Fish Heads and Roses

FISH HEADS AND ROSES

  by

  Buxton Authors

  Stories and Poems from Buxton U3A Writers' Group

  CONTENTS

  The Two Roses by Sheila Cooper. Copyright©2013 Sheila Cooper

  The Witch and Her Cat by Maggie Hale Copyright©2013 Maggie Hale

  The Guest House or “Who would have guessed it!' by Jackie Corrigan Copyright©2013 Jackie Corrigan

  Vice Versa by John Hadley Evans. Copyright©2013 John Hadley Evans

  My Fat Duchess, The Iceberg and the Titanic by Jill Radcliffe. Copyright©2013 Jill Radcliffe.

  Variations on the theme of 'The Cat Sat on the Mat' Copyright©2013 John Griffiths, Jackie Corrigan, Ken Smith, Jill Radcliffe, Simon Rogerson, Kate Briant, Thelma Turnbull, Lois Mcgill

  Looping the Loop by John Hadley Evans Copyright©2013 John Hadley Evans

  Bill Burgess by Lois Mcgill Copyright©2013 Lois Mcgill

  The Plate of Cakes by Kate Briant Copyright©2013 Kate Briant

  No Conversion; The Elements, by John Griffiths Copyright©2013 John Griffiths

  Variations on the theme of 'The Man with the Violin Laughed and Walked Away' Copyright©2013 Lois Mcgill, Sheila Cooper, John Hadley Evans, Ken Smith, Thelma Turnbull, Maggie Hale, Kate Briant, John Griffiths

  Two Terrible Tales: It's Time We Changed Places by Ken Smith Copyright©2013 Ken Smith and

  The Path by Sheila Cooper Copyright©2013 Sheila Cooper

  The Concert Pianist by Jill Radcliffe Copyright©2013 Jill Radcliffe

  Reflections by Kate Briant Copyright©2013 Kate Briant

  Two Short Poems by John Griffiths Copyright©2013 John Griffiths

  Converging Destinies by Ken Smith. Copyright©2013 Ken Smith

  Little Red Riding Hood Revisited by Thelma Turnbull. Copyright©2013 Thelma Turnbull

  If it Wasn't for the Dog by Lois Mcgill Copyright©2013 Lois Mcgill

  The Most Important Question in the World by Sheila Cooper Copyright©2013 Sheila Cooper

  The Most Important Question in the World by Thelma Turnbull Copyright©2013 Thelma Turnbull

  Three in One by Simon Rogerson Copyright©2013 Simon Rogerson

  The Two Roses

  by

  Sheila Cooper

  The woman wandered round the all too familiar apartment, every little corner of which was known to her. It had been a long time since there was a change at all. The schoolroom, long gone, had been replaced with a large and well-stocked library.

  For as long as she could remember this had been her life. There was a sitting area with a dining table. Leading off this was her bedroom and a bathroom. No kitchen was needed because They brought her food and drinks and sometimes one, sometimes more, came and sat with her while she ate. Every physical need was catered for. As a child she had been taught here and now spent most of her day reading.

  But the strangest thing was the light that seemed to seep into the flat. It permeated the space without any apparent source for there were no windows. Often she thought that it was a living thing that sought to suck out something that she could not identify but could feel. Everywhere was dark or pale, like a printed page. They always dressed in long sombre robes with big menacing masks covering nearly all their faces. The eyeholes were always small so it was not possible to glimpse the eyes. No mirrors adorned the walls and there were no light switches.

  All this unusual state of affairs seemed quite ordinary to her, brought up from infancy within it.

  The books in the library covered many subjects both fictional and factual. There was an extensive reference section and a collection of CD’s and talking books. She did not know or actually even wonder how they got there .All was taken at its face value; the books with their monochrome illustrations and the music. All that is except the light. It was so alive so tangible but its purpose other than pure illumination, elusive.

  For so long, indeed her whole lifetime, she had lived alone in this space without company other than Them, cut off, interred in this bubble-like existence. She lived a life devoid of all colour, robbed by Them of this joy; by Them and by the searching sucking light. There were no green leaves, no sunsets, no red-breasted robin, no sky, blue or grey. Just achromatic monotony stretching from wall to wall.

  But one day she awoke to the realisation that something had changed. They had not come to wake her and bring her food. Time meant nothing to her for she could not gauge the passage of the sun or the moon and there were no clocks. They always arranged her timetable. She rose, washed and dressed and went to the table to see if food was there. There was no food, just two roses, one golden yellow and the other deep red; long stemmed roses, no leaves just the blooms. Beside them was a card on which was written: “Red and yellow. Which is which?”

  There were also two smaller cards one read “Red” and the other “Yellow.” She gazed unbelievingly at this her first glimpse of colour.

  Then, becoming light-headed, she fell to her knees; her face was now level with the flower heads and she gazed into their hearts. She wanted to imprint every petal; every stamen on her mind for ever. She longed to dive down deep inside them; revel in their redness and yellowness; be at one with the unbelievable brightness. She worshipped the colours with a passion. She stood up by the table; somewhere within the light a ray swung between release and confinement, between within and without.

  She ached to protect the unbelievably beautiful flowers, to hide them from danger and from the light that would try to suck the loveliness away, to reduce them to dullness and conformity. But there was nowhere to hide. They and the light were all seeing, all pervading. She gathered the roses up with a cry and clutched them to her bosom. And her tears fell upon them. Then she exclaimed and looked down at her hands. The roses were dazzlingly bright but the thorns were sharp and her finger now bore a bead of blood. She paused, put the roses back on the table and ran into the bathroom to bathe the pricked finger. Then quickly she ran into the library and to the reference section. And the light darkened and the ray accelerated its swing.

  She found the word “blood” in the massive dictionary and read the definition. It was long but the first line sufficed: “Red liquid circulating in veins of higher animals, corresponding liquid in lower animals” She thought over and over “Blood is red, blood is red”.

  Returning to the table she picked up the card with “red” written upon it and placed it next to the red rose whose thorns were stained with her blood and then placed the other card next to the yellow rose.

  At first nothing happened and then the light pulsed and the oscillating ray swing to “Release” and a section of bookcase swung open with a loud click. She looked in amazement and at first lacked the courage to look beyond the flat for the first time in her life. Gradually she moved to the open door and to the steady warm and friendly light she could now see beyond the apartment.

  She closed her eyes on the threshold and felt her way down a step and out into a day in high summer in a glorious garden. Even through the shut eyelids she could sense the sunlight and scents assailed her nostrils. At last she opened her eyes and froze in her tracks. Everywhere were flowers, grass, butterflies, trees and above it all a bright burnished blue sky with a golden sun shining upon all beneath. She ran out upon the grass and threw herself down hiding her eyes against the brightness and the glory and worshipped what she had seen with a total incomprehension.

  In the years to come she would be known as “The Vivid One” because of her original use of colour in her paintings, especially of red and yellow.

  The Witch and her Cat

  (A Story for the Grandchildren)

  by

  Maggie Hale

  Winona the witch was feeling cross. It
was almost Halloween and she was tired of thinking up new spells and mischief. Halloween is a busy time for witches and she just wanted a rest. She looked at Egbert, her fat black cat, and she sighed, “Oh Egg, I wish I could be a cat for a change, and just sit by the fire while someone else did all the work!”

  “Call yourself a witch?” said Egbert, who could be a bit rude sometimes, “Surely you could manage to turn yourself into a cat!”

  Winona thought for a while, and then she went to find her big book of spells. Sure enough, there was a spell for turning witches into black cats. Winona felt excited as she collected all the ingredients for the cat recipe. She mixed them and boiled them in her cauldron, stirring them carefully with one of Egbert’s whiskers.

  When the magic potion was ready, Winona poured it into her best crystal glass and swallowed it down in one big gulp. It was disgusting - green and gloopy and tasting of mud - but it would certainly be worth it if it turned her into a cat. Then she went to bed, so that the potion could get to work while she was asleep.

  Morning came, and Winona woke up with a yawn. She felt a bit strange and looked down at herself - her skin was covered in silky black fur and at the end of what had been her arms she saw paws with sharp curved claws. She twitched her whiskers and swished her tail - the spell had worked and Winona was a cat!

  She jumped off the bed and padded downstairs. She couldn’t wait to curl up beside the fire. BUT - the fire had gone out during the night and there was nothing left but cold grey ash. Well, there was no way a cat could collect firewood, strike a match and light a fire, so Winona sadly went into the kitchen in search of breakfast. She gazed up at the cupboard but she knew that she would never be able to get the porridge oats or the porridge pot - she thought she would have to starve.

  “Don’t worry,” said Egbert, kindly, “You can share my breakfast.”

  So Winona went over to the dish she had filled with fish-heads for Egbert yesterday. They didn’t look very tasty, and they smelled horrible, but she was so hungry that she forced one or two down.

  “Have some of my milk,” offered Egbert.

  Winona dipped her tongue into his saucer. She gave a sort of slurp and milk shot straight up her nose! Egbert tried to teach her how to lap, but Winona made such a mess of herself that Egbert thought that he should show her how cats lick themselves clean. She didn’t think much of washing herself in her own spit!

  Winona spent most of the day curled up on a blanket, dozing and telling herself how nice it was not having to make spells and do magic all day. But really she was cold, bored and hungry and by the time it began to get dark she was ready to go out and have some fun. She called Egbert to climb aboard her broomstick. She hopped on behind him, instead of being at the front as she usually was.

  With two cats on the back of the broomstick and no witch on the front, it tipped up backwards and flew straight towards the stars. Winona was terrified (but she had to pretend that she was enjoying herself, because witches are never scared). She dug her claws into the stick and closed her eyes tight. She decided that being a cat was a total disaster and wished that she had never found that stupid spell. She made Egbert crawl to the front of the broomstick: he was such a fat cat that his weight tipped it earthwards again.

  The broomstick swooped down to earth and landed in the middle of a witches’ Halloween party. Hooray, thought Winona, These witches are sure to know how to turn me back into a witch.

  The witches had all been drinking gin and were very drunk but one of them said she knew just what to do. She kept falling over as she gathered up toadstools and herbs to make into a potion. She tried to throw this over Winona but she was so drunk that most of it ended up all over Egbert instead. There was a flash and a loud bang. When the smoke cleared, there stood one cat and one witch, but Winona was still a cat while Egbert had turned into a witch.

  Egbert had an idea. “I’ll fly back home on the broomstick,” he suggested, “get the book of spells and bring it back here. Then we can find out how to turn you back into a witch and me back into a cat.”

  So off he went on the broomstick. He sailed high into the sky and he swooped down low so that he skimmed the treetops. He flew in circles and he flew backwards. He’d never had such fun. At last he arrived home and found the big book of spells. He tucked it under his arm and hopped aboard the broomstick again.

  “Here it is,” he announced cheerfully when he was back with Winona. “Won’t take a minute to change you back. Except …' and then he stopped.

  “What is it?” demanded Winona impatiently.

  “Well,” said Egbert, “I really like being a witch but if you change back you’re going to turn me into a cat again, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am,” snapped Winona, “Every witch needs a black cat.”

  “I’ve got the book, and you can’t do anything without me. Let’s do a deal,” said Egbert. “If you let me become a witch every Halloween, then I just might help turn you back into a witch.”

  So it was that every Halloween afterwards, Egbert became a witch for a night. He swooped around on Winona’s broomstick, drank gin with the other witches and made all sorts of mischief wherever he went, while Winona stayed at home by the fire.

  The Guest House

  (or “Who would have guessed it!”)

  by

  Jackie Corrigan

  The ticking of the kitchen clock and Hugo whimpering in the basement, were the only sounds, but the fumes were the main problem for Sally. The greasy, insidious stench of stale cooking, bacon, kippers and garlic, all congealed together. Her stomach heaved. She stretched up to open the tiny window above the kitchen sink. She was a prisoner in her own kitchen and it was all that woman’s fault.

  How dare Peter leave her alone? His Rotary meeting seemed far more important than running his guest house. She was left to serve the evening meal to the guests, or guest singular now. Trust that Ms Smith to come down after all the others had finished. And how slow she was, she seemed more interested in scribbling in that notebook than getting on with her meal. I’ll have to hurry her up, poor Hugo’s busting, decided the reluctant hostess.

  “Can I serve your main course now?” Sally entered the dining room,

  “Yes please, I’ll have the gammon and pineapple, but could you bring some gravy as well? I always have gravy with my main meal.”

  “Gravy, that’s a turn up! Never mind, I’ll microwave some that I was saving for the dog‘s dinner.” She hurriedly heated up the offending gravy. “It’s a bit thick though, hope she doesn’t notice.”

  The main meal was steaming nicely on the hot plate and the woman was still scribbling.

  “Are you an author?” asked Sally, indicating the hurriedly closed notebook.

  “No, but I always keep a diary,” the woman looked up and her deep blue eyes stared at Sally, making her feel uncomfortable. And that hair, it looked so unnatural, like Widow Twanky’s wig!

  High pitched whining and barking came from below, “It’s Hugo, we named him after that clothing firm, ‘cos he’s the Boss! Do you mind if I take him for a short walk before it gets dark?”

  “No problem,” muttered Ms Smith, obviously relieved that she could continue her scribbling in peace.

  “Don’t worry about the ‘phone if it rings, but can you do me a great favour? Two friends will be returning our ladder. If they arrive, could you please let them in?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Sally rushed out of the back door with the eager Spaniel in tow.

  “Phew, fresh air! Come on Hugo, we’ll go and feed the ducks.”

  She lingered at the lake, the orange and brown autumn leaves fluttered down from the Beech trees and the water turned deep red in the last rays of sunlight. Seagulls swooped, bullying the inoffensive ducks as she threw the crumbs of bread. Meanwhile, Hugo explored every tree trunk and blade of grass.

  “This is more like it, but we’d better get back, Peter would
have a fit if he knew that we’d left that guest in sole charge of the house.” The reluctant dog followed her up the hill, tail between his legs.

  The place was deserted; Ms Smith had even cleared her plates away. “Some nerve going into our kitchen, didn’t she see the 'Private' notice on the door? Never mind, I can put my feet up now.”

  No such luck, the doorbell rang and there stood Philip and Paul, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Just came back to check that she’s alright, what a strange woman, did you know she was wearing a wig?”

  We came through with the ladder and Paul tripped over and knocked her flying. It was like a scene from that Eric Sykes film, 'The Plank.' At least only her pride was hurt. She was quite nice about it, so we don’t think you’ll be getting a complaint.”

  The next morning, typically Ms Smith was last for breakfast. After the other guests had departed she asked for her bill.

  “It’s time to tell you who I really am,” she said, flourishing a business card. “I’m a hotel Inspector and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself here. I’ve given you a good report, with only one complaint and that was the lumpy gravy. Please thank your friends; I would like to meet them again. I’m also an author and their exploits last night have given me some fresh ideas for my next book.”

  That was a variation on a theme of a true episode. The next year, the same inspector turned up again, this time with a different name and wig. We pretended not to recognise her!

  Vice Versa

  by

  John Hadley Evans

  Martin

  “Thunderstorms over the Cheshire plain, moving east.”

  Martin jabbed at the buttons of the car radio without taking his eyes off the road ahead. At the second attempt he managed to turn it off. He didn’t like motorway driving at the best of times, and traffic was bad this afternoon. He could do without the distraction of the radio.

  A car pulled into the middle lane right in front of him. “Bonehead!” he muttered, and tapped the brakes to drop back to a safe distance.

  He had put in a morning at the office. It was good for the staff to see that the manager didn’t shirk his share of weekend work. Then he had left Luton, heading north, keen to get to the farm and start reasoning with Joan and her mother. But two more hours of driving in these conditions and he was going to arrive there in a foul temper. It occurred to him, suddenly, that Joan might expect him to help with the farming chores, which would put him in an even worse mood, and in no state to sweet-talk anyone.

  It would be better to travel by slower, quieter roads and reach the village in early evening, just as she was finishing her tasks. He would be more relaxed when he arrived and could offer to prepare the evening meal, which might put them into a receptive mood. He hadn’t let them know he was on the way, and wouldn’t, until it was too late for them to talk him out of it.

  After pulling off the motorway at the next junction, Martin headed up the old north road. It was still busy, with few opportunities to pass the ubiquitous lorries, but he was in no hurry now. After a while he began to enjoy the lazy, dawdling journey.

  He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, eager to be on with the day’s tasks, but now he had time for a late lunch. He stopped at an old black-and-white pub, ordering a plate of ham sandwiches and a pint of beer. The sandwiches were good, and the cold beer even better. He hesitated, then ordered another pint and sat back to think things over.

  Martin hated going back to Derbyshire. The windswept moors and deep valleys brought back memories of a miserable childhood in a one-parent family, a mother who couldn’t hold down a job, and having to rely on handouts from Social Services. When he got his first job – a very junior one at an estate agent’s in Bakewell – he had vowed to become so good at selling houses that no-one would ever think of sacking him!

  He had only been working there for a couple of months when he had accompanied an older agent on a visit to a fair-sized hill farm in Addington, a village a few miles from the office. The farm had been devoted to stock-rearing and looked well cared for. The owner wanted an estimate of the rental value of a range of stone outbuildings if they were converted into holiday lets. After Martin had helped to measure up, the older man settled down to discuss the project with the farmer and Martin had been free to wander.

  That was when he had first met Joan, a lonely, raw-boned eighteen-year old, eager to talk to anyone with time to spare. He soon learned that she was an only child, keen to escape the boredom of the farm and try town life. Although she was plain she seemed quite attractive to him when he realised that she would inherit the farm one day, and he asked her to a dance on the coming weekend. After that the courtship ran its course, as they say, and they were married later that year, just as his career was really taking off. Since then takeovers and mergers had meant that he was part of a large organisation now, not a single agency, but his abilities had taken him to the head of a big, busy office in Luton, and promotion to area manager was within his sights.

  Martin finished his beer. Reminiscing about the past wouldn’t get him anywhere. In the here and now he needed to get Joan to join him in persuading her widowed mother to retire and to let him develop the farm, then they could make real money.This was the perfect time, whilst the old girl had twisted her ankle and must be feeling down, to push his plan.

  First he would ring Joan, to let her know that he was on the way, and then get going. The Ashbourne road would take him up into the Derbyshire hills, through villages with names that were an estate agent’s dream. An address like Kings Bromley would add thousands to the price of any house.

  Joan

  “Thunderstorms over the Cheshire plain, moving east.”

  Joan frowned. ‘Moving east’ meant that it was heading into Derbyshire, towards this farm.

  She had left the radio on in the front parlour for the last few days – to distract Mum from fretting about all the work that needed doing – and it had become a background noise, barely heard. But this demanded her attention. She felt sure that a thunderstorm had caused trouble with the animals when she had been a child, but she couldn’t remember what her father had done about it, and she couldn’t consult Mum without alarming her.

  Peering around the parlour doorframe she saw that Mum hadn’t heard; she was dozing with her foot propped up on a stool in front of the armchair. The blue and black discolouration was fading now but she still couldn’t put much weight on it. According to the doctor it would be at least another week before she could resume her normal activities about the farm. Joan tip-toed to the radio and turned it down.

  She slipped out of the house to visit old Joe who had worked with farm animals all his life. He re-assured her about the sheep and cattle, but he thought one of the ponies they kept at livery for the posh kids in the village looked a nervous creature and could be in for a bad time. He muttered about the effects of valerian and vervain, and offered to brew a herbal mixture for her that would stop the beast becoming too agitated. He left to collect a few ingredients from the lanes around the village. She confined the nervous pony to its stall for a while, to make it thirsty. When Joe arrived with a small bottle, still warm to the touch, they slipped the mixture to the pony in a bucket of water.

  Joan walked back to the farmhouse. She had done what she could to prepare for the storm, it was time to return to routine jobs. She enjoyed being here. There was a feeling of release whenever she came, leaving Luton, and Martin’s social-climbing, behind her. It was a pleasure to have so many people in the village remember her. She had reassured her mother that she would always come when she was needed.

  The sky was darkening in the west when she went out to feed the chickens. A shout from the house caught her attention. Mum limped out to say that Martin had phoned. He was on his way and would arrive by early evening.

  Joan groaned. Martin had stopped coming to Addington after the death of her father, six years ago. Since then she had had to drive herself up here in her shabby old Saab. The only reason he could
be coming now was to push his scheme for making money from the farmland and buildings. They had argued about it again when Mum had phoned her last week.

  “This is the third time she’s asked you to go and help recently!”

  “What else can she do? She’s twisted her ankle and she can’t afford to hire anyone.”

  “If she can’t make it pay, it’s time she gave up farming!”

  “And then what? Sit around in a cottage twiddling her thumbs? That farm has been her whole life, and her father’s and grandfather’s before her! She’d feel that she’d betrayed them if she let it go to your get-rich-quick scheme.”

  “So we carry on as usual, do we? She calls and you go running. I think you’d rather be at that farm than here in your own home!”

  “Perhaps I would. This isn’t home to me, it’s a stopover in a brick desert. After the morning rush there’s hardly anyone left on the estate – just mothers with children, and I’ll never be one of them!”

  Joan had run out of the house and walked around for a while to cool down. It was useless to argue with him about children, he had made it clear: he didn’t want any. In Martin’s world everything had to revolve around him – his career, his ambitions.

  She had been upset then, and she was upset again now. Martin was clever enough to guess that Mum would be feeling low at present, and he could be very persuasive. As his first manager had said, ‘Martin could sell ice cubes to Eskimos’. But if Mum did retire? She would be terribly bored, she was used to an active life. Besides, her neighbours might turn their backs on her if she let an estate be built in the middle of the village.

  Martin

  Martin pulled off the Ashbourne road onto the minor road that led to Addington. Ahead of him it climbed slowly toward the ridge on the skyline, before descending steeply to the village below. He remembered the first time he had been taken up there by Joan’s father, eager to share the marvellous view of the hills spread out below them. Martin had admired the outlook, just long enough to satisfy the demands of politeness, but he had been more interested in the view of the farm below.

  The photos that Joan had taken over recent years showed that the farm had become run-down since the death of her father. Her mother was looking after ponies for some of the prosperous incomers to the village in an effort to supplement her income from falling stock prices. But she was struggling to manage with part-time help: she couldn’t afford to employ anyone full time. She must see that she couldn’t keep calling on Joan whenever she needed help. If he could persuade the two of them to sell the farm, her mother could retire. Besides, if Joan didn’t have the farm to run to she might make more of an effort to settle in Luton.

  It was getting dark up ahead – that must be the storm that the radio had been twittering about. He came to the brow of the ridge and got out of the car, taking a large-scale map with him. Below, Addington lay surrounded by its upland pasture, the hillside sloping gently away from it, down to a river hidden far below. Beyond, the shadowed ranks of hills marched to the horizon, where a single sunlit peak still defied the storm.

  Martin had no interest in the dramatic view. He could see the farmhouse, but trees blocked his view of the rest of the farm. The thunder was drawing closer and he wanted to mark the field boundaries on his map before it started raining. He walked up the lane that ran along the ridge behind the farm – he should be able to see better from there.

  Joan

  By late afternoon a cold breeze was blowing and the light was fading as the first storm clouds dimmed the sun’s rays. The rumbles of thunder were much closer now. Joan had left the barn doors open so that the animals could take shelter or not, as they pleased. The sheep and cattle were still grazing, ignoring the noise, the ponies had bunched together in the doorway of the barn, looking out. She kept the drugged beast close to them, stroking its neck to calm it as it sweated and shifted restlessly.

  High on the ridge above the farm there was a flash, so bright that she winced and closed her eyes, and the accompanying crack was deafening. The pony tried to rear, despite the potion, and she pulled on the halter to bring it down again. Under her hands its muscles had become rigid and she could feel the tremors that ran through its body.

  She stayed with the animal, murmuring to it and stroking it, until its muscles relaxed as the storm moved off. When the other ponies went out to graze again, she encouraged it to plod after them. She crossed back to the farmhouse, the rain bouncing off her waterproof. Her mother waited, anxious to hear how it had gone, and Joan felt a warm glow of satisfaction as she told her.

  In Luton, they wouldn’t have paid much attention to a thunderstorm. Perhaps Martin would have turned up the volume on the TV if it got too noisy outside. Here in the hills she had faced a challenge, coped with it, and felt proud of herself. Down south she was the either the reluctant hostess to one of Martin’s many drinks parties, or a bored housewife. In fact, she thought, if there was a machine to prepare Martin’s meals, and to do the housekeeping, he probably wouldn’t notice if she was no longer there. For her, the spark had long gone from their marriage; she had come to suspect that it had never been there for him. If she was honest with herself, she felt more self-confident, more contented, away from him these days. It was difficult, now, to understand the girl who had longed to leave the farm those long years ago.

  She was needed here and welcomed back. Luton had never felt like that. On the new estate where Martin had insisted they bought a house – ‘because it’s a good investment’ – she had no friends. The occupants of the surrounding houses were a strange lot: transients, commuters, people with no roots in the town. Compared with her useless, drifting existence in Luton, life here seemed real, purposeful. Why had it taken her so long to realise that?

  Joan went about her work the following morning in an irritable mood. Although she and her mother had sat up late, Martin had not arrived. At nine o’clock she had rung the house at Luton in case he had changed his mind and gone back home. There was no answer then, nor at eleven o’clock when she rang again. Damn him! She had enough to do – caring for her mother and running the farm – without having him to worry about as well.

  It was mid-morning when old Joe knocked at the door. He asked her to come outside ‘so he could speak to her private-like’, then stood there shuffling from side to side until suddenly he burst out:

  “I wus up the ridge this mornin’ an’ I found Mr Martin in a patch o’ burnt heather. I reckon he got caught by one of them lightnin’ bolts.”

  “Is he…?”

  “He’s cold, Missus. Been up there all night I reckon.”

  Her eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger, and she realised that she had seen the lightning flash that must have killed him.

  “Lying on his back, he is, with his eyes open.”

  He raised his left arm awkwardly above his head, and she imagined Martin lying like that in the pounding rain, his clothes sodden, rivulets forming pools over the unseeing eyes, then overflowing like streams of tears. And he had been there last night, whilst she had been cursing him. It was too much to bear and she felt herself blacking out.

  When she came round she was lying on the couch in the parlour with Joe hovering over her. Mum was on the phone to the police.

  Later that day the questions began.

  “Why was he up on the ridge in a thunderstorm?”

  “Was he normally so foolhardy?”

  After the pathologist had made his examination, and estimated the alcohol in Martin’s system, there were more questions:

  “Did he often drink and drive?”

  “How did alcohol affect him? Did it make him depressed?”

  “Did he ever talk about taking his own life?”

  Then there was the inquest, when she was asked all the same questions again, and finally the funeral to get through, before it was all over.

  Monday was always the busiest day of the week, and it wasn’t until she stopped for lunch that Joan realised: tod
ay was the first anniversary of Martin’s death. That seemed impossibly distant now. In the last year her life had changed completely.

  She had formed a partnership with her mother to run the farm. Two widows, working together, could accomplish a lot more than one, struggling alone. She had sold the house in Luton for a good profit. Martin had been right about that, as he always was, about houses. The money had paid for the farmhouse to be painted and some outhouses to be converted into holiday lets, as her father had once planned. She still had enough money left to expand the livery stables, and, maybe, to start a riding school. Above all, she was enjoying life back in the village.

  Joan smiled, life was good! She had learnt a lot from Mum in twelve months, easily slipping back into the routine of the farming year that she remembered from her childhood. Life as a farmer was challenging and fulfilling in a way that being a housewife had never been. It was ironic, really, that the money Martin had made down south was being pumped back into the farm and not vice versa. He would have had a fit!

  My Fat Duchess

  by Jill Radcliffe

  (With apologies to Robert Browning’s 'My Last Duchess,' 1842)

  That’s my last Duchess, pictured in the hall.

  How sweet she looks, a smile to make men fall.

  She thought herself pretty, and charming too.

  But stupid and vain – and FAT to be true.

  She had heard of my title and money

  whilst sipping warmed lemon and honey.

  She claimed not to eat, just staying quite slight,

  but her girth began quickly to equal her height.

  She thought that I fancied, desired her, at worst.

  She was wrong, but a gentleman too has a thirst.

  So innocent I, and no doc to deny,

  I began to fear that a wedding was nigh.

  As I watched her grow bigger and bigger.

  a baby would seem to explain her burgeoning figure.

  A son, I thought, so that didn’t matter.

  Tho’ somewhat perturbed as she grew ever fatter.

 

  We married quite quickly without much ado.

  Before very long, she could not button her shoe.

  She lounged indoors to avoid prying eyes

  whilst I stared aghast at her still-growing size.

  Larger and larger she grew, eating swan,

  and, often a hot buttered scone.

  She gorged on rabbit and all kinds of stew

  and, after each dish, a slurp of strong brew.

  Like an elephant she was, but not wise.

  Red face, rolls of fat and enormous thighs.

  Eating all day, her bread dipped in wine,

  she snatched at more food, with a burp every time.

  Round eyes now slits, and her nose full of snot

  thoughts of her beauty completely forgot.

  Obese she became, her maid left in shame.

  Blubber and wobble was what she became.

  Her fat arms so fat and fingers so round

  a blobby blob noise was her only sound.

  Her mouth now so small, still food piling in.

  So much of her now - it seemed like a twin.

  Now so massive in size, what of the child?

  Afraid to ask her, I feared she’d go wild.

  More food on a dish, she swallowed with glee.

  From the cellars came the finest brandy.

  “What of the baby?” I asked nervously.

  “What baby?” she shrieked. “I just want my tea.”

  “No baby?” I cried. “You terrible witch.”

  “Get more food,” she screamed. “Don’t call me a bitch.”

  I now planned to kill her. I could not wait.

  I knew she would munch all night until late.

  I had the gun. I would do it that night

  as her teeth sank into a pudding delight.

  My plans were laid but I wanted no trace.

  She carried on eating – fried cod and grilled plaice.

  When calling for more, a servant arrived.

  He shook as he told her she’d now be deprived.

  “No more food in the kitchen,” he declared.

  “No more in the castle – no-one is spared.”

  She shouted and squirmed, waving fat pudgy arms.

  “I must have my food – get me six barms.”

  I could not stand her, my plan was in place.

  When she asked for Champagne, I gave her a case.

  I loaded my gun, but Fate was with me.

  With a howl, she fell down on one fat knee.

  She’d guzzled and munched from breakfast to lunch.

  She’d slurped and dined and drunk gallons of punch.

  But before I could shoot her, I watched her combust.

  “At last,” cried her chef. “The Duchess is dust.”

  The Iceberg and the Titanic

  by

  Jill Radcliffe

  It is white.

  Everything white -

  except for the blue and the

  turquoise

  of glaciers which slide and sleep

  and nudge and swipe

  as fearful ships punch

  through skyscraper icebergs

  dense and silent

  as 42nd Street on

  Christmas Day.

  Arctic birds swing across

  the ice floes and soar so high,

  making pale blue shadows

  caress the mirrored

  ice below.

  Daggers of late light

  sharpen the sky.

  Ice rasps.

  Giants stalk.

  A small snowflake bird

  with salt on her wings

  flies high and wide

  to escape the

  coldly lit world beneath her.

  Pale blue clings to the night.

  Light bends and refracts.

  Strange mirages deceive and delude.

  Icebergs, trapped in a hangar

  of silence, whisper on,

  shuddering in their hallucinations.

  Death on the horizon

  as ship and ice collide.

  And shiny black shoes

  slip and fall.

  Seven Variations on the theme of

  “THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT”

  The Cat Sat on the Mat

  by

  John Griffiths

  The cat sat on the mat

  And waited … splat!!

  And with wide-angled eyes

  Gazed at her prize

  And with smug moggy purr

  Dragged the mouse

  Towards her

  “Beep!” went the computer

  Woken from sleep

  & & & & & & & & &

  The Cat Sat on the Mat

  by

  Jackie Corrigan

  According to Pauline,* my “get up and go”,

  Has got up and gone away.

  I can’t climb the trees

  Or chase after bees,

  I’m no longer young and gay!

  Birds mock from their nests,

  While I do my best,

  To shin up, but fall on my tummy,

  If I can’t catch birds, or a mouse or a rat,

  I’ll stay home and that’s not funny!

  I’m an old tom cat,

  With moth eaten fur that

  falls out in chunks on the floor.

  My joints are all rusty and I smell quite fusty,

  Don’t think I can take much more!

 

  I’m an ancient old moggy, my sight is all foggy

  So I snuggle in front of the fire,

  They’ll buy a small kitten

  With whom they’ll be smitten

  ‘Cos this pussy is due to retire!

  M-i-a-o-w! Goodbye!

  * Pauline’s no-one special, but her name just fits.

  & & & & & & & &