Wrexham Write Now!, Page 3

  He turned away, choking back yet more tears, saw a runner salute General Urquhart and, his message delivered, head off again along the track to Oosterbeek.

  'How's that for bad luck?' he heard the General snarl to his aide. 'We called off the attempt to take back the Drop Zone ten bloody minutes ago.'

  'Jerry's got all the supplies?' said the aide.

  'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

  'But all those signals', thought Tony Crane. 'Warning them. Telling them to turn back'?

  'Why did they keep coming in, sir?' he said.

  'Why?' Urquhart replied. 'Because some silly bugger back in Blighty had told them to ignore all signals from the ground. In case it was a German trick. Can you believe that? All for nothing. Nothing.'

  David Lord was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for his conspicuous bravery on 19th September 1944, during the unsuccessful Operation Market Garden. A plaque in his memory is located in St Mary's Cathedral, Wrexham and a plaque can still be seen on the house where the family lived in Cilcen Grove, Acton. David is buried alongside his crew in Arnhem's Oosterbeek War Cemetery. They were Pilot Officer Dickie Medhurst and Flying Officer Alec Ballantyne, along with the army despatchers Corporal Phillip Nixon and Privates Len Harper, James Ricketts and Arthur Rowbotham. There was only one survivor - the navigator, Flying Officer Harry King, thrown clear by the blast.

  Tony Crane was born in Wrexham in 1924 and, in the days after the sacrifice made by Flight Lieutenant David 'Lummy' Lord, became famous for his actions as a sniper when his unit defended a house at 34 Pieterbergseweg, Oosterbeek. Tony died in January 2011. There is, of course, no reason to suppose that he actually witnessed the final moments of David Lord's famous flight, though he was certainly in the immediate area - and that, I think, gives us a reasonable basis for this piece of historical fiction.

  Acknowledgements: Arnhem: The Battle for Survival (John Nichol and Tony Rennell); So Near and yet So Far (Martin Bowman); and the website www.paradata.org.uk for its Extended Biography of Tony Crane.

  David Ebsworth is the pen name of historical fiction author Dave McCall.

  Wrexham

  www.davidebsworth.com

  @EbsworthDavid

  Shopping with my Mother

  My Mam says, 'Come to Wrexham with me,

  It's better when you're there.

  We'll just nip in for an hour or half.'

  So I sigh and we drive into town. The SatNav

  has the last laugh,

  with a different idea of where

  we are supposed to be.

  We glide past Glyndwr University,

  down Bridge Street to Island Green,

  and pull in by one of the parks.

  When I was a little girl, Wrexham was exotic.

  Now it's smaller, its Marks and Sparks

  is like every other, and some streets need a good clean.

  It feels grimy and gritty.

  We skirt through Bellevue, my Mam's arm looped in mine.

  I remember Wrexham as a teen, collecting bling in

  Bangles and Beads and heading to BHS for a sneaky wee.

  Hanging out and chatting

  before we tried to buy beer with a fake ID.

  Back then I'd swear, my brick-phone ringing

  as Mam called me home: oh effing fine.

  My pace has slowed.

  When I worked here in my twenties I explored.

  I rushed from job to job, running past

  St Giles' while sunlight spilled across rain-strewn paths.

  I used to be fast,

  Walking toward

  Caia Park to Eagles Meadow via Holt Road.

  Now I'm not; I'm older

  and my Mam older still, and

  less certain.

  'Is this really the right way?' she asks.

  We backtrack; our trip takes longer than half an hour,

  but it's not the worst of tasks.

  When I first came to Wrexham, she would hold my hand.

  Now it's my turn to hold hers.

  by Rhian Waller

  Finding Happiness

  Driving to a Happiness Workshop

  Out in Wrexham, one day

  Had me wondering where "it" was

  As I went on my way.

  The stress and the pressure of

  A frantic and busy life

  Had left me subdued

  On the edge of a knife.

  But the journey itself

  brought a smile to my face.

  The low winter sun

  beamed with beauty and grace.

  Quaint villages and the greenery

  glistened in the sunlight,

  and each meandering road travelled

  brought its own special delight.

  The venue located

  and a vision to behold,

  The most wonderful cottage and manor

  where you'd love to grow old.

  And that memorable driveway

  that brought down any defence,

  was seeing the doe-eyed cows

  smiling from over the fence.

  The day had started well,

  and I have to confess,

  that a location in Wrexham

  Was where I found "Happiness".

  Lynda Holmes-Kelly

  The Wirral

  Another Door Opens

  Crowds of public in a busy town. Thumping music, cloudy exhaust fumes, impatient revving. A squirming snake-line of traffic, broken by bleeping, flashing lights. Advertising boards, vacant shops, sale signs, dirty litter glued to the edge of kerbs. Amid the rushing pace, Adam stood. A foot above the pavement. His body motionless, his voice silent, his pulse steady.

  His eyes were staring at the photographs in the showcase of the local Amateur Theatre building in Hill Street. Cream painted walls with an artistically designed logo and edgings. The new, large window powered over the modernised entrance. Attractive and eye-catching. The stone built chapel had endured more than a century. It had changed from a place of worship to a place of entertainment. Only the triangular roof and the grey hard rock bore the symbols of time.

  Adam knew this because when younger, he had been a member of the Youth section. Rehearsed as a young thespian in the maze of makeshift rooms. His grandfather had once aided with the reformation informing him of the secrets of the underground cellars, now the dressing rooms.

  Ella and Harry were his rock. The scripts, with his words coloured in green highlighter pen. Ella's idea. They were never interested in the stage though. They had to work. Always wanted the best, a new car, newly-built four bedroom house. Very proud persons. He had everything he wanted. Very proud of Adam. They gave embarrassing hugs when they came to see their only child perform. He only had one photo of them together on holiday; all the rest were gone. The memory in his mind sent shivers travelling down his legs.

  Extra large shoes wobbled on the stand. He held his balance as the passing children laughed and they pointed their fingers. Adam shrugged, lifting his painted face to a smile, and waved. Then, off went his white gloves, off with the ruffle. Reaching his arms around the back of his neck, with a tug, pulled the velcro holding the silky fluorescent green clown's outfit apart. The arms out, it dropped to the pavement. Removing the large shoes, he packed the outfit away in a tatty old suitcase. He released a deep sigh as he sat on his box. The day was over; only his face paint to remove.

  "Don't forget the nose," a man said. He was in his late fifties, grey suited and leaned upon a carved walking stick. "It's Adam Moton, isn't it? Never forget a face." Aided by his stick, the man sat on a third level step. "Mr. Pomfrey! Bryn Alyn. English and drama teacher."

  Adam snatched at his artificial nose. How could he forget? Sitting in the corner. The tears of fear. Homework books torn. Detention, detention, detention. Picking up litter when the class was doing drama. Useless. That's what he said he was: useless.

  He didn't like the idea that his parents had money. Was in sch
ool with his dad. Always held a grudge towards him. He smirked as a thought sprang into his mind. The missing register, the glued desk drawers and many more that Mr. Pomfrey had not been able to solve.

  "Heard about the fire and wondered how you were?" he questioned.

  "I'm fine," said Adam. He knew where I lived twelve months ago. He could have found out then.

  Adam turned to pick up an old cap; people had been throwing money in. Grasping the coins, he slipped them into his pocket.

  "Here, let me help you." Mr. Pomfrey opened his wallet.

  Adam shook his head.

  "Maybe not then," mumbled the older man. "Lunch break over. Got to go." The man mingled with the people and disappeared.

  Adam lifted his suitcase and box. He didn't need charity; he could work. Tonight he would know. He walked between the cars up the hill. Listening for the ghostly cheers he had heard before. The door to a small, mid-terraced house opened as he closed the gate. An old man shaking an envelope and a book bowed. Adam knew he was to be Romeo.

  By Vivien Smith

  Wrexham

  This story was inspired by Grove Park Amateur Theatre in Wrexham where the author is a member.

  Rainbow Over Wrexham

  There's a rainbow over Wrexham

  After all the heavy showers

  And the high winds

  That wrecked our shed

  Blowing fence panels

  Across the estate

  Tipping wheely bins

  All over the lawn

  There's a rainbow over Wrexham

  Bright colours after a storm.

  There's a rainbow over Wrexham

  It looks very nice

  But will it bring jobs

  Or cut the price of fuel

  Because the mines and steelworks

  And the Lager Brewery have gone

  It's very beautiful don't get me wrong

  But it doesn't feed the children

  There's a rainbow over Wrexham

  I suppose we shouldn't moan.

  There's a rainbow over Wrexham

  It must have been our turn

  For a bit of decoration

  To brighten up this dreary town

  It's usually Chester that gets everything

  So we'll call this rainbow our own

  At least we don't have to pay for it

  Something to be grateful for

  There's a rainbow over Wrexham

  We don't get many of those.

  By David Subacchi, Wrexham

  www.facebook.com/david.subacchi

  Dydd of the Living Dead

  "The view from up here is amazing," said Animal, leaning precariously over the tower's wall.

  "Oh yeah, stunning," said Lemmy, looking over Dave's shoulder, at the scene below. "That horde of rampaging, flesh eating zombies will make a great promotional postcard for Wrexham."

  "What do you reckon that building over there is?" said Animal pointing.

  "Seriously? You're talking town planning at a time like this?"

  "I'm just interested," said Animal.

  Lemmy sighed. "Which one, the one that looks like a giant pair of skidders hanging on a radiator to dry?"

  "Yeah, that's the one."

  Lemmy shrugged his shoulders. "Swimming baths, perhaps?"

  "Oh yeah, looks a bit like a wave or something," said Animal, "and those chicks in bikinis, running around attacking people are a bit of a clue."

  "You amaze me, Animal," said Lemmy, raising his arms in disbelief and pacing away from his mate. "Here we are, stuck on the top of a medieval church roof, surrounded by a legion of the undead, and you don't seem bothered at all."

  "Don't forget the ones banging at the tower door."

  "How could I," said Lemmy, "listen to them? The only thing keeping them from getting to us is our helmets, jammed between the door and that pipe." Groans and grunts came from behind the small wooden door, punctuated by the odd thud as a hand or head or other extremity hammered against the wood. "So what is it? What is the secret to your calm outlook when the whole town has gone mental?"

  "Hey, I can see our bikes," said Animal. "They look tiny fro-"

  "What's up? What's the matter?" said Lemmy, running to join Animal at the wall. His face dropped as he witnessed the automotive violation going on, over 100 feet below his vantage point. "Oh no. No, no, no. I've only had it three weeks." At street level, two dozen zombies had run into, and over, the brace of motorbikes parked in the church grounds, dragging them for several yards with the force of their passing. Light lenses and mirrors cracked then shattered; petrol tanks were dented and control levers twisted. From atop of St Giles' tower, Lemmy howled like a wounded wolf. "Nooooooooo!"

  Animal tutted. "Good job we're insured, hey, mate?"

  Lemmy stared at Animal's smiling face for a few moments, with an incredulous look upon his own. "Hmm, not sure I ticked the box for zombie apocalypse and I can see some problems getting the admin sorted without having my face eaten off by the staff."

  Animal's grin grew wider. "Can't see this making any difference to the call centre service though, hey, mate?"

  Lemmy threw his arms up and let them fall to slap against his leather clad thighs. "There you go again, Mr Bloody Jolly. Can't you see what's going on here? Don't you understand how serious this mess is?"

  "Of course I do, mate, but there's not much we can do about it. Might as well enjoy the view. Hey, do you reckon it would be possible to run a zip wire from here to Debenhams?"

  "Why not, Animal. I mean, we've already got an eager customer base; all we need now is several hundred feet of steel rope and we're in business." Lemmy finished his sentence with a stabbing, 'Ha!'

  "No need to be like that, Lem, I was only saying."

  "Well, try saying something more constructive," said Lemmy, pacing up and down the roof and flapping his arms like a startled pigeon. "Like coming up with a plan to get us out of here."

  Animal nodded his head and began to take stock of the situation by looking over the sides of the tower's faces in turn. At each cardinal point he rubbed his chin before moving onto the next. After he completed his circumnavigation, he walked to the small wooden door and banged his fist upon it. The groans and growls increased in volume in reply. He stuck his right index finger in his mouth to wet it and held it aloft, his face a picture of concentration. Lowering his hand, he rubbed his stubble laden chin once more.

  "And?" said Lemmy, his patience exhausted.

  "We're surrounded from all sides on ground level and the number of zombies is only going to increase the longer we wait. Our only exit from this tower is that door," Animal pointed to it, "and that leads to a narrow staircase packed to the gills with more zombies than you can shake a stick at. To jump would be suicide and, as you pointed out, we haven't got the gear to construct a zip wire."

  "So?"

  "We're screwed," said Animal and smiled.

  Lemmy clenched his fists and stomped around the roof, swearing for thirty seconds without repeating himself once. Spent of all anguish, he bent forward resting his hands on his knees.

  "You okay, mate?" said Animal, patting Lemmy on the back.

  "Fine," said Lemmy, straightening up, "just getting used to my fate, walking the earth as a mindless freak, cursed for all time?or at least until I turn to dust."

  "It's just like that painting over the arch in the church," said Animal. "Looks like the artist was a prophet or something."

  "Painting? You mean the Doom Painting?"

  "Yeah, that's the one. All those corpses climbing out of their coffins, trying to get at that skinny, hippy looking dude."

  "That's not quite the same, Animal, those people were being accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven; in fact this is almost the complete opposite."

  "Are you sure, Lem, because the guide didn't get a chance to talk about it before that woman, who looked like she worked in a fast food chain, bit a chunk out of his neck? Maybe he would have told us about the curse of
Wrexham?"

  Lemmy walked over to the door. "Maybe we should ask him," he said. "I'm pretty sure he was one of the buggers chasing us up the stairs. Do you reckon he might have gone off the idea of eating us by now, lost his appetite, hmmm?"

  "There's no need to be like that, I'm only trying to help."

  "Help. Trying to help. All you're doing is being insufferably cheerful."

  "It's better than being a miserable, negative sod."

  "And what have you got to be positive about?"

  "Lots of things."

  "Like what, exactly?" spat Lemmy.

  "Well, we've seen all seven wonders of North Wales this weekend and I'm standing on the roof of the very last one with my best mate in all the world," said Animal. "And even if it's the last thing I'll probably get to do, because of the zombies and all that, it's okay with me." He gave the kind of heart-breaking smile that a lost puppy would have been proud of.

  "Oh," said Lemmy, "if you put it like that..." There was an awkward, yet manly, pause. "Come 'ere, you." Lemmy took the two steps between him and Animal and hugged his friend. "Sorry for being such a dick, mate."

  Animal slapped Lemmy's back. "No problem, mate, I'm used to it."

  "Tosser," said Lemmy.

  "Knob," said Animal.

  The two bikers separated and coughed to clear their choked throats. "So," said Lemmy, "what are our options?"

  Animal ran his hand through his long, greying hair and walked back to the edge of the tower. "We could climb down and make a break for our bikes."

  Lemmy joined his mate and studied the vertical stonemasonry; it did not look very accommodating for scaling. "Not sure. Bear Grylls might be up to the job but you and me in our bike boots with no ropes or safety net?I'm not so confident."

  "If Bear was here, he could eat his way through the zombies," said Animal.

  "Yeah, before climbing up a tree and pretending to get ready to sleep the night there until the camera gets turned off and he hits the nearest Travelodge."

  "Why are you always dissing Bear, mate? The dude's a legend."

  "He's just another bloody Etonian taking over TV, like that Henry Cole who must be the most miserable biker that ever drew breath."

  "I can think of another one," muttered Animal.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. So you reckon we can't make the climb then?"

  "It's a hell of a drop if we get it wrong," said Lemmy, leaning over as far as he dared, which wasn't that far. "And even if we do make it to the ground, we've then got to get to our bikes without getting attacked by the horde."