Minya, Luxor and sailed down the Nile. We went to the Great Temple of Abydos, the Temple of Knowledge built by SetiI and the Temple of Dendera dedicated to Hathor, Goddess of Love and Music.
Later, we travelled by train to Aswan. This allowed me to see how poor most of the people were, but how they worked together. They used water from the Nile; there were no fancy machines but there was something that looked like a hose pumping the water. The straw that was left from the harvest was used on roofs, walls and gates.
We travelled on to many places, but the big adventure was when we went into the Great Pyramid. We were there for two hours and had paid to have the pyramid to ourselves. We entered exactly as we did in the cave in Wales, one by one with only a torch each for light - so we had to trust the person in front. It was a steep climb and it was scary. It took a very long time, especially in the dark with only the light of little torches.
When we reached the top we entered through a small door that led into a small room with a tomb that was now empty. We celebrated, as it was a great achievement. Yet again I had conquered my fear. The history of ancient times could be felt all around us..
We arrived back at our hotel and my friend and I celebrated with a bottle of bubbly, coffee and a platter of fruit. We raised our glasses to the pyramids and the sphinx, as they were across the road from our suite. We saluted the ancient times of long ago.
What a feeling and an adventure I had!

'The Pub With Bright Lights' by Peter Hodges

2011-01-17T02:23:00.000-08:00

The sound of the door closing was the finality that made the breath sink out of him. Emptying. He faced the night; snow falling, caught in the light from the window until it dimmed with his walking away. Along the drive the flower borders he had tended, now snow laden, now lost to him. She would have them still. But all that was behind him. The fading light of the home he once knew. Now it was the cold welcome of night just beginning. It was Christmas Eve.
He reached the car. Brushed the windscreen clear, the windows, mirrors. How precise. Mechanical. As was the starting of the engine, wipers, heater. For why? To leave this place? This home he once had? Once shared.
At the road he turned to face the blizzard. His need was such that he would attack. Drive at the fury, smash through, send it skittering, swirling, thrown aside by the wipers, ignored by the headlights, wheels slithering, bighting, bighting and slithering. Down the hill, the other side gained as much by willpower. Speed gathering, he reached the top. And now house and village where once he lived, had fallen away into that that which no longer existed. Like the trees, the hedges and fields. The lonely post box on its lonely post at the gate to the farm about which he knew nothing.
Could it be that? That he had never become assimilated? Enfolded or accepted? By whom? His wife? No, now it was the more immediate business of putting distance between that before and what lay ahead. Yet as to what did lie ahead reached no further than the car's lights. The road had widened from unclassified into an A but no less white from verge to verge. The rear lights of other traffic appeared and seemed now to obstruct, crowd, and that brought the realisation that he might actually be travelling too fast. He should know better. How long had he been driving? Thirty years? He was Frank Marshal, a director of business, looked up to, responsible. He slowed. The car veered momentarily until the auto braking took over and it steadied. And for the first time he breathed, consciously that is, a deep breath, and he glanced at the dashboard clock. He did not remember the time of leaving and could only guess at how long it had been, probably more than an hour, probably a lot more. By the time the motorway sign loomed his thoughts had rambled until his head was full of tangle and he took the direction he least used, had no use for, from where the snow came. As if to obliterate in entirety a whole life. Destroy himself. That brought him up short. That he could possibly have such intention. Just drive until he dropped, fell asleep. Hit a bridge pier. Such was not unknown. Men had done that.
The snow had stopped. Vehicles had stopped. In front was a line of red tail lights, not straight, it was how they had all come to rest. There seemed no reason, no one as far as he could see was out of their vehicle waving arms or whatever people did in such circumstances. An accident? It was so quiet. The silence of snow. Someone did get out, a distance away, just to see, to stretch and look about. He did likewise. Steadying himself against the open car door, he looked one way then the other. Another driver got out. A van had slithered to a halt across the carriageway and two drivers were talking, one kicking the snow at his feet, it was not deep but deep enough, the suddenness of its coming had been sufficient.
He got back into the car. He had no wish to talk. There was nothing to be said. Then he was aware of someone in the car with him. A figure in a cape with a hood, the face obscured.
"Oh…" he said, "Who are you? I didn't see you. I didn't see you get in the car."
The figure made no reply and nor did it move.
"Are you from one of the others?" He nodded to the line of stationary vehicles outside. "Got stuck, did you?"
The face remained hidden. He would have put on the interior light but didn't. Something stayed his hand, fixing it where it rested on the gear select. And now his throat clamped on his voice. A brilliant blue light flashed in the mirror. They're getting us out, he wanted to say but was unable to articulate the words.
"Be ready to move." The order blasted the silence as a police four-by-four thrust through. "Get into your vehicles and be…" the sound died with the pulsing light, it could have been lights on a Christmas tree in the window of a house. But there were no houses. He engaged drive, pressed the accelerator, instantly the wheels spun but the car moved.
Everyone was moving, sideways, forwards, the common aim of getting out, thoughts of home. Except for him. He had no thoughts of home.
As for the figure next to him… a woman obviously, and in a dress that was completely inappropriate. The hooded cape but… he blinked. He had momentarily cast an eye over this person who had assumed a place in his car, and realised she was wearing what appeared to be evening wear. At least it seemed so: long dark dress, frills at the hem, lace over bare arms where they appeared from under the cape, long lace gloves to the elbow, and slippers that hardly covered her feet. He set the car heater higher and tentatively asked, "Where've you been? A party? I suppose your car got stuck."
There was no answer. The traffic was going faster, he was aware of the lights behind closing. He speeded up.
"Why do you travel so fast?" The question took him by surprise.
"This isn't fast…" he said as the car weaved suddenly in drifted snow and he was obliged to lift off the accelerator.
"I once lived here," the voice went on. "In that valley. The church is not changed."
"Which church?"
"My village."
"I didn't know there was village here."
"What matter is that?"
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the figure was turned away, staring out of the window. The sky was black and there were stars now.
"Sorry," he said, "I didn't quite catch what you said."
"No matter. None at all. It was where I lived. You live far away."
"Well, not that far…"
"A long way." There was an insistence in the voice, well spoken, rounded. "Many miles."
"Eh, yes… about…" he checked the odometer. "Over sixty miles."
"A long way."
"On a night like tonight, yes."
"Day or night."
"Not really…"
"Yes. A very long way. Are you married?"
"What was that you said?"
"Your name… it is Frank, isn't it?"
For a moment he didn't reply. "How do you know that?"
"I see it in you. I hear it in you."
And now for the first time he saw the face for the woman had turned to him. She was pale, he guessed at one time pretty but drawn now as if something unexpected had taken place. Searching eyes that were deep set, dark, penetrating. He forced his attention back to the road, his brain trying to work out what was happening, how he was known, as if he carried some brand of infamy. As if his world had been found out.
"I died here," she said.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his back pressed into the seat. The words repeated in his head: I died here. The manner of its expression, the dry disinterest of its delivery. He could not have heard correctly. Her gaze settled on him again. "I have frightened you," she said, a note of melancholy now. "That was wrong of me."
"Who are you? I mean, do I know you? Did you know I was here? Travelling this road?"
"I am no one. You do not know me."
"You must have a name. You seem to know mine."
There was a pause. "Alice," she said.
"But I have a daughter called Alice." And his relief was such he tossed out the name again: "Alice! It's a lovely name. My God it is!" The vehicles in front were drawing to a halt again and he did likewise. "That is such a coincidence," he said. "The same name, my God…" he put out his hand. An involuntary move – as he would have to his daughter – but did not touch. Or felt nothing. Except cold, and that made him pull away.
"You are married," she said.
"Yes… well, I'm not sure now. I think it has come to an end. Tonight. Only tonight." He folded his arms behind his head.
"Your wife is dead?"
"No. We have separated. Tonight."
"Separated," she repeated looking again at the snowy scene, black sky full of stars and a bright moon. "What does that mean to you? To me, it is what I am but I doubt we think alike. We are not the same." She paused, as if wrestling with herself. "You see, I am dead. But please don't be afraid." Her hand raised, she slipped of a glove, fingers trembling, nails white like the snow flakes that had fallen about them. She went on, her voice trembling now. "Each year I come back here. On this day – oh so many, many years ago but still I am not permitted to forget – I died. But I did not pass over. That was denied me. It was the way of my death, but I doubt you understand. No one ever has."
He was staring at her. The cloak – he could see now that it was more cloak than cape – had slipped, her hair was free, and fell in dark tresses over her bare shoulders. Her skin shone against the dark of the dress, shimmering in the reflected moonlight. He was unable to stop staring, and now she smiling. "I have shocked you," she said. "I am so sorry."
"Sorry… why sorry?" he blurted. "Why don't you tell me. Just tell me who…"
"Separated," she said again. "Yes, that is it. I too am separated. Your need is to be free whilst my need is to be rejoined. My soul searches for the man I once loved. He departed this earth and I wished to be with him. Yet I remain. You walked away. You, Frank, bear his name. Your daughter bears mine. That is how I found you. I have waited for this day. Predestined or fate, who can say? But you must not be afraid. Come, let me touch you."
Her face came closer, pale lips parting, yet her eyes never left his. He was transfixed. He had no idea why he was not screaming. His very fortitude as he allowed her to take his hand. Hers, slender and so cold, and her lips… no breath issued forth. "Thank you," she whispered and so close but no breath touched his face and with that he heaved himself away, grabbed the door handle and was outside into a commotion of blue lights and voices shouting at him.
"What are you doing? Get back into the car. A snow plough is pushing through." Behind a powerful torch he made out yellow hi-vis and the rounded hat with black and white chequers of a female police officer. The torch dazzled and she shouted again, "I said get in the car, didn't I."
"I need air," he gasped. "There's someone here who…" His feet slid on the snow and he clutched at the door. The officer came over, shone the torch in his face, leaned toward him, sniffing. "I'm not drunk," he said, "Although I could down a good stiff brandy…" he straightened. "No, it's not me. It's her in car."
The officer flashed the torch around the car interior. "Where? I don't see anyone." The officer looked at him. "No one there. So what's going on? Want to tell me?"
"I need fresh air," he said. "This snow plough… you say it's on it's way?"
The officer pressed her hand to the earpiece in her ear, listening. "A few minutes yet," she said closing the car door. "Now, want to tell me?"
He looked up into the sky. Overhead power lines glistened in the moonlight. One of the lines had a figure sitting on it all-aglow, even the dark dress was aglow against the blackness of the sky, feet in slippers swinging, one gloved hand wrapped around a glass insulator. She was singing, humming as if it was not a cold and snowy night but more a bright summer's day.
"Do you see that?" he said pointing up.
"No," replied the officer.
"Of course you don't. She's not really there."
"Want to tell me?" And with that the officer swept off her cap letting a tumble of dark tresses sweep over the brightness of her jacket. "Come on, Frank, want to tell me?"
"Someone else who knows me," he murmured.
"Some people need to be known."
He swayed and steadied himself against the car.
"The snow plough's getting closer, Frank. We'll soon be down there. See the village in the valley?"
"I don't know anything about a village," he replied. "I mean, it's dark…" his voice fell away.
"It's were we're going," said the officer. "See the bright lights? That's the pub. Soon be there. I've got my party frock, let my hair down. See!" and she swirled it. "Can't wait to put on my slippers and poke my toes at the big log fire. See it, Frank? The pub with bright lights?"
Someone walked by, nodded to him. "We need to get outa here," said the stranger. "They think we don't exist. A whole bloody motorway, for Christ sake. Where the hell is anybody?" Frank half-glanced at the police officer, she was smiling, and only for him. "The police…" he began, then raising his voice. "They're here," he called. "Aren't they?"
"Where?" returned the man. "Police? Where, for Christ sake?"
The officer still smiled, her face close now. She clapped her hands on his shoulders and her eyes glittered like the black of night all around as she pulled the collar of his coat close around his ears. "It's turned midnight, Frank. Christmas Day! Come on, I'll take you there. The pub with bright lights."
* * *
He threw aside the bedclothes. His wife cried out his name. "Frank! Frank! What on earth is the matter?"
He was out of bed, sweating, freezing, shaking. "Oh thank God… a dream, nothing but a dream." At last his breathing steadied.
"Get back into bed, for goodness sake. You're as cold as…"
"What a dream. I was on… I'd walked out. Driven off. Snow. On the motorway going God knows where and then everything stopped. So quiet. Still. Everywhere snow. Then there was this woman in the car. And a woman police officer. I was invited to a pub, for God's sake."
Frank got back into bed. His wife put her arms around him and held him close. "Get yourself warm, love," she said. "Here, put my dressing gown around you. What's this about a woman in the car?" Smiling now with relief, she pulled the collar of the dressing gown close around his ears. "And this pub? Was it an invitation, Frank?"
"Yes," he stammered. "It was Christmas Day… she invited me to…"
"The pub with bright lights? Was that it?"

'My Beautiful Heifer' by Rosie Pugh

2011-01-07T03:40:00.000-08:00

A young heifer collapsed after the birth of her calf. It was her first and the youngster was very big. She was unable to bring herself back on her legs and this was not a good sign as it meant only one thing - death at the hands of the farmer.
I gazed at this beautiful creature as I knelt by her side. Her eyes, which were as big as the moon, gazed into mine. She had sadness. It was as if she knew her fate. Her eyes followed my every move as I stroked and spoke to her.
Deep in my heart I knew what the outcome would be; but I pleaded with her to please try and move, which she did so many times. The effort was there but she was unable to bring those long legs into action. She looked at me as if to say, I’m trying. I wept.
The farmer caught me many times in the barn as I used to bring her warm milk with a drop of brandy and helped her to drink. My love for the heifer grew and I became desperate as every day came and I waited for that miracle to happen that maybe today she would be standing. I knew she had been trying because the straw would always be disturbed. But alas it was not to be. She was unable to gain that strength she needed.
We gazed at one another and I felt she knew what I was trying to do. She was the most beautiful heifer I had ever met and she had a look that spoke.
On my last morning at the farm, I entered the barn with a heavy heart, she twisted her head, gazed at me, my heart turned, tears streamed down my face. I felt her fear but what could I do. I fell to my knees, gave her the warm milk, stroked her head as I gazed into those beautiful eyes but this time in desperation I shouted at her, “You stupid cow why don’t you get up? They will shoot you.” I pulled and pushed but to no avail. She was lost and so was I.
I put her head into my lap, stroked her once more and kissed her cheek. Tears ran down my face. Unknown to me the farmer had entered the barn and ordered me out. The time had come.
I left but turned once more and gazed into those big brown eyes. She may have been a heifer but she had something special that I will always carry within me. She was my beautiful heifer.

‘Oasis’ by Elisa Hill

2011-01-06T07:24:00.000-08:00

The busy, bustling, old woman tried not to meet the eyes of people passing her. She was on a mission and determined not to be distracted. "Won’t be drawn," she muttered. It was a snowy day and she was hurrying through a busy shopping centre - a comical figure - small, like a busy gerbil or mouse.
A young mum sat down on a bench. Her children had been taken to the park by her parents, so she could buy a few more gifts, without them seeing what they were going to have for Christmas. Her feet were aching and she knew she had at least twenty minutes before her peace was interrupted again.
As she sank down, she saw the strange figure, a small woman who seemed to have the weight of the world on her hunched shoulders. She reminded her of Hilda Ogden and was surprised when the woman sank down next to her. She smiled at her. A smile which was received with a suspicious look from under a large woolly hat. "Oh well," she thought to herself, "I have sat here to get some peace not to get into a conversation."
"You got kids?"
The voice surprised her, as it did not seem to come from the woman directly. She turned to look. The woman was staring straight ahead. She looked round but no one else was near enough to have spoken. She looked straight ahead herself and said quietly, "Yes, three, all under five, never a dull moment!'
The busy world was passing them by. It was like they were on an island in a busy waterway. There was a perfect calm were they both sat. She knew she should be battling her way through the crowds to the toy shop, but just felt she could not drag herself away from this peaceful place,
Silence again. She wondered about this woman, "Who is she?"
Her appearance gave nothing away. She looked like thousands of other old ladies. She knew she must look exactly what she was - just a busy mum.
There was something comfortably predictable about that. Each knew their own roles. “Had this woman been like her twenty or thirty years ago?” Often she had noticed older ladies smiling at her when one of the children was throwing a tantrum. It had annoyed her until one of them had said, "You poor thing" and she had realised that the woman had once had to deal with the same thing.
"I’m busy too today" the disembodied voice again, "trying to find some freesias out "
In a rush, almost as if she didn't want to say it, she heard an exasperated sigh. "I always do it , I always do it," came the barely audible whisper.
"I love freesias," said the younger woman in a lazy drawl. She was comfortable now; even the biting cold was not affecting her. Even the agitation of the old lady was not getting through too her.
"Why do I talk to people? She would be so angry - me wasting time this way. I have to keep focused, remember what I’m doing."
The young woman's asked, without thinking, "Who would be angry with you?" and knew this was a mistake immediately as the old woman withdrew into herself. There was silence, a long, long silence until the young woman forgot about her neighbour and started texting on her mobile. Her friend had sent her a joke and she gently laughed to herself.
"You live near me."
The young mum just nodded,
"Mine is the big house at the end of your road."
She nodded again, as her youngest daughter arrived. The girl smiled shyly at the old lady whose whole face broke into a brilliant smile in return. Her mother was so surprised, then her attention was taken by the other two children and her parents arrival,
"Here she is," said Grandma," I thought we had lost her."
The old lady was forgotten. They all went home and left the rest of the shopping until another day.
...................................................................................
The young woman was tidying up after a very busy weekend, when there was a ring on the door. Her heart sank as her husband had been made redundant just after Christmas and she had to fend off debt collectors. They were having to give up the house as they could not afford the mortgage. There were boxes everywhere. She opened the door, and rather than the officious bailiff she had expected, there was a smiling man in a suit, with a briefcase.
"Hello, are you Mrs Jones, we’ve had a hard job finding you."
"Been here for years," she said, still confused, by his friendly manner.
"Could I come in?" he asked.
"Please do,” she said, even though they had been told never to let a baliff in the house,"
"As I said we have had a hard job finding you."
"The other bailiffs don’t seem to have a problem."
The man looked puzzled. "I’m not a debt collector or bailiff, Mrs Jones, I’m a solicitor from Broadbent and Saunders. I’m James Saunders. I’m dealing with the estate of Miss Violet Edgerton, who died several months ago." He stood up as her husband came in, and shook hands with him.
Her husband was just as stunned as she was. "What’s this about?” he asked.
“I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Jones, this must be very confusing for you. There are a few questions I need to ask just to confirm you are the person I am looking for. Do you have three children under five and one of them a daughter of about two?”
"Yes," she said, as her two year old wandered in and smiled shyly at the stranger and was quickly ushered out by her grandma.
"And you have lived here for several years?"
"Yes"
“Do you remember talking to an old lady in town several months ago, just before Christmas?"
"No… except for an old lady on a bench. I was just taking a break from the Christmas shopping … we hardly spoke, " she said, turning to her husband.
"Well you and your daughter made quite an impression on Miss Edgerton; and as she had no living relations, she has left her house to you!"

'The Tree at Christmas' by Peter Hodges

2010-12-13T07:27:00.000-08:00

He was the only one who heard the tree. He, the youngest of the household, the last child, the forgotten child some used to say. His were the only ears to hear the tree. The stories were for him and him alone, and this the boy knew. Each year at Christmas the tree told a new story, each more magical and more mysterious than the one before. Each year the tree was taken from its place in the forest, put into the tub, and brought to its place next to the hearth. In those days it was an open fire, a blaze of logs that sent sparks shooting like stars up into the great wide chimney. The boy would sit and watch them as the tree told its story, until the fire died and it was time for bed. In the morning the hearth would be spread with ash as white as the snow outside, and the tree would be silent. No more than a tree from the forest, or so it was said.
But the tree spoke to the boy. When the others were out and he was alone, he would sit quietly and listen. At first it would whisper and he would strain to hear. Then it became louder as if enthused by the tale it had to tell, then louder still, often to shake with laughter, branches trembling, needles falling to the floor. Sometimes its voice would boom right from its very centre, from roots set in the tub of dark forest earth, as if the whole wild forest was inside bursting to be heard.
The boy was too small to go out into the forest. All day he would sit by the fire, comfortable in the little chair that had been made for him. So close to the tree that its branches brushed his cheeks. Pale cheeks, but warm. The tree had a name for the boy, once whispered like a secret, which it was, and the boy's pale cheeks warmed the more. The tree did that, made the boy glow with its story. The boy would listen all day long, until darkness came. Then the others would return, his mother and father, brothers and sisters, bringing with them all their rush of noise and coldness, thrusting their tingling fingers toward the fire. Then the magic of the tree was gone.
Once when the boy told the others what he had heard they merely smiled and said it was his imagination. They would humour him, content that he was content, it eased their minds to know that he was, in his own way, not alone while they were out. But the boy did not listen to them. He listened only to the tree. Each year as Christmas drew close, he would hear stories that brought happiness and joy, that were magical and full of wonder. Yet they were told piece by piece, a jumble of happenings. As if the tree enjoyed making a riddle out of the tale, it was for the boy to unravel what the story was about, its beginning and end and all that between. One year the story was about a king in a far off land who planted new forests, next was of a wise man who lived among the trees, another was of a forester who grew many kinds of trees. But best of all were those stories of adventure and mystery and always ending with the forest full of joy and happiness. And every year the last part of the story, that part that made all the rest fit together, was told on the last day of Christmas, and last of all was whispered his secret name as if he was one who did these wondrous things. Then, after all the festivities were over, and the cottage fell quiet, then so did the tree, as if making ready to leave its place by the hearth and return to its place in the forest.
When the spring came the tree would grow a little more. Now it would listen to the trees around for these were bigger trees and knew so much more. The wind would fill their branches, their breath would fill the forest, and their whispers would follow on the wind. The tree would grow and listen, grow taller and stronger, and listen more. The warm summer sun coloured and ripened its needles, and all the goodness of the earth filled to their very tips. When autumn came, and the shortening days brought first frosts, the tree thought of the hearth in the cottage, and the warmth there, and the boy in his chair, ready to hear again the tales it had to tell from the forest.
But then came the Christmas when boy was grown into a man. Now the tree did not return to the hearth. The empty tub was cast aside. Now the man was busy for he had family of his own. Then his youngest, a boy as he once was, asked of the forest, and the man related the stories told to him by the tree. But passing years had mellowed the memory. Now they were the man's stories and not those of the tree. Yet he was reminded of his time sitting and listening, the tree laughing, needles tumbling, the tub shaking. That Christmas the man went out to look for the tree. He went alone, anxious that he may not find it. The snow was thick in the air and on the ground, and the wind was strong. The man filled his chest and pushed on into the forest. The trees waved and swung, their whispering branches now a noise so loud that no other sound could be heard. They seemed to beckon the man. "You must come," they called to him. "You must come, you must hurry, hurry, hurry…" And with his powerful stride he thrust through the snow, thrust through bramble and thicket until he came to the tree. And there the wind paused, the noise became a whisper, the forest fell silent. The tree lay on the ground before him broken and covered with snow. The man spoke to it. He re-told the stories he knew, but they were his now and not those of the tree, and there came no answer. He hurried back, found his son, but had nothing to tell except that the tree was fallen, and the stories gone, and the secret name he had been given gone also.
"No, Father," cried the boy. "I know the name. It is hidden in the stories you told me many, many times. Take me to the tree. Let me speak to it."
Sweeping his son up onto his shoulder the man set out into the forest once more. Driven along now by boy's laughter, the small hands tugging at his hair, through snow and bramble, to that place. Here, the man set down the boy on the fallen trunk, and gently at first, as if unsure, the first stories began. And hidden in them, among the riddles and twists, was the name the tree had given. Beneath his feet, the boy felt the trunk tremble. A little snow fell away. Then more as the boy, encouraged now by his father, raised his voice, unravelled the riddles. A shiver came, the old tree shook. The trees around waved and whispered, and the boy paused to hear, to see around, to look where he was told to look, and there tucked beside the old trunk, nurtured and protected, was the youngest, smallest little tree the boy had ever seen.
"Take it," the forest around seemed to say. "Take it and listen to the stories it has to tell."
Carefully, the man eased the sapling from the ground. Undoing his shirt he laid it against his warm skin. They hurried back to the cottage, the tub was quickly found and filled with soil, and the tree was set down by the hearth and there to feel the warmth of the fire.
Now, each year at Christmas, it is again the youngest who listens to the tree. The others never ask. Only he will the know the secrets told of the forest by the tree at Christmas.

'A Living Doll' by Jan Lloyd

2010-11-29T01:07:00.000-08:00

It was difficult to sleep, especially next to my Gran who would rise several times in the night to use the chamber pot under the bed. My brother was in the "Z" bed alongside us and I could hear him starting to giggle when our Gran rose for the umpteenth time. I had drawn the meterphorical short straw so it was me who had to share the hugh feather bed with Gran and endure her bedtime habits. The false teeth in the cup on the bedside cabinet, watching her as she removed layers of clothing and strange corsetry and under garments and of course the "chamberpot"!
It was Christmas Eve 1960 and my brother and I were awaiting the arrival of Father Christmas hoping he'd received the letter explaining that we would be staying in South Wales at Gran's house.
The main present I wished for was a doll which I'd seen in a magazine. The advert read, "A real life, walking, talking, living doll". As I sank into the warm feather mattress my imagination of what to expect took over and then started to dream of this new modern doll I was to have which, according to the advert, came from America, even more exotic I thought. My brother had asked for a Hornby train set and I could've sworn I'd seen the box amongst our belongings as we boarded the train with our parents to travel to South Wales. Maybe not but I was beginning to have doubts about Father Christmas's existence having overheard my friend Brenda telling my brother that it was really our Mums and Dads that bought the presents. At aged seven I was prepared to prolong the fantasy a little longer so eventually closed my eyes as, one thing I was sure about, he wouldn't arrive until we were asleep.
After what seemed like an eternity I awoke hearing my Gran getting dressed and replacing the layers of clothing she had not long ago removed. She was a very sombre woman and didn't display very much emotion but despite that I could see packages and a stocking hanging at the foot of the bed and couldn't stifle my squeals of delight any longer. My Gran went to make porridge whilst my brother and I started to rip into our presents too impatient to wait for our parents to wake up. I tore open the wrapping of a bix box and saw the picture I recognised from the advert. It was the doll I'd longed for. As I took her out of the box I began to see that it wasn't quite how I'd imagined. She was made from brittle plastic and her hair was stiff nylon stuck into little holes in the scalp. The only way she could walk was to hold her by the shoulders and manipulate a shuffling motion and the action of walking or simply moving forward. The talking came from a record inside the doll which was operated by turning a handle in her back and the noise emanated from holes like a small speaker situated around the handle. I turned the handle and tried to decipher what she was saying. Instead of the claim that she spoke like a real life baby all I could hear was a whiney, scratchy noise as I tried in vain to listen for "Mama", "Pick me up", "Love you". Well I didn't love her but did my best to look pleased as my Mum and Dad appeared. Despite my disappointment I did my best to show my gratitude and pretended to love it and said I would call her Mary but really deep down I hated it's ugly and artificial appearance and certainly wasn't the real life living doll I'd dreamed of.
I soon forgot my disappointment over the so called "Living Doll" and my favourite present that year was a hair slide which I found buried in my stocking along with a tangerine and a chocolate soldier in a sentry box. The slide was tortoiseshell and encrusted with diamonds or so I thought, it was probably no more than a shilling from Woolies but I proudly wore it as I played with my brother and his Hornby train set for the rest of the day.

'Christmas Gloom Or Boom!' by Jan Lloyd

2010-11-29T01:05:00.000-08:00

Lets face it we've all experienced that sense of disappointment when we've excitedly ripped open a beautifully wrapped present only to find a bright red acrylic jumper with white polka dots. Usually it’s two sizes too small or with arms down to your knees. Then there’s the third glove and scarf set in colours that don't match anything on this earth from Aunty Mo and Uncle Fred. We smile through gritted teeth and, for fear of offending, refuse to take the receipt from them should we wish to change it.
Year after year we all put ourselves through the same torture, none of us able to be honest regarding the over priced and tasteless presents bestowed on each other. Despite my hints and even blatant pleadings with my mother she still insists on buying each member of the family a box of biscuits and a selection box so I end up with four of each in our house. Once in the house my resolve not to over indulge starts to crack and I start stuffing myself silly until the last crumb is devoured - yes even the pink wafer biscuit and the Curly Wurly!
Well that was all in the past! As my mother has refused to listen to me for the last twenty years and I'm determined not to put any more weight on the biscuits and chocolates are distributed amongst the people who are far more needy than myself.
Charity shops are my first port of call as they will readily accept unwanted gifts and it does make you feel the presents are being put to good use and at the same time gives you a warm glow that your donation has provided an all round, helpful solution.
Hospitals and old people's homes are always grateful for donations. The sell by dates usually give at least six months grace so can be stored away until a party or a social event would benefit from the sweetmeats.
Unwanted clothing can be successfully recycled. I have a very thrifty friend who transforms jumpers, scarves, gloves etc. by redesigning them to her own unique style including forming them into framed pictures. She then sells them at craft fairs or redistributes them as presents. You could dispense with the redesigning bit and just save them for future presents remembering, of course, to note who gave them you so you don't put yourself in an embarrassing situation by returning them to the aunt or uncle who gave them you in the first place.
Failing all that we could all be that little more plucky and bravely accept the receipt when it's offered. That's of course if you can be bothered to join the endless queues of other people in January, all in the same predicament, returning their unwanted gifts! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!

'Dirty Laundry' by Barbara Chapman

2010-11-18T06:45:00.000-08:00

What a beautiful morning! Beryl Brightwell allowed her lips to curve in the merest hint of a smile as she nudged the backdoor shut with her hip. Gripping the laundry basket more securely, she set off down the garden ignoring the meandering curves of the path, and striding purposeful and straight towards the rotary line discretely concealed by a bower of trellised clematis towards the bottom of the garden. Annoyance at the impracticality of the path imparted sharpness to each footfall which, had it not been cushioned by lawn, would have reverberated with displeasure. How typical of Brian! A simple task – a path to get from A to B – and he turns it into a landscaping project. He must have used three times the amount of materials. And for what? Well, she didn’t need to be led around in circles to appreciate the placing of the flower beds. It made mowing the lawn a nightmare.
Thoughts of her husband snagged tighter on irritation as she remembered he had her car. His was in for repair. Trust him to pick that particular spot in the supermarket car park! She’d told him not to park next to the trolley return point. People are so clumsy. But no, he hadn’t listened; too lazy to drive a bit further and find a better space. So what happened? When they got back there was a huge ding in the bumper and no one to claim against. So that was £250.00 down the drain.
Beryl placed the laundry basket on the ground next to the line and gripped the hem of its cover, sliding the sun-warmed plastic up and off in one smooth movement. A pigeon exploded out of the clematis, wings flailing the air as it fought to gain height. Flying rat! Her cold stare followed the bird as it disappeared over the fence.
She snapped the arms of the rotary line open, hooked the peg bag into place and bent to remove a bed sheet. The damp cotton was dazzlingly white, an effect she found particularly pleasing against the unordered colours of the garden. She might be marooned at home but the day would not be wasted. Beds stripped, laundry done, she would drop into her neighbour’s coffee morning. What was it in aid of? Brow creased in concentration, she couldn’t recall the cause. No matter, she would take a packet of biscuits out of the cupboard. Gwen would be grateful for her support. In fact she ought to get a move on; Gwen wasn’t the greatest organizer in the world, so the sooner she got there the less likelihood that the event would degenerate into a shambolic gossip session.
The last pillow case pegged into place, Beryl was turning away from the line when the voices reached her. Drat! People were arriving already. It sounded as if they were setting up outside. She’d have to get a move on. That was Sally Jones she could hear, and the burst of high-pitched laughter was from Nancy Ryan. At the thought of the gleamingly manicured Nancy, Beryl’s mouth tightened and it took a few seconds before she caught the thread of their conversation:
'...really? As blatant as that?'
'Yes, he made no attempt to hide it. Said “Hello” and actually introduced her.'
'And how did he introduce her? As a work colleague?'
'No, he didn’t and their body language said it all. They could hardly stop themselves holding hands.'
'What’s she like? Younger, I bet!'
'I’d say about the same age, though it’s hard to tell.'
The clatter of a tray descending onto a table was accompanied by Gwen’s voice: 'What’s all this about? Who are you two tearing to shreds now?'
'Us!' The tone was aggrieved. 'Gwen, whatever do you mean?'
'Umm.' The monosyllable was heavy with mock sarcasm. 'So go on, who are you dishing the dirt on now?'
In the pause that followed Beryl became aware that she was clutching the empty laundry basket like a life preserver.
Sally’s response when it came was almost a whisper, 'Brian.'
'Brian? You mean....?'
'Yes. Your neighbour Brian.'
'Whew... there’s a turn up for the book.'
'By the way, is Beryl coming this morning?' This from Nancy.
Gwen’s voice was distracted as she observed, 'No, she’s out. Car’s gone. So when was this?'
'Tuesday evening at the Royal Oak.'
'The Royal Oak! That’s virtually on the door step.'
'Yep, as bold as brass.'
'And what was she like?'
'Early 50’s, trendy dresser, big boobs – that’s the first thing my Ted noticed of course,' Sally chuckled.
'Well, good luck to them I say.' Nancy’s voice was harsh.
'Hang on, that’s a bit rough. I know Beryl’s not exactly a close friend...'
'Too right! She couldn’t get any stiffer if you rammed a poker up her arse. From what Brian’s let slip to my Ted, she shut up shop way before the menopause – separate bedrooms, the lot. So can you blame the poor chap? I mean there’s no pleasing that woman. If she was here this morning the cups and saucers’d be in ranks and files and we’d be lining up for biscuits!'
'Sally!' Gwen’s admonition was lost in a burst of laughter.
'No, I’m with Sally there,' Nancy chimed in. 'From the way things seem to be going I think he’ll make the break. If he doesn’t tell Beryl soon, someone else will and that’ll be that, as they say.'
'Cooeee. Where are you?'
'Oh, it’s Hillary and Pat. Down here - down here at the end of the garden.'
Gwen’s call jolted Beryl into life. Her gaze took in her hands clenched on the laundry basket, the knuckles as white as the plastic.
A sudden scrabbling drew her eyes to the fence. The pigeon teetered there, gained its balance. Bloody flying rat! The laundry basket left her hand, flung clumsily towards the wooden boards. Fixing her with a beady glare, the bird launched itself as the basket struck home. It rose into the sun, seemed to hang suspended above the washing for an eternity then released a stream of berry-mottled excrement that arced down with unerring precision onto the white sheets waiting like virgin canvas below.

'Edifice' by Peter Hodges

2010-11-17T01:53:00.001-08:00

I asked my father what was an edifice. A big question for a small boy.
My father smiled, gave his answer, and left me a riddle. I went into town with my mother. Maybe there would be something that would make me look up and say, yes, there is an edifice. My curiosity fired, I looked all the time. My mother said to mind where I was stepping. We came to the bus stop. The bus arrived. I shot upstairs to grab a seat at the front. But from here I looked down, not up.
On the street, I strode ahead, saw the church. Here was where my father once took me sightseeing. From the tower he showed me the landmarks. The distant hill, the woods, a large house. I asked was the hill higher than the church, and my father replied, yes it was. But I remember it never seemed that way. From there nothing seemed higher. Not when one was looking down.
My father is dead. I have my answer. It has taken long years. Like an old photograph without a name, it is only a passing that reminds. Perversity of death brings sudden clarity and understanding. Frailty of years, but always there was the smile: remember this, remember that. Only now do I see my edifice. All the time it was he.

'Ode to the Wrekin' by Angeline Wheeler

2010-11-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

Upon your banks I first knew love
Soft moss beneath me, sky above.
As shadows lengthened and eve drew nigh
Your beacon, bright like a winking eye
In youth I roamed your paths for hours
I felt no threat beneath your bowers.
When night departed and dawn was due
The sun arose to give a glorious view
Upon your summit I felt like a queen
Years have passed and much I’ve seen.
Your beacon like my sight now is dimmed
Many trees have been chopped, Forest thinned.
Unchangeable though wherever I may roam
When I see you stalwart Wrekin, I know I’m home.

'Why Do You Mock?' by Rosie Pugh

2010-11-14T12:35:00.000-08:00

I walk among you children of God.
Why do you not smile when all Gods beauty is around you?
Why do you complain when surrounded by Gods gifts?
Why do you mock and make fun of those who are different?
Can you not feel their pain just like yours?
Is it because they laugh and sing when they are sad and blue?
We all have our different ways to get through the day.
High in the sky the sun shines bright.
It sparkles on the sea below.
Here there are mountains that touch the sky.
Close by are the tall trees for birds to sit and sing.
Why do you not laugh and sing when all these are free?
Let the rain fall and touch your skin.
Feel the breeze in your hair.
Take a deep breath.
Run like a child, feel free for tomorrow is another day.
Let today be yours and sing.

‘The Saddest Thing’ by Elisa Hill

2010-11-14T12:02:00.000-08:00

‘I was suffocating; an unbearable weight holding me - complete darkness except for one finger I could move. I moved it and gently touched another person. I knew it was a dream and was trying to get my husband to wake me up.’
For a few days back then my mum turned off the news and radio whenever I was around. I didn't remember this until years later when I met someone from this tiny Welsh village. Their whole family had moved away for work ,one of the few families to leave, and one of the only ones who did not lose anyone.
It was the anniversary, 30 years, and as we watched it on TV, they seemed to know everyone who spoke. My mother-in-law said wryly, "Everyone there is a poet."
"Evans the Shop” that was the name she had in the village. On that dreadful day, she had looked out of the window and watched as the village went by. The usual daily routine. The children had passed a while earlier on their way to school, pleased it was just to be a half day Half an hour or so later, the stragglers came: one little girl, who had felt ill - her mum convincing her that she could manage just for the morning. There goes the milkman, her son-in-law. The post man, delivery drivers, everyone waved at her in greeting. She was a fixture, accepted by all -comfortable and predictable. She had started the shop when the last of the cave-ins had happened, terrified her husband, a miner, would be lost.
There was that terrible rumbling again. It had gone on all night, thunder, miserable weather, misty and drizzling. Then there was a very large rumble - louder than before. It seemed wrong somehow, different to the rest. She went outside. It seemed the whole village were at their front doors, wondering. Then a child came running down the street covered in ash from head to foot. She was screaming, " The schools exploded, the schools exploded."
She looked at her grandson’s new wife, who was looking horrified, but trying not to show it. It was a Sunday afternoon, when the whole family got together. It was still on the TV. People speaking - those she had known since they were in prams
They never built the school again. Her grandchildren were taken by bus to a nearby town.
Her son-in-law, was talking; telling them about how he was one of the first to get there and how he started to pull out the ones near the edge. They had been taken to her cousins’ daughter’s house, just where the ash had stopped. Some were still alive, some died there. The saddest thing was the local doctor who had joined the line of men passing out the children. As he passed his own two sons out he had just paused, looked down at them lovingly and went on to pass the next child.
The mines had closed. Everyone from surrounding villages had come to help. It seemed as if time itself stood still. The miners had downed tools and come straight over to help.
Her daughter’s friend had brought home her new baby a few days before. Her daughter had passed and waved at her saying she would visit her the next day. Her house had been buried.
She looked over at her husband, who was sitting at the end of the large front room, hearing aid off, not wanting to see the T.V. She looked at his hands with the coal dust still in his skin - a deeply ingrained dust.

‘Aunty Nell’ by Joyce Hayward

2010-11-04T05:56:00.000-07:00

My mother and her family had always cared for ‘Aunty Nell’- a tiny, quiet spinster who had joined my grandmother to help her bring up a family of twelve on a farm worker’s wage in the early 1900’s.
By wartime,1939-45, the children had got older and the youngest one was serving in the armed forces. So my ‘aunt’ left my grandparents and went into service for a rich farming family.
However, she still kept in touch and visited, in turn, members of my family to stay with them for her holidays or through periods of illness. She was always ‘aunty’ to us all.
My mother was the last one of her generation to die – but Aunt Nell outlived them all.
I used to take her shopping, have her round for Christmas dinner and generally try to help her. She was always very active for her age and quite capable of doing her own housekeeping right up to the age of 97 years old. But after that I started to worry.
My biggest fear was linked to the way she lit her fire. She would light it and then ‘to help to get it to go’ she would put a piece of newspaper over the front to draw it. Often the paper would catch light in the process and she would frantically stamp it out in the hearth. It seemed only a matter of time before her clothes might catch fire.
In the end I was unable to relax at night for thinking about this. I reluctantly called Social Services who arranged for her to be placed in a care home. She lived there happily until she died at the age of 106 years old.
It upset me at the end that, as I was not a blood relative, I was unable to register the death or keep her card from the Queen as a memento.

'The Cafe Owner' by Jan Lloyd

2010-10-28T04:30:00.000-07:00

JULY 10th:
Will he come in again tomorrow I wonder. He first came in two weeks ago and he's been in four times since then. He's ordered an espresso and a Danish every time.
I've met so many people over the years while running my little corner cafe We opened twenty years ago; a new venture we thought at the time, me and Guiseppe. We were working at the cafe and Aldo wanted to retire so we decided to take it over. We had just got married and it all seemed so right and exciting. We kept the name DeConi's, Aldo's surname, as he was like a father to us and didn't see the need to change it. Aldo had trained Guiseppe in patisserie and the special gift of making the perfect cup of coffee. Guiseppe then passed this gift on to me. Unfortunately he also taught Vanessa, our young waitress, but gave her extra lessons at night too!! So he ran off with her and broke my heart. That was fifteen years ago. Now our son, Romolo, works with me and has his father's gift for coffee making and cooks the most divine cakes.
I never met anyone to replace Guiseppe, never wanted to either. I just didn't seem to have time to meet the right person. But there was something about the man who came in for espresso and a Danish. It was the way he lingered over paying for his order and his eyes, green and iridescent.
The second time he came in he chatted, nothing special, just about the weather. It was raining so he stayed longer and had two coffees, waiting for the downpour to end. He had a deep mellow voice with an accent and a radiant smile which made me feel slightly shivery.
The third time he walked in I felt a sense of excitement at seeing him. When he placed the order he told me his name, Paul. He complimented me on the coffee and cake and said he had never tasted coffee so good apart from a restaurant he knew in Italy. I smiled and thanked him as I introduced myself. I was intrigued by him and what he did but felt too shy to ask.
The fourth time was two days ago and I found myself feeling hot and flushed when he walked through the door. Romolo joked with me saying my fancy man had walked in. I turned to serve another customer pretending I didn't know what he was talking about. I was annoyed I'd missed serving him and stared at him as he sat reading a newspaper. I pleaded in my head for him to come over for another coffee. I went to clean a nearby table and as I placed the empty cups on a tray he spoke, "Hi Lucille, how are you". I trembled and feigned surprise. "I didn't see you come in", I lied. He smiled warmly and got up to go, "Lovely coffee", he said once again and then was walking out through the door. I felt disappointed and wanted him to come back so I could talk to him.
So, could I have fallen in love? Will I be brave enough to take time to sit and speak to him tomorrow. I picked out a dress to wear which was far too fancy for the cafe but I felt good and young and enjoyed the emotional thrill at the thought of seeing him again. I hope he comes in.....

JULY 12th:

I am still on cloud nine. Paul walked into the cafe yesterday and I felt wonderful when he asked me to join him. We were busy but Romolo coped. I sat with him and we had coffee and cakes. He told me that he was from Southern Italy and had come to London to trace his family. It turns out that Aldo was his uncle and was his father's brother. My head was spinning after all the things he told me. His father had run a cafe which was also called DeConi's and he too made the most delicious coffee. He had lost the family connection when both his parents had died and Aldo was also sadly dead. He had heard his father, Dominic, talk about Aldo but had always been too busy to visit. After searching through his parent's belongings he had found photographs of the cafe with Aldo sitting outside. Paul never went into the restaurant business but instead worked as a banker, his sister, however, continued to run the family cafe. My heart sank when he told me his holiday was due to end tomorrow and he would be returning to Catanzaro, his home town. He said he would keep in touch and, now he had found the cafe he had longed to visit, would return again soon. As he was leaving he took my hand and kissed me gently on the cheek which sent shivers down my back. I tried to appear cool and not too desperate when I said I hoped he would come back and visit, smiling, when it was all I could do to stop myself from crying.
I went into the kitchen when he left and busied myself with washing the large pile of dirty dishes, choking back the tears. Romolo came in and sensed how I felt and just placed a hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his skin comforted me and I composed myself and told him Paul's story. I felt elated but sad at the same time and tried to imagine Dominic's cafe. As I walked home I felt much better at having spoken to Paul and felt a deep connection to the family. I will continue hoping that he will return.....

'Time Moves On' by Rosie Pugh

2010-10-17T04:19:00.000-07:00

Whether to sell my cottage or not was a big decision and very painful for me to make as it was my piece of heaven and most importantly it was mine. My beautiful cottage was in Nantwich, Cheshire. I was in turmoil. I spent many days and nights pondering over the situation but I never got a clear answer.
I had met and fallen in love: something I had stated I would never do after my first marriage had failed - but alas it happened. I had a lot of fear of doing the wrong thing. What if things did not work? What about my children even though they were grown up they were still a big part of my life and I was going to be moving to Devon, a place where I knew no one.
On the day of the move my eldest son Andy was helping me to move and when it was time to go he found me in the corner of my bedroom. I was very emotional. He pleaded with me not to distress myself and we left.
I was only in Devon one year when my husband decided to sell the farm. He had asked his son a question. ‘What would you do if anything happened to me?’
His son replied, ‘I’ll move on.’
Then his late wife’s mother attacked me physically in the village and threatened to kill me as I was living in her late daughters house. It was no idle threat; it took three people to take her off me. What chaos and hell. So we sold and moved to Shropshire.
Looking back I realized my intuition was guiding me, I should have kept my cottage and rented it out but I listened to my heart.
When in Cheshire I pass the cottage and long to be back there: but time moves on and I have to move with it.

'The Beautiful Place' by Elisa Hill

2010-10-17T03:55:00.000-07:00

The ambulance is racing. I see Copthorne traffic island and know that it is still a half mile to go. ‘Will I make it ?’ The siren allows us to rush past the queuing traffic. ‘Will I make it to the hospital?’ I think to myself. My baby son is at home with my husband. ‘Will I ever see him again?’ So many times doing this same route, sirens blaring, desperate to make it that last half mile. Copthorne Island the last landmark, I fight for every breath, my chest and whole body heaving with the effort; even with oxygen. I pass out.
My mind comes back to the present and I look down at my two year old grandson who is now fighting for every breath. He has an oxygen tube in his nose. I look into his eyes. I see a desperation I know so well. It’s thirty years since I have been so ill; but I am the only person who knows exactly what he is going through,
I am nineteen and wake up to see my father standing next to me. I am in a hospital ward and I think to myself, that it must have been a very bad one for my Dad to be called. I say to my mum, "I’ve been to a really beautiful place, they said it wasn't time yet and sent me back." She cries with relief and later tells me there were a few minutes when they didn't know if I would survive.
I am 23 and pregnant, in intensive care. I was brought here -the worst asthma attack I’ve ever had. I keep passing out and having terrible dreams: each one is a race which after tremendous effort I just win. Five races, each one seemingly a race of life and death.
My grandson Max, starts to breath easier now. I stroke his head. He drifts into sleep I remember when I fell asleep in intensive care. When I woke up feeling better I was embarrassed and said ‘Thank-you’ repeatedly to the nurse for making me better. She said it was not just the staff’s efforts that did it. –they didn’t know how. I do -it just wasn't my time; someone was looking after me and has been all along. I’m not a religious person - but hypocritical enough to beg for help from a higher power for Max!

'Nightmare' by Barbara Chapman

2010-09-23T03:44:00.000-07:00

Dark fingers of dread pull at me. Where am I? I become aware of my mouth – dry and sour. My head is a space above my shoulders – aching, filled with grey fog. There is softness beneath my stiff cheek – a pillow; I kick and my foot tangles in softness – a quilt. So it was a dream?
I roll over. The room swims into focus. Feet somehow transposed to the floor, I sit blinking, trying to shake off the images that blur and flow together like an Edvard Munch canvas.
So real; it feels so real.
Terror is etched on my skin in a sheen of sweat. If I relax I will fall back and it will reclaim me. The curtain stirs, a fragment of breeze whispers across my face. Cold...dank....enclosed. TRAPPED!
Running directionless, blind. Black shifting to grey rock to earth. Where am I? My overriding urge – escape. Something... someone is there in the dark.
In my semi-waking state I become a conduit for the dream – I look down and see myself, a figure running, groping, stumbling. I am sinking back onto the bed. Once more I am the prey of sleep. The nightmare grips me ...
A smell of diesel. The coach has pulled onto a wide space below the hill; taken a spot beside other vehicles. Passengers are spilling out, stretching, pulling on coats and jackets. It is not really cold, but once inside it will be chill.
I join the flow of bodies; the narrow entrance funnels us; now I am a single droplet forced forward.
The smoothness beneath my feet changes - the path has become rock. A line has been crossed – now this is another place; in my nostrils the tang of earth, iron and old air. A thin light draws the eye to the side. We are meant to see. I cannot – a jumble of dark shapes blocks me. I hang back in the chill air breathing its blackness, waiting. I am here for this; I too must see. The crowd shifts then begins to dissipate. I feel myself pulled forward into the vacuum of their departure. What am I seeing? There are words, a sign. But what meets my gaze is wrong – the shapes are not those of old mining tools. I stare, angling for meaning through the weak pool of light and the shapes, like fish glimpsed in the depths form, becoming bones – twisted ribs, a crushed skull.
Sound whispers around me. A voice long dead, trapped in this cavern:
I am the rock the rock is me. Caught. Cold. Dead.
Blood cooling, freezing in veins like threaded minerals waiting to be freed by a miner’s pick; flesh marbling with patterns of decay, falling away to reveal stone-white bone.
Horror claws at my chest, bursting my lungs. The rasping I hear is my breath.
I must get away from here. Move! Run! My legs will not obey.
The light goes out fog-thick darkness envelops me. Air congeals, clogging my lungs; I am stuck.
My thoughts – must free my thoughts. My mind is my own it can move still. See light, see a path. Light cuts a path. Lift a foot, grope forward. A sound or is it an echo in my mind? “There is no light.” I no longer know where my skin ends and the blackness begins. “There is no you.” Terror would be welcome a leaping emotion in pumping blood, but instead all is heavy, cold, weighted with nothingness.
A shape pressed in a mould of darkness - no flicker of warmth or life. Images are squeezed into nothingness; the concept is forced out of existence with the word. Thoughts have nothing to give them form.
The end is solid nothingness trapped in rock and clay; bone without blood, brain without thought.
Something. What? A sound. It vibrates through the chamber, defines edges, walls. Form returns. Water, falling water. Turn and lunge, scrambling, clawing upwards. Lungs burn, ears drum. I snatch at the thread of sound and haul myself towards life.
A cold breath shivers around me; my skin rises in goose bumps. I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. The yielding bulk upon which I am lying is the mattress. My hands are clenched into the softness of the quilt. Still I am held by the sound of falling water. The curtain billows away from the casement; rain beats down. My blood beats to its drumming. I let the cool air draw me out of the nightmare into the rain-silvered light of a new day.

'Sunshine All the Way' by Louise McClean

2010-09-21T03:26:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, during the war, every August my gran, my mother and I spent a week at Portrush, a seaside town on the north coast of Ireland. This week was the happiest time of my life and the highlight of my year. It was always eagerly anticipated and never disappointed.
We went to Portrush by steam train which, as we neared our destination, ran right along the beach on one side and was bound by steep cliffs on the other - wonderful. By then I was beside myself with excitement.
Each year we stayed at the same boarding house in 20 Mark Street owned by a friend of my gran’s called Mrs. Black. It was in the centre of a row of identical houses with two bay windows at the front and on a height overlooking the harbour and a short walk from the station.
On the ground floor was the kitchen (strictly out of bounds to the guests) the dining room and a sitting room. This was furnished with two leatherette settees and several easy chairs all facing the bay window with the lovely view of the beach. The lino on the floor had a few little rugs scattered over it
It was a tall narrow house on three floors. There were six bedrooms; four double and two single. We were always on the second floor with my mother and I sharing a room and, further along the narrow corridor, my gran had her single room. There was one bathroom which was shared by everyone. I presume the top floor was much the same but I was never allowed to go up there to find out!
As it was during the war and rationing was still in force, we took our ration books with us and handed them over to Mrs. Black for the week. We had full board and I seem to remember the food was plain but wholesome with stew, shepherd’s pie, sausages and salads with Spam on the menu. Porridge was the norm for breakfast, with toast.
We spent out time on holiday walking along the prom, watching the boats in the harbour or sitting in a shelter on Ramore Head with the huge waves breaking on the cliffs below. Every year I had a ride on the donkeys and a highlight was a visit to Barry’s amusement park with it’s waltzer cars and the very scary ghost train!
There were two beaches, called strands in Ireland, one on either side of the headland and the white sand stretched for miles on each one. As this was on the Atlantic, the huge waves crashes continuously onto the sand but the water was always freezing so I usually just paddled with my skirt tucked into my knickers.
In the summer, during the war, there was double summer time which meant the clocks were put forward two hours instead of one and so it was daylight till about 11 o’clock at night which was great. Every evening, along the prom, there were evangelists who attempted to save our souls. They shouted a lot and prayed fervently for the sinners and were great fun to watch! I loved the hymn singing which was accompanied by an accordian player and we all wrapped up well and sang our hearts out as we sat on the hard benches. We never did get saved however!
Further along the road from Portrush is the very famous Giant’s Causeway with it’s fantastic hexagonal stones and pillars. A tram used to run to the Causeway from Portrush and we visited every year. It was very popular with visitors, especially the children who loved to jump from stone to stone trying to avoid slipping into the sea in between. Sadly the tram is no more.
Portrush had all the usual shops selling buckets and spaded, beach balls and rubber rings for those brave enough to enter the freezing water. There was one lovely department store called The White House which my mum and gran loved so we spent quite a lot of time in there -- not buying, you understand, just admiring!
We were on holiday in Portrush on VJ Day and there was great excitement with dancing and singing on the streets and rejoicing all around. Personally I was thrilled as this meant my dad would be coming home at last. I remember being persuaded to sing Lily Marlene for the other guests!
As an adult I have travelled extensively and enjoyed wonderful holidays all over the world, but somehow nothing has ever matched the joy and excitement and pure happiness of those weeks spent in Portrush with my gran and mum. I suppose it must have rained some of the time , but if it did, then I don’t remember it - it was sunshine all the way, every day for me.

'Wasps in the Greengages' by Joyce Hayward

2010-09-20T02:18:00.000-07:00

I enjoy gardening but do wonder why I bother sometimes!
This past few days of good weather have, at last, put me in a good mood - that was until I went to harvest the fruit and nut trees.
To begin with I planned to pick the greengage plums, a bumper crop, but they had ripened behind my back and fallen off the tree. The rest were either full of wasps or the birds had pecked them.
My husband’s hazel nut tree had a super crop last week, but they were not quite ready then. This week there was not a single nut – that so-and-so squirrel had got there before me.
To crown it all the caterpillars have completely stripped the sprout plants and the dog has dug himself a crater in my stone flower trough!

'A Day In The Life Of A Suburban 60's Teenager' by Jan Lloyd

2010-09-15T06:55:00.000-07:00

Although I used to long for the summer holidays to arrive, when they finally did I would invariably end up being bored most of the time. Apart from the odd visit to relatives with my parents I was usually left to my own devices.
My Mum and Dad both worked full time so were rarely around to lift me out of the endless lack of entertainment. So I would wonder around aimlessly with which ever friend was available and not away on some luxurious holiday. If friends were away the only highlight or contact with a human being would be the bread delivery man, who I became convinced I was in love with. This built up to near hysteria as I watched out of the window for the arrival of the "Wrights Bakery" van. He would jump out of the van whistling and I would gaze in awe as he marched up the path. I would rush to the back door and pay him the money my Mum had left as he smiled and uttered something about the weather. I would interpret that as a sign that, as he'd taken the time to speak to me, then he must love me too; but the reality was he was at least twenty and oblivious to the teenage crush I had on him. The other regular visit was from the Pearl Insurance man but without the frisson of excitement as he was very strange and creepy. An argument would ensue between my brother and myself as to who would go to the door to pay the money as neither of us could stop giggling when he arrived. The poor man must have dreaded coming to our house!
When Jean, who lived next door but one, was around we would play ball against the wall or handstands to see who could stay up the longest or visit the rec to stare at David and Stuart who were mods and had scooters. Going to the rec took some preparation as we had to look our best to get the attention of these two Adonises. Once we picked out our most impressive outfits and applied the latest trend in makeup we would saunter over to the rec and sit on the swings to await their arrival. David and Stuart would eventually arrive looking trendy and sophisticated wearing parkas, driving their scooters around the perimeter of the grassed area. Their friends would hang around looking enviously at the gleaming scooters whilst we tried to look cool and disinterested, wishing deep down that they would ride over and ask us out. This never happened and eventually we would drift off and walk back home discussing who looked at who and whether they really fancied us but were just too shy to talk. We would return to our respective homes to meet up again after tea to watch telly together to ogle more heart throbs - "The Monkees", or "Ready Steady Go". If my parents were working late I would prepare my own tea purchased off Tanner's travelling shop - a pleasurable treat which would arrive in the late afternoon. Mr Tanner would beep the horn to attract out customers, usually all housewives, struggling to think what to make for dinner. I would race out mainly for sweets but would sometimes choose something for a special meal. Vesta Curry was my favourite as it was easy to make and I felt really exotic and interesting having a curry for tea.
So the long summers as a teenager would pass by spent indulging in simple pleasures and what appears to be a far cry from the teenagers of today. I'm sure all teenagers throughout the world encounter the same angst and difficulties in forming relationships, struggling to be independent and finding something "out there" to spark an interest. There still seems to be the same problems thrown at them as I had in the 60's but, in general, appear more able and confident in dealing with them despite whatever outside influences dictate how their future develops. There are more support networks available and females get more choices and opportunities.
I think most generations believe they are living through the best times and will always look back with a nostalgic fondness. Overall what I considered to be a boring and mundane existence, on reflection, was comparatively innocent and blissful.

'My Trip To France' by Rosie Pugh

2010-09-14T09:13:00.001-07:00

On my first morning in France I was greeted by a warm sun filtering through the trees which peeped into my bedroom window. After a traditional French breakfast of coffee and croissant we set off on a trip to the country market in the medieval town of St. Anton which is held on Sunday mornings.
We travelled through beautiful scenery and when we arrived we parked the cars and set out to explore through the cobbled streets. On both sides were stalls displaying goods of all kinds. I was enthralled.
Pieces of cheese had been put on crusty bread and were offered to those that wanted to taste. The man behind one stall, with his fine French accent, offered tempting continental meats for you to try. On another stall were olives, green and black, some filled with almonds and others with peppers or soaked in garlic. I must admit I was tempted so I bought the olives with the almonds.
For me the stall with the wonderful display of vegetables was like stepping back in time when a lettuce was big and had lustrous green leaves. The red and plump tomatoes nestled next to pink and white radishes which were very mouth watering. You could tell they had not long been out of the earth as there were grains of soil still on the roots with droplets of dew resting gently.
Further along I asked my companion, ‘Is that mashed potato he’s selling?’
She smiled and asked the stall holder. Although I can’t speak French I could make out some of the ingredients from his reply. So when she started to tell me I got in first: mashed potato, crème fraiche, butter and pepper. She said that people were buying small tubs of this product for their Sunday lunch. It was expensive - but I bet it tasted good!
There was something there for everyone with assorted breads of different shapes and shades of brown which were next to the biscuits and cakes.
Nearby was a café which was very different in style to our pubs. Locals and visitors mingled there and drank coffee, wine and beer. We decided that we too would stop and try the coffee and the French atmosphere that surrounded us as we watched the world go by.
St. Anton was steeped in so much history. For instance the building opposite the café was once a church and further down the road there was a house that was once a brothel.
I felt that all that I was missing was a guide to fill in the missing gaps. It was a town with so much intrigue; but alas it was time for us to leave a place which concealed many mysteries within its walls.

'He is Happy' by Elisa Hill

2010-09-02T02:42:00.000-07:00

I stared at him. I could not process what the psychologist was saying.
"Your son is of very low IQ. The bottom ten percent of the population."
He might have been speaking Greek. Nothing was registering. His words seemed to be floating in a cloud above his head.
"He has a leaning difficulty. We don't know what. We can’t diagnose it. There is no recognisable disorder."
I was on my own, his father had not been able to make it. I felt intense hatred of this man. ‘How can he say these things?’ I don't know how but I walked out of that room and travelled to pick up the kids from my friends house.
"What did they say? "she asked.
" A learning difficulty, whatever that means,’ I mumbled.
She does not press me; the look of devastation shocks her, and she can't find any words to comfort me.
That first week...just many selfish thoughts. ‘How could I have a child less than ‘normal’?" A blur; talking at him. Trying to get him to respond. A barrage of words. No response. The poor child just wants to be left alone in his own little world. I want to make that man a liar.
A second wave of pain hits when I think of his future. That he will never have a "normal" life. Never marry, have children, a lost future.

Ten years later and the social worker is asking a series of questions, something he seems to do every few years, "How do you feel about being a carer?"
"Well you don't just sign on for 18 years when you have a child,” I answered.
"You could have your life back."
I think about the implications of his words. "No, never!" I reply with disproportional anger.
"What about when you can't look after him anymore?" I try not to cry, and he pretends not to notice.
Most parents my age are suffering ‘empty nest syndrome’; but I will never have an empty nest; never be alone. Now my life is ordered by his needs and I am so used to doing this, I do not resent it. It is my life. Sometimes he surprises me with his reactions to things. Often he understands more than I thought was possible.
My daughter once joked, “As soon as you die, he’s going straight in a home" She has no idea how painful her words were. They cut like a knife.
Now I hear him singing in the next room – He is happy!

'Skin' by Angeline Wheeler

2010-08-29T02:57:00.000-07:00

My best friend then, so long ago
So smooth were we together.
Never a doubt, never a frown
Together whatever the weather.

But sadly so, you lost your grip
Our closeness loosened bit by bit.
Oh my friend, my lovely skin
Why is it you no longer fit?

At first I tried so many balms
To keep us close and tight
Sadly, to no avail did they work
Alas we’re just a sorry sight.

The cracks are there for all to see
Lines and furrows I cannot hide
You stretch away more each day
I can’t win, though goodness knows I tried.

'A Stolen Look' by Jan Lloyd

2010-08-22T10:40:00.000-07:00

It was a hot and dry day and I had walked for many miles to the courtroom in Winchester. My feet were aching and blistered as I struggled along the dusty road to reach my destination. I had left my farm and young children in the village of Burghclere to catch a glimpse of my seventeen year old son who was appearing in court on this warm summer's day. The dusty road gradually turned into a busy town road and horses and carts were being steered toward the town to make their various deliveries. One cart slowed down as the driver tried to avoid me on the roadside. I shouted out for a ride and the kind gentleman told me to jump on the back which I gladly accepted and melted back against the warm hay on board. I gradually dozed off with the rocking motion of the cart and woke with a start when the man shouted out that we'd reached the bakers where he was delivering his wares. I thanked him for the ride and speedily made my way towards the courtroom.
I reached the large courtroom building and squeezed through the bustling doorway where men crowded round dressed in black gowns and wigs. I was shaking and felt a sense of foreboding as I took my seat at the back of the courtroom. I sat intently listening to the list of proceedings and a dark mood fell upon me as I heard the harsh sentences being issued by the imposing figure sitting in judgement over these helpless beings. Finally I recognised the name being shouted out by a man with bushy side whiskers and the customary wig which appeared to have slipped sideways.
"Edwin Cranfield step into the dock and repeat after me," the gruff man bellowed.
I saw my son step nervously onto the dark wooden stand and repeated the oath recited to him.
I strained to hear and to catch my son's eye. I wanted to encourage some hope and to show that I was there for him. Instead he looked forward with an icy stare appearing to have lost any will or optimism. His hair was matted and he looked thin and frail. He had been locked away for two months awaiting the trial so had not been looked after. The man with bushy whiskers read out the accusation against my son.
"You have been brought here to testify against the accusation of the theft of a gold pocket watch from William Danfield at the White Swan Inn on 1st May, 1849, located in Lower Burghclere, Winchester. Do you plead guilty or not guilty"?
I heard my son's reply and his husky and pitiful voice pierced into my brain like an arrow firing from his lips.
"Not guilty," Edwin said bluntly, standing to attention to appear confident as he uttered his plea.
The judge turned to the man in the black gown and spoke slowly, with an air of indifference and weariness.
"Have we William Danfield present in the court Mr Bartholomew?"
"Yes, he will now provide evidence against the accused."
William Danfield stepped forward and proceeded to describe the night he stayed at the White Swan Inn on his way to Southampton to visit a business associate.
He claimed that my son was drinking in the bar, and already drunk, and had spied the watch when he had asked him the time. He had replied that it was 10.35pm and after drinking a nightcap retired upstairs to his room. He had undressed and left his belongings on the dressing table before having to return downstairs to request a supply of candles as he needed to read some paperwork before the morning. It was at this point that Mr Danfield claims my son went into his room to steal the gold pocket watch. It was morning before he had noticed it was gone.
My mind drifted back to that day and I remember that later that day my son had gone into the town to visit the market to purchase some cattle for the farm and it was there that he was arrested. I hadn't seen him until now and I had continued to struggle on my own with running the farm. Albert, my husband, had died last autumn from an infection of the lungs and Edwin had taken over the daily tasks. My other children, Alice, Dora, Charlotte and Fredrick, helped but were aged six, eight, ten and twelve. They would feed the pigs, chickens and cattle, milk the cows, muck out the barns but they couldn't manage the heavier work. I had battled on since Edwin had been imprisoned and was now praying that he would be free to return to his family. I thought that if Edwin had been guilty of this theft he would have committed it purely to help me and the family as we were so very poor. He was never greedy or selfish and I was ready to forgive him his sin and continued to ask the Lord that he should be found not guilty.
I was feeling overcome with the heat in the stuffy courtroom and wished it could all be over soon when I heard the judge ask Mr Danfield to confirm the identity of Edwin as being the thief who stole his watch. Mr Danfield was adamant and boldly pointed towards my son as being the culprit. The jury swiftly returned with their verdict and read the fateful words to the judge.
"Guilty!”
The one word rang in my ears and once more my heart continued to break into shattered fragments.
The judge read out the sentence.
"You will be taken to Portsmouth docks and placed upon The Waverley and will be transported to New South Wales where you will serve a sentence of fifteen years."
"No, no, no," I shouted.
It was then that Edwin turned and saw me as he was escorted by two policemen out of the courtroom. As he turned toward me there were tears in his eyes, his face pale and frightened. I mouthed the words that I loved him and to be strong but as he turned away I knew that this would be the last time I would see him and yearned to hold him and rescue him from his plight. This was a cruel blow and I tried to banish any thoughts of the horrifying and desolate journey which lay ahead of him. Edwin never stood a chance and was not given any opportunity to defend himself, instead the jury took the word of Mr Danfield. Where was the evidence? The watch had never been found, was he guilty? I left the court hardly able to face my journey home. The sun was low in the sky now and I trudged back to care for my other children with Edwin's tragic face etched in my mind.

'Daddy, Daddy Dear' by Elisa Hill

2010-08-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

Why was she waiting? Was she stupid? He had no interest in her; had not bothered with her since she was a child. Why the request for contact now.? She knew her mum would be furious with her for even agreeing to meet him. Was it because her mum was jealous and insecure? Frightened of losing her to him or was it really as she said. That he would let her down again, as always, without fail.
She had to know what he wanted; could not pass the chance by that he really was a changed man. That man who he had been, that terrible angry man, the one in her memories; could not be real, could he? She had asked for the chance to hear his side of it. No human being could be completely bad. He must have some redeeming features? Hard to find but they must be there.
She looked at the large station clock. Nearly time. Her heart was beating fast. She was feeling a bit breathless. Her head was pounding. Her asthma started, without fail every time he was around Her mind went back to another train journey. She was with her thirteen year old sister thirty years ago. They felt dread as the train pulled into the station. They saw him waiting there. That woman standing next to him. Why couldn’t he have given them some space and told them in the car. He introduced them with no warning.
She had known there was a another woman. Last time he had seen them he had taken them to his house and her sister had spotted some women’s shoes She had wanted to joke that he was a cross dresser; but hadn’t dared. She knew the way some women’s mind work. She was stating her claim to him. In effect saying," You may have a prior claim, but he is mine now." Later they went to a play, but instead of joining them, he had spent most of the time on the phone. She had heard him. stood around the corner where he could not see her, ashamed to hear his tone, playful and flirtatious. It was sickening, doubly so when she knew how her mum would feel. She had kept the secret from her mum and her sister. They both secretly hoped he would come back. She hoped he would not, as she had seen the cruelty he had inflicted and experienced some too.
When he appeared at the end of the platform he was stiff and formal, still with those cold grey eyes. She sighed, would she ever greet her own so coldly? She should have remembered, prepared herself.
They went for a coffee and he talked about how it had been for him. "So you want to hear my side of it. Well, I felt unloved. I was just the provider. You guys don’t care about me even now; like then, you just want something from me, I have nothing to give you. Your mother drained it all from me. I thought it best to have no contact with you as you needed your mother to support you when you had your own children."
She was astounded, confused, he had never been so open about personal things or emotions and then she realised he had been coached, rehearsed every word spoken as it was approved by someone who was not there.
" No,” she stuttered. “No” she wanted to scream out. “We all loved you, not just because you brought money home, we loved you because .....,"
As always his response was anger She was not obeying his rules, not responding as he had anticipated she would.
Again more from the prepared script. "When I had a stomach ulcer your mother showed no concern for me" He paused. He must have been amazed that he himself had spoken those lies. Confused now, the shutters started to go up. He stiffened up again. The coldness appeared once more in those grey eyes.
“What do you want to achieve from this?” she asked him.
" Achieve, ACHIEVE......" He almost spat at her, furiously angry now. Fear rose up in her and with it perfect clarity. She could see now exactly what he wanted. He was transparent now. So angry he could not hide anything. She sighed. She had wanted so much to see him again. Wanted him to be the playful man he was with her as a child. Getting down on the floor with her to play in his best suit. Her mum had always said there was a special connection between them. Forged in those times. Her mum had even said she would not attend her wedding so he could be there.
She looked at him, who was still struggling to suppress an emotion; which one? Anger? She could not tell. She knew she was not sticking to the script that he was coached for and that it was throwing him off. But she had to know, she felt desperate to get the words out, knowing it was probably the last chance, ever...
She peered closely at his face, trying to see his real self. The child part of her was scared at the rage. The adult part curious about such anger, directed at her, but really at her mother. "It’s me you’re talking to, not Mum. But is it really you I’m talking too or is it Chris?" He went red, so riled now at being found out. She instinctively leaned back to get as far away as her chair could reach.
"Thank you for coming," she said. The memories of childhood flooded back. Memories of the fear: fear he would kill her and Mum. He had no control of himself. To her as a child, always on the edge, of an explosion, their whole lives as a family had been governed by those moods. A good mood was a happy day,. A bad mood and you kept as low a profile as possible – stay quiet, never spoke unless spoken too. Fear had been her most constant companion as a child.
She had struggled and struggled to understand him over the years, hoping as she had become a parent herself to understand him better and as an adult she had only ever seen him with a child’s perspective. But as an adult it had just become more puzzling. Was she just supposed to put him out of her mind? She had tried and couldn’t. How could she resolve this. How could she make a relationship with this stranger, this angry scary man who had missed most of her life.
" What’s the point?" she said as she stood up. There was no strength left in her , but she wanted to be the one to walk away this time. She wanted to make it her choice this time. He stood up, not to be outdone, always the one for the dramatic flourish,. He turned his back without a word. Emotions flooded in as she watched him walk away. Her need of him dissipated with every step. As he turned the corner without a backward glance she breathed out. The pain was gone. She was free!

'A Slice of My Life' by Rosie Pugh

2010-08-16T04:05:00.000-07:00

As I sit here in my warm centrally-heated home, watching television and drinking champagne, I think about how I lived a different type of life as a child.
Once we shared a house with another family, the McNulty’s. Things were very basic. The tin bath used to be filled with hot and cold water in front of the fire and we made sure we got the right temperature before we entered in case we were scalded. The outside toilet had hard paper from orange wrappings and newspapers and not the fancy types of toilet paper we see on sale today. Now it is velvet to the touch with Aloe Vera to protect those sensitive parts of our body.
We all used to get together in the evening around the fire to converse with one another about the daily happenings that would have happened in the street. There was lots of laughter as we sat and listened to the entertainment on the radio and I have to admit that I really enjoyed listening.
When I was nearly six we moved to a home of our own with our own inside toilet and with a bath. But it was a great sadness to leave the Mc Nulty’s. There was no floor covering till a few years later when Mum could afford some and when we bought bright orange and red linoleum, that was new on the market. There was no need to polish Mum had been told. She was proud of her new floor covering but a few extra shillings every week had to be paid. There was no central heating in the house, just a big black range that was a cooker as well and was kept clean and shiny with black lead. The pipes were polished with Brasso. The front step was washed and polished with cardinal red. It made your hands feel funny when you used it.
In some of the little cottages off the beaten track they had no electricity and lamps were lit with meths, then pumped up to create a blue flame. To me it was pure magic and I never realized the hardship that those people were in. In the winter when it got very cold, we would pile our coats on top of the bed to keep us warm. There was no fancy fluffy duvet, soft, next to your skin, but instead coarse dark grey blankets which would peep over the white sheet when pulled closer. We had to use the chamber pot under the bed, to save going downstairs in the night.
I had a good pair of legs, which was just as well, as we did not possess a car or a bicycle. I learnt to ride a bike on my brother Philip’s godfather’s bike.. To get my leg over the handle bar was quite comical. I would have to stand on the pavement or a brick and lower the bike trying to keep it still and not fall off. What fun and what a sight.
The highlight of the week was when the groceries were delivered on Fridays. This was the day Mum got her money telegram. The grocer would put a poke of sweets in the box and they would be shared between us.
Every morning we would have a dose of malt, cod liver oil and emulsion, which was a white liquid taken from the whale which would was meant to do me the world of good. The best thing about Halloween, believe it or not, would be to put an apple in a basin of water and try to bite it with our hands behind our backs. We had monkey nuts and the bakery would make special fruit bread. Inside would be a toy wedding ring, so who ever got the slice with it in would be sure to married.
I had simple things in my life when young. No elaborate toys, just make believe and imagination. Life was hard as we did not have much, but I had a freedom of a different kind.

'New Home - New Baby' by Louise McClean

2010-08-09T03:27:00.000-07:00

We arrived home, after three years in Aden, by sea on the 8th March, 1967 and, on entering Southampton harbour, passed the old Queen Mary sailing out on her last voyage. It was also our daughter’s tenth birthday.
First we had to return to Scotland to sell our home before moving south to Shrewsbury where my husband was to work and we were all going to live. We had never been to Shropshire so it was all going to be very new to us.
The three children and I stayed in Ayr to sell the house and pack up while Vic went to Shrewsbury to begin his new job and find somewhere suitable for us to live. The fact that I was seven months pregnant wasn’t exactly a help but the sale went through very easily and by the end of May we had bought a suitable house in Shrewsbury and moved in. It was exactly a month to the day before the birth of the new baby.
I liked the new house but it was much smaller than the Ayr house and all our furniture was far too large so we had to climb over furniture just to get around
As the baby was due in June one of the first things I had to do was to get registered with a doctor. This wasn’t simple as the first three I tried weren’t taking any new patients but I wasn’t too worried as this as my fourth child and I was very relaxed about the whole thing. We did eventually find a lovely doctor so all was well.
We settled into our new home, became familiar with the town and the neighbourhood and started the children into local schools. I remember it was a gloriously hot June and I waddled around like a beached whale longing for the birth which would also bring a few days rest in hospital!
On Sunday 25th June I went into the old maternity unit at Copthorne Hospital and the next day our daughter, Kerry Charlotte, was born without any fuss. We were all thrilled with her and felt she was a good omen for our life in Shropshire.
When Kerry and I , suitably refreshed, came home five days later it was to a house over stuffed with furniture and now also containing six huge crates of our belongings which had arrived from Aden. My immediate reaction was to put a match to the lot as we hadn’t a spare inch of space as it was. It was months before those crates were opened - they lived in the garage till then; out of sight, out of mind.
My husband, in his wisdom, had arranged for an electrician to come on the following Monday to re-wire the entire house. So, there I was with the floor boards lifted all over the house, no electricity, three over excited children and a new baby who appeared to want to sleep all day and cry all night. Great!
I remember it was all very stressful and it crossed my mind that, had I had time, I could have had a nervous breakdown but I was too busy for that, so I just got on with it and did my best.
Over the summer we gradually began to feel at home as we made new friends and explored the gorgeous Shropshire countryside. By Christmas we were well settled in Shropshire and over forty years later, we are still here, so it was a good move if rather traumatic!

'Who's that coming over the hill. Is it a monster, is it a monster?' by Elisa Hill

2010-07-28T04:29:00.000-07:00

She sighed. Had she brought this on herself? If only twenty-six years ago she had just told Mac, it wouldn't have reared its ugly head now; but, at the time, it had not seemed real. Why, why , why hadn't she just told him the next day?
Was it her fault? She had trusted his friend. Everyone did. Was she just naive? That's true - in those days she thought the best of everyone. That sort of thing happened to ‘sluts’ and women who ‘led men on’. It was an age when men were regarded as overgrown boys, with no responsibility for their own actions. “She asked for it" was commonly whispered behind closed doors.
Thank goodness attitudes have changed. A few minutes out of her life had altered it beyond reason. Looking back it would have been so easy just to tell Mac. He would have been upset obviously, but it would have saved her years of aggravation, loss of her friends and years of silent, menacing phone calls. At the time she had just wanted to forget it ever happened and at times she even doubted it had happened. Was it really what it seemed? She hadn't thought it was until now. Was it just as he had said. Just a bit " rough". He had been like that with many women and was rather proud of the fact!
Why hadn't she told Mac the next morning?
Mac’s best friend - the stalker. She finally admitted it to herself A man even despised by his own children. They just about tolerated his presence. Most of the time they pretended to be out when he called. She should be glad at that, but she felt so sorry for the children, who she had grown to love,. All the kids had grown up together and his and her girls were now best friends.
What a mess! She would have to ring Mac and tell him the what his ‘ex-best friend’ was now saying. She couldn't face it, yet she wanted to get over the shock of her daughter’s question. Why now after all these years? Her daughter had begged her not to ring the "monster" but she had and when she asked him, "Why after all these years?” He had no answer of course. Never did.
Now she could see plainly that some recent events had been staged to try and control and manipulate her. He would always protest innocence. He had found out the places she went and would ‘appear’ there supposedly quite innocently.
She had made new friends apart from the group of friends they had all been part of when in their twenties. Of course I suppose he asks around in the old group and someone must innocently tell him what I’m up too. He gave the impression outwardly of an easy-going, friendly man just asking about old friends. I suppose the only way to stop that would be to never talk to any of them again. But Mac still did. Just impossible to stop him finding out about her and her life.
Again it just goes back to the time, years ago, when she should have told the truth. None of this would have happened if she had. But afterwards he acted as if nothing had happened. He still came round acting like everyone's best friend. She would not answer the door if she knew it was him or ever be alone with him. So he would turn up with the kids when Mac was there. Her silence had meant she had had to sit across the room from this "monster", still be friends with his wife and babysit his kids.
Then she and Mac had split up, his suspicions of her behaviour around HIM, convincing Mac that there was an affair, which surprisingly he found difficult to forgive. She could have told the truth then, but by then everything seemed so pointless, there was no fight left in her. Maybe in a twisted way she blamed Mac for not protecting her? Crazy, she was a feminist! women didn’t need to be "protected " anymore.
Obsession is a scary thing for everyone, but for the person being obsessed about doubly so. She never felt safe in her house any more. Unexpected noises made her jump. Always she had her phone with her. Always she looked behind her when she was outside. She never felt at ease. She was always suspicious of others’ motives when they were just trying to be friends. She had isolated herself with her children and, even though they were grown up now and had left home, she still kept to herself. She had ventured out a few years ago and made some friends but he had inveigled his way in and had turned her friends against her. She would not trust anyone again. It was just too risky.
Now she isolated herself he tried a new way of getting back at her. He had told her new friends this latest lie. Something he had been telling their old friends for years. "Her daughter’s really mine." He knew it wasn't true: she had told him enough times. But truth was irrelevant to him, it had been a means to separate her from her friends for years and now it was being used to separate her from her family.
"Is Steve my dad? " her daughter had asked. She denied it of course, immediately, and tried to explain how this lie had been told for years. But it was out there, that question, never being forgotten, there to condemn her, like a worm in peoples minds, working away, eating away at all she loved and cared about.
That was it of course! Twenty-six years ago she had kept silent to protect herself and her husband. She still had trouble thinking of those few minutes. Something that had been so personal, so loving, when shared with the man she loved, had been used by him as nothing more than a bodily function. She had felt de-humanised, just a piece of flesh. It had seemed unreal, like a movie happening to her body, with out her brain being involved, as if she had watched it from above, like people say happens in a ‘near death’ experience. She was frozen, her body was not her own.
Now she was being forced into uttering the words she had never spoken to another human being. She had tried to put them out of her mind over the years but they just surfaced as distrust and fear of others. “Well, at least this is the last of it, nothing else can ever be taken from me by him.” No more, she had wasted enough of her life being scared. No more, not one single second of her life would be controlled by those few minutes twenty six years ago .She was not to be defined by what he had forced on her, her life was her own, to make her own choices. She slowly and reluctantly picked up the phone,
"Mac, its me, please keep calm, this is going to be really hard for me, I want to tell you about something that happened years ago ................"
Who's that coming over the hill. Is it a monster, is it a monster?

‘The Long-awaited Reunion’ by Maureen Bradley

2010-07-28T04:16:00.001-07:00

The train was due to arrive on Platform 3 in five minutes. Would I recognise him after all these years? The last time I saw Harry was thirty years ago when he had been a young man about to embark on a new life in Australia.
I was madly in love with him, but my parents thought we were unsuited and would not let me travel with him.
I waited every week for his letters, but they never appeared and it was by coincidence that we met up on the internet and now he was only moments away.
The train approached the station and I watched intently as the passengers made their way to the exit. I was wearing a red carnation and I had asked him to do the same. As I scanned the crowd of people I saw two men wearing red carnations and as they walked towards me my heart raced and I could not tell which one was Harry.
The one with the beard stopped in front of me and said, ‘Can this be my little Mary?’
I looked into his eyes and knew this was the man for whom I been waiting for most of my life. ‘Oh Harry, is it really you? I’m not so little now.’
We gave each other a big hug and walked, arm in arm, out of the station.

'Twitter' by Peter Hodges

2010-07-24T07:41:00.000-07:00

The room that is hers is on the first floor above the entrance and looks out onto the drive where it circles the fountain that is silently playing. The room has a balcony. As it is a warm summer's day she is on the balcony. The formality of the gardens matches that of the house: ordered, respected, timeless, one might say, endless. That is how the house is: endless with memories long gone.
Three people are walking toward the house. They reach the fountain, two pass one side, the third, a girl endlessly tapping on a phone, passes the other. She, on the balcony, is watching them, her eyes following, seeing and not seeing. The man has a stick, the woman takes his arm. An old couple. The girl ignores them and takes a seat, her back to the house. She may know them, these people.
Although they are her son and his wife and their daughter she does not know them. She does not know them, a fact now determined, it seems, not by her but by circumstances. A girl, phone in hand, dabbing incessantly, as if transfixed, is, it is said, twittering.
They would be at her door soon, the couple. Knocking gently on the door, as if afraid to disturb. Out there the girl, her back to the house, playing with a phone. Short dress, sandals, long red hair, long legs stretched out. It is summer. The phone seems to gather up the whole of the girl's attention, she leans over it, clutching it in both hands as if its twittering and tweeting is a sort of magic. Like people, it tweets and twitters all the time. Like magic it means nothing. It is summer, warm like summers used to be.
The knock comes to the door. "Hello, Mother…" no more than 'hello mother' because more is not worth the effort. They sit, the wife takes the chair carefully arranging her dress, while he awkwardly perches on the arm, rests his stick on the floor, eases his collar and adjusts his tie. The armchair is the only chair. She has not moved, she remains staring down on the drive where they had been only a minute ago that could have been years. Where the girl twitters and tweets. The granddaughter who never ventures here to see the grandmother with no mind. Ages so far apart as to make it not worth the effort.
‘Hello mother’ is all they say, can say, soon they will talk between themselves. Twitter and tweet. Soon to say 'goodbye mother' and the twittering will cease. Like a summer's day long before.
Marjorie, have you put my clothes out? His lordship will return soon. Where is my father? Oh yes, of course, the hunting party. The mauve, I think, for this evening. Thank you, Marjorie, you may go now.
"Marjorie, are you there?" The sudden speech stops them dead.
"What was that, Mother?"
The wheelchair clatters, grates against the balcony rails, a skeletal arm snakes from under the rug to find the call pull.
"Mother, what is it?" He lurches to his feet and stares at the back of the head.
How they twitter and now they tweet. Like that girl down there, all tweet and twitter.
The door opens. "Did you call, Marjorie?" The care assistant smiles. "Too warm, dear? The sun's moved round. Shall I take the rug?"
It will be the mauve this evening. His lordship will like that. Did you hear, Marjorie?
The assistant's name tag says 'Mary'. The son is confused. The assistant explains that names get mixed up now. "Hers with mine. But we don't worry about it, do we, Marjorie?" The woman laughs cheerily.
His lordship prefers the mauve. What are those old people doing here? All twitter and tweet. Don't they know that the hunting party will return soon? Tea will be served then. Are you there, Marjorie?
Cards of congratulation line the small table. The Queen's telegram is in front. He scans them again. He does so each time he visits now because it is a useful ploy to move along time so that he feels less guilty when eventually, thankfully, he can leave. His wife studies her fingernails. Outside, their daughter twitters and tweets.
All there is. Twitter and tweet.
The care assistant whispers as she leaves the room, "Nothing goes in now. Comfy though. Everything in the past now. You know what I mean. Now, how'd you fancy a nice cup of tea? She'll have hers later." He nods a 'thank you' as the door closes.
How much is there? Really there? None, except… What? He finds himself staring at the back of the head again. Once he thought her beautiful. Mauve suited her. Made her skin glow like alabaster. Rich red hair over alabaster shoulders. Mauve always suited her. Tall and elegant with movements like a… he stumbled with his own remembering, seeing again out of a child's eyes, a small child looking up and blinking at her beauty, hand taken and he was being led away. Your mother will call for you later, he was told. Later, later… later, he was always told. Now he stares at a white skull showing through a nothing of hair. A head with nothing. All around, inside and out, is a waste of twitter and tweet, and nothing.

'Perspective' by Barbara Chapman

2010-07-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

Today, at this hour, the island is not an island; perhaps a better description would be “part-time” island. When the tide is out, as it is now, one can walk along a rocky footway to the shoulder of land hunched against the cloud-swirled backdrop of the Channel.
We tread carefully, ascending the path that encircles the dome of land like a monk’s fringe. Concrete gives way to a sandy track pocked with boulders and pebbles. A large sign warns in three languages of the danger of becoming stranded – if caught by the incoming tide you should return to the island and wait for low tide. Under no circumstances should you try to make your way back across the causeway due to dangerous currents.
I wonder how many have found themselves stranded and if they heeded the warning. If theirs was not one of the three languages – French – English – German – perhaps they did try to outrun the waves. Common sense would surely dictate caution and therefore staying put, but then common sense is a highly uncommon thing. A circle of burnt earth in a dip on the side of the hill suggests that someone has spent time here. Sheltered from the wind, this nook affords some protection. The wind is a permanent resident; the sea birds give it a voice, the drawn-out ululation of eternal hunger.
We round a bend; before us blue plummets to green-grey as sky melds with sea to create a canvas of spectacular proportions. In the foreground, perched on the very edge of the cliff and projecting out over the ocean is a structure that, for a few seconds, evades all reason as my mind scrambles to understand what it is. Ah, thank goodness for the sign! What we are seeing is the tomb of Chateaubriand. Hard to top this as the final resting place of a great writer of the Romantic period!
“Chateaubriand” - isn’t that a steak?
I let a sea-washed silence flow into the wake of this enquiry from my companion.
I’m sure I’ve seen it on a menu. That’s right. The place we ate at yesterday evening. Remember?
I nod.
Time, tide and appetite wait for no man.
We continue on our way.

'Trampled by Cows' by Joyce Hayward

2010-07-19T07:43:00.000-07:00

When we were young my playmate and I used to run errands to the village shop.
One day we called on Mrs Hudson, an old, but spritely, widow who lived in the large house on our way there. She gave us a list and enough money to buy ourselves an ice lolly for doing the shopping.
On the way back, because the bag was heavy, we carried the bag between us and ate our lollies with the other hand. We saw some men fishing in the canal, so we decided to go down to the towpath to see if they had caught anything. We left the shopping bag under a bridge, where it was cool, until we came back.
Whilst we were busy nosing at the fishermen the lock keeper came to fetch his two cows up that grazed along the side of the canal. He was going to milk them; but as they passed under the bridge they trampled over our shopping bag and one relieved herself as well. It splashed all over the contents of the bag. We quickly ran to rescue it and tried desperately to clean it up before calling at Mrs Hudson’s. The contents were squashed and bag was in an awful state.
‘Whatever happened here?’ she asked us.
‘It wasn’t us Missus. We went to see what the fishermen were doing and put the bag down. Then Mr Rowlands came and fetched his cows. It wasn't us it was them who did all the damage.’

'Four Leafed Clover' by Jan Lloyd

2010-07-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

Clover sits alone in the badly lit function room at The Rainbow pub waiting for the rest of the band to turn up.

I got the courage to tell Mum that I couldn't go to Glastonbury with her. I tried to make it sound positive, saying we'd got this gig at The Rainbow and before long we'd be famous. She laughed and took it well. I suggested Theo could go with her or even Carl. "Carl won't want to go", she said. "He'll be stuck down the garage under the bonnet of some wreck". I wonder sometimes why she ever married Carl, they never do anything together. He's got to be the most boring man in the universe. They don't even like the same music so he's hardly likely to want to take her to Glastonbury. Anyway it turned out Theo and some of his mates had planned on going so they hired a van and he was happy to take Mum with her trusty new wheelchair. I just hope they keep an eye on her. She's probably lying in a heap somewhere stoned out of her skull. She says she needs certain substances to help with the pain in her legs and it works much better than the tablets the doctors' keep trying to give her. I had to cook the Christmas dinner last year because she was on another planet lying on the settee. Whose the child and whose the parent I thought as I put the sprouts on.

Dad is no help, he's disappeared off to some mountain retreat in Spain and on his millionth relationship! I remember when he left us. It was my third birthday and I had a party with friends from the nursery. I can see him running down the garden path with Mum screeching at him. Apparently, Mum told me years later, she found him snogging Julia Fulton in the garage when he was meant to be getting my new bike out. He'd been seeing her secretly for months, they'd met at the nursery and would go back to her place after dropping me and her son Jack off. Mum always told me she'd been warned about the McGowan brothers, "They could charm the birds off the trees with their blarney and yer dad, Danny, only had to flash his blue eyes at any woman and he'd melt their hearts in seconds"! People who knew him always say I take after the McGowan family with my dark hair and blue eyes. Maybe in looks but I'd like to think I'm a bit more responsible!

Pause....

Then Mum got ill when I was seven. She woke up one morning and couldn't see straight. She thought she'd put her contact lenses in the wrong way. We were driving to school and she was all over the place and I screamed at her to wake up as she nearly killed us all. After loads of tests they told her it was Multiple Sclerosis and that it may gradually get worse or remain stable. That was fifteen years ago and she's done well coping with the intense pain she gets in her legs. She's fifty this year and that was one of the reasons she wanted to go to Glastonbury, she said it might be her last chance. I hope not.

As for Carl, my stepdad, not! He's pretty useless. Mum met him here in The Rainbow. He told her he could sort her car out as it needed loads of work doing. Anyway he did fix it and passed it for an MOT. Next thing, he's round the house having dinner with us. She saw him as her knight in shining armour just 'cos he'd put an MOT on her car. I was ten when they met and Theo was eight. I never really liked him, he never gets our jokes, he's never really fitted in. They got married when I was twelve and I had to be a bridesmaid. Mum made me wear this awful pink dress with flowers in my hair, it was all very hippy, dippy and I had to pretend to be happy when I really felt like crying. Mum thought it was romantic, I still wonder why because Carl is about as romantic as a wet weekend in Barmouth. Mum always sticks up for him and says he's steady and reliable and that's what she needed after Dad who messed about with other women and broke her heart. At least Dad made us laugh and would cheer us up with his funny stories. I remember Dad turning up one day when I was eight and he took us all out to the seaside in a posh old Merc. Me and Theo sat in the back and thought we were really posh sitting on the leather seats. Mum sat in the front wearing a spotty sun dress and her hair piled up with a sparkly slide. She looked happy and carefree as they chatted and laughed about the old days and how they met and were choosing baby names by the third date. They decided to call me Clover because they'd been out for a picnic and found a four leafed clover just after Dad had proposed. Dad bought us all candy floss later and we sat on the beach and got covered in sand and sticky sugar. He didn't mind us getting sand all over his posh car. Carl wouldn't let us get in his car if we had a speck of dust on us let alone sand. Mum says he's anally retentive. I don't know what he is but it's definitely got something to do with his anus! I cry at night sometimes thinking about my Dad. I wish he was here now and he wasn't living thousands of miles away with his new Spanish girlfriend, she's called Mercedes, which is funny as he always liked Mercs.

Pause...

I'm still waiting for the band to turn up. I suppose I'm a bit early but I'd hoped they'd get here a bit sooner so we can have a quick practice before the party. Donna's Mum and Dad have just been in to decorate the room, thank god, as it looked a bit dismal to say the least. Melvin was still being funny about playing as he thinks he's Damon Albarn and The Rainbow is hardly cutting edge but we're going to get two hundred and fifty quid for this so I told him not to be so snooty. He said he didn't want people to get the wrong idea as we weren't a "pub band" and needed to get gigs in alternative venues. I told him not to be so precious as I didn't care where we played as long as we got some money so I can start paying off some of my debts.

Monday night and Clover is in the function room at The Rainbow collecting the band's equipment.

Mum got back from Glastonbury earlier, all safe and sound but I had to run her a hot bath as she said she felt like an old stray dog! I said to her, "you look like one so get washed before I take you to the kennels". She'd had a brilliant time and had managed to get to the front of the stage to see Bruce Springsteen. Theo said, "She even managed to do without her wheelchair as it was more trouble than it was worth so we left it in the van. Mind you, with the amount of strange cosmic substances available on the menu she didn't need her wheelchair she just floated over the top of the crowds". Mum laughed and climbed into the deep bubbles to have a long soak. I wish she could've been at the gig to see my debut performance. It went really well and Donna danced all night with her mates. Melvin saw sense in the end especially when Keith, the landlord, handed over the cash. Carl turned up and watched from the wings holding his pint. I was surprised to see him especially when he came up after and hugged me and said how much he enjoyed it and how proud he was, I nearly choked on my beer.

Pause....

I feel much better about my future now. The band has got two more dates to play from people at Donna's eighteenth. I've only got six months left to complete my degree. Then we'll be discovered and earn loads of money so I can pay of my student loan. Carl said he'd fix up a van that'd been dumped at the garage and offered to be our "roadie"! He even suggested a name for the band, "The Converts". Now even Melvin liked that!

‘Not Convinced’ by Louise McClean

2010-07-14T11:46:00.001-07:00

They don’t know what to do with me. It was leaving the gas on all night that did it. I was OK up to that. I keep telling them, that was only once and it won’t happen again, but they won’t listen. I don’t want to go into a home. I’ve had my own home for over fifty years. I can please myself what I do and there’s no-one to order me about. I like it here.
But Ann and Joan worry about me since the gas thing. They do love me I know and they don’t want to upset me but they don’t trust me on my own any more. They say it’s for my own good and that I’ll love it there with people of my own age to talk to and having my meals all cooked for me. But I won’t, I’ll hate it I just know.
All my happy memories are in this house. It’s no palace, I know, but Albert and me made it lovely. We used to save up for months or even years to buy the things we wanted - the new chairs and the rugs and the oak dining room table and chairs that I polished every week. I remember when we had the bathroom put in we were so proud
The girls were both born here, in this very house and we were so happy -our little family for all those years. There was never a lot of money but that never seemed to matter. Both girls got married from here too and we were so proud of them. We liked the lads they chose too. They were nice boys both of them with good steady jobs. Then when our grandchildren, Jason and Kelly, came along we loved helping with them in the school holidays. They were, still are really, such bright clever little things and the things they came out with you’d never believe! Oh they did make us laugh.
Things were never the same after Albert passed away, but I knew they couldn’t ever be. It was just as if a part of me died too. There was nobody who could make me laugh like he did, nobody to love me like he did and nobody to talk over the old times with any more. It’s very lonely though the girls come round regularly and I want for nothing, but it’s just not the same now.
I don’t tell them how difficult it’s been this past couple of years. I don’t want to upset them. There’s so much to remember all the time, like checking the doors and windows at night and putting out the lights and remembering when the bins go out. It’s not easy being old, you forget things and your mind slips so easy from one thing to another. It is hard and to be honest it would be nice not to have all that responsibility any more.
But would I be happy in that place? They’ve taken me to visit it and it’s warm and comfortable and I would have my own room with my pictures and my own bits and pieces round me and the staff are ever so friendly and helpful. The girls keep pointing out all these things to me and tell me how much I would love it.
I know they worry about me and they really have my interests at heart. But I’m still not convinced - so they don’t know what to do with me.

'A Moment in The Country' by Rosie Pugh

2010-07-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

My journey from Killarney to the Dingle Bay was magnificent. Every turn held a more splendid view. Mountains on either side of the road were covered in different colours, like a patchwork quilt. Then as if by magic a mountain had been split in two to reveal the beauty beyond, a valley deep in it’s midst. A rambling river flowing softly over stones and the debris that lay in its way.
Further along old and new houses mingled together, a part of the past and the future. A blue sky hung above with tiny whiffs of white clouds floating by. Then we emerged from inland to the Atlantic Ocean coast road where the sea was still and a vastness that stretched for miles. The sun shone to create a crust of diamonds laid upon the sea. It danced and sparkled, a mirage of its own making.
We pulled into the car park just outside the town of Dingle, which was a fishing port. There the tops of the fishing boats, which popped up and down, could be seen. In silence we watched the coming and goings of others when my friend Christine said would I like to go and find a place to eat.
‘Lets move on,’ I said, ‘maybe further along the road we may find a house or something that will serve teas and snacks’ I did not want to leave the vehicle because I felt the magic would disappear.
We made our way to a place called Sle Head Ventry where a field was between the Atlantic Ocean and me. As we motored along I noticed some signs. One in particular read ‘The Famine House Museum’. As we got nearer we saw the house. It was made of tiny stones - even the roof. It was one of the old famine houses converted into a tearoom and they were serving hot home made soups, drinks and snacks. I had French onion soup with onions that tasted wonderful and it was served with thick home made soda bread with home made butter followed with hot camomile tea. Heaven.
I decided when I finished my tea that I would take a look outside.. My friend stayed indoors. I entered the field where there was a small wooden hut. I purchased a guide book and paid three euros to go and have a look around the old stone cottage.
The Kavanagh Famine Cottage, built during the famine, is one of the few remaining cottages that have survived the famine era. It was quite a steep walk up the hill. I arrived at the small stone out house, which in those days was as a pig shed. I peeped inside; it was a small darkroom that belonged to the Kavanghs. He had allowed a peasant farmer by the name of Peat to live there with his two sons and daughter as he had been evicted from his house in a nearby village.
I made my way further up the hill to the big main house. The feeling of dread over powered me as I wandered from room to room. The guide book stated that ‘West Kerry suffered equal, if not worse famine, due to the remoteness of the Dingle.’ it told how the people had to endure horrific neglect and suffering of that time. Wages were poor and labourers were allowed to grow potatoes on a small piece of land.
One piece of information that caught my eye was; ‘Irish peasants starved in the midst of plenty. Wheat, oats, barely, butter eggs, beef and pork were exported from Ireland in large quantities during the so-called famine.’
I heard myself crying. Children of eight and nine where taken for decrepit old women and men. Their faces were wrinkled, bodies bent and distorted with pain. Even religion was being used against people: be protestant and we’ll give you some food they were told. Workhouses were set up which split families. People that had some strength were leaving for far away places but most died on the crossing. The question was also raised. Why did the people of Dingle not fish the mighty sea just across the road. I myself stood and looked across at the Atlantic Ocean that must have been full of fish. But it stated that many did try but lost their lives as the sea created large swells throwing the frail people into the sea and their death.
My heart and soul was heavy as I looked in the distance at the beauty that was before me and yet in a moment, just one split moment, it told of a horrific fight for life, a battle that many lost in 1845 - 1847. Of how the common potato was so valuable and yet cost so many deaths through disease. How two sides of the coin from a distance can look the same. It is only when we turn it over that we have a different story.

‘Evil Face’ by Elisa Hill

2010-07-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

"Not good to dwell on it,” she thought.
Then she gathered up the children and made her way home, trying to keep her mind on them and the busy road. That afternoon her friend, Debbie, was visiting with her two boys and she had plenty to do to prepare for their arrival.
Later, she sat down with Debbie having a drink and prepared for a good night out. But her mind kept straying back to the photograph. Debbie sensed that Sally was troubled and asked her what the matter was.
"Tell you later," Sally said.
Her friend pressed her and, as they were alone in the house because all the children had been taken out to the playground by her husband, she decided to confide in her friend.
“Well Debbie, I’ve never told you about any of this before and I’m not sure if you’ll believe me but …..” She passed the photograph to her. "See anything strange?"
"What do you mean? It’s a photo of you and kids in the front room."
Sally sighed, nobody else could ever see it. She couldn't understand it - it seemed to jump out at her! Maybe to others it was just not as significant .To her it was the physical proof of instances that had been happening since almost the very day she had moved in. Was it this house? Was there something evil manipulating them, causing arguments, unpleasant feelings, scaring the children and feeding off the fear generated?
Her neighbour had said she had had a dream about the house. It was a dream about a druid sacrifice being performed on what was then a green hillside- right where her front room is now. She thought, “Do places hold memories,? Can the very earth have a memory? Or is it, as some people say, that we have an ancestral memory which lives through our very D.N.A. Was that triggered when she moved in here?”
She had been the first of the family to view the house and had felt a strong immediate connection, whereas her husband had not been so keen. She had really wanted to move here from the minute she entered and had pushed her husband into choosing it.
Why had she done that? It really was not like her. She was usually very easy going. Sally had surprised herself! She wondered had there been something here manipulating her even then, in that short half hour. Had the house itself chosen her and her family?”
"Now you are just getting ridiculous," she said out loud, forgetting herself. Debbie looked puzzled.
"Sorry, Deb, thinking out loud!"
"First sign of madness you know, talking to yourself,” Debbie replied.
"Look at the photograph again, Debbie. I always see an evil little face in the corner of the room. I moved the tv into that corner last week and since then the tv turns over channels on its own! And a few times this week ornaments have just flown across the room from the top of the tv! Another time, Emma was coming through the back gate when an apple was thrown at her from an empty garden. Worst of all though – a man just out of prison, let himself in and went straight upstairs to the bathroom where a voice told him to go away. We were astonished. He told us he would never come into the house again and ran out of the front door.”
The day afterwards when the house was quiet, the kids were at school and her husband was at work, Sally felt differently about things. She laughed to herself. "Maybe it’s not all bad, no one’s ever been hurt by anything.
And a few years later Sally quietly "lost" the ghost picture. People were becoming too interested in it and she was getting irritated at finding gangs of terrified, wide-eyed, white-faced schoolmates of her children around the house on ghost tours. Cheeky devils - they even charged a fee after having had the photograph scanned and enlarged at school.

‘Cooking Tomato Soup’ by Joyce Hayward

2010-06-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

I was educated at the local Girl’s High School and, as neither of my parents drove a car, I, like many of my school pals, had to go to school by bus. This journey was along narrow, winding, country roads and we had to stop and start many times on the four mile trip from where I lived. The biggest nightmare was travelling with a satchel full of books, a PE kit and a whole load of items for our cookery lesson. I absolutely loathed that day of the week; the day when I was expected to take all the necessary ingredients, dishes to carry the end product home and a variety of other paraphernalia.
I was taking a GCSE in cookery and the examination day was a day never to be forgotten. I had to cook a roast dinner for four people and a sweet to follow and, worst of all, a tomato soup made from raw ingredients. It was a mind-boggling thought that I would have to perch on a bus seat accompanied by all the necessities, carry them from the bus stop into school, sit an exam which would take all morning and then carry the end result home to be eaten for tea.
However, I did pass the exam; although my mother was not very impressed with her meal!
My advice to anyone in a similar position would be to choose an easier option, maybe needlework – but I loathed that from day one. So hence my troublesome journeys which were the norm for a school girl in the 50’s.

'Clover McGowan' by Jan Lloyd

2010-06-23T03:49:00.000-07:00

Clover's Diary:

Mon April 19: I wish Mum was well, she wasn't too good today and complained of the pain in her legs. She didn't eat the dinner I cooked either and I'd left college early to make her what she likes! Carl is so grumpy and just sits looking at the telly, if only he'd make more of an effort to help Mum and give her some hope.

Tues April 20: Worked the lunch time shift at The Rainbow, missed college so will probably be in trouble but need the money. Mum seemed a bit brighter when I got home. A lady from Social Services had called and said she would get her a new wheelchair, maybe this will help to get her out more.

Fri April 23: Wheelchair arrived today. Mum was a bit more cheerful and Carl said he would take her out to the park. Hope he does as they don't go out much. Went to band practice and tried out some new songs, we're beginning to sound quite good!

Clover's Dilemma:

I had some good news today. The landlord at The Rainbow asked if our band could play at an 18th birthday party. There's a brilliant function room and hopefully there'll be lots of people there. I asked the rest of the band if they were up for it and they seemed quite excited apart from Melvin who thinks it's beneath him to play in a pub but I convinced him that all bands start small. Who knows this time next year we could be playing at Glastonbury! Talking of which I promised Mum I would go to Glastonbury with her on June 25th. The party is on June 26th! What am I going to do? Mum keeps on at me about making more of an effort and Keith the landlord is going to pay us £250 for the evening. I'm in a real quandary and struggling at college with loads of debt. We've made some demo CD's so we could sell them at the party to make extra cash. Mum is so looking forward to going to Glastonbury and keeps saying it maybe the last time she can get there. Oh the guilt, how am I going to tell her? Why should I feel guilty? I do all I can to help Mum. Why can't Carl go with her or Theo for that matter; he'll have finished college by then. I really want this band to work so I'll have to be brave and talk to Mum tonight.

'The Diamond Stud' by Rosie Pugh

2010-06-23T03:37:00.000-07:00

Alice drew back the curtains; the greyness of the sky matched her mood. Another day to get through. She sipped her coffee. ‘I must shake this dread from myself.’
As she went to the wardrobe her eye fell on a long multi-colour skirt. Alice took it off the hanger and lifted a cream blouse from the drawer. A small velvet pouch fell out from one of the pockets. It held a belly-button stud with a drop diamond that she once wore.
She stared at the reflection in the mirror. She was now in her sixties and her chestnut hair was streaked with grey. Recently, she felt, she had let herself go.
Alice went down to the park, always a place of peace and contentment; and she felt free there. Looking around she was aware that some people were staring at her, but what did they know? They just lived in their little boxes and tried to be better than their neighbour.
She loved watching the children, they were so open-minded and enjoyed using their imagination. Their laughter was music to her ears. Alice became aware of two women sitting opposite and deep in her heart she felt they were talking about her. Shepicked up the odd sentence. ‘Just my luck ,’ she thought.
‘Just look at her,’ one woman said to her friend, ‘who does she think she is?’
‘What do you mean,’ the other said as she glanced kindly at Alice.
‘That’s how she used to dress all those years ago. Don’t you remember she’s the one who had the affair with her best friend’s husband. He found out so he packed her bags and threw her out in the street. Lost her children as well, big court case. She had a beautiful detached house and drove a bright red sports car. Serves her right.’
The other woman felt a sadness looking at Alice, but thought there must have been a reason and she did not like to gossip like her friend because the story was similar to a similar incident in her own life.
Alice could not help but chuckle at the memory of her stuck up neighbours of that time and her husband was not much different: very serious, dull and had forgotten how to live and laugh. She had been a therapist; enjoyed massage, reflexology and everything that came with it. She had met many interesting people. Had lived in a beautiful house in Cheshire and had two lovely children.
But life had started to become a drag. Then Alice met John when she was feeling lonely and vulnerable. He made her laugh - something that had been missing in her life and he made her feel special and wanted. The drop diamond was a gift from John and due to the scandal he moved to Africa. She could have gone but wanted to be near her children so she was able to get a glance of them when she could. Some people could not make her out, a woman of mystery the town’s people would whisper.
Alice felt the tears surfacing. She glanced at the two women, smiled and left the park.
Later, she entered the tiny flat where she lived. She chnaged into an old pair of worn jeans, a shirt and got her materials together as she was now on her way to her job. Alice had become a cleaner and did some part time waitressing as her pension could not afford to keep her.

'Dorothy' by Maureen Bradley

2010-06-18T04:40:00.000-07:00

Dorothy was sitting looking out of her cottage window trying to remember when life had been different.
To look at her you would think she was an old lady aged about eighty two, but in reality she was only sixty two.
She was short in stature and had long disheveled grey hair. If you looked closely you could see that that she had good bone structure and had once been a very striking woman.
She did not seem to care about her appearance as she wore no make up and her clothes consisted of a long black skirt and grey jumper. She wore black ankle socks and had tatty slippers on her feet.
The cottage she lived in was neglected and the garden was covered in weeds and rubbish. Inside there were four cats roaming around and every surface was covered with papers, books and food.
I picked up one of her books and was surprised to see it was about how the world began and the one next to it was a Hebrew version of the Bible.
I was only there because I had had a call from a neighbour who was worried as Dorothy had not been seen outside for about a month.
On the mantle shelf was a photo of a young man in army uniform and a lady holding a small child.
I guessed this was her husband and son. I tried to talk to Dorothy but she just stared out of the window. There was a Times newspaper on the floor beside her with a date from six months before. I looked at it and read an article which reported a man in his sixties had been killed on his motor cycle and also his son who was riding pillion and their only relative was a lady called Dorothy Barnes.
I could see that this was the lady who had been traumatised by this tragedy.

'Teenagers - Then and Now' by Louise McClean

2010-06-17T11:34:00.000-07:00

I have never been a teenager simply because, when I was that age, the word hadn’t been invented. There was no such thing as a teenager.
We were just young people who got on with living our lives and mostly did as we were told. It was so quiet and tame and orderly compared with the life of a teenager to-day. Did we miss out I wonder?
We had no idea we were supposed to be moody and rebellious - nobody told us. Think of the fun we missed!
No excuses were made for us if we made a lot of noise when we were in a big group. We were told to go home and behave and be quiet and we did. We were afraid of the police, believe it or not, because they would tell your parents and then you were in double trouble!
There was no dress code for us to follow. You wore whatever your mother could get - remember clothing coupons? My clever mother used to make my clothes from cast-offs and I wore them happily and never dared to complain. There was no point in complaining anyway, no-one was any better dressed than anyone else.
To-day it’s accepted that teenagers will be rude to their parents. It’s OK to answer them back or even to shout at them and then run out and bang the door. No-one in our generation ever did that. Instead we sulked in silence and moaned to our friends. We got long boring lectures from adults and, like to-day’s young, paid no attention. But few rebelled.
Alcohol, or rather the lack of it, was no problem at all. Going for a drink was what your dad or uncles did. We had fizzy lemonade as a treat and loved it! Our mothers never went into pubs either, they were a male domain in our town anyway. If your mother was lucky she got a small sherry or a glass of port wine at Christmas.
I remember once when my cousin was about fourteen, he came upon his dad’s hidden Christmas supply of booze. He sampled rather a lot of it and got tipsy. It was the talk of the family for years and he was watched closely to see if it would set him on the slippery slope to hell! It never did!
To-day it’s no hardship to be banished to your room as a punishment. In there it will likely be warm and carpeted and comfortable and there is very likely to be a TV and a PC.
In my day bedrooms were always freezing. There was cold lino on the floor with maybe a small rug by the bed. The walls were usually brown and dingy and thick net curtains covered the window. Believe me you did your best not to be sent to your room - it was not a fun place.
How did we ever manage without crisps and all the other rubbish snacks available to-day? Simple, we just didn’t eat between meals and if we had a treat it was fruit from your, or a neighbour’s garden when it was in season. I often used to spread HP sauce on bread and thought it was great. Try offering that to a young person to-day and hear their reaction!
Bad language was saying “damn” and everyone was shocked if you said it. Woe betide you if you were overheard. None of the adults in our family swore so we had no bad example to follow. Listen to-day to the average group of teenagers and every second word will be offensive. It’s sad really.
The youth of to-day think sex was invented in their time and we were never tempted. Well, they’re wrong! In those far-off, pre-pill days it was pure fear that kept us on the straight and narrow! Just imagine the shame and horror of getting pregnant out of marriage? What would your parents and your grandparents and the neighbours say? The very thought was so horrific and terrifying that that was the best birth control ever invented. A bit of self-control never did anyone any harm and it made the thought of marriage more exciting.
How did we spend our spare time? We joined church youth clubs where we played table-tennis, put on concerts and went once a year to the sea- side on a church excursion as a special treat which we thought was wonderful.
So, what a sad, dreary young life we had! We were expected to behave, to be responsible for our behaviour and to be seen and not heard and not to bring shame to our family and we accepted this - we really did!
Were we miserable - not on your life. It was just wonderful to be young and we enjoyed every minute.

'Christmas Day' by Elisa Hill

2010-06-17T07:57:00.000-07:00

I was woken by someone opening and shutting doors and blundering about. It was 6am on Christmas Day and I thought my 12 year old sister and I were alone in the house. Although, it was difficult to imagine what sort of a Christmas Day this would be for her, when both of my newly separated parents were at the hospital most of the time with my brother Mike, who had been sick for months.
I hadn’t been asleep for long, as a few hours earlier I had felt an urgent need to go to see Mike, and had almost gone, a few times,!! But as I had been left in charge of my sleeping sister, I felt I couldn’t drag her out a mile or so to the hospital in the middle of the night and I knew my father would be furious with me if I did!
We had been to see Mike that afternoon. We stood, one on each side of his bed, alone with him while my parents talked to the doctor. We chatted about ordinary things and the excitement of Christmas, which was my brother’s favourite time of year. I felt sad that he would still be in hospital.
"We will come and see you first thing tomorrow, and stay with you as long as they will let us," I said.
“That would be great," he said, trying not to cough, and when his attention went to something else I noticed tears were welling up in my sisters eyes.
"Go out," I mouthed at her, not wanting Mike to see.
Earlier my father had been brought back from his weekend away with his new girlfriend, very annoyed with my mum, and blaming her for exaggerating the seriousness of my brother’s illness. He had left no address, so the police had to find him, and tell him he needed to be at the hospital; a fact which would have been obvious to every one else!
The noise continued and as I tried to rouse myself enough to get up and see if she was OK, my door opened and my father was standing there. I was stunned, as he refused to come into the house since they had split up.
"What .... why are you here?" I started to say.
He interrupted, "Why are you in Nicky’s room? I was trying to find you,"
I mumbled something about her wanting comfort, but I knew as it came out it was not making sense and he ignored me.
"Get up, I'm going home, Michael’s gone, you need to look after your mother, I'm going home." The phrases were spat out like bullets from a gun.
"Gone?" my muddled head couldn’t take it in. “Gone?”
"Yes, he's gone."
I didn’t understand. "Gone?.... where has he gone?" I asked as I started to dread the answer and as it started to dawn on me I rejected the thought, as my mind couldn’t make the connection without it being spelt out clearly.
"He's dead," he shouted as he spat out the words, really viciously this time, blaming me for having to say that word to him. I was just an annoyance, keeping him somewhere he didn’t want to be. He had no regard for my feelings or the shock I was experiencing.
"But... but.... how can he be dead, we just saw him….?" My disbelief caused me to question my father. Something none of us ever did as he saw it as defiance.
"Get up, you have to look after your mother, she’s downstairs, " he shouted. I almost fell out of bed as he stood there impatient to be off. He considered he was doing his duty to his family by getting me up, a young girl to be with his wife of twenty five years!
I could not process this information, my mind seemed to shut down, become completely blank; but the long habit of obeying my father propelled me down stairs. Halfway down I heard the front door slam and as it resonated through the house, it dawned on me, that I was alone, with no one to lean on. I had no idea how to comfort my mum in her grief - something no child should ever have to do.
Later she asked me to wake my sister, and bring her downstairs so she could tell her the sad news.
As it was Christmas Day, Nicky woke up almost instantly. The moment she woke up she became excited, "Is Mike home?"
"No, just come downstairs, Mum needs to talk to you"
"Have you opened the presents yet? I have Mike’s ready! He’s going to love it; its one of those snoopy books!"
"Please come downstairs, Nicky, Mum really needs to talk to you,." I repeated like a robot. I was getting desperate. I was trying to hold in the tears and my sister who is a very intuitive person just did not pick up on the signals. She was so excited about the presents and the fact it was Christmas Day.
We walked down stairs, my sister chattering happily, just a kid looking forward to an exciting day. I wanted that short journey to last forever. I wanted for her never to know. I wanted to keep her happy for as long as I could. But of course it couldn’t last; she was a child eager to see her mum, who had been absent at the hospital for most of the past few days.
I ushered her into the living room, where Mum was wanting, like me, to keep her unaware as long as we could. I shut the door and went back into the hall to give them some privacy and not wanting to see my sister’s grief. Her piercing screams seemed to rip me in two and I fainted.

'The Job That Never Was' by Jan Lloyd

2010-06-04T06:49:00.000-07:00

In hindsight I was a mere child when, aged fifteen and three-quarters, I walked into the Labour Exchange to obtain my first job. I was interviewed by a very austere lady called Mrs. Boyle who sat behind a large wooden desk in a very dark and gloomy office.
"Where would you like to work," she asked unenthusiastically.
"I want to be a fashion designer," I replied optimistically.
Mrs Boyle could barely cover up the tired, roll of her eyes, at my naive suggestion. She flicked through the box of cards as I looked on, waiting for the magic card that would transport me from this sleepy backwater onto the Kings Road, in London, to begin my dream career. Mrs. Boyle snatched out a card and said she'd got the perfect job for me. My excitement grew until she announced the job was for a trainee shop assistant at Modelias on the High Street. Without consulting me she telephoned the manager and arranged an interview for 3pm later that afternoon. I walked out of the office where my Mum was waiting for me. She was thrilled I'd got an interview in the very posh, ladies outfitters. I was dazed and confused!
"If you get the job, I'll buy you a new coat", my mum said, hoping this would encourage me.
We walked home where I got changed into the smartest clothes I could find and returned into town on the bus for 3'o'clock.
I felt sick as I approached Modelias. What was I meant to say? I had no experience of shop work and felt bewildered as I walked nervously through the door. I asked an assistant for Mr. Daniels, the manager. She ushered me upstairs and told me to sit and wait outside a large, brown door with a brass handle. My heart nearly burst through my chest when Mr. Daniels called me into his imposing office. He began by asking my name and address and I found myself leaning awkwardly onto his desk so I could prop my head up with my arm to control my shaking. He then asked why I wanted to work for Modelias. I didn't, so I couldn't really think what to reply other than I wanted to be a fashion designer. He smiled in a kindly manner and said reassuringly that working for Modelias would provide me with the necessary experience to be a fashion designer. I wanted to be reassured by this, but somehow this seemed a long way off from the pictures I had seen in Vogue as I looked up at the photographs of ladies dressed in fashion from the dark ages dotted around the room. This was the swinging sixties and I felt a distinct lack of swing from Mr. Daniels. I was brought back to reality when I heard him saying to me that I could start the following Monday at nine o’ clock.
It was with mixed emotions that I stepped off the bus with my new camel coat on and anxiously walked towards the High Street. This was my first job and at the end of the week I would be paid my first wage packet; but all I felt was disappointment. I had to report to Miss Stokes, the manageress, and she spent the first morning going through the strict regime and protocol of the store. I had to observe the "proper" way to deal with the loyal and mostly elderly ladies that shopped there. All the shop assistants were dressed in black and as I was shown around the store they looked me up and down, aghast at my choice of outfit, a mini skirt. The ground floor housed the separates, jumpers, underwear and hosiery. Upstairs, where I was to work, was coats, hats, dresses and evening wear.
After the first few days of observing Miss Stokes I had to work in the stock room with Mr. Daniels. This was a very stuffy and confined space and I was extremely apprehensive as he started explaining the procedures. He had a long list of numbers in his hand which had to be cross checked against the long rails of clothing before me. He started calling out the numbers whilst I was meant to tick each item off. I was feeling hot and confused and was desperately trying to look efficient. The day dragged on endlessly until the last item was crossed off. I emerged from the stock room feeling tired and frustrated, I realised that this was not a popular job amongst the other staff and it was given to me as the junior member.
Friday afternoon arrived and I was told to collect my wages from Mr. Daniel's office. He handed me a brown envelope and I went into the little kitchenette to reveal the contents. I counted out £4. 19. 11d, my first wage packet. This gave me a thrill and the difficulties of the first week were pushed to the back of my mind as I proudly placed the money in my purse.
I was only to receive one more wage packet from my employment at Modelias as the following week I was severely told off for serving Mrs. Prendergast, a regular customer who, by all accounts, was only ever served by Miss Stokes. I had broken the golden rule and actually sold a coat and hat and completed the whole transaction, wrapping up the items and taking the money. Miss Stokes was in fact in Mr. Daniels office at the time so I felt it was appropriate to use my initiative. Mrs. Prendergast left the shop looking very pleased with her purchases. Miss Stokes, on her return to the shop floor, when she discovered the misdemeanor, was not very pleased at all. Mrs. Tams, the assistant manageress took Miss Stokes aside and I overheard hushed voices from behind the curtains of the changing room and wondered what was afoot. I soon found out that I had overstepped my position and was notified of this in Mr. Daniels office.
I never returned to Modelias after collecting my second week's wages, instead I started as a junior clerk at the Shrewsbury Chronicle the following week. My aspirations of being a fashion designer were dashed and my youthful fantasies of working alongside Mary Quant and Twiggy unfortunately remained locked away in my head.

'The Daughter’s Wedding' by Joyce Hayward

2010-05-30T04:43:00.000-07:00

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.’

2010-05-30T04:39:00.001-07:00

'The Evil Face' by Elisa Hill

2010-05-26T04:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T10:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T06:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T05:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-07T07:47:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-07T07:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T07:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T07:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T07:01:00.000-07:00

‘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

‘Hi De Hi’ by Joyce Hayward

2010-04-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, when the children were young, I took them all to the dentist for a check-up.
Patients had to ring a door bell and wait outside for the door to open electronically. After it had opened, we all went into the adjoining waiting room and were sitting amongst a few more elderly, grim-faced, magazine-reading individuals when the door bell rang to the tune of ‘Hi De Hi’. This was a TV favourite at the time.
The door opened slowly, a patient walked in and our eldest son greeted him in a loud voice like Ruth Madoc. ‘Hi De Hi,’ he said.
Whereupon, the chap wryly smiled and sat down.
Needless to say, I was gobsmacked because, of the four children, Michael was the quietest one. I just found it hilarious and hid my face behind the pages of a magazine, shaking quietly with laughter and tears running down my cheeks.
The younger ones kept asking, ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’; but I couldn’t answer. They were not old enough to understand why it was so funny or understand the joke.
Needless to say, even to this day, I smile when I recall it. Our son still has a dry sense of humour and loves shows featuring stand-up comedians.

'The Tin Box' by Jan Lloyd

2010-04-19T11:51:00.000-07:00

The pitter patter of rain on the caravan roof as it pours down on the tin topped box.
Packed like sardines in our seaside home I listen, wrapped up in the bunk below.
My brother sleeps on in the bed above, our parents are stirring in the room next door.
Seagulls cry out as the downpour persists, my thoughts turn to what we will do on our first day away.
Will we be walking, running or jumping. swimming, biking or fair ground riding.
Instead we sit staring through windows, pressing our faces against cold misty panes, hoping and longing for the drizzle to clear.
Board games are played to stop boredom descending until the sun peeps through and the beach beckons us out.
We run out into the salty air, collecting shells and splashing in pools, glad to be free and racing about.
Our cheeks are red and the sky is blue but the billowing clouds pile up and it starts to darken.
The pitter patter of rain returns and we run fast and breathless, back to our tin box for shelter, staring out once more eating hot soup and toast, pleased to be safe in our holiday haven.

'Oops' by Louise McClean

2010-04-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

Shortly after I retired from teaching, in the early nineties, I agreed to do voluntary English teaching in Poland for six months.
The Polish people were wonderful to me, so friendly, generous and patient and I was very happy there.
Together with the Polish teacher of English, I was often asked to dine at their homes. I soon learned not to admire anything or, at the end of the evening, it would be wrapped up and presented to me as a gift. They had so little, but wanted me to have whatever I had admired.
One winter’s evening while visiting in Magda’s house, I noticed some really strong shoes by the door and remarked that these were exactly what I needed. The shoes I had brought with me were not nearly strong for the severe Polish weather and the deep water filled holes in the roads in which a small child could have drowned! I decided I would look for some similar in Warsaw the next weekend.
Later in the week Magda’s husband, Miki, knocked at my door, said something in Polish ( dear knows what) and handed me a brown paper parcel. I took it, thanked him and off he went. On opening the parcel I found the same shoes I had admired earlier. Magda was giving me her shoes. This would never happen in England where no-one would give worn shoes to another, but it was quite common in Poland, where everything was in short supply.
Now I had a problem. Should I risk hurting Magda’s feelings by returning the shoes or should I gracefully accept them and be thankful? I decided to keep the shoes.
I wore them to Warsaw the next weekend and several times the following week. They were great; the right size, waterproof and very comfortable - in fact they were perfect in every way. I was delighted with them.
One afternoon, while walking home from school, Beata asked me if I still had Magda’s shoes. I said I did and they were wonderful and wasn’t it generous of Magda to give them to me? Beata stared at me, howled with laughter and informed me that Miki had given me the shoes to pass on to her so she could take them to the menders, but because of the language problem I hadn’t understood Miki!
I hadn’t been given the shoes at all; it was a mistake! I was mortified and so contrite. Beata, on the other hand, thought it was hilarious and fortunately so did Magda when she was told. I, of-course, apologised profusely.
The story of the shoes spread among staff and pupils and caused much merriment in school and much embarrassment to me! I decided to make more effort to learn Polish, but, alas, I never did master the very complex Polish language.

'You Have Arrived' by Rosie Pugh

2010-04-19T11:02:00.000-07:00

You have arrived
quickly but gently
and the place has become alive:
brown earth turning green,
wild primroses on the grass verge
and trees cloaked in blossom.

You have arrived,
flowers flutter in the warm breeze,
birds sing as they gather twigs
making a new home for their young
and lambs skip by their mothers

You have arrived
even in the busy town
where people crowd the pavements
and walk with a fresh spring in their step

Yes, you have arrived
bringing the warmth of sunshine

'A Wet Weekend at the Glastonbury Festival' by Elisa Hill

2010-04-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

A wet weekend? Wet feet! Wet kids! Ankle deep mud. A sea of tents, stretching up the surrounding hills. Old tarpaulins to keep the rain out! Large, old buses converted in to homes. An instant city!..
One day this was an empty field, with a few bored looking cows. A few days later it has a new identity. There are: places of worship, fairground attractions , shops, buskers, open showers, smelly toilets and dogs running free. After a few days it’s an empty field again and all that life and energy have gone.
Is this how it’s been all over England. Once there were vibrant living communities and now they have gone. An iron age village where a wood now stands - once a saga played out as engrossing as a soap opera. Whole families lived out their existence, babies born, old ones died; and now no trace, except a few broken cooking pots.
We live in an ancient land. The hillside I live on is covered in red brick. Maybe once this was a sacrifice site for the druids or a temporary home for animal drovers who watched their flocks graze below? Many people walk as I walk, many mums thinking of their children. Fathers despairing over what to put on the table, an empty pocket, soon empty bellies again.
How many families have lived in my house in the last hundred years? One of them, the granddad of my son’s friend, who walks past my house and stares at the dirty front step, his job to scrub till it shined, as a child planted the apple pip which grew into our 60 foot apple tree. When he lived here his mum was ill, terminal, his father’s mistress moved in when she died it was not a happy house. I hear children cry for their mother in the night and they are not the cries of my children..
Do archaeologists see this land as it was then? Is it an overlay of time zones, repeating like a video. Do they see battlefields as the places they are today; or do they see them as the scenes of chaos, grief and despair they once were?

'When the Bomb Fell' by Marina Jeavons

2010-04-19T09:32:00.000-07:00

I was crossing the old wooden stepping bridge on my way to school with my best friend Brenda - when the bomb fell!
As we skipped, jumped and hopped the steps as was our wont, Brenda suddenly stopped and turned to me, “Course ya know he aint yer real Dad is he.”
“Wot ya mean? He aint me real Dad. ‘Course he is!”
“No, he aint. Me Mom told me. That’s why them cousins o’ yourn keep hitting ya, they doh like yer.”
My heart bumped about in my chest as I pondered her words and I went very quiet for a moment. Then retorted, “Oh doh be daft, yer doh know wot yer talking abaht!”
We carried on to school, but for the rest of the day my thoughts kept going back to the conversation on the bridge and episodes at home that had often puzzled me. I hurried home that afternoon on my own, I didn’t wait for Brenda, nor did I hop and skip along the bridge, I went straight to the little back kitchen where Mom was, as ever, slaving away at the kitchen sink, where all our washing, and cooking preparation was done. “Mom” I said, “Brenda said Dad isn’t my real Dad, he is isn’t he?”
Mom turned and looked at me. She didn’t have to say anything. The look on her face said it all.
I turned and ran and ran and ran, tears running down my face. I reached the park and clambered into the basin of the old iron fountain that had not seen water for years. I lay there cocooned and hidden as I cried. Lots of things started to make sense. The times I felt left out. Dad’s relatives not bringing me presents back from holidays or at Christmas, yet my brothers and sisters getting them. When I had been punished for misdoings with the belt and Mom saying “Stop that, you have no right”. My elder sister Kath not living with us, but staying at Gran’s and many more such episodes.
I lay there till night fell.

'Waiting' by Angeline Wheeler

2010-04-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

I was summoned at about three in the morning. Now I know why this hour is known to some workers as the graveyard shift, your body feels dead and your mind sluggish, but still I dressed and went. I walked into the room. It felt stifling, airless and my attention was drawn to the huge, bright light, angled low in the centre of the room. On closer inspection it was three lights in one, like a huge monsters eye gazing intently, intimately on the sole occupant beneath.
Oh when will you arrive?
I approach and look into the woman’s face and see the frightened eyes of the child looking back. A single tear slips down her face. I touch her arm for there is little else I can do for her now. The monitor by the bed beeps steadily and the red light flashes intermittently.
Oh when will you arrive?
I sit on the lone plastic chair near the chair bed that she is on and watch her as she dozes for a few minutes. Away from the monster’s eye in the semi-darkness I look round this dull room, dull blue walls, dull brown floors that curve slightly where the floor meets the wall and I notice the grimy line where both meet. Needs a good scrub this place does. Further around, one sink, one towel dispenser, one clock, oh the clock, eyes focus again and again, time is almost standing still.
Oh when will you arrive?
One closed blind. I wonder if there is a window behind it, if so I’d love to smash it just to let some air in but it may hide something unspeakable. She is awake now, in pain and I look to the monitor by the bed still sending out its signals. THEY come and another machine is set close to her and a drip fastened in her arm. She can not last out much longer.
Oh when will you arrive?
I look up to the ceiling and there is some attempt at artexing having been made but that now, is dinghy, faded to a greyish white. She moans and my heart goes out to her for this is now her journey and one she faces alone. It is nearly time, nearly over they tell me as once again they make their checks on her.
Oh when will you arrive?
Please, please let it be soon because the woman is losing strength fast. THEY come again, exchange low pitched words indicating urgent attention will soon be needed. The woman and myself, we both need you to arrive. I glance at the monster eye overhead, which never wavers is dispassionate, and send up a silent prayer. I am informed you are on your way. You are close now and then finally, at
six thirty in the morning you arrive.
I look at you and I love you. I hand you to your mummy whose face is very tired but oh so jubilant. Welcome to the world my beautiful grandson. The light is switched off and I leave the room, leave mother and son to rest. I walk out into the cool, fresh, morning air and let the tears roll then dry on my face, unashamed, for haven’t I just discovered and witnessed the Greatest Show on Earth?

'The Humpty-Dumpty' by Peter Hodges

2010-04-19T09:17:00.000-07:00

The Humpty-Dumpty of my childhood was nothing to do with a nursery rhyme. Yet to me it was no less magical. It was a field, if it could be called that, for it could not be put to much use, but in there lay the name. Humps and bumps, scrub thorn and rabbit holes, gullies, pieces of iron, brick and lumps of concrete, and this was our playground. A magical place where mist might sneak up from the canal that bordered the far side. Or the wind would scurry and sigh. Or snow would fill hollows and our sledges would drop in and we with them.
Humpty Dumpty, now there was a name. As I go back to those days the name gathers a momentum of memories. Then it was just a name made up by us kids because it identified where we played. Now, of course, I know why it was like that. My village was valued for sand. Dark red and smooth, it was in great demand by Black Country metal founders. It readily took the shape of the pattern, would hold firm when the metal was poured, easily cleaned away when the casting was cool. All around my village were quarries. Open pits, sheer cliffs, made by whomsoever gained the rights, and when exhausted, gone bankrupt, or simply died, these places were abandoned. A pit or a spoil heap, a waste that to nature was never waste for long, quickly became a playground.
Now, as I look across from the stile on the cliff – or where the stile and cliff used to be for both are gone to way make for houses and mothers with pushchairs – I wonder how much I recognise. The humps and the bumps, are they in my imagination? Do I really see them? Is the old path part of my memory or is it also imaginary? Am I in the same place? The right path? From where I used to live to the bridge where we would wait for the trains. To laugh and cough as smoke blew in our faces. To wave at the engine driver who never waved back. Between hedges and old farm shedding to where I now stand. Is all this what I once knew? Where we hunted for rabbits and never caught one, raided birds nests knowing it was wrong. The canal's still there. Narrow boats now. Then it was barges pulled by horses with noses in oat bags puffing out dust at each laborious step.
Old Creswell's horse lived on the Humpty Dumpty. A large white beast that, to us, was part of the place. Never doing anything but wander and graze, never bothering us, and we never bothering it. Now gone, like Old Cresswell's gone. Like Humpty Dumpty has gone because we all grew up and left and the name came with us.

'The Move' by Rosie Pugh

2010-04-07T06:23:00.000-07:00

I sat in the picture house and became part of a fantasy world for a few short hours. I wondered if what I saw was true for I had never seen it happen in my everyday life. I was fifteen and was just finishing my second holiday job before going back to the polytechnic college in the autumn term
On the way home we went to the sea cliff and dangled our legs over the edge watching the sea lap the sandy beach below. From one of the café’s music was filtering through playing ‘Mary Lou’. A dark blue, velvet sky hung above where the stars shone. The moon peeped through and the sound of the ocean was near by. It was heaven. But when I went home I would receive news that would break my heart and change my life forever.
Nothing had prepared me for the shock when Mum greeted me with the news that we were off to England. England to me was where my father had gone to find work. I begged and pleaded, but to no avail, this nightmare would not go away. I was leaving my beautiful Ireland. Mum’s health was deteriorating and she was concerned that we would be split up. I was forbidden to let our father know.
I didn’t fully understand because the issues were never explained. In those days children just did as they were told. Everything was sold, even the beautiful Bible that was our father’s. All that we took was what we stood up in and a few extra items in a suitcase.
We went to say goodbye to friends and cousins of Mum’s near Great Uncle Barney’s place. And we made our last goodbyes to the mountains, sea and surrounding fields of Frosses and Meenbrock.
My brothers were only seven and ten. How they felt I don’t know. Even today it’s not mentioned. We stayed at the Mc Nulty’s before we departed in the morning. My pain was so great I ran away. I was engulfed in a sea of tears that ran down my face as fast as my legs were running. But there was no place for me to hide. I feared that if I stopped I would crumble into pieces. Eamonn my friend found me. There was a search party out looking for me. Reluctantly I went back; I was terrified. I was leaving everything behind that I loved and the place where I felt safe.
Much of the journey I don’t remember, except sailing across the rough sea, which was horrific. We huddled on deck: my brothers Philip and Johnny clinging to our mum; me gazing across the ocean - tears as wild as the sea would not stop running down my face. The pain in my chest was fierce. I could not breathe. People were huddled together, crying and being seasick. The sky was as dark as the sea below. Waves tossed the ship from side to side as it made the journey across the ocean. How long we sailed I don’t remember. I had switched off. As we drew near people were shouting and pushing getting ready to leave the ship.
When we disembarked, I saw tall buildings, fast cars and no smiling faces. I did not know our destination at the time; only Mum knew. We boarded a coach that would take us to Scotland to some friends of Mum’s. I stayed outside as I did not like the feel of the area and it would be years later that my brother Philip would tell me the name. Mum emerged from that place and once more we boarded a coach where we slept for the night.
We arrived in Birmingham with no place to stay and wandered the streets looking for help. Finally, Mum found an organisation that helped immigrants; funny though, Mum and Dad were not immigrants and neither was I but because we came from living in Ireland we were classed as one. We found a room for the night, and then the next morning we were moved again; where, we did not know. What was to become of us?
Our father knew nothing of these plans. We had not seen him that summer. What had gone on for Mum to bring us? The light of the early morning filtered through the window of the small room that the four of us shared that night. It was cold as we emerged into the light of the day to once more wander the streets until finally we were put in touch with a woman with a grown up son in Yardley.
Time went by and Mum went to meet Dad and that was when all hell was let loose. Once more it was my fault. He roared at me. Why did you not tell me what was going on? I started to explain. No one wanted to listen.
In due course we moved to Chester Road. My parents rented the top flat of a very large house, which was the attic. It was both the sitting room and my parent’s bedroom. My brothers had a room next door and my room was on the second floor. By then I was working at Woolworth’s. I had to hand over my wage packet to my father unopened.
After a couple of years I left home and by nineteen I was married.

'Tales of a Carer ( Number 2 )' by Peter Hodges

2010-04-07T04:42:00.000-07:00

Reg is six-foot-six. His thinning hair brushes the top of a standard doorway. This means his white cane is so long that it stretches out in front of him. A cane is chosen for the individual: length because the handle is held at chest level; tip type to suit terrain and likely hazards.
Meeting Reg in a doorway is a hazard in itself. If you don't see the ball tip come nipping through like a rat out of a hole, it's between your legs before you know it.
Cars on pavements are a particular bane to the visually impaired and here the stick offers a kind of perverse satisfaction. Whereas the cane will detect the vehicle, the tip may well go under the bumper or be caught in a wheel arch; the consequence of which can be a bent cane or the tip broken off. The stick may not notify of the hazard and the user may well get barked shins or a bang on the face. This leads to a sudden surge of anger and a rush of adrenaline. If anyone is in the vehicle or, indeed, in the vicinity, they will be adequately informed of the situation as that stick soundly smacks each body panel as it passes. Well worth it, one might say.

'At the Bottom of My Garden' by Maureen Bradley

2010-04-06T07:15:00.000-07:00

Every year Blackpool Illuminations caused chaos by the volume of traffic that queued up outside my house, which was situated on the Blackpool Road, on the outskirts of Preston. It was like this from September to November each year. I suppose we got used to the noise of the cars and coaches and the frustration of trying to cross the road.
If I walked down the garden and opened a small gate in the fence there was a totally different scene. I stepped out into a park where I had spent many happy hours as a young girl.
My dog Buster went for a walk there every day and loved to have such an expanse of grass to run after balls and sticks. I played putting, pitch & putt and tennis with my friends. I often went to the bowling green to watch my granddad and uncle play bowls.
In the middle of the park there were some woods and a pond that always had a few ducks on. It was a good place to play hide and seek. We used to pick bluebells, primroses and make daisy chains.
On a Saturday afternoon I used to watch the local cricket teams play and then the football teams later in the year.
It is only now as I look back that I think how very fortunate I was to have such a lovely park at the bottom of my garden.

‘Walking in the Dark’ by Joyce Hayward

2010-04-06T07:09:00.000-07:00

That night we had gone to a ball in the local town hall, leaving my parents to care for our four very young children who would be up early – if not awake during the night itself. So it was imperative that we got home at a reasonable hour. Also, we needed to milk a herd of cows ready for milk collection at 8.00am.
We had left the town and were going up a gradual bank when the old, green Volvo estate car ground to a halt. We tried in vain to get it to go; but to no avail. There was no option; phone boxes were far away ( no mobiles then ) and so there was nowhere to ring for help. We realized we had no alternatives, so we had to leg it home in all our finery – and me in high heels too.
We knew the family at the first farm we passed; but at that time of night there was no way we could call there for help as they had an Alsatian guard dog because there had been a spate of farm fires and the arsonist was still at large in the vicinity.
When we reached the next tiny hamlet, about a mile further along the road, our footsteps disturbed every dog in the district; but no one was about and everywhere was in darkness.
By now I was beginning to get very weary and footsore and clung on to my husband. The wind was getting up and the trees started creaking. The leaves in the ditches were rustling and shadows appeared everywhere. Owls were shrieking and things were running across in front of our path. By now, I was scared stiff and as I was never keen on the dark, my imagination was beginning to run riot.
Eventually we heard a vehicle approach from behind; but it passed and turned off at the next lane. So we carried on regardless.
A few minutes later another drove up from the direction in which we had just come. The car slowed down and a voice said, ‘I thought it was you two – I saw your car on Birch Bank. Do you want a lift?’
You bet your life we did and he took us home.
He was a young neighbour of ours who lived in a lane overlooking our house. In fact he had passed our car and gone home. But then decided to drive along the lanes until he returned to find us in his headlights.
Years later he and our eldest son are now brothers-in-law having married two sisters from a neighbouring village.

'A House or a Home?' by Elisa Hill

2010-03-31T02:58:00.000-07:00

A house? A home? So many memories. Marks on the wall as children grew. Graves in the garden of dearly loved pets. Digging and finding soldiers; spoons smuggled outside to dig with by naughty kids. The longest time I’ve ever spent in any home. As a child a year in one place was a long time.

But it’s a frustrating place. Faults seem to jump out. This needs painting. That needs holes filled in. Hardly seems possible so many of us lived here. Where did we all fit? I suppose they were all smaller then. Now they are all taller than me! Looking around many memories play at once. A small son too frightened to go upstairs alone. Friends who came there. A son who had a fight with his brother. The late night phone calls.
Can it really mean that much? It’s just four walls.

My son comes to visit. “Sorry love its such a mess," I say.
“Don’t worry its home," he replies.
I realise to him its more than four walls. It’s a comforting place. He wants it to stay the same. Just being here makes him feel safe. Puzzling! …It annoys the heck out of me!

'Life Drawing' by Jan Lloyd

2010-03-28T05:06:00.000-07:00

I clutched the painting tightly under my coat to protect it from the rain which had started dripping down. I was excited and pleased that I'd completed the class project to paint a view from a window and I felt sure this would be my entry into Miss Cartwright's good books. I had been at the Fenshaw Infant and Junior school for four years after moving to Delbury from South Wales in 1958. The school was situated at the end of a Victorian row of houses and only five minutes walk from my house. It was a tall imposing red brick building with high windows so the pupils would not be distracted by the outside world. The playground was split in two so girls and boys were separated during play time. The toilets were in an old brick building at the end of the playground and were cold and damp even in the summer months. Despite this seemingly archaic and austere environment I loved the school and had made many friends despite my initial fears on first arrival. My one and only remaining fear was the strict and severe Miss Cartwright who continually reminded me that I would never amount to much and would certainly never, ever, be as clever as my brother who she taught three years previously and was now at the local grammar school.
I arrived at the school breathless from running in an attempt to avoid getting too wet from the down pour. There was a buzz in the queue of children waiting to walk through the entrance. It was the last week of term before the summer holidays and my class were chattering about their various paintings and what they had chosen to paint. We finally reached our class room at the top of the building having taken our wet things off in the cloakroom. Miss Cartwright sat at her desk looking down at the assembled children with her beady eyes and proceeded to take the register. She had a very thick North Welsh accent and her words were pronounced in adenoidal tones which came forth through very red lipstick coated lips. Her cheeks were always covered in too much rouge and her hair sat like a dark mop on top of her head so she resembled a very fierce clown. The register completed, Miss Cartwright announced that we should place our paintings on our desks and await her judgement. I proudly placed my painting out before me looking straight ahead so as not to be put off by the competition. I had chosen as my subject, "A view from my bedroom window". My bedroom window looked out at the River Delby which flowed past the back of the house. I was never bored of looking at this beautiful scene which I awoke to every morning and would always gaze in wonder when I'd drawn the curtains just to check it was still flowing by and at the many seasonal changes which took place on the water. The various wildlife which lived here: ducks, swans, kingfishers, water rats and voles all enjoying the pleasures of the river. There before me was my creation of the pretty river scene which I loved to watch every day. Miss Cartwright drew nearer, I listened to her glowing comments bestowed upon the other pupils getting more excited as she neared my desk. She was then standing in front of me looking at my painting. Her face started to distort and I could see spit flying from her red painted mouth as she spouted distain at my work.
"What an awful mess, why have you painted the water brown? Water is blue." she hissed.
I felt my legs turn to jelly as she continued to rant about my painting. All I could think of was the colour of the river which I saw every day. “It is brown,” I thought, “it's muddy and brown!”
Miss Cartwright then held my painting up to the rest of the class and continued with my humiliation by stating that messy paintings like mine would be eliminated from the competition and proceeded to tear my picture into pieces. I was devastated to see my beautiful painting torn up and dropped into the litter bin. Some of the children stared at me, others dared not look as I fought back the tears which were stinging my eyes. Miss Cartwright then stood at her desk and announced the winner; it was Colin Hough, who'd drawn his garden with a dog in the foreground, entitled "Misty". He went up to the desk beaming and Miss Cartwright gave him a box of toffees. I sat looking down, hurt and confused. “The river is brown,” I kept repeating to myself, “not blue.....”
That was forty seven years ago now and a lot of things have happened since that awful day but I remember it vividly. My self esteem was shattered and I never felt confident about painting after that. I still live by the same river and it's still brown and muddy. Life was always difficult after that, I struggled to fulfil my ambitions because of Miss Cartwright's cruel comments. I failed my eleven plus, unlike my clever brother, married young, had two sons, divorced and worked at various jobs over the years. I now find myself at home with my partner, disillusioned having reached middle age and still dreaming about an exciting creative life but it seems to be passing me by and I still continue to clean, cook, wash and iron!
It was over a year ago, when I bumped into an old friend, Cath, and we got talking and caught up with the gossip. Cath was starting an art course and suggested I joined her, it would be starting in a week and there were still places left. All my fears of old started to creep over me and I made some excuse and said, "What would I be doing on an art course, I can't draw for goodness sake". Cath said she couldn't either but thought it would be fun. I went home feeling uplifted from our meeting but still not sure about joining the course; Miss Cartwright's fury loomed from my memory. The following day Cath rang me and tried persuading me again. She reassured me that I should at least try and that I could always leave if I didn't like it. Still feeling like that devastated school girl I felt the butterflies in my stomach thinking I would never be able to lift a paint brush again. But I suddenly found myself saying, “Yes” and heard Cath shouting, “Hooray!” down the phone. "I'll pick you up next Tuesday and don't worry it will be fun!"
Cath and I arrived at the class and walked hesitantly in and was greeted by the art teacher, a very bohemian looking character, called Frank Morgan. There were several women and one other man and they all seemed friendly and we introduced ourselves and sat back with eager anticipation. Our first assignment was an autumnal theme and were all sent into the garden to collect appropriate material. I chose some unusual coloured leaves and a pine cone. As we sat around drinking coffee and dabbling with our various pictures I felt a surge of enthusiasm. “I can do this,” I thought, “ I'm not that nervous little school girl any longer, I'm going to enjoy the moment!”
For the next term we continued to produce our creations which were met with positive feedback or sometimes constructive criticism. Over the weeks my confidence grew and my friendships with the rest of the group also blossomed. I realised from chatting to the people there that we all have a story to tell and our lives are not always what we dreamt of. One lady was struggling to care for an elderly mother, another had suffered a nervous breakdown. There were many more stories told over the months and we all helped one another through the ups and downs of life sharing our joys and sorrows and creating little masterpieces along the way. I realised all aspects of life was in attendance here and it helped put my life into perspective and made me realise I had nothing to complain about.
At the end of the year it was the usual practice to have an exhibition of work. My old fears and anxieties returned and started to panic about the viewers reactions and responses. Frank was continually reassuring and encouraged all of us to pick at least three pieces. I decided to put in three pieces of abstract work and busily made preparations. I had them framed and labeled and took them to the gallery where they were to be presented. Cath was there along with the rest of the group and we set about displaying our work. Although dubious about my contribution I couldn't help but feel proud of what we had all achieved through the year.
The opening night arrived and we waited nervously for the viewing public to come in to offer their opinions. We served wine and nibbles and it all seemed like another world but the night went well and most of the comments were positive.
We all had to take turns to sit for a few hours over the next fortnight should anyone want to purchase a painting. Cath and I duly took our turn on the rota and we sat patiently whilst people wondered in to view. Imagine my surprise when a lady started enthusing about one of my paintings. She was from New York and one of my abstracts was entitled "New York Skyline". The lady finally came to the desk and asked me if she could buy the painting and was leaving that afternoon so needed to take it that day. It was with utter disbelief that I removed the picture from the wall and packed it and then received money for it. My thoughts returned to the classroom where I had been so horribly humiliated all those years ago and felt a big surge of pride whilst I handed over the painting. Cath also sold a painting and we both went to a bar later and celebrated our new found fame. I now felt completely free of that horrible experience and was able to finally let go. I now realise that it should never have affected me so profoundly but the life stories at my new art classes had helped me to realise that. At last I could now move forward to a positive future having found an interest for just me!

'The Ups and Downs of Life' by Maureen Bradley

2010-03-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Good things that have happened to me this week:

1. There was a knock at the door when I opened it there was the most beautiful arrangement of flowers that had been sent from my friend Ann in America to celebrate my birthday.
2. I went to sit for my twin grand daughters and Fay took her first steps.
3. I finished editing the church magazine and was pleased to take it to the printers.
4. I went to a meeting at the Mytton and Mermaid and enjoyed a wonderful buffet lunch.
5. I enjoyed the company of my daughter Alison and her dog Penny who stayed with me for a few days.

Not so good things that happened to me this week

1. I woke up with my nose streaming and knew I was in for a bad cold which although I am not ill makes you feel miserable.
2. I lost my glasses and it took me an hour to find them, they were under the bed.
3. I went to a supermarket at the other side of Shrewsbury. I got out of the car with my bags and shopping list, then realised I had left my money at home.
4. My daughter’s Labrador stayed and it took me a long time to hoover up her dog hairs.
5. I had a blood test and it took two attempts to find a vein. Not good!

'Homecoming' by Rosie Pugh

2010-03-22T10:32:00.000-07:00

The old woman sprang up as Ruth entered the room clutching a photograph. Mary did not need a picture to know who the young woman was. Tears escaped as she held out her arms.
‘I never thought we would ever meet again. Ruth, why did you take so long to return?’
‘Circumstances,’ Ruth replied, ‘I never wanted to come, but I had no choice. I couldn’t settle in that strange country. Our culture is so different from theirs. But how did you know me?’
‘Your eyes, they are so deep I would recognize you anywhere. You wore your hair differently then. You had it in plaits when you came here with your mum.' Mary paused and thought back to the old times. 'Do you remember your great uncle’s farm? Do you remember how we all helped with harvesting the hay. The children, including you Ruth, would dance on the pile of hay to help to bed it together. In the evening we gathered round the fire and your great uncle played the fiddle. What happy times we had together.’
As Ruth gazed through the window, flashes of memory flicked by. Tears welled up and, unable to hold back, she sobbed in Mary’s arms. Like a broken dam, there was no stopping; the pent up emotion broke through.
Ruth could see the tall mountains, they seemed as if they were welcoming her home as the sun shone above them. The forest near by was where as children she had played imaginary games. Wild fields that grew and knew no bounds with grass so high they hid from one another.
Mary looked at Ruth and knew that time was running out. Her heart felt heavy. She held Ruth close as if this was their last moment. To Mary, Ruth was like one of her own. Her lost child had returned.

'The First Baby' by Louise McClean

2010-03-22T09:59:00.000-07:00

I was nineteen when I had my first child and though we hadn't planned to start our family so soon, accidents happen, and we weren't over bothered.
Having been the first grandchild and the first to marry, I now also produced the first of the new generation. This was a bit alarming as I didn't know the first thing about babies and the eyes of the extended family were upon me.
To help matters the baby, David, was a month premature weighing just five and a half pounds when we brought him home from hospital.
At the time (September 1953) we were living in Ulster in a little wooden house which had been a WW1 army hut. It was heated by a small coal burning stove in the living room. In this room we did everything except sleep - cooking, washing, the lot. There was no bathroom of course, but at least the toilet was indoors which was quite a luxury in those days.
So we brought this premature baby home in a wicker basket and laid him on the couch and gazed at him in awe. He slept for the next hour while we had a cuppa and we watched his every move lovingly.
As he awoke and began to cry I jumped into action. I was going to breast feed, naturally, but first I had to change his nappy. This was no easy matter with that huge towelling nappy and that great lethal pin and such a tiny baby, but eventually I did it and we settled down for our first feed at home, feeling quite relaxed.
It had seemed quite easy in hospital with the nurses at hand, but it wasn't so straight forward at home I discovered. He kept dozing off every few minutes and I struggled to keep him awake and sucking. After about half an hour I gave up and put him asleep into the basket. Fine, he slept for ten minutes and then woke up and yelled till his little face was bright red. So, I lifted him again, put him to my breast again, he went to sleep again, I put him down again and in ten minutes he was yelling again!
By this time I was at my wit's end. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was an obvious failure as a mother and my husband was no help at all - useless in fact.
After about two hours of this I was in tears. My husband got on his bike and went to ask my mother what I should do. She arrived back with him but by then the baby was asleep with pure exhaustion and so was I! She did her best to reassure me, made a cup of tea and went home again.
This pantomime continued for about a week with me feeding non-stop, day and night and never managing to get out of my nightie. Eventually the district nurse came and seeing my exhaustion and my poor sore breasts, suggested we put the baby on a bottle (National dried milk in those days) and the problem was solved. I was obviously a failure as a breast feeder but by this time I couldn't have cared less. My baby was sleeping, well some of the time at least and life took on some sort of pattern and normality at last.
Looking back over David's first few months, it's a miracle he survived at all due to my ignorance. But survive he did and he turned out a really healthy, happy child who was six foot tall by the time he was fourteen so I must have done something right!
Life was a lot easier with my other three children who were all bottle fed from birth. They may have suffered some deep psychological harm because of this but who was caring- not me for sure! I'm all for the easy life.

'A Strange Affair' by Jan Lloyd

2010-03-18T08:43:00.000-07:00

John's wedding was a strange affair! Not the normal nuptials we are all used to. No, John wanted something significant, an event which would be etched in our memories for ever.
John is someone who is commonly known as an anorak. He is a dedicated, earnest and no holds barred, train enthusiast. How could someone who stands out in all weathers waiting to photograph a particular steam train, who will rise at the crack of dawn to spot a particular engine pulling into a station, have a "normal" wedding.
So it seemed perfectly acceptable when I received my invitation to John and Rose's wedding to attend, not a church, but the Severn Valley Railway!
On July 21, 2007 I duly arrived at the station to board a steam train. Along with many other guests we squeezed into one of the carriages which had been decorated accordingly with flowers and ribbons adorning the windows and seats.
As the couple recited their vows and the ceremony progressed the train chugged along through pretty countryside at a steady pace. Steam spouted past the windows forming romantic puffs of clouds in the sky. By the time we reached our destination the couple were happily married and the guests were offered champagne. The reception continued on the train as we returned and a special wedding feast was served. The cake was a splendid concoction and was designed in the shape of, you guessed it, a steam train! The champagne continued to flow freely and lots of interesting photographs were taken to mark the happy event. Although it was tricky to remain steady as the train moved along the whole event was joyful but amusing at times.
The couple return every year to celebrate their anniversary and travel on the same route to remind them of their "strange" but romantic wedding day.

‘Where Did It All Go?’ by Maureen Bradley

2010-03-07T10:36:00.000-08:00

Mary sits looking out of her flat window as the tide ebbs across the wide, flat sands.
‘What had Sue spent all the money on? It was a total mystery.’
Neither of them had married, but lived happily together in a house where they had both looked after their elderly parents and when their mother and father died they had continued to live together in the family home.
In time, Sue died of a heart attack and Mary visited the solicitor to see what she would inherit. When she walked into the office to see Mr. Snodgrass, the family solicitor, he told her to sit down as he had some things to discuss with her.
He looked very solemn and then startled her by saying, ‘I’m very sorry to tell you Miss Jenkins but I don’t think you’ll like what I’m going to say.’
Unfortunately,’ said Mr Snodgrass, ‘ the family home must be sold to clear your sister’s debts and there might just be enough left for you to purchase a flat.’
So Mary had to move to a one bed-roomed flat in not the most desirable part of the town. She now lives very simply and appreciates what she has. ‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can do without, that matters.’
‘But where did all that money go?’ she thinks to herself, ‘Where did it all go?’
It is late evening and the setting sun glows a deep orange colour on the horizon.

'Kwaga Will Get You Sweetcorn' by Elisa Hill

2010-03-07T04:11:00.000-08:00

The old woman sprang up. She thought to herself, “Why on earth is that cat scratching around in my garden? I don’t put bird food out any more." She ran out. The cat had a baby shrew in its mouth. She chased it away and the shrew escaped into the bushes. She went slowly back into the house. "Too cold to sit out there."
Most of her day was spent staring into the garden, watching the birds and their fights. She knew every one and watched them raising their chicks and flying away.
To the neighbours and their kids she was just the nutty old woman who lived with her daughter and shouted at cats. But inside her mind she relived her youth: the men she had known; the affairs she had gossiped about; her mother and her childhood in Dawley; her marriage to a Kenyan policeman and her life nursing..
A middle-aged woman stood and watched as her mother chased the cat. She knew her friends had thought she was crazy to keep her mother at home. “Put her in a care home, you deserve to live your life now the kids have their own lives." was the general consensus. She knew her mother was a shadow of the woman she had once been. All her life experiences -does she remember anything at all? What goes on inside her head. Who is she really? She was scared of the time when her mother would become incontinent. Her mother was already having nightmares and screaming at unseen people in Swahili.
A teenager looked up reluctantly from her laptop, "OK, I’ll stay with Nan while you go shopping; but I have to go out at eleven." Could she really cope with her grandmother any longer. She knew this dried up old woman, who was once vibrant, ran hospital wards, and lived through the Mau-Mau troubles in Kenya, was deserving of more; but she was so difficult to handle and imagined everyone was cheating her out of her money, accused her of having affairs and generally lived in a fantasy world. The young girl texted her friend, looked up and saw her grandmother escaping out of the back door again.
"The house boy hasn’t dug the pit. Kwaga will get you sweet corn for your tea."

'Sleeping under the Table' by Jan Lloyd

2010-03-07T03:36:00.001-08:00

As I gazed at the old photograph of my father I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The small, neglected figure stared out at the photographer with a careworn expression, as if inwardly pleading for help. It was a picture from an unknown world which I never knew about. It was taken before my father had been adopted and in a town of which I have very little knowledge. His mother had been forced to give him up when he was four years old and he told me, whilst still alive, of his bitter memory of being taken to the railway station and waving a tearful farewell to his mother. The train he boarded took him away from Hartlepool to a new life in South Wales but did not bring him the comfort of which he must surely have dreamed. He had been sent to an elderly couple who did not provide the loving home he so wished for; instead he spent more miserable years, always yearning for his real mother, with the painful memory of her waiting on the platform etched in his mind, as she watched the train take away her little boy.
The limited information I gleaned from my father was that his mother was single and could not afford to keep him when she became pregnant with his brother. This was in the early 1920's and he remembers the poverty and having to sleep under the kitchen table where the draughts from the back door sealed his watery eyes shut. His feet became deformed due to wearing ill fitting shoes and had to have numerous, painful operations to correct the deformities later in life. My poor father was greatly affected from this terrible wrench in his childhood and I believe he never recovered from the heartache he endured.
He did manage to find his real mother, who he was reunited with in later life but, unfortunately, a short time before she passed away. He thinks, too, that she had been greatly traumatised by her plight and although she was pleased to find him again could never recover from the loss of her first born. My father was also introduced to the brother he never knew and had some years of comfort in sharing the memories of time gone by.
One of my many ambitions is to trace my paternal family tree and find out about my grandmother and the hardships she courageously bore. I have a photograph of her which doesn't make me sad as she is smiling warmly at the camera and I see similarities in her face to mine. It makes me feel content and happy that she saw her son again and was able to take him by the hand and tell him she loved him and to see her name on the back of the photo, Mary Hannah.

'Daffodils in Dymock' by Joyce Hayward

2010-03-03T08:36:00.000-08:00

One place I have become familiar with over the past twenty three years is Dymock near Gloucester where some friends of ours farmed on a large scale over Dymock and nearby Much March and Kempley. It is a beautiful part of Gloucestershire, on the edge of the Forest of Dean and home to many wild daffodils.

When the spring came I was never happy until we had made our pilgrimage to see the ‘daffs’. These dainty, pale-yellow flowers grew everywhere: in fields, in orchards where apple trees were hung with bountiful bunches of mistletoe, in ditches, on the roadside and in woodlands. One special place where they grew most prolifically was the churchyards of ancient churches, which in themselves were interesting and beautiful. In March, daffodils thrived everywhere, in their natural habitat, and special walks and routes were set out for visitors to the area.

Many years ago there was a special train from London which brought families to pick daffodils for the markets. What delightful work they must have enjoyed!

After we had completed our tour we would meet up and enjoy an evening meal with our friends. Our husbands, both farmers, would have a good and lively row about some trivial problem to do with farming.

Sadly, they have both died in the last few years; but when they were alive they gave us a sack of daffodil bulbs which we planted in our garden and so each year in March we have their blooms which help us to remember them and the beautiful place they lived in.

'Honfleur' by Rosie Pugh

2010-03-02T07:47:00.000-08:00

Once I was on holiday in Honfleur and became bewitched by the place. As I walked among the tall buildings feelings of ancient times seeped through me.
It was a painter’s dream: the striking colours of the narrow houses and the beautiful boats moored in a fishing harbour that I bet could tell a tale.
Wandering the narrow cobble streets I found farmers in the market selling their wares: lettuce as large and green as the fields they came from; onions - white and red with garlic nestling by them; cheese of all kinds which filled my senses with their aroma and apples galore used for making the finest cider - calvados from the best apples in France.
Near by a boulangerie was selling fresh baked bread. I bought bread and cheese and sat on the sea wall, having my lunch, as I watched the world pass by.
I became aware of a tall building behind the farmers’ stalls: Sainte-Catherine’s Church was gazing down at me. It was made entirely of wood, except for the foundations and the plaster-covered bricks which filled the spaces between the wooden uprights. I was drawn to its large door; gently I opened it and ambled inside. I gazed around and the stillness of the church engulfed me. Music filtered through the space and the left side of the church was ablaze with candles of all sizes burning brightly. I walked across and I picked a candle of blue with the picture of Sainte-Catherine. My thoughts went to my family and the people of the world as I lit the candle. A last look; my eyes were drawn to the roof, it looked like the upturned hull of a boat. There was peace within those walls.
I returned to the harbour and sat at one of the café’s. I felt enchanted by what I had found and seen in Honfleur

'Tales of a Carer ( Number 1 )' by Peter Hodges

2010-02-24T07:03:00.000-08:00

We deliver Christmas cards together. Our road and round about, she with the white stick, me guiding. Well, that's the way it's supposed to be, isn't it? I carry the cards, about a dozen divided into roads and houses, the ones she can do, the rest for me.
We're about halfway when she says, "How many left?"

"Six," I say.
"Which ones?"
I read out the names. She asks for so-and-so's and so-and-so's. "And you do numbers 32 and 34."
"Why not 33?" I ask.
"No, I'll do that. They've got a funny step. You'll fall over it."

'On the Way to the Match' by Marina Jeavons

2010-02-24T07:00:00.000-08:00

We’re on our way among the throng.
The hustle and bustle and hubbub of voices surround us. We hear the would be experts extolling their opinions and the would be football managers putting their team to rights. “What the hell was he thinking taking off the centre forward, we need somebody up front!” “I wish he would buy a good striker”. “Our problem is shooting … we’ve got nobody who can find the back of the net.”
Everyone is wearing jeans. Jeans of every shade from darkest navy to palest blue. Tight fit jeans, baggy jeans, torn jeans and jeweled and sequined jeans. All are here on display.
But the bums in the jeans are varied just as much.
In front of me is a wobbly one, clad in pale tatty jeans. The jeans are low slung and the crutch reaches nearly to its owner’s knees. The bottoms of the jeans are dragging in the dust, torn and frayed. Their owner walks with a rolling gait, hands in pockets.
Now along comes a neat and tidy one clad in dark blue, tight fitting stretch jeans. Their owner strides purposefully along and soon overtakes everyone.
Ah! Here comes a bricklayer. Low slung pale jeans with a broad leather belt not doing it’s job. Their owner is loud and slobbers as he puffs on his cigarette.
Now we have the jeweled-jeaned bums, two together. Oh my God! One has the bottoms of their jeans tucked into knee-high shiny boots, while the other displays the top of a lacy thong.
But enough!
We are nearing the turnstiles and the tempting aromas of the food stalls beckon. Let’s forget about backsides and think about the match!

'Walking by the River Severn' by Jan Lloyd

2010-02-21T03:44:00.001-08:00

I enjoy walking along the tow path of the River Severn which stretches from my back garden around the historic town of Shrewsbury. The well trodden route has become familiar to me over the many years I have walked here but my favourite time is when spring arrives. It's wonderful breathing in the fresh, new air after the long, winter months have had their toll on my psyche. What an uplifting experience to witness the bursting forth of new life with the promise of warmer weather to come. Seeing the drakes on the water becoming excited, fluttering and flaunting their amorous advances toward their chosen, but indifferent mate, is always amusing to watch whilst I feed them yesterday's bread. I can't get enough of the fragrance which arrives at this time, particularly from the sap of the balsam poplar trees as it rises to greet the sun. The smell reminds me of a particular brand of sun tan lotion which my mother would daub on me as a child. The moment I breathe in the delicious scent I wonder whether the lotion contained this aromatic ingredient which makes me long for those idyllic, far off days of my childhood.
The trees line the edge of what was the football ground but sadly they have now dwindled due to root damage from the new developments taking place. I hope that the few remaining will continue to thrive and kick start my senses for many more spring times to come. Not only do they provide me with pleasure but they are used as landing posts for the cormorants visiting the town. I have counted up to six sitting in the branches whilst they quietly survey their surroundings. They perch patiently, waiting to swoop down and land a tasty fish for dinner.
The sounds from the river change with the seasons and the spring brings the rowers out. Boys from Shrewsbury School start their training in earnest, and whilst they exert their physical strength, the exuberant trainers shout out instructions from the bank. As they build up momentum the rowers appear to skim effortlessly whilst the rowing boats glide smoothly down stream.
I never fail to enjoy my outings along the river and despite the endless years I have ventured along the path there is always something new to take in. I usually complete my walk with a visit to a local cafe for my guilty pleasure, a creamy cappuccino and a Danish. I then return home feeling refreshed and contented.

'I Love India' by Elisa Hill

2010-02-12T04:49:00.000-08:00

I love India. The first time I went to Goa I got off the plane and was overwhelmed. The heat was like walking into an oven. I had an initial panic that I couldn’t breath; then I noticed the very air smelt spicy! Such a culture shock. You become an immediate target for street sellers; there were no pavements; old ladies were digging the roads - red earth, bright colours - ordinary women wearing the most vivid saris. Motor bikes were everywhere; no rules for the traffic, constant hooting, expecting everyone to get out of the way! Whole families on one motor bike - Dad, Mum and two kids and their flowing saris! Health and safety nightmare!

In the town of Margua there was a man with a pneumatic drill, digging the road, with people walking next to him (In Shrewsbury they put up barriers and council workers lay out traffic cones every time the river overspills its bank by a few inches).

One day I was on my own walking down the street, looking at the roadside stalls. I heard a loud shout and looked over and saw a Danish tourist pushing an old beggar, who had approached him, to the ground. Everyone seemed to gasp. I felt very ashamed, angry and confused.

'Senior Moments' by Maureen Bradley

2010-02-09T06:08:00.000-08:00

The Potato Peeler
I had been looking everywhere for an old fashioned potato peeler without any success. I was visiting an agricultural show and as I was looking round the stalls I found just what I was looking for.
When I got home and started to prepare the evening meal, I thought I would try out my new purchase. It was absolute rubbish and would not peel the potatoes. I was disappointed and threw it in the washing up bowl thinking that I had wasted my money.
Later that evening when I was washing up I came across the awful peeler and was about to throw it in the bin, when I discovered that the plastic cover was still on the blade.

Bargains
I was shopping in my local supermarket when I spotted a bargain shopping trolley in one of the aisles .On the top there were cakes that I presumed were past their sell by date. As I delved further I came across meat and vegetables. How strange, I looked over my shoulder and standing there was the tallest lady I had ever seen and then I realised she was wondering what I was doing going through her shopping.

Write up your Street

2010-01-18T05:04:00.000-08:00

In 2010 you will have the opportunity to take part in Care-Write, an exciting writing project open to all Unpaid and Family Carers in Shropshire.

We will be collecting your stories, poems and short autobiographical pieces as the year progresses and publishing a collection in an anthology in December 2010. The anthology will be launched at a celebratory evening and then circulated to Shropshire libraries and put on sale to the general public.

Writing has many positive benefits for you as a carer. It can enable you to: release emotions, grow in confidence, share experiences, resolve difficulties, explore other perspectives and escape through your imagination and fantasy. Also, carers have rich experiences directly of life and it's joys and sorrows and your writing can draw on these and can benefit others who read your work.

So, if you have ever felt you would like to express your thoughts and emotions in short stories or poems or if there been things which have happened in your life which you would like others to read about then this the opportunity for you!

There are three ways you can take part in the project:

( 1 ) Care-Write sessions

To help you take part there will be eight, monthly, two hour Care-Write sessions. You may like to attend all or some of these. In these relaxed and informal sessions we will work together to develop your writing technique and broaden your range of writing experience.

Future Care-Write sessions will take place at The Gateway in Shrewsbury on Thursday Feb 18th, Thursday March 11th and Thursday April 1st.

( 2 ) Submit work directly for the anthology

If you are unable to join us at the sessions, you can send your work for the anthology directly to the Care-Write editorial team. We hope to be able to give people tips on how to edit and improve their work. The editorial team will be led by Dave Bingham an experienced literary magazine and anthology editor.

( 3 ) Submit work, ideas, comments and opinions to the blog

Also, you will be able to publish your work on the Care-Write blog ( www.carewrite.blogspot.com ) which will keep people up-to-date with the project and publish the latest work on the internet as the project develops.

Send submissions for the anthology or the blog to Dave at one of the following addresses: Dave Bingham, Care-Write, The Gateway, Chester Street, Shrewsbury, SY1 1NB
or ‘e’ mail Dave at carewrite@gmail.com

We want to include as many writers as possible in the project; so please let us know if you have any ideas to help us do this.

If you wish to take part in the project or have any further questions please contact::

Dave Bingham, 01952 432112 or Jackie Smith, 01743 253906 or Sarah Bromley, 01743 355159
or
e mail the project at carewrite@gmail.com
or
write to Care-Write, The Gateway, Chester Street, Shrewsbury, SY1 1NB