

This is a collection of quick reads.

Shambles

by

Peter Tranter

Wyuna Press Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Peter Tranter

ISBN 978-1-4659-9439-4

Shambles

Table of Contents

Short Stories:

Shambles

Family History is Weird

Not the Firefly

The Main Chance

Right First Time.

The Better Bet

Don't Count Your Chickens

Silly Verse:

Thatro

Aiwia

Tacmap

Yes and No

Tomorrow

Be Warned by the Path that Walked in the Night.

Boxing Clever

The Young and Young at Heart:

Why Mum Fainted

Super-kids

Half a Monster Tale.

History: What Really Happened?

The White Ship Disaster

Lord Burley's Revenge

Preface

The Thirty-eighth Play

About me

More Stories by Me

Finally, Are You a Genius?

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Shambles

About three years ago my people settled down in a small village, planning to enjoy a well-earned retirement. Equally deserving, I went with them.

The house we chose was built before the war, now pleasantly mellowed, according to the estate agent. For once we agreed with him. It was a semi-bungalow, all the important rooms downstairs with an extra bedroom in the loft, intended to be used by our younger guests. The garden ran to about half an acre, most of it behind the house, the whole surrounded by mature trees, none of them conifers! We cultivated a small area calling it the kitchen garden, because the back door opened on to it, and dubbed the rest, which was left to run wild, "the paddock." Planning the eventual civilising of the paddock was just the kind of mild challenge suited to our age and station with the additional luxury of knowing it did not matter if we never did action the plans. Beyond the paddock was a large field where, most appropriately, a couple of retired horses grazed peacefully. Our neighbours on both sides were unobtrusive and friendly.

I know it used to worry me listening to my people discussing how nice it was going to be when they no longer had to work and could live out their days in comfort and tranquillity. Many was the night I would curl up around the camp fire, the stars of the Indian night sky winking above me, and utter a silent prayer that their dreams would not be shattered when we finally returned to England. From time to time I even tried to strike a cautionary note, to minimise the eventual let down, if it came. As you know communication is always a chancy business, especially if the message is not welcome, but if they heard me they took no notice whatsoever. Situation normal.

In due course my people duly retired and I went with them. For the first two or three years--my memory begins to fail me these days--my half voiced fears proved quite unfounded, so much so that I would have forgotten the pessimism of those later Indian days, but for the fact the Colonel regularly reminded me! In fun, of course, everything was fun; and there seemed to be no reason at all why we shouldn't live blissfully from one happy day to the next until the final curtain was drawn and we transferred from one perfect paradise to the next!

At least, it was!

One bright sunny day in August I was lazing in the garden, the Colonel beside me contentedly puffing at his pipe, occasionally half-heartedly swotting the odd troublesome fly, speculating whether not to mow the paddock next year or not to plant some fruit trees, when the people next door leant over the fence. They waved, the Colonel stirred himself, ambling over for a friendly chat, and my first thought was to leave them to it. The Colonel would convey any important news, over supper perhaps. But, call it what you will, a sixth sense, a premonition, ultra sensitivity to atmosphere, an ill defined but very definite sense of unease filled my being. I don't shirk problems, which is not to say I like them, so, dutiful but reluctant, I got to my feet and let myself wander over to them.

The fellow next door, young, brainy but damn naive, held aloft a kitten.

"Her name is Shambles," he told us.

The Colonel took the moggie and stroked it. "Isn't she a pretty thing!"

The cat, a tortoishell, with a black nose and a small inverted vee of white just below its mouth, which gave it a perpetually angelic appearance no matter what evil lurked in the brain above, preened itself in the Colonel's arms. The woman next door, young, intelligent but damn cynical in my view, looked on knowingly. The cat purred, loudly.

I felt sick. Normally I like household pets. They're great fun. I've known many a tame rabbit, hamster and canary and got on very well with all of them, although I have to admit the chirruping of the birds does tend to remind one of prattling women. Or is it the other way round? No matter, I make allowances, for the poor things cannot help it, being much less bright than, say, the Colonel and I.

But cats! Cats are different. Cats know better. I hate to say it but their brains are as good as yours or mine. And whereas you and I, or even the Colonel, will voluntarily, without being asked, extend a helping hand when it is needed, a cat never has and never will. Their only concern is for themselves. They don't give a fig when sharpening their claws if the timber that's nearest happens to be the leg of a valuable Chippendale. You're wearing a newly cleaned dark suit and about to go out for the evening? So what. The cat wants to rub itself against your leg. You're replete after roast pork and crackling and are content to doze by the fire. The cat, even if its belly is so full it is scraping on the ground, will go out and scoop goldfish out of next-door's pond and leave the mangled remains to decompose in some inaccessible corner of the kitchen. I could go on but suffice it to say that the worse trick cats pull is to escape all responsibility for their evil doings by becoming coy, soft, and as unreachable as the aforementioned fishy victim.

The very first moment I saw this Shambles I knew that angelic mouth and loud purr would confer unbreakable immunity upon it, and, naturally enough, with no retribution, why not commit evil? Worse still, you always get the blame, no matter how innocent you might be. So, I don't like cats; I don't trust cats; cats to me are the devil incarnate. When we meet, it is war, and a fight to the finish at that. They know this of course.

Shambles was no exception. She saw me, she knew I saw through her, and immediately reacted as cats do. Her ears flattened and her tail stood on end. She bristled with hostility and before I could say "how d'y'do" she spat right in my eye.

Immediately the Colonel was full of concern. You might think he'd say "What a dreadful thing to do." or "Unprovoked and unforgivable aggression, and at first acquaintance too!" If nothing else the Colonel knows the value of good manners. But no; it was "Poor little pussy. Did my ugly old friend frighten you? Don't worry; I'll keep tabs on him!" And he turned and gave me a severe ticking off. Me! What had I done? I could have strangled that smirking, purring moggie as it draped itself all over him. The young fellow next door thought that was very sweet. People always take a cat's word and there is nothing I can do about that. I did have an inkling that the woman next door recognised that under the sleek, soft exterior there beat a heart of pure malice backed up by a scheming brain. Perhaps it takes one to know one.

This Shambles soon confirmed my worst fears. Within days she had started to creep up on me when I was enjoying a quiet afternoon snooze in the garden and if I was nearer sleep than awareness she would pounce, flicking out her paws, left, right, so that I was jerked suddenly awake in a most unpleasant manner. On other occasions she took to standing before me, bold as brass and just out of reach, and would make faces, or spit. Or both. Normally I'm a pretty easygoing chap, as I'm sure you've gathered from the tone of my story, but you'd have to be more than human to avoid reacting. It was inevitable that one day I would lose my temper.

The provocation was quite unbearable. I was lying down, upstairs in the room in the loft as it happens, for it wasn't quite warm enough to be outside, when, hearing a slight sound, I opened one eye, casually as one does. Would you believe it, Shambles was there, chewing a mouse at the foot of MY bed. The mouse was quite annoyed too, as you can imagine. For me it was much too much to tolerate.

I'm still very quick on my feet when I choose to be, despite my years, and I gave that murdering feline something to bristle about. Before she knew it I leapt from under the covers and went for her. She fled, yowling mightily. I didn't touch her, she was too quick to escape, but I'd definitely shaken her up. As the mouse sat on its haunches examining the damage Shambles hurtled across the room and through the doorway to the landing. In her haste to escape she realised, too late, that the stairs were right in front of her. Out splayed all four legs, claws scraping on the lino as she skidded along it, desperate to stop, and then, happy day, she was over the top!

I don't think she touched the first five steps and in negotiating the rest she must have cracked her shins more than once. Bliss! While the mouse rolled about on the floor I went after that cat to keep her going. Panic stricken she tore through the lounge and out into the garden. I followed and soon saw her off the premises.

A good bit of work, that, I thought, as the sun came out. Finding a warm spot on the edge of the paddock I settled down, confident of at least an hour or two of peace.

Wrong again. The Colonel had seen me and that was that! The woman next door rubbed it in, too, complaining she'd had to give her "pet" a great deal of comforting. I was blamed, received no supper, and some very off hand treatment for days. Of course, one expects no less when cats are about and one has to live with that, but the sight of her sitting in one of the trees, out of reach, threatened to drive my blood pressure dangerously high. She was obviously laughing at me and was no doubt hatching another odious scheme designed to make my life hell.

Fight fire with atom bombs, that's what I say, and I finally came up with an idea that would sort her out. What's more I planned to get away with it. Did I tell you about our well? Eight feet deep with sheer sides and no bucket on a rope, nor is there a ladder inside enabling one to climb out. A sapling grew next to it. Ding dong bell... You know the nursery rhyme, of course.

The sapling wasn't much more than a big bush but I knew that that cat would not be able to resist taunting me from it. The day came. The Colonel was out, the woman next door was in, I lay down near by and the cat went up the tree. It was simplicity itself to give that tree a thorough shaking up. Shambles screamed and shouted, desperate to keep her footing but, as the Colonel himself used to say in India, beware for the general who does not secure his base. That cat's perch was no castle. She slipped and slithered and screeched to the ground, somehow missing the open well; rather unfortunate, that. In naked hate we glared at each other, eyeball to eyeball. Plan "A" might have failed but I was between her and her own place. Beautiful; time for Plan "B."

Shambles must have guessed what was coming for she hared off across our kitchen garden, disappearing round the house. I found it hard going but I managed to maintain a close pursuit. I'd have her in another stride.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have harmed the paperboy. We were pals. Or, we were. But, that's the kind of disaster that regularly happens when cats are around. By the time the Colonel returned and was able to effect emergency treatment the cat had gone, I was for the high jump and one perfectly good friendship was irretrievably ruined. I tried explaining, one does you know, even though the effort is entirely pointless, and anyway the evidence was damning. I cannot lie, just to save my own skin, so I had to admit I'd rounded the house and grabbed where I thought the feline villain was, unfortunately colliding with the young lad instead. It was an instinctive reaction to grab him securely to prevent his escape. A moment later I realised my mistake. Horrified, I'd let him go immediately, but the damage had been done.

I've had this sad little story written for two reasons.

In the first place it may serve as a warning to the unwary. It is probably a waste of time. Cats are cats, big or small, black, white or any other colour, and nothing anyone can say or do will alter that. You just have to learn to live with it.

And in the second? Do you believe in reincarnation? I want to, desperately. I now realise it is not enough to know one's enemy. To overcome a deadly foe one must become bigger and nastier than they are. This story is my plea to the gods. Next time I want to come back as a tiger!

In the meantime I don't go out so much. What's the point? Why invite other disasters? I shall ignore her and all her kind, and hope she'll come to a sticky end. I'm determined to try to outlive the beast and so enjoy at least part of that projected, contented retirement. The chance of that happening is remote. Mine, after all, is a dog's life. Why remote? Surely everyone knows cats have nine lives, and not one of them is likely to fail to take full advantage of an asset as big as that.

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Silly Verse

1. THATRO

"It's very clear," the raw onion said, tears streaming o'er his skin,

"That you and I are miles apart; let's end our life of sin."

The Hypnotist, with rueful smile, felt this was very logical

Their relationship had, from first to last, been purely biological.

The onion said, with motive cruel, "Take this, my parting gift

A million tears for you to shed in memory of our rift."

The hypnotist, with watering eyes and now without her skill

Realised at once that she'd been had, oh what a bitter pill.

Revenge is sweet I've heard it said and this case proves it true,

Our hypnotist became a cook and invented onion stew.

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Family History is Weird.

I asked my father once; it was the 13th June 1951, actually, about the TRANTER's. "Where do we come from, Dad?"

He looked down and frowned. "Don't ask."

"But I'd like to know."

He shook his head and started to fill his pipe with a compacted mass of old rope strands, and tar. The label on the tin informed us it was Lloyds Skipper Tobacco. Sailors used to chew the stuff. They didn't dare smoke it.

He contemplated the stuffed bowl. "Better not ask questions."

"But, why?"

While he thought of an answer he tamped the tobacco down. Finally satisfied, he stuck the pipe stem in his mouth and looked at his finger. It had gone black. With a shrug he fished out his matches, struck one, applied flame to pipe bowl and commenced to suck. "You don't...."suck, "know..." suck, "what you'll find."

"But if I did know I wouldn't need to ask, would I?"

"True."

Encouraged, I added, "We could always keep quiet about what we find out."

"Are you ever satisfied with the answers you get?" he retorted, from behind a smoke cloud.

How to respond to that? The honest answer is no, I am never satisfied. By this time the pipe and Dad were enveloped in an impenetrable fog of blue-black smoke. The conversation died. I wandered away and forgot about the subject for years. Dad remained seated, perhaps ruminating over whatever he knew he was not going to tell me. Certainly, both he and the subject I'd raised were, for him, happily obscured.

I think someone in Parliament must have heard about us because shortly afterwards the Clean Air Act was passed. As a result, London's smog disappeared and asthmatics cheered. I am amongst them. Dad simply ignored the health warnings. In a way I sympathised, for actually I quite liked the aroma of his smoke. I suppose it was part of my comfort zone, the atmosphere of security and love in which I was growing up and for which he and mum were jointly responsible. Maybe, too, raking over the past would have disrupted his peace of mind. I knew enough of his early struggles out of poverty and insecurity to know he had no wish to look backwards. Young as I was, I was sufficiently aware to realise that day in June just wasn't the moment for family history. Perhaps in the future I'd satisfy my curiosity; maybe even try smoking my own pipe.

A little background information is necessary. Dad was managing director of a timber firm which he had joined as an office boy and worked his way up. It was not his first choice of occupation—he'd achieved the required scholastic level to go to university but not the financial independence that would have allowed him to do so—and in 1928, when he left school, you took whatever job you could get. As it happened, working in a timber yard was not a bad outcome. He loved working with wood and I still have some of the furniture and marquetries he made in later years. I didn't know it at the time but this was a clue to past links, as was the fact he supported Oxford University in the boat race, built model railways and gave my brother and I one when we were kids. I wanted a chemistry set but he said "No. You'll blow us all up." He did a lot of camping as a youth, once managing to camp in a tent for 50 out of 52 weekends in the year. Then he met mother, a bigger bike was required, so they bought a tandem and, well I'm here, aren't I? They both loved walking through the woods.

I have to say that this family history business is weird. You don't know what you'll find, as Dad pointed out, but nevertheless, even if he was usually immersed behind a cloud of blue-black smoke, the clues were there, as they often are, in the environment in which you live. I've just listed a few, which later investigations have revealed were indeed links to the family past. The discoveries I have since made include the good news, the bad and the spicy.

I blame one of my daughters. One day, 45 years after my foggy chat with Dad, she asked me, "Where do the TRANTERs and SANGWELLs come from?"

I started to tell her about the birds and the bees and of course received that look. "I don't mean sex," she retorted. "I know all about that!"

"Oh, do you, my girl," I began.

"I mean the family," she insisted. Sangwell, by the way, was my mother's and thus her grandmother's maiden name. "We should be able to find out. Neither name is that common."

True, though I think our ancestors must have had a policy of marrying themselves to keep the numbers down, you know, cousins and so on. Or maybe there's a flaw in our survival techniques for there should certainly be more of us than there actually are. I blame Darwin for that, of course.

I am not as wise as my father, as he well knew, for one day I took my probing daughter to the local reference library to see what we could find out. To be honest, my own curiosity had been revived.

The resources available at the reference library presented, at first, a rather daunting prospect. There were hundreds of folders containing transcripts of parish records; thousands of card indexes telling you where to look next but not actually managing to give anything away, and lots and lots of microfiche readers with which you could sometimes clearly read Latinised records on film. Not that that helped too much. At one point in our searches we both stopped and looked up. I caught her eye. "What's a Galfredus?"

"Huh," she retorted, "Cariolus to you."

Our blank faces turned to grins, then back to blank faces again. "Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all," she said. "I need a cigarette."

In the nick of time the cavalry came to the rescue, not in the form of a mounted and charging gallant, waving a cutlass, (though he looked fierce enough to me,) but an eager fellow disguised behind a beard, large horn rimmed glasses and sporting sandals rather than an equine friend as his aid to locomotion. It was The Librarian, with helpful attitude.

In an unguarded moment, probably whilst distracted looking for his matches, or extinguishing the carpet, Dad had let slip he was a Londoner, as was his father. We informed The Librarian of this useful fact and as soon as we'd done so his face lit up. In a very few minutes he showed us the 1881 census and explained how to use it.

We started our search. After a while I glanced up, to rest my eyes, and saw The Librarian had returned. He was sort of hovering, full of indecision over some hidden agenda. I did not wish to upset him but at the same time I wanted to convey the impression we were perfectly capable of looking through index cards and actually preferred to do so on our own. Long gone were the days when we'd had to endure the attention of hovering schoolmasters. The Librarian did not get the message. He lingered. He did more than that. He twitched nervously, and there was a Galfredus look in his eye. He opened and shut his mouth several times and finally, as unwisely I looked at him again, he summoned up enough courage to demand, "What's your name?"

I didn't mind telling him that. "TRANTER" I replied, casually, for we try not to make too much of it, even though we are fully aware we are a rare breed. However, I was curious, wondering at his interest, so I asked, "Why do you want to know?"

It was the only prompt he needed to reveal his desperate need. He had a new toy, some software on his computer, which contained indexed names of all the people who had appeared in THE TIMES in the nineteenth century. He was dying to use it but so far no one had let him look up a name. Did it work? Was he in the presence of a descendant of an historical celebrity?

I shrugged. "Go ahead," I said. "You won't find anything. We're not famous, just relatively rare. We might be in the local rag, attending a fete, or in the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns. I admit our ancestors are guilty of these things, but that's all."

He was no longer listening. In fact, he'd gone, the urgent slap, slap, slapping of his sandals on the hard, shiny floor, signalling his focussed purpose and eventually fading into the distance.

A little more background. I'd lived most of my life in Middlesex, and then Hampshire, with a few years away at sea, and until the expletive deleted French broke a promise and made me redundant; I had only ended up living in Oxfordshire from chasing the job they destroyed when they took over my work place.

We found my grandfather. There he was, two years old, living in Fulham in 1881 with the rest of the family, as it then was. Slightly more surprising I found, scanning down the census pages, there were more TRANTERs next door. An older generation, no doubt. They were, in fact, the Mum and Dad (i.e. grandparents) of the one for which we had been looking. The big surprise was to discover that these older TRANTERs were not Londoners at all. They'd been born in Oxfordshire, in Lewknor which, within three miles, was where I had ended up chasing that job!

That was a weird feeling. It was if I was haunted by the past for I had gone back to the family country roots and until now had been completely unaware of the fact. And real roots they are, the TRANTERs, RIXONs, MESSENGERs, AUSTINs, PIGGOTs, to name just some, were once residents of Lewknor, Radnage, Aston Rowant, and Stokenchurch, small Oxfordshire villages. Some of these ancestors were carters, a few were farmers, and there were woodworkers, even bodgers amongst them. A bodger is one who does preliminary chair making work on raw timber and then hands the result on to others to finish. These days it is often used in a derogatory sense, to mean someone who never finishes anything, but that neglects the fact that someone has to have the initial idea and start the production process. It was a term Dad had often employed with me in mind.

Those family clues were, unexpectedly, beginning to tie in. We didn't know all that then but we were still pretty elated when we turned to leave the library with what we had. One ancestor married twice, he was in his 60's the second time, and went on, with the help of his wife (and ex housekeeper his first wife had employed) to produce several more children while his wife was still alive. There's nothing new under the sun, they say and it is true. See below.

As we approached the exit, Beard and Sandals hurried up, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He thrust three pages of typescript into my hands.

"What's this?"

"Hot off the computer," he said.

"What is hot off the computer?"

"Entries from THE TIMES," he told me, gleefully. His new toy evidently worked.

That was a surprise. "You found TRANTERs in THE TIMES?" It didn't seem credible. Grandfather was a railway porter.

"I have indeed. Eighteen entries."

"Good grief." I started to examine his printed sheets and as I did so, asked, "What are these?"

"Criminal records," he blurted out, and then went scarlet with embarrassment.

"What!"

"It's in black and white."

"All eighteen?"

"All eighteen," he confirmed, with a gulp, and then, trying to make amends for an imagined solecism, he actually committed one by adding, "Do come again, we might find some more."

"Oh, thank you so much!"

Of course, I tell everyone that THE TIMES list is of a totally different collection of TRANTERs. They have nothing to do with us. I mean, some of the crimes--I didn't know you could do such things. No, they could not be part of our lot, and we did not find any actual links, apart from the names. To me, that was the good news. My daughter found it all very interesting!

Later on we did further research with the assistance of many people who've trod similar pathways long before us. I've the will of one family farmer. In 1832 he left everything to his wife, provided she did not marry again. She was 71 at the time! It was probably to do with the absence of the married women's property act rather than her adventurous nature. Another ancestor married a lady--I think she was a lady--called Elizabeth VEAR, in 1580. In those days most commoners were illiterate. A clerk would write down names as they sounded. He wrote V-E-A-R in the Register, but she may well have been V-E-R-E, only of course she didn't know it could be spelt that way. Does it matter now?

Well, it so happens that the family name of the Earls of Oxford is de VERE, and what with droits de seigneur it is conceivable (pun accidental) that our Elizabeth was the result of such a right being exercised. Well, it is a thought, but it leads inevitably to the bad news. We cannot be absolutely certain we are not related to royalty!

The unsettling coincidences don't end there so perhaps Dad was right. Leave the past well alone. But I'm insatiably curious and the more I discovered the more I wanted to know. For example, in Hampshire I lived in Whitchurch. My first wife had chased a job this time and believe it or not, when we investigated my mother's side of the family, we found that, despite the fact that she and her father were Londoners, the SANGWELLs all came from Kingsclere and Brimpton, in Berkshire, just four or so miles away from where we lived at that time. Was it yet another coincidence to find we had resettled once again upon an ancestral stamping ground?

A penultimate bit of background. In order to survive after redundancy, and unable to persuade potential employers that there was more between my ears than bodger's sawdust, or perhaps they thought there was a brain in there, and took fright, I took on taxiing. I did that for four years until I became solvent enough to stop and yes, there is a link. For recently I found out that my mother's grandmother was Ann WEBB, who died giving birth to Mum's father in 1878, and Ann WEBB's father was one William WEBB of Hanover Square, London, Cab and Cart Proprietor!

Hanover Square! Cab proprietor. I've said repeatedly that family history is weird, and so it is. Perhaps uncanny would be a better way to describe how my present life mirrors so much of the life of my ancestors. Whatever next? Maybe I'd better take a closer look at those criminal records, just in case!

Whatever next has just turned out to be on Mum's side, the SANGWELLs. With the help of others I'd managed to trace her London links back to Brimpton, and Kintbury, and Woolhampton and Kingsclere where, in 1807 Timothy MARSHALL married a Mary SIMS. For a long time we were unable to make further progress. Then we discovered that young Tim was not a Marshall at all. His real surname was WIGMORE. Apparently Tim's grandfather was a bigamist which, when Tim married, the vicar covered up by giving him the MARSHALL surname. So Tim and his wife became MARSHALLs and their children little MARSHALLs, nicely obscuring the truth, rather like my father hiding behind his smoke screen.

I mean, who cares? A little bit of scandal is rather spicy after all, adding excitement to a hobby that is sometimes a rather laborious process of discovery, and a source of constant frustration. So I say hooray for the spicy bits. I bet most of us have a spicy bit or two in our own lives. I must admit, though, I haven't quite acclimatised myself to those criminal records in THE TIMES.

The final piece of background and another bit of spice. One day, after my divorce, (sorry, not that spicy!), I answered a family history query from a lady in Australia. Could I help with her family tree (STYLES & others)? It turned out I could, we got emailing, then phoning, then I went to Australia and we came back to England, for a while. She's ace at the business of record searching and demanding proofs, and we've made great progress. Now, it was not to escape my past, you can never do that, even down the generations, as I now realise, that we decided eventually to go back to Australia. When we arrived we found both sides of both families had emigrated here in the nineteenth century, and by no means were all of them deported criminals, despite those records in THE TIMES. One was actually a mayor.

We got married and, in my 64th year, I started a new family (with my wife, no housekeeper involved) and if I read this to my wife and she makes the link to my ancestor, who obviously anticipated me, (see above), I expect she'll have me sorted out. I can hear her saying it, "Lot's more children, indeed! He was a woodman, and lived in the woods! What else could he do in the evenings?" Should I point out that we have 6 1/2 acres and lots and lots of trees? We seem to spend an awful lot of time amongst them!

I promise you that this is a truthful, but not a complete account. Sadly, it can never be that. In addition to the names mentioned I am looking for ADAMS in Depford; COOK(E) in Woolwich, and a Sarah ADAMS, Nee ?, who was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia around 1817; SIMS, MARSHALL, SANGWELL, WICKENS, MILLS, HAZEL and now WIGMORE, (all Berkshire); one W TRANTER who played for West Ham in 1900, but I support Spurs, so he was probably one of those other TRANTERs we don't mention too much, and of course, quite a few ladies who must have existed but for whom we have either only a Christian name or no name at all.

There is a little more. According to the DNA analyses of Prof. Brian Sykes, (See Brian Sykes "The Seven Daughters of Eve", a Corgi paperback) all the females in my mother's line ultimately descend from one Helena (his name for) a real and identifiable lady who lived 20,000 years ago, on a part of the Mediterranean coast that is now under the sea. I bet there are lots of spicy bits in 200 centuries and 1000 generations! What a shame we shall never know.

Or is that so? Strip away our technology and veneer of civilised behaviour and we are left with ourselves, much as we ever were. Helped by a background of growing historical knowledge we can use our imagination to fill in more and more detail. On one level there is no mystery; it is easy enough to produce rational explanations for the coincidences I have described. One wonders though, given all those haunting links, just how much is in each of us of our forgotten ancestors?

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Silly Verse.

2. AIWIA

(Am I What I Am?)

"I am what I am," said the wolf to the lamb,

As he sank in his teeth for a feast.

"Yes, you are what you are," said the lamb to the wolf,

"I can't mind in the least!"

"I am what I am," said the wolf to the lamb,

As he finished his meal with a smile.

"Yes, you are what you are," he wanted to hear

To justify action so vile.

"You are what you are," said the man with the gun,

To the wolf, holding a gun to her head,

"Am I who I am?" asked the man with the gun?

"Too right!" And so he shot the wolf dead.

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For the Young and Young at Heart

1. Why Mum Fainted.

The TV announcer said, "The thief got away on foot after robbing the bank and taking the world's biggest chocolate egg. The egg had been left in the bank for safe keeping."

Mum did not faint then, although she might have done had she known what was going to happen.

Eight-year-old Stephanie perked up. She was a tomboy and her favourite stories were about cops and robbers. And her very favourite food was chocolate. She ran to the television, to turn the sound up, eager to hear more.

Her mother got there first. "Bed time," she announced, firmly. She switched off the TV.

For once, Stephanie did not argue. "All right, Mum," she said, meekly. Her mother, expecting a fight, nearly did faint then.

"I'm going to sleep in the bathroom tonight." Stephanie announced, expecting a big "No you're not!" from her mother." And I'm taking my magic covers with me."

Her mother did not argue. This surprised Stephanie but also, it pleased her, for she had a plan. She knew adventures never ever happened when she went to bed normally, in a normal bed, like normal people. How could they? Adventures are not normal. But, when she slept in the lounge, or in a tent, then exciting things always happened.

Collecting her pillow, cuddling Panda-ted and dragging her quilt behind her, she went into the bathroom. She was determined to give an adventure a chance to happen. Her mother did not protest as Stephanie curled up on the bath mat and made herself comfortable. She knew it would be much easier to wait until Stephanie was asleep and then put her into her proper bed. Stephanie realised this, of course, but it did not matter. By then the adventure would have started.

"I'm lovely and warm and comfortable," Stephanie told Panda-ted." Are you?"

Panda-ted put his paw to his lips. "Shhh. Look!"

Stephanie opened one very tired eye and, believe it or not, saw her pig shaped soap jump out of the soap dish and into the bath. He started to wash himself. Stephanie, not sure if she was awake or dreaming, sat up and stared, wide eyed.

Soap-pig was singing:

"Rub a dub, dub

I've jumped in the tub,

I must get clean in a trice!

For if I do not,

When I'm sweaty and hot,

I won't smell particularly nice!"

"And that's important," Soap-pig told Stephanie, seriously. "Otherwise the bank robber might smell me coming and run away."

"Are you a soap policeman," Stephanie asked, excitedly.

"You don't need to know that," Soap-pig said, bossily. "Now, please make the shower work. I need to rinse the people off of me."

Stephanie did not need telling twice. To get her sister Alison to accept even a little squirt of water she had to be very persuasive. It was a pity because squirting water is such fun. Happily she switched on the water.

Soap-pig liked it. He was laughing as she made him wet and Stephanie soon saw why. He was starting to get bigger. The more she sprayed him the bigger he became. He got bigger. And bigger. And bigger. Soon he'd grown so big he filled the bath and he had to jump out before he got stuck.

"Come on," cried Soap-pig, impatiently, landing with a squelch on the bath mat. "We've got a robber to catch. Jump on my back and I'll take you with me."

Soap-pig looked slippery so Stephanie threw her quilt over him, as a saddlecloth. Then, clutching Panda-ted, who was as excited as she was, she climbed on to Soap-pig's back. They had to hold tight as he carried them down the stairs and they nearly fell off, but Soap-pig got them safely out of the front door.

If her mother had seen them go she would most definitely have fainted. But she did not because she had switched the television on again and was now involved with her own favourite soap.

On the front lawn it was dark. In the road it was not dark. A light was flashing. In fact, it was a lamppost and it was jumping up and down. "I wonder why?" thought Stephanie.

The Lamppost saw them and gasped in relief. "Oh, thank goodness you are here. Please, please turn me off."

"Why?" demanded Stephanie. She always asked why." Aren't you supposed to be alight? It is night time now."

"Yes, yes I am," wailed Lamppost. "But, you see, there is a moth bashing himself to bits against my glass. Can't you hear his cries? He can't help it, poor dear, but he is hurting both of us." And she gave another moan.

Soap-pig was bossy. "We're far too busy," he snapped. He would have walked on but Stephanie stopped him. She didn't like to think of Lamppost and the moth being hurt.

Stephanie jumped down from Soap-pig's back. "I'll save you," she shouted. She had to shout because the light was now a long way above her head. She hoped it wasn't too loud and she woke herself up, or her mother heard.

"Do be careful," Panda-ted warned. He was very anxious. He knew Stephanie very well and he guessed what she was going to do.

Stephanie was extremely clever at climbing. It was one of her best tricks, next to doing pig impressions, which she found easy, and whistling, which she found difficult. Some of her teeth were missing. But at climbing she was great. As nimble as a squirrel she shinned up to the top of the lamppost.

"Throw up my covers," Stephanie shouted. She had to shout because the ground was now a long way below. Panda-ted did as he was asked, Stephanie caught them, first go, then wrapped them round the light until only a faint glow showed through.

The moth was very grateful. Clutching his head he was able to stagger away from the lamp. He was no longer fatally attracted. "Oh, thank you, dear, dear girl," he gasped. He was very much relieved.

Lamppost was dazed. "Why didn't I think of that?" she wondered, vaguely.

"Because you're not very bright," Soap-pig informed her. "Not now, anyway."

"That's true," sighed Lamppost. "Are you going away?"

"Oh yes," Stephanie told her. "We've got to catch a robber."

"Can I come too?" Lamppost pleaded. "It's so lonely in the dark."

"You can move my covers," Stephanie said, "Providing you warn moth, first."

"What for?"

"So moth doesn't look and get hurt, of course," Stephanie retorted.

"I might forget," replied Lamppost. "Please, can I come with you?"

"You'll have to carry me," Stephanie said.

To that Lamppost readily agreed so they all set off. They made their way along the night time streets, Moth fluttering just in front of Stephanie and Lamppost. Of course, Soap-pig led the way. Panda-ted skipped along behind, careful not to tread on cracked paving stones because that brought bad luck and might ruin the adventure.

They came to a road junction, guarded by a 'keep left' sign.

The sign screeched at them, "Keep left!"

They were going to do that but just then a police car rushed by. It was full of policemen.

"Keep left!" the Keep Left sign repeated, bossily.

This was too much for Stephanie. "Why?" she demanded. There were no more cars about.

"Because it is the rule," Keep Left repeated, staring up at her. "You must do as I say."

To Stephanie this was as good as a dare. She winked, both eyes, at Panda-ted, slid down Lamppost, then raced the wrong way round the sign.

"Keep left," the Keep Left sign said, weakly. "Please!"

Stephanie grinned naughtily and went round the wrong way again.

"Oh dear," Keep Left groaned. "I feel ill. Oh dee-aar." It swayed, from side to side, as if drunk, and then fell over.

Soap-pig was cross." I don't know," he complained." You do a good thing to help Lamppost and then you do this!" He reached down a hand and helped Keep Left to her feet. "Why?"

"Being goody, goody is boring," Stephanie retorted. But she felt a little guilty and helped Moth. He was using his wings to brush away the road dust from Keep Left. Stephanie had to use her hands but that was okay. Until now they had been much too clean anyway.

"Do come on," Panda-ted urged. "We haven't found the robber yet."

"Or the stolen chocolate egg," Stephanie added. "Is it milk chocolate, or plain?"

"Half and half," Soap-pig replied. "With toffee chocs inside."

Stephanie beamed happily. "Oh, good," she said.

When they reached the bank they found it crowded with very busy policemen. One of them, coming out of the bank door, saw them, frowned, and stopped. "Show me your hands!" he ordered, holding up one of his own.

"Why?" Stephanie demanded, but a little afraid. The policeman was ugly and she did not like him.

The policeman stared at her. "Because I said so, that's why. And," he added, before Stephanie could argue, "My sergeant told me to look for finger prints in all the likely places." He frowned, as if thinking hard. "That's on fingers, isn't it?"

Stephanie was anxious to get away. "Show him yours," she told Soap-pig. "They're cleaner." The real reason was she'd seen a speaking computer just inside the bank. It had a round TV screen for a face. There was also a big red button which had a notice beside it. "Press and Speak."

Stephanie ran into the bank and pressed the big red button. Hard.

The computer had a squeaky voice." What's your name and address," it demanded.

Stephanie told it. Then she said, "I want a list of robbers."

The computer blinked. "In jail, or out?"

"Out, of course," Stephanie replied. "And probably hiding."

The computer was not pleased. "I don't wish to know that," it squeaked, angrily. And to prove it hundreds and hundreds of names appeared on the screen so fast that no one could read them before they had gone again.

"Not all of those," Stephanie cried. "I want the name of the one who stole the giant chocolate egg!"

"Milk or plain," demanded the computer. It still felt like being awkward.

"Both. And with toffee chocs inside, and probably other sweets as well." Well, she hoped so.

The computer sighed and his screen went blank. "That's far too difficult."

"Difficult!" Stephanie exclaimed. "I thought computers were supposed to be clever."

"No. We're just very fast. I'm really rather stupid I'm afraid. You must ask me yes, or no. You must tell me this, or that, and then ask me for this, or that." He sighed. "I'm only binary, you know. My Mum and Dad were, too, so it is not very surprising. But it means if you ask rotten questions you get rotten answers. Or no answers at all."

"All right, then," Stephanie replied. "Robbers like chocolate. Yes, or no? Quickly, please. I want a list of yeses."

A much shorter list appeared on the screen.

Stephanie smiled. "That's better. But there are still far too many names." She thought for a moment. "Cross out all the ones who drive a car." That was clever of her because, if you remember, the thief got away on foot. Thieves are lazy. They drive if they can.

The computer evidently agreed. Eagerly it searched its memory. One by one all the names were removed until only a single robber was left. He was Greedy Jim Black!

"Greedy Jim Black can't drive, he loves chocolate, milk or plain, he robs banks and sweet shops and," the computer reported, triumphantly, "He is not in jail. At the moment, anyway." He paused, and then looked down at Stephanie. "Will he do?" he asked, hopefully. Now that he had an answer he was anxious to please.

Panda-ted had arrived. "I know about him," Panda-ted cried. "He also dresses up as a policeman. That's why he doesn't get caught so often."

Suddenly they all heard a very loud noise. "Dah dee, dah dee, dah dee."

Moth flew hurriedly into the bank. "What is that?" he cried, fluttering his wings in alarm.

"A police car, going backwards," shouted Lamppost, from outside. "I can see it getting away."

"It must be Greedy Jim Black," Soap-pig cried.

Stephanie ran out of the bank. "Quick, let's catch him."

"I'll fly my fastest," promised Moth, catching her up.

"And I can blind him with my brightest light," Lamppost declared. "But," she added, modestly, about to remove the covers, "You must not look while I undress."

With great determination Moth flew on ahead, trying to catch up with the car. Lamppost took off the covers Stephanie had given her and handed them to Soap-pig as they both ran along the road. "You can smother him."

The police car was being badly driven. It crashed into the pavement, cracking a paving stone which Panda-ted accidentally trod on. "Oh dear," thought Panda-ted. "That's bad luck coming."

Desperately, Greedy Jim Black tried to drive away forwards but he forgot to steer for Moth had arrived and fluttered in his face. Lamppost then glared fiercely, and he couldn't see. But, the car was moving away.

Stephanie saw where the car was going and ran round Keep Left, the wrong way. "Sorry," she apologised, but grinning. "I've got to do this!"

"Oh, no. Not again!" Keep Left wailed. Almost immediately he went dizzy and fell over, right in the path of the car. Going Dee dah, Dee dah, Dee dah it crashed in to the sign. Then it just went DAAAaaaaaa.

As quick as you like Soap-pig was there to smother the robber with Stephanie's covers. Suddenly he cried, "Help! Stephanie, help! I'm getting smaller again."

Panda-ted was in trouble, too. "Help me, Stephanie. I'm losing my face!"

Their luck had changed and the adventure was almost over. They still had to get home and, what was even more worrying, they could see the giant chocolate egg on the back seat of the car. Soap-pig was already small enough for Stephanie to pick up, so he couldn't help. Panda-ted was quite unable to speak anymore and Stephanie had to help him move his arms and legs. Greedy Jim Black was struggling hard. Soon he would be free of the covers.

Lamppost came to the rescue. "Don't worry. The real police are coming. I'll lie on him until they arrive."

Stephanie had to go but she didn't want to. She kept looking at the giant chocolate egg.

"You must go. Remember to leave your window open."

"Why?" Stephanie demanded.

"Because I need to bring your covers back and I can't climb stairs."

That made sense so Stephanie, clutching Panda-ted and Soap-pig, ran home. Very quietly she crept upstairs. She knew if her mother saw her come in she'd probably faint, but the TV soap was still on and Mum was fully occupied with it, so she didn't. Stephanie opened her window, jumped onto her bed with Panda-ted and Soap-pig and, because they were all very tired, they soon fell asleep.

When she woke up in the morning the covers were there, keeping her warm. She jumped out of bed, shouted "Thank you," to Lamppost, outside (it was not night time any more so the light was out but Stephanie thought she saw a brief flash of light, in reply) then ran downstairs, still excited. She found her mother in the kitchen, cooking breakfast.

"Guess what, Mum. I had an amazing adventure last night. Me and Soap-pig, and Moth, and Lamppost and Panda-ted caught a robber. "And she told her all about it.

Her mother smiled, complacently. "I wondered why you took the soap to bed," she said. She turned to listen to the TV news.

The Announcer said, "The Police are looking for a young girl, she's a tom-boy, who, the bank computer says, helped last night to catch Greedy Jim Black, the bank and chocolate robber. There is a big reward, so where are you, Ste....?"

Her mother nearly fainted then, but not quite. For just at that moment there was a loud knocking on the door which drowned out the end of the announcement (and Stephanie's name).

"I'll go," Stephanie's father called, cheerfully.

There was a muttering of voices but Stephanie wasn't listening. She was much more interested in breakfast. Then her father came in to the kitchen. He looked at his wife. He looked at Stephanie. "The police are here. With the biggest chocolate egg you ever saw. Apparently it is to be Stephanie's reward for catching a robber." He stared at Stephanie. "Last night." Then he had to rush forward and was only just in time to catch Mum before she hit the floor. She HAD fainted!

Gently Stephanie's father carried her mother to a chair. He sat her down in it. He looked worried.

Stephanie could see the chocolate egg blocking the front doorway. She looked at her father. "What's the matter, Dad?"

"That egg! It is so big!" he cried. "Where shall we put it?"

Stephanie grinned. "Oh, that's easy," she said. "Inside me!"

back

*

Silly Verse.

3. TACMAP

(In response to a challenge to write about a coffee machine, an ant and a purse.)

Lord Chief Justice Ant, in foppish wig and flowing gown,

Peered grimly on the rivals with his infamous, hanging frown.

Truth to tell he did not care which one hung from a rope;

As for justice, that's a laugh, it's the law with which he'd cope.

In haste the accusing purse declaimed, "I haven't got a bean

Because all my loot's been stolen by this odious, coffee machine!

And did he even percolate, as drinks dispensers must?

We got, my Lord, warmed water, plus dried up, pale brown, dust!

Impoverished am I, and quite bereft of money and caffeine,

Essential elements of life, denied by that machine!"

A murder charge, that was clear, for without life we're dead,

That drinks dispenser was in the dock and soon could lose his head.

"Defend yourself," Judge Ant sneered, "If you've got the mettle."

The steel, glass, plastic, coffee machine was stung as by a nettle.

"I'm not the great designer, God; don't think I lack a dream,

I'd much rather be a rocket than a grubby income stream,

And search the distant cosmos, make friends with nebulae,

Returning as a conqueror, applauded till I die.

I've done what I was made for, no less and never more,

And if that is not enough for you I care not for the law."

Lord Justice Ant was unimpressed, "I deal in facts, not wishes,

Your role was clear, as is my mind, first causes are for fishes.

Now Mrs Purse had given coin, her needs were then abused,

She didn't get her caffeine fix so you're guilty, as accused!"

Replacing wig with blackish cap, the rivals guessed what next,

And gazed at him quite thunder struck whilst fingering their necks.

Backed by law a judge's acts, are as defined, quite lawful,

But do not heed those higher thoughts which label killing awful.

The rivals came together; "You must not hang for me,"

Said Mrs Purse, "I'm horrified." The reply was, "I agree!"

"My lord," they said in unison, "Of us your hands don't wash."

With nil compassion Judge Ant replied, "My verdict I won't squash."

Each occupation carries risks, for me, for you, for judges,

In his own court that legal ant became two messy smudges.

back

*

Not the Firefly

It is late, it is dark, it is very humid; I am in bed and suddenly very wide-awake.

When you live alone, out of the city, not exactly in the bush yet the nearest neighbour is half a mile away, you tend to notice unusual sounds. I'd heard something just now and I cannot settle.

Sometimes it is better to be over cautious. Get up if you must, but don't put the light on. If it turns out to be nothing then there is only you to laugh. On the other hand,

The kitchen is dark and so are all the other rooms. Dark and empty. No, what is that? I pad across to the screen door and breathe out in relief. It is just a firefly, clinging to the mesh. And there is another outside on the doormat. Silly me! I smile. Then I remember fireflies are soundless.

The house is definitely empty. I can close the windows and doors and lock everything up. I can retire to the bedroom: and become a nervous sweaty wreck for the next six hours?

Very quietly I step outside. There is no moon and clouds obscure most of the stars. There is one, shining brightly, to the North West. I am sweating and although the gentle breeze is welcome I'm not cooling down.

This is very stupid. From here, just outside the back door I can peer into the gloom on three sides of the house. As far as I can tell there is absolutely nothing out of place. So, check the fourth side then go back to bed.

As I walk softly along the verandah my brain is working overtime trying to recall what I'd heard. More than one sound. There had been some muffled shuffling, rather like I am making now. And also, possibly a cough, or a groan? But that means a person is out there, in trouble maybe. It might be me in trouble, if they are dangerous.

I round the corner of the house and stop dead in my tracks. A few yards ahead is the shed I'd built last year. The lights are on!

I'd subdivided the interior to make a workshop at the far end and a hobby room into which the access door is set. All the windows are on the other sides so I cannot see in.

There's nothing worth stealing in there. Leave well alone; go away, whoever it is let them get on with it. No tool or model is worth walking into danger. Go back in, lock up and call the police.

I hear a solid object crash to the floor, followed by a muted curse. I breathe in heavily, growing anger replacing fear. That could be the ship I've laboured on for so many hours, now tossed aside and smashed by an ignorant, thieving intruder. Without thinking I stride to the door and fling it open.

The glare is painful yet moth-like my eyes are drawn up to the light source even as my mouth gapes open. In my peripheral vision I pick out a scruffy man, then another, and then two women. About to panic I read the banner, stretched from wall to wall just below the ceiling. "WE LOVE YOU. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, DAD!"

The whole family are there, kids and all, bottles and streamers and open hampers beside the table they'd knocked over. The ship is safe on a shelf. Seeing my gaping mouth they are laughing at my reaction. I grin, all of us very happy with the success of their surprise. Boy, do we have a party, just a bit earlier than they had planned!

back

*

Silly Verse.

4. Yes and No.

"Hullo," said Mr. No to Mr. Yes

And Mr. Yes became distressed.

"Who addresses me?" asked Mr. Yes

As Mr. No began to go.

Knowing Yes was so distressed

No paused, uncertain he could go

And in a dither began to show

As much distress as Mr. Yes.

"Well, who are you?" asked Mr. Yes.

"I must confess I do not know."

"No, said No. "No?" asked Yes

"Yes," said No. "Oh," said Yes.

"You?" asked No. "Yes," said Yes

"By which I mean my name is Yes."

"Right," said No. "And do you know,

That I am known as Mr. No?"

"Good," said Yes, "But I must go."

"Oh no," wailed No. "Oh Yes!" said Yes.

"Oh dear," moaned No. "Adieu," said Yes,

"Nice to meet you. All the best."

"We'll have to write," said Mr. No.

"Oh yes," said Yes, "Here's my address."

"Oh no," cried No, again distressed.

"My dear," said Yes, "Aren't you impressed?"

"Oh yes," said No, "But I don't know

If to my place you'd like to go."

"Oh yes," grinned Yes. "Oh yes?" asked No,

"Of course," said Yes. "Just let me know."

"I will," said No. "Where do you go?"

"What now?" asked Yes. "Why yes," said No.

"You know, dear No," admitted Yes,

"It's very silly I confess..."

"It is?" asked No. "Oh yes," said Yes,

"For while I know my own address,

I've quite forgotten...well, you know,

Exactly where was I to go."

"Oh no!" cried No. "Oh yes," said Yes

"Oh dear," groaned No. "I said Hullo,"

"Oh yes," said Yes, "I get distressed

Whenever I have been addressed."

"I know," said No, and began to go,

"That's it," cried Yes. "It is?" asked No.

"Oh yes," said Yes, "For don't you know..."

"No," said No. "But onward go."

"I will," said Yes, "For I suggest,

It wasn't Yes who went to go."

"I know," said No. "You do?" checked Yes

"I do," said No, "Yet, do you know,"

"No," said Yes. "Oh yes, you do,

For now you know No went to go."

"Ah, yes," said Yes, "I also know

Why I forgot." "Quite so," said No.

"I'm the one who went to go."

"Go?" asked Yes. "Oh yes," said No.

"But where?" asked Yes. "Somewhere," said No.

"Oh yes?" asked Yes. "Oh yes," said No.

"Now you know that, I profess."

"Hah, hah," said Yes. "You do not know."

"No," said No, "Or rather, yes."

"Then that's all right," said Mr. Yes.

"It is?" asked No. "Oh yes," said Yes.

"This is a very silly mess,

That came about because, oh no!

Remind me, how did it go?"

"Hullo," said Mr. No, to Mr. Yes....

back

*

History: What Really Happened?

1. The Butcher's Tale:

or

The White Ship Disaster

Preface

In the Middle Ages and for the amusement of their fellow travellers, pilgrims on their way to Canterbury used to take it in turns to tell a story. So claimed Geoffrey Chaucer who wrote down some of these stories, e.g. The Nun's Tale, the Millers Tale, The Wagtail etc., etc. You have probably been forced to read them at school. These unlikely stories have been cleaned up and translated into modern English of course, thus removing much of the fun. The butcher's account of the White Ship Disaster was unknown to Chaucer and so he omitted it. Don't ask me where I found it for I will not tell you. You might go looking in the same place. Like those of journalists and historians, my sources are never revealed until the guilty cannot be caught.

*

At first the butcher was reluctant to speak. The inn was crowded, the atmosphere foetid, and he was thirsty. "I can't talk with a dry throat," he moaned.

"Here," a cutpurse amongst them said, offering a flagon of ale.

There were a number of appreciative murmurs from those present, not the least from the butcher himself. "Why, thank you kindly," he replied, and drank deeply.

"My skill, I mean pleasure," replied the cutpurse, for indeed it was. Only ten minutes before he'd relieved the butcher of his money and although it meant neither were better off the cutpurse could always employ his talents again.

"Ah," the butcher said, finishing the ale. "That's better. Mind, I am rather hungry."

The cutpurse produced a blackbird burger, previously acquired with the balance of the proceeds yielded by his earlier crime.

"You are a Samaritan, sir," said the butcher, digging in.

The cutpurse did not reply, merely smiling and hoping that the ensuing distraction would present further opportunities to increase his wealth. He well knew, as do most businessmen, you have to invest to prosper.

And so, eventually, and after spitting out a bit of a beak, the butcher told his tale. What follows is the translated but otherwise original account (Old English is a foreign language.)

"My family have always been butchers. We came over with the Conqueror, you know. One ancestor, Berauld by name, was really good at his job. Mind you, he had a lot of practise at Hastings and in fact the king, William the Conqueror as he had become, was so pleased with Berauld's work that he took him to the North where they harried the natives. That's what the bookmen call it, but it wasn't harrowing at all. It was really excellent butchery.

"Now William was a hard man. Like all men he had a portion of his anatomy that was very tender so when it came into violent contact with the pommel of his saddle he squeaked a bit, partly from pain, but mainly because of the look given him by the lady who was with him at the time. That look said "You ain't going to be much more use to me, Bill dear." It was too much to bear and William lost interest in life and quickly expired.

"William had three sons, fortunately all conceived before the pommel incident, otherwise there would have been no more Normans and no butchers' tale. On his father's painful demise the eldest of these, Rufus, became king. Unfortunately, he inherited his father's talent for falling, not on a pommel this time, but off of his horse and onto an arrow that happened to be lying point upwards just where Rufus came down. Or so said Henry, the third son. Anyway, like William, Rufus was penetrated to death. This was convenient for Henry because the legitimate heir to Rufus's throne was Robert, and he'd been persuaded by Henry to go on a crusade. So he was out of the country when Rufus died. The fact that Robert was Duke of Normandy whilst Henry was Duke of nothing has no bearing on the matter Henry's chronicler's claim. What really counted now was who got crowned first.

"Henry reacted fast. Pulling the arrow from Rufus's body he wrapped a message round the shaft and sent it to a lady he knew in Rome. Roughly translated the message read "Five hundred quid to keep Robert in Italy and if you don't the butcher will sort you out."

At this point the cutpurse demanded, "What's this history got to do with anything?"

"Essential background," was the butcher's reply, removing another bit of beak and tail feather. "The fellow who carried the arrow was another of my ancestors. So do shut up. Let me tell the story.

Now, as then, the key to power is wealth, and to wealth, power, which ever comes sooner. Henry knew the truth of this and, what is more, he knew where the late king Rufus had kept his treasure; nearby in Winchester. He jumped on his horse and rode to where the Treasurer, one de Bretueil, was keeping guard.

On his arrival Henry demanded of de Bretale. "Give me the treasure. The king is dead."

"The king is dead?" de Bretale repeated. He wasn't deaf, just slow.

"Yes. Long live the king. ME!" Henry emphasised, with his sword caressing the Treasurer's neck.

"But," protested the moneyman, "Robert is next in line and he's on his way home. He'll be here soon."

"Listen, stupid, that's exactly why I must hurry," Henry retorted, raising the sword. But he changed his mind, and spared the Treasurer for he guessed if he cut off his head he wouldn't find any money inside. He hacked off the lid of the treasure chest instead.

"Robert is older than you," de Bretoil persisted, busily changing his name. "Robert should be king." Goodness, he ran risks.

"Now listen," Henry replied, with some patience. "Robert is charming, easy going and rich. He will be no good at this king business."

"Not if he has no chance to try," de Brightoil admitted, with a glimmer of intelligence.

"Don't you notice he is not here," Henry pointed out, "Whereas I am, so is my sword and so is the Saxon nun I'm going to marry."

"As well as be king?"

"Exactly. So I need the money and Robert doesn't. Besides, the lady has nun."

It was an awful joke, but it worked. As Britoile creased up Henry scooped the contents of the treasure chest, collected his bride to be (or not to be wasn't the question, she had no choice) and carefully avoiding all means of public transport, hurried off to London. In three days the Bishop of that city proclaimed Henry king of England which the populace found rather long and boring. A 3-hour speech is one thing, you can always nod off. But 3 whole days!!!

"Why you?" the people demanded, annoyed because they'd had to stand in the rain so long.

"Because I was born in the purple," Henry replied.

The crowd was unconvinced. "In the purple what?"

"I don't know, do I?" Henry retorted. "But it wasn't the wrong side of the blanket like you bastards. Besides, I do have all the money."

The crowd warmed to him immediately. "Show us," they cried.

"Here it is," Henry said, and held up a rather large ring.

"Is that all?" cried the populace. Some began to murmur dissent for they had hoped that Henry would give them Maunday money. That would have proved he was king. But he could not for it was Tuesday. Henry had thought ahead.

"I wanted to make a money belt," Henry explained, "So I melted down the Treasury. Sad to say Rufus spent a lot and this is all I have. It won't even go over my shoulders." The ring of gold and embedded gems stuck on top of his head when he tried to slip it down to his waist. "See! It's stuck on my crown. Never mind, since I've just done it, it must be the latest fashion."

Thus the idea of a crowned head was born and he who had one must be king, or so the crowd reasoned. Their logic was confirmed when Henry showered them with the Bishops' money, borrowed for the occasion.

"It's the new Council Tax," Henry explained to the crestfallen churchman.

"You haven't got a council," the cleric retorted.

"I need one now," Henry said. "Mind, we won't include education. The last thing we want is the attention of an intelligent rabble."

The bishop beamed, for up to now most of the cost of learning had been borne by the clerics. "The government will pay?"

"Absolutely," Henry replied, and added under his breath, "Nothing."

Thus Henry became king. Everyone knows what happened next so I'll tell you, for we all like to have our prejudices confirmed. Robert finally evaded the lady in Rome and arrived in France, determined in a mild and amiable sort of way to wrest the crown from Henry. They met in Normandy. A mild and amiable sort of battle was fought during which, for some unaccountable reason, two knights were killed. "You Normans are certainly accident prone," de Bogoil remarked, remembering the fate of William the Conqueror and Rufus. "Better take care." Henry's reply was to lock up Robert for life and have a baby with his Saxon nun wife. This, he reasoned, would secure the succession. It was important, for if someone other than a Norman became king after Henry, they'd change history and ruin his reputation.

Nearly everyone was happy. The Saxons were happy because by beating Robert of Normandy the battle of Hastings had been avenged and the next king would be at least half English; Henry was happy because he was now a king, a dad and a duke (of Normandy, which, locked up Robert could no longer be); the Queen was happy because Henry left her alone most of the time and took his girl friends on his business trips abroad whereas she fancied rather younger and more handsome courtiers; young William, initially miserable because Henry wouldn't allow him to drink beer before he was two, cheered up considerably when his considerate father gave him his own private butcher, one Berauld II, son of Berauld I, to teach him the tricks of a conquering king's trade. He'd heard all about North Harrow and wanted to kill Saxons like his father and grandfather; even de Brit-oil was happy for Henry allowed him to look for treasure in the North Sea. Only Robert was miserable in an amiable sort of way, and this mainly because he'd never been in jail before and thought it a bit of a come down. Only a bit, though. He had much more free time than had a king. Which, naturally, Henry had pointed out as being one of the main advantages prison life. Amiably, Robert had to agree.

For some time nothing much happened until one day, Louis, king of part of France, decided he wanted to be king of the rest. He told Henry he'd better agree or else he'd send over some of his surplus hooligan barons, like those at Hastings, only worse. What he didn't realise was that Henry had acquired a navy and even if those hooligans did get a foothold, where would they go? The English hadn't invented football, yet. This was a major blow to Louis. To save face he asked Henry to ask his son, William, to call him king. Henry agreed; for as it happened William, now eighteen, wanted to pop over and stock up on cheap booze. So, over they went, the lad met Louis and said, agreeably, "Hullo king," and Louis, much gratified, gave them access to all the beer and wine they wanted.

It was at this point, while in Barfleur, that Prince William met a young inventor called Thomas Fitz Stephen, who, when he wasn't convulsing, loved messing about in boats and inventing things. He told Prince William about his latest project, a new super boat.

Prince William was impressed. "Great," he enthused. "Go and flog it to the king."

"He'll never buy," replied Fitz Stephen, with a shudder.

"No," agreed the prince. "But while you are haggling I can have a party. When I'm sufficiently blotto I could tell him what a great product you've produced."

It was agreed. William duly went to his party, Fitz Stephen duly approached the king, Henry duly pointed out it was the end of the month and he was duly broke, so, duly, they began to haggle.

"This white ship of mine has all the latest devices," Fitz Stephen pointed out. "Some of 'em so new they're not even on board yet."

"Nice one," conceded the king.

"Fifty slave power; more if you tune her up a bit. I reckon you could squeeze in another ten. Go like a bomb, she will. Nought to sixty in half an hour, or so."

"Sixty what."

"Cubits."

"Remarkable," murmured the king, unwilling to admit he did not know what a cubit was.

"Very strong, too. I haven't compromised on timber. You've got a good deal here. In fact she's made of the stuff."

"We English prefer oak, of course," Henry replied, seizing the opening.

"Well, yes. But we're not talking limos. This here is just a dammed good workhorse."

"Sure," Henry agreed, smiling. "Unfortunately, Steve, I already have 35 ships. Why do I want any more?"

"Those might have been the words of Edward the Confessor," Stephen sighed. "Look what happened when your dad came over. Where was the Royal Navy then?"

Henry was impressed, there is no doubt about it, but he would not part with his cash. "I could give it a trial run, I suppose."

"Absolutely," Stephen agreed. "Take a spin. Enjoy yourself. If you don't like her I can always try the States. I mean, those Indian canoes are a bit limiting." A passing Viking had told him about the Indians long before Columbus set out.

Although Henry wanted the best he never did like parting with best money. And the thought of someone way out West acquiring a better set of sails than he had only increased his agitation. Typically, he went yet more negative and tried to beat down the price. "There's a problem with your ship, Steve. I hate to say it but, what about my horses?"

Stephen had been waiting for this. He rubbed his hands together. "This will really grab you. Did you notice the ship looks the same both ends?"

"I wondered about that," Henry admitted.

"I got the idea from church doors. You know, the type with rounded tops. Well, lay them flat and attach the hinges to each end of the boat and what have you got?"

"A draft ridden church," hazarded the king. "A vicar in a flap?"

"Try again."

"Wet sailors?"

"Close."

"Beats me," the king admitted, finally.

"The latest invention, that's what you've got. Undo the locks and let the doors down and bingo...!"

Henry shook his head. "And in comes the sea. No good, I'm afraid."

"Where's your vision?" Stephen cried, hastily adding "Sire," for the kings' visage was darkening. "I've created the first, the very first clatter on, clatter off ferry. It's so good in a few years they'll all be doing it, and making pots of money. Unless you build the Channel tunnel, of course."

"Nice one, Steve."

"There's more. With the White Ship there is no fore and aft. You never have to turn the ship round. That's always tricky. Turn the slaves instead and get 'em to row the other way!"

"I like it," Henry agreed, reluctantly. He knew a vessel as good as this was bound to be pricey.

"There's no commitment. Just try her out. You'll bite my hand off for her. Who needs dollars, anyway?"

As it happened Henry did. His head had become very sore supporting the weight of the crown. What he needed was currency, turned into gold, welded onto the crown until it became big enough to go round his waist.

"Look," Henry said, "I'd love to ride in your boat but the arrangements are all made. However, Prince William can. Let him try her out across the Channel. William!"

"William!"

"William!"

"William!"

"William!"

"William!"

The royal command was relayed from courtier to courtier until finally it courtiered up with William where he was carousing at the Pig and Bottle. Ever the dutiful son the prince hastened to his father's side carrying half a barrel of real old ale and supporting the rest of the cask on his shoulder. "Yes, Pop?"

"Take a look over there and see what your great Dad's got you. Le Blanche-Nef."

William, well into "Un Anglais binge" rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks dad. Is that another French party?"

Henry smiled indulgently. Such a clever lad. So like his father. "It's a ship, son. You and your brothers and sisters are travelling home in her."

"It must be big." Henry's progeny were numerous, though most were not legit.

"Specially designed. Son, all you have to do is roll on, roll over to good old Blightly and then roll off."

"Great idea," Prince William burped. "I need something like that just now."

"Stephen designed it especially for you," the king told him.

The prince threw his arm around the inventor's shoulders. "Great chap, Stephen. You go on, Dad. We'll finish our party and catch you up later."

So the king set sail. He was nearly over the horizon when William and his retinue finally embarked on the White ship for the first and as it turned out, the last time.

William gazed at the distant royal yacht. "Soon catch him up," he boasted, brandishing a cat o' nine tails in full view of the rowing slaves. "Won't we, lads!"

"Aye, aye, sire." The tars were genuine

(Here we have documented the creation of a new word, TARS. There was a clerk at the pub when the story was told, writing everything down. He wrote tars instead of tears through pressing too hard on the "T," breaking his quill and when he'd resharpened it and bent once more to his task, he forgot to insert an "E". (The full document survived, how else could I present it here? Thus the mistake was perpetuated through history.) Actually, TARS should have read TEARS, for that's what the sailors were shedding. They knew what a sailor's life was like. What they didn't know was this misprint thereafter labelled them for life. If they had they would have shed even more! Tars indeed!)

"A prayer before we sail," the local vicar cried. "No-one should sail without a blessing." He was on peace be with you work. Only the lookout agreed with him but this was to be expected since his business was also to warn of forthcoming calamities, or else.

William stamped his foot. "I don't want prayer. I want poke! "Let's row!"

He gazed hard at the slaves and flicked his designer whip. (Another non-footnote: The king's commentator is heard to gush, in sotto voice, "Henry's whip is the latest accessory to come out of Paris for the active man. The leather stock, reinforced with inch wide thongs, will last at least ten victims' lifetimes whilst the flails are carefully matched each with the other and finished in contrasting colours of red, white and blue overlain with sundry blotches representing use, thus being both wildly patriotic and severely practical. Tests have shown the average eye cannot distinguish Gore or Vidal organs from the original flail.)

The ship got under way as the slaves bent unwillingly to their task. The wind was light, the sea calm, the sky blue, and the seagulls were busy elsewhere. It was the perfect setting for a disaster!

They might have made a record crossing but unfortunately no one had explained to the lookout the unique design of the ship. While he dithered, uncertain which end to go to, because front and back looked exactly the same, he did a dangerous thing. He had a thought. Actually, it was a thought athwart, for that's where he was, in the middle and since he wasn't looking out but only praying in the middle for inspiration, the ship struck a rock.

"Abandon ship!" cried the captain, clinging to his girl friend. He leapt overboard. There was nothing but water below so he drowned, weighted down by his armour. She wouldn't, or couldn't, let go.

Now William knew that the captain hated sea shanties and their accompanists so naturally enough he thought the captain had said "There's a band on the ship," and had jumped rather than endure a bunch of singing tars (the name had already caught on). William was delighted. He started to dance and it was the butcher's ancestor, Berauld II, who pointed out that they were about to have a shipwreck, not a quickstep. "See, prince! The water's coming in!"

"And in here, too," cried the fraught athwart lookout, shaking his wet feet.

"There's more, see!" shouted one of William's brothers. "We're rich!" This only goes to show that some of the Goon show jokes are pretty old.

"All hands on deck," William commanded, so that no one could move. "Woman and children last. Princes first!" So saying he stepped into the only lifeboat and quickly had Berauld II row them clear.

"Oh, save us!" cried William's sister Maud. "There's a dear."

You've guessed it. William's hearing, already suspect, (Hadn't you noticed that? Go back a bit and then pay more attention) led him to think she said, "Here's the beer."

Like a flash he changed his mind and ordered the lifeboat back to the White Ship. He knew where his duty lay. Alongside again he held out his arms to receive the keg he'd left behind. "Let me have it," he cried, impatiently. "Jump to it."

Opinions differ as to what happened next but it boils down to just two options. Either Maud, by no means a little lady, which is to say she was at least 25 stone (= 159 kilos, more or less) then jumped and went clean through the bottom boards of the lifeboat, or, when William cried "Jump to it" they all jumped. In any event the lifeboat was not up to spec and went down, closely followed by the White Ship, bow and stern first.

Now, Beraud II, like all butchers, made sausages and when the lifeboat went down he happened to be clutching one of his own. Being made by him it was mostly sawdust and air, so it floated and he was saved. Many of the others were also butchers but they'd neglected their sausages of late or put in more meat and so drowned.

Thus died the last generation of Normans, William, Maud and all the other bastards, accident-prone to the last. The one remaining problem facing those who found Beraud II clinging to his sausage was who should tell the king his dynasty was finished?

By unanimous consent amongst those at court the only suitable candidate had to be the smallest pageboy, for he couldn't bully anyone else into facing the king. So the lad shuffled into the presence carrying chloroform, not for the king but for himself so he wouldn't feel the blow when it fell. He conveyed the awful news amidst a wave of gas. Then, inspiration struck. The king's eyes were beginning to dilate and his eyelids to droop. The page saw that the king was hooked and gave him the rest. Henry swooned, the page scarpered, and when Henry came too he immediately swooned again for in his mind's eye he'd seen the rest of his life flash before his eyes.

It is true that from that day onwards no one ever saw the king smile. Part of the reason was that he needed a new legit heir and that meant the Queen was involved. He probably guessed he was unlikely to begat a son by her because she wouldn't let him begin, let alone begat. Yet for the next fifteen years he'd have to keep trying just in case she lost her concentration. Smile? Don't make me laugh.

Is there a moral to this history? Naturally, and it is this. Henry was the last of the Normans and by the time the Lancastrian and Yorkist kings had sorted out their differences England was English again and most of France French. It would have saved a lot of trouble if someone had informed the Conqueror not to bother to come over in the first place. The Normans never ferried well abroad. They are too accident prone as this sorry records.

back

*

Silly Verse

5. Tomorrow

Life is but a bitter pill

Hurry up and swallow;

Being Christian you can hope

For better things to follow.

Life is but a bitter pill

Take your time to swallow;

Being godless you will know

Oblivion must follow.

back

*

The Main Chance.

(I have changed the names of those involved;

this story is not fiction.)

Once part of the even larger property next door the house into which I moved was big, old and crumbling away. All the rooms were very spacious and tacked on one to the other. The first in the line used to function as a stable, the next as a harness room, then came the coach house (the double doors long since bricked up) and finally came the dung heap which I use as a dining room, cleaned up a bit of course.

My friends were appalled. "You must be mad," I was told by Duncan. "Look at the walls! They bulge out."

"And in," I reasoned. "In fact they're made of compacted chalk and what you see is just the result of the higher points settling down."

"Yes, straight onto the ground."

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"No."

Trevor was appalled. "But you have no foundations!"

"It hasn't been an issue over the last two hundred years," I replied calmly.

I won that round so the attack shifted. George took up the cudgel. "The windows are glued in place with at least fifty layers of paint!"

"Thus deterring all but the most determined thief!"

I got agreement on that one. "He'd need a blow torch."

"Good, isn't it!"

"Is it?" asked Charles. "What about when the weather is fine and you want some fresh air?"

"I go outside."

Another point to me.

Edward was ruefully examining his ankle. "Your floor boards are rotten. I've just gone through one."

"So you have. Concrete will fix that."

Len helped Edward to a packing case (my only chair was in another room) and then gave me a worried frown. "The wiring is dangerous. The insulation is crumbling away."

"Don't you think power bills are ridiculously high these days?"

"Not for you. The moment you switch on you'll short out the lot!"

"That'll cut the bill."

George tried a comeback. "You've got mould on the walls,"

"That's a big plus; my pot plants will flourish in here."

In unison George, Len, Charles, Trevor and Duncan cried, "Why on earth did you buy this dump?" Edward said nothing. He was still ruefully examining his foot.

"It's all your fault," I told them. "That, and the price."

They stared at me, speechless. Except Edward. He tried to stand, gave a howl of pain the moment his injured foot touched the floor and then collapsed back onto the packing case. He must have found one of the few solid planks. A tear appeared in his eye. "I'd never recommend this, this..."

"Pigsty?" offered George.

"Slum," Trevor insisted.

"Crapulous," agreed Len. He is the literary one.

"Muck heap," from Duncan.

"Are you insured?" Edward demanded. "I may sue."

"No point," I retorted. "I have no assets. Except this place."

"You have no assets," George insisted.

"Look guys, I tell you, apart from a semi-detached shoe box in the worst area of town this house is all I can afford."

George inclined his head. "It is difficult to argue with that. But why blame us? If you'd asked our advice we'd have kidnapped you until the madness passed."

"That's why none of you were consulted."

"So don't blame us," Edward snarled.

"Oh, but I do."

"How come? Even for a female you defy all logic!"

"Not really. I'll let you into a secret. If you were not my friends I'd never have touched this pigsty, slum, crapulous muck heap... "

"Death trap," interjected Edward.

"How true," I agreed. "Without you I'd never have touched this not ideal home with a barge pole!"

"But, but, we were not involved!" exclaimed Duncan.

"Precisely. But you will be."

"How does that make us responsible," demanded Len. Sometimes he is a bit slow on the up take.

"That's an easy one. I know you'll help me fix it up. You will, won't you?" I appealed and gave them my "You know I'm a reckless and silly female lacking male abilities and commonsense," smile. As a clincher I offered one and all a cup of coffee; no delay. There and then.

They accepted so my strategy had worked. Despite a very limited purse I'd managed to get a roof over my head and all the unpaid help I needed to make the place habitable.

John, my sister's husband, was a wrecker so I got him to rip up the floorboards. He wanted to help with the concreting but I drew the line there. For one thing it was quite unpredictable what he'd destroy in the process and for another I wanted to do it myself. There's something very satisfying in mixing all that sand and cement and water (No mixer, no money for extras) in your own front room and then treading it in with your feet. Of course I got pretty messy so I didn't wear much, which is the other reason I declined John's help. He fancies himself and he fancies me.

Another challenge was to smooth out all that mix without trapping myself in the corner furthest from the door. I laid it six inches thick. I did take advice though, from Graham. He's gay so no problem there and I let him monitor my progress. By the time he confirmed it was no longer green and safe to walk on I had a base to be proud of that would last a hundred years.

"You've probably strengthened the whole building," he told me, with approval, late one night over a steaming cup of cocoa in my curtain less kitchen. That meant my neighbours could see in. How envious they must be of all the willing helpers I had.

Gordon, a dab hand at plastering, attacked the kitchen on another evening. His hands tend to wander which meant more mess and possible problems so suitable precautions had to be taken. I invited his girl friend over and while we exchanged confidences he stripped to the waist for it was warm work (remember those windows) and concentrated on what he should, buoyed on by her admiration for his abs and promise to see him right later if he did a good job.

More than once I congratulated myself that I'd had the courage to do my own thing, with the help of my friends and without unnecessary complications. Being alone suits me. Men are fine just so long as you take a few obvious steps and make sure they don't hang around too much. Even Edward limped in and attacked the wiring after his day job (wiring). His safety net was to remove the fuses every so often so some of the task had to be done in the dark. Dodgy, but I held the torch and he behaved himself; in his state he knew he'd never catch up with me and he was far from clear about the solidity of the other floors in the house. They were fine but I didn't tell him that.

My project was going so well that a disaster was inevitable. It arrived in the form of a solicitor's letter. You know the kind of thing, a heavily embossed letterhead "Twistem, Rookham & Bolt," followed by turgid legalise requiring a dictionary and tortuous logic diagram to interpret. An ex boy friend offered help following my panic phone call. He called round, and not out of friendship. He's a legal leach too. "It is quite clear," he informed me smugly, "Your neighbours require you to lay down a new water supply."

"The one I have is perfectly serviceable. The taps drip, though. Do you know a reliable plumber?"

"No I do not, and it isn't the point."

"You may tolerate drips. I won't."

"My dear girl, you must grasp this issue. Your water is supplied via a branch pipe which is connected to your neighbour's main. They are quite within their rights to insist you make other arrangements."

"Rights is one thing, cost is another."

"Again, not the point. What you use is charged to them."

"Oh no it isn't. We pay a fixed charge for availability, not for usage."

"Doesn't matter," Larry the leach informed me, with a legal leer. "They can cut you off any time they like. You should be grateful. I see they've given you a month."

"But, but, it will cost money."

"Indeed. Better than undergoing litigation, believe me."

"I haven't got any money." This was true in the sense that what I had was already carefully allocated elsewhere.

Larry the ex boy and lousy friend got up off the packing case (the single chair was still elsewhere). "It will not be any good sending you an invoice then?"

"What for?"

"My consultation fee, darling."

I should have remembered. He is an ex because of his job and unremitting remitting and avaricious attitude. "No, it is not."

"Then goodbye. Don't call me again."

He strode to the front door, opened it and collided with a stranger who stood on the threshold, about to knock.

"Don't threaten me," Larry cried. "I'll have you in court if you do. I might anyway. I've a witness." He looked back at me.

"Have you, Larry? I must say I don't see anyone else here."

"You are sufficient."

"Oh, I was totally distracted, thinking about rising mains." I looked at the stranger. "Did Larry attack you?"

"Maybe. Er, well yes. Maybe he did." How unusual, a quick on the uptake male.

Larry was not amused and with a parting "Hmmp!" he took off.

I eyed up the stranger. About my age, quite dishy in fact. "Don't just stand there. Come in for a coffee and a disaster."

He stepped into the hall ex harness room and then the ex coach house kitchen. Looking about he said with approval, "You've certainly made an impact on the old place."

The kettle was still hot; I'd put it on mistakenly believing Larry would be sympathetic and help. It took but a moment to produce a coffee.

"Do sit down."

He hesitated, looking around, so I took the opportunity to examine him in more detail. He was about my age, fresh faced, a great unruly mop of fair hair sprouting from his scalp and although you could tell he was educated from the way he spoke he was wearing overalls.

"Oh, silly me," I said, for he really was quite dishy, "No chair. I'll get you one."

"I'm in my working clothes," he told me. "They're not exactly pristine."

"No matter," I retorted, and fetched the chair. "Sit," I told him, firmly. I was not being excessively polite. Men are far less threatening when they are seated. It would keep him occupied, too. Three of the legs were still firm but the fourth was ok only if you did not wriggle too much. The back creaked, like a ship's moving timbers stressed by a gale, but that was not a problem for me. I liked the association. As for the seat, the best you could say was it was sound. The upholstery had long since worn away and its place taken bit a piece of unpainted chipboard, strategically nailed. You had to watch those nails.

"Sit," I repeated.

"Actually, I think I will. Thank you." A look of surprise momentarily crossed his face. I think he'd found one of those nails.

To distract him I asked, "You don't by any remote chance know of a good, reliable and very cheap plumber, do you?"

Modestly, he looked down. "Well, actually," and he fingered his overalls, "that's what I do. As best I can."

Most guys would have boasted and blinded me with science. Not this guy. He continued to look bashful. Suddenly I not only liked him I loved him. I'd put brandy in his next cup of coffee, lots of it and once he was suitably relaxed and vulnerable I'd take full advantage and get fun out of it too. Probleme, no brandy. Oh well, not a probleme, I thought, fluttering my eyelashes. Time to praise his hair do.

I did so and then showed him the taps, taking care to stand close. "Will fixing them be expensive?" I asked, resting a hand on his arm.

"Well, actually, good grief, no. I could pop round this evening and do the job in my own time. I've plenty of washers, they're very cheap you know, and the rest is just labour. This job won't cost you a bean."

"You are kind." I meant it, too. I let my hip brush against his. He caught his breath so I plunged into my main problem and explained all about my need for a new, rising main.

His reply was a surprise. "Well, actually, that's why I'm here."

"Really?" Did he have second sight?

"Yes and I'm afraid it is not good news. You see we'll have to dig a trench from the road and tunnel under the walls..."

"There are no foundations to worry about," I explained helpfully, whilst wondering about his use of the word "we".

"That's a bonus, actually. The job doesn't end there, I'm afraid. You'll need a new pipe run once we're inside the house, plus a stopcock of course. I'll probably be able to er, arrange as it were sufficient alkathene tube to do the job. Do you like alkathene?"

"Not in coffee," I replied, pondering again that use of "we".

He explained it was a type of non-metallic pipe, easily persuaded to curve round er, curves, as he put it, eyeing me up. "At the depot there are usually a number of discarded off cuts available. I should have no difficulty finding sufficient for your needs."

"Depot?" I queried, becoming confused.

"I'm from the Water Board," he explained, proudly. "I'm really here to let you know that the Board's normal practice is to do all work outside your property quite free of charge."

"Wow! Thanks friend."

"It is part of our service to our customers. There is a snag, though, from your point of view. Once we reach the boundary of your property well, actually the cost is down to you."

I was tempted to tell him, "Well, actually, you are no help at all." Instead I stated flatly, "I'm broke."

He nodded. "Actually, that is a problem."

To gain time and his support I made him another coffee and then showed him over the house. The tour finished in the ex stable front room where I proudly pointed out my six inches of perfectly smooth, rock hard concrete.

He approved. "You've done a very good job there." Suddenly he was blushing.

I twigged immediately. "You saw me mixing it up? How come? Oh, of course. I have no curtains."

"It's a pity."

There's nothing wrong with my figure. I've worn less on a beach, so the proprieties weren't violated.

His blush deepened. "You were treading it in, actually."

"Good fun it was, too."

"Yes, I imagine so. It is a shame some of it will have to come up."

Arms akimbo I retorted, "Over my dead body."

He traced a line from the inside wall across the floor. "This is the shortest route. "

"Is there no other way?"

He, actually, didn't say actually. "I expect there is but," he sighed, "It will involve more pipe work and more digging outside and so, I'm afraid, more expense."

"Oh, bother."

"I have the use of a pneumatic drill if that's any good."

The real world is harsh, requiring from time to time the taking of difficult decisions. If cutting up the concrete would significantly eat into the bill what other alternative was there?

"I'm not sure I could use one of those."

"Well, I can, actually. If you wish."

We discussed the details of when and how he would do the job. He really was so co-operative and so understanding of my problems that when he turned to go I said, "You'd better give me a contact number in case I need to call you."

His answer was a bombshell. "There is no need for that." He pointed to the mansion next door, the source of my present problem. "Actually I live there."

"You what!"

"Well, yes." He was now blushing bright red. "That's how accidentally I came to see you through my window. Actually I'm afraid it was a loose remark of mine that has caused you this problem for until I told the parents they didn't know they could cut you off!"

Now honesty is rare so I warmed to him. Then I went on the attack. "You... you idiot! You numb brain. What possessed you to do that? Didn't you like the show?"

"Oh no."

"What do you mean, oh no?"

"Oh yes, actually. You are beautiful, especially splattered with concrete."

"That's better."

"It was the parents, I had to placate them. They're getting on and want a quiet life and they've been quite upset at all the goings on."

"You said I'd done a good job."

"So you have. But there have been so many comings and goings, and at all hours. Hundreds of different men have been calling. And what annoyed Mum most was you didn't ever bother to pull the curtains."

"I don't have any."

"I see that now."

"As for my visitors, they may perve a bit but they came here to work! All you've done is generate trouble whilst invading my privacy."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean, actually..."

"One of my men," I sneered, "Is an ace carpenter so you can tell your ancient parentage I agree with them. I shall raise the fence between us at least six feet! Now, get out!" I pushed him through the door and slammed it shut.

What a disaster! First had come the legal letter bringing trouble, then mop head had turned up with a possible solution so that despite the damage to my concrete pride and joy I had warmed considerably towards him only to receive the latest information which instantly turned love into instant hate. What a mess!

I spent time at the library, reading up about water works. It was all very interesting and I thanked the librarian, one Oliver by name, and added, "I wanted something on domestic water supplies, actually." Dammit, I'd caught the disease.

"This book covers all of that," he replied.

"I mean, act... installing your own."

"You mean plumbing. Why didn't you say so?"

I was sitting in the kitchen eating a hot cross bun because it matched my mood and reading "Plumbing for Beginners" when there was a tentative knock on the door.

"Come in."

Whoever it was evidently didn't hear so I got up off the packing case and opened the door. It was moron-tousled head from next door. "You!"

"Well, actually, yes. May I come in?"

"Why?"

"I thought this book might help you." He held up "Plumbing for Beginners."

"I've got my own copy from the library, thank you." I moved to close the door.

"No, wait. People tell me it is brilliant. Do you think so?"

"It's ok."

"I'm so pleased."

"Why?"

"I wrote it."

"Fabulous," I grimaced. Then, putting prejudice aside I dragged him into the ex harness room hall.

"I'm so glad you approve," he gasped. "Every time I reread it I'm completely hooked."

There's modesty for you. "Then tell me who is this chap Whitworth? I think I grasp a point then he intrudes. That's not you, is it?"

"If only," he replied, following me into the kitchen. "That's immortality for you. Whitworth," he explained, "is a standard of measures but a lot of stuff is metric now, so joining new stuff to old can cause all your joints to leak."

"There's nothing wrong with my joints."

"You haven't done any work yet. But actually there could be mega problems if you don't watch out."

"Have you called off your parents? That will fix everything."

"Well, actually, no I haven't," he admitted. He then went on, "I do rather over use that word."

"Actually," I smiled, "You do."

"Sorry."

At least he had some self-awareness. Add that to honesty on the plus side.

We were quite close now and it must have been me moving for he hadn't and I found his proximity just as pleasant as I had before I hated him. Somehow his arm had got tangled round my waist. I leant forward, full of expectation as his lips met mine. It was only later I realised he was wearing his working overalls and he pointed out a smudge of Boss White neatly bisecting my breasts.

"It'll stop your buttons rusting," he claimed. "I can remove it for you."

"Hands off," I told him, firmly, backing away.

"Actually, it's all right because I think I love you," he said, simply. "So hands off may be a bit difficult."

He was getting to me. "I can understand your problem." Now who was being immodest.

"You do?"

"I think so," I replied, shakily. "A problem shared,"

He laughed. "Is bloody inconsiderate! However, I don't mind. Let's explore the difficulty."

"Uhuh," I cautioned and manoeuvred until the packing case was between us. "Keep your distance, plumber boy."

"But why?"

"Because."

He was completely at a loss so I spelt it out. "For one thing you keep saying actually, actually."

"It is a habit," he admitted.

"Then work to fix it."

"Are there other issues?" he asked, edging round the packing case.

"Actually, there are two. The first one I've already told you. Don't say actually ever again. And second you must persuade your ancient parents to leave my equally ancient water works alone. I positively refuse to dig up my concrete or let you bring a pneumatic drill into my ex stable front room." I may sometimes be cupid stupid, Larry the legal letch is proof enough of that, but I ain't plain daft. I'll use my advantages when I spot them.

"But darling," he cried. "They are quite determined."

"So am I," although I warmed to the other D word.

"And how can I stop saying Act... you know, when Mum uses it a hundred times a day?"

"Over to you, tousle head. If you want more of me it means much less of her."

He stopped circling the packing case. "That's reasonable," he admitted.

"Then act on the thought. Want a coffee?"

We spent some more very enjoyable time chatting of this and that and despite being severely tempted I suppressed the longing and refused to let him touch me, no, not even when he offered to remove the Boss White at which, he assured me, he was an expert. That I did not doubt.

Now my Mum would have said my good behaviour lasted until he was at the front door, about to go. Sorry Mum, I came to my senses at that point and somehow it took half an hour before breathless, Boss White less and with bruised lips, I eventually pushed him away.

Early the next morning he was back, haggard and hollow eyed. My goodness, what had happened?

He was also miserable. "I'm a failure," he announced sadly, after taking at least fifteen minutes to deposit a big grease stain just above, well, never mind. I didn't care so of course I knew I was serious about him.

"I spent all night arguing with them," he went on, coming up for air. "It's no good. They won't budge."

I was appalled. "You stupid jerk!"

On cue he jerked back. "W, what?"

"You Wally! You pea brain! Have you no sense? No, you're male. For goodness sake, you know what got under their skin in the first place, disturbed nights. So what do you do? You keep them awake, telling them what they positively don't want to hear!"

"It could have been an error of judgement," he conceded.

"Could have been!"

"I'm a bit of a moron."

"Only a bit? There's more, isn't there. Oh, I see it now. They think a loose woman has descended on them, right?"

"Right," he mumbled agreement.

"So they are full of moral indignation, right?"

"They are rather old fashioned."

"So, bright boy that you are, you told them you'd fallen in love with me!"

Downcast he said, "You're not wrong."

"There's no need to look so miserable about it. Boy, you may know something about pipes, and Whitworths, but your wits are non existent."

"I couldn't help myself," he explained. "I had to tell someone how wonderful you are!"

I could not argue with that. "Ok, I agree. You are partially forgiven. I'm not changing my mind, though. Two conditions, remember? I won't, I positively won't dig up my ex stable front room. It's a matter of principle."

Big eyes were fastened on mine. "What can I do?" he appealed, helplessly.

"Go and dig up their kitchen and see how they like it," I retorted. "But give us a kiss first."

Just as my heart was beginning to bump uncomfortably, just as my legs were weakening, just as I was having second and third thoughts about the stupid conditions I'd laid down, just as I was bending my mind to the problem of getting him upstairs to look at a leaking wash basin I did not have, he pulled away!

"Actually, you know," he said thoughtfully and then breaking into a smile, "that's not a bad idea." He beamed. "Brilliant! Marvellous."

"You're ok, too," I admitted, tugging at his arm to drag him to the stairs.

He broke away. He actually disentangled himself and broke away. "Digging!" he exclaimed. "That's the key. Digging!" He dashed out of the front door leaving me with one hand on the unpainted banister.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I've got some lovely pipes to look at. Lovely, lovely," he cried as he disappeared from view.

I sighed heavily. Whatever turns you on, plumber boy.

Larry, the legal louse, had once stood me up in favour of a pressing matter of litigation, at least that's what he called her, but to be rejected in favour of a rising main was to reach a new low.

Sadly I wandered back to my front room ex stable. That beautiful concrete; the carpet isn't made I'd lay on top of it. Yet in life you sometimes have to make hard decisions. It was going to have to go.

I was chalking out the line of destruction when he came back.

"I've done it!" he cried, taking the chalk from my hand and hurling it into a corner. He lifted me off my feet and swung me round and round. "I've done it. I've done it!"

It felt good, so good that I didn't even think about the industrial muck he could be depositing on me. Instead I wondered if they make baby rattles to look like a plumbers wrench.

Eventually he put me down. "Don't you want to know?" he enquired, anxiously.

I ran my fingers through his beautiful and thick mop of hair. "What?" I asked, completely relaxed. Once you make the hard decision (dig up my concrete) all anxieties melt away.

"Don't you want to know just how clever you are my darling?"

"That's not news."

"You said dig up the kitchen."

"It was a bit spiteful."

"Well, yes, but it got me thinking. You see, to put in a new pipe for you is easy but you've got to block off the old one."

"I know that. Plumbing for Beginners says,"

"Precisely. And then, dear genius, you have to disconnect the other end. Otherwise you get dead water and that's a health hazard. The regulations won't allow dead water."

"Sensible," I commented, wondering when the punch line would arrive so we could get down to more interesting activities.

"Where does your present pipe branch off from ours, eh?"

"Does it matter?" I asked with some indifference, stroking his left ear.

"It is crucial!"

"Is it?"

"I'll say! In this case that junction is right underneath our kitchen and six feet down!"

His ear was distracting me; for once I was slow on the uptake. I mean how could anyone get excited by a pipe joint? Was he really the man for me? "So?"

"So suddenly Mum isn't so keen to cut you off. We've just laid cork tiles on the floor in there. And then a six foot deep hole right beside her cooker, wow, what a mess!"

Maybe he is to be my fellow after all I thought as finally I caught on. "What a happy coincidence!"

"Well, actually, no it isn't." He glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure no one else was listening. He lowered his voice. "The truth is I haven't a clue where the join is but they don't know that."

"You devious plumber boy!"

"Don't you let on!"

"As if I would." Coming along nicely, he was.

"I explained about your real situation, you know, late visits, no money," he grinned, "but lots of assets. I think I'm beginning to win them over."

That was when, over his shoulder, I saw an elderly man and woman hesitating on the front door step. Plumber boy looked, too. He let me go, went over to the door and ushered them in. "Meet Mum and Dad, darling," he cried happily, "They've come to make friends."

"Well, actually," said his mother, glancing around my hall ex harness room, "It is a bit more than that." She eyed the tatty banister. "Father here is something of a painter and I'm good with curtains. You need curtains," she told me, firmly.

back

*

Silly Verse

6. Boxing Clever.

We thought we'd box clever

With regard to the weather

On which one can rarely rely,

So we all went away in the middle of May

Instead of the end of July.

The consequence was

Just in spite, or because,

Of our premature trip to the sea,

The sun rarely shone; when it did it was gone

Before it could sunburn a pea!

With vigilant eyes

We scanned the grey skies

In search of a small patch of blue,

But all that we saw remained as before,

No sign of the sun breaking through.

With saddening heart

We proposed to depart!

(We'd packed up all our regalia,)

For when all's said and done

If you want the sun,

Emigrate to Australia.

back

*

Right First Time.

Alan stood before the dressing table mirror, carefully adjusting his tie. "Are you going to be late again tonight?" he asked.

From the warmth of the bed, and still only half awake, I murmured, "I was in by ten thirty." Half awake I might be but there was no mistaking the undertone of suspicion in his voice. It was justified.

I dragged myself into a sitting position, watching him. "It all depends how the meeting goes. Derek says we've got to keep up the momentum. I can't very well say 'Sorry, got to go,' just as they start signing, just because it's ten o'clock, or whatever."

"No-o." Alan moved to the window and stared out at the early morning street below. "No, of course you can't."

"And any way, there's nothing to worry about. I always get a lift home."

"I'm sure you do. Who's the lucky chauffeur?"

"Derek."

"The Derek you're doing the petition with?"

"Oh, you should be there," I gushed, brightly. "It's chaos, and tremendous fun. Nobody gave us a chance. 'What?' they said, 'Three hundred signatures! You haven't a prayer!' But we have. We don't just ask the other students politely, to sign. We'll do anything."

"Risky," Alan commented, still looking at the street below.

"It works. We've got over two hundred already. Another few nights like last night and," I broke off. He still wouldn't look at me.

"What sort of things do you do?"

"Oh, silly things; you know, student things."

"Like what? I'm not meaning to pry," he went on, hurriedly. "I'd just like to know. If I can't be there at least I can share your fun indirectly."

I didn't like the way the conversation was going. "Oh, you know. Derek twists their arms and I shove the pen in their hands."

I couldn't tell him I'd ended up on the lap of one reluctant signer, or that Derek had bought me a drink and given me a hug when I'd got the two hundredth name by giving the bloke who'd signed a kiss. That fellow got his money's worth and when he eventually let me go I was breathless, and, I admit, quite ready to do the same again. It was very enjoyable.

It was time to change the subject. "How did your badminton go?"

"We won."

"Was it a good game?"

"Not really."

"Weren't your opponents any good?"

"The girl on the other side of the net couldn't concentrate. Almost in tears, she was."

"Poor thing," I muttered, wondering why some people take games so seriously.

Alan turned away from the window and stared at me. "Yes. Afterwards, in the dressing room, her partner apologised for her. Apparently her boyfriend's two-timing her."

"It happens," I said quietly.

"Yes," Alan replied, fiercely. "But if it does you'd think he'd be open about it. The poor kid's hooked."

He was so intense I pulled the bed clothes protectively up to my chin. "What did you do? Buy her a box of chocolates as a consolation prize?" I often get sarcastic when I'm put out.

"No. We arranged a rematch for tonight. After all, you'll be late."

"You didn't know that," I accused him.

Alan brightened. His threatening manner totally disappeared. "I can always cancel it," he told me, eagerly.

I shifted uneasily under the covers. "We can't do much in the lunch break. It has to be in the evening. Besides, as Derek says, they're much more likely to listen to us when they've had a drink or two." I laughed, and even to me it sounded forced. "They can't resist us. We're a great team. Everyone says so."

"I expect they do," Alan said, mechanically, drifting back to the window.

I hated hurting him. Alan and I were also a great team. We did things differently. We were students, but at different colleges. When most partners who got together just got together, Alan and I got married. Why not? If things went wrong we could always get unmarried, and in the meantime there was meaning, and security. That's what we'd told each other, before it mattered. "The petition is strictly business," I told him, knowing however true it had been at the outset it was becoming less so with every signature we poached. Derek was unstoppable. You never knew what he'd do next, and that made him exciting to be with.

"You'd better get up. You'll be late."

I waited until he'd moved into the kitchen before I climbed out of bed and put on my dressing gown. Somehow it did not seem right to, to just wander about unprotected before his eyes. It didn't make me feel any better when I realised that he probably guessed that and typically, had made himself scarce.

"Hi, beautiful," Derek cried, when I got to the common room at lunch time. He waved a sheaf of papers. "While you've been slacking I've signed up another ten."

"I had a class 'till twelve."

He grinned, and put his arm around my waist. "Okay. You're forgiven, as long as you don't make a habit of getting your priorities wrong."

He plonked the list of names on a table and we leant over it.

"Only ten?" I joked, my voice a little unsteady for he was standing very close.

Derek tightened his hold, took a quick look around the room and pulled me to him. Only about thirty people were looking.

My heart thumping I wound my arms around his neck. Our lips met. It was heaven.

"So this is the real reason you two go around together."

It was Gordon, one of my class mates. He knew enough about me to know I shouldn't be doing this.

Derek broke contact. "Of course, Jane's my girl," he said, quite unabashed. "Have you signed?"

"No," Gordon retorted, "and I'm not going to."

"Why ever not?" I asked. Defiantly I hung on to Derek.

"Because, dear Jane, I happen to believe we're here to study. We've got enough representatives on the Staff-Student Council," that was what our petition was about, to get the College to accept more student representatives, "so I don't approve of your aims, or your methods, or," he added, staring at me, "of you!" He turned on his heel and walked rapidly away.

"That's telling us and no mistake, Derek said, cheerfully.

"Prig," I muttered.

"So he is, Jane. So he is. But we aren't and that's what matters. Gosh, look at the time."

"Don't tell me you've got a class!"

Derek was hurriedly stuffing books and papers into his case. "I'm afraid so."

"And you're actually going?"

"I'm even more afraid so." He grinned up at me and then kissed me again. "Okay for tonight?"

"No problems."

"See you here at eight, then."

With a cheery wave he was gone. And that, I thought, is how to deal with disapproval. Ignore it.

That night I didn't get in until well after eleven. Our flat is on the top floor of the house and as I hurried guiltily along the path towards it I could see the light in the front room. Alan had waited up. I knew he would. It was so easy to imagine the scene. He'd probably be sitting by the fire, reading a text book, or pretending to do so. Lonely and unhappy he'd look up as I came in.

I'd say, with false brightness, "Hi. Been in long?"

"Me? A couple of hours."

"Oh, yes, badminton. Did you win?"

To avoid looking at him I'd turn away to hang my coat on the back of the door. It would also give me a chance to see if my shirt was properly tucked in. I shivered. The memory of Derek's caress was very, very recent. Oh god I thought. What if Gordon's told him? He could have.

"No. I didn't win. We lost three sets to love. It was my fault."

"I don't believe it!" I'd exclaim, as if I cared about silly games. I'd lean over the back of his chair and give him a peck on the top of his head. "What went wrong?"

"I'd got other things on my mind." He'd say it quietly. "Like a wife who finds one man isn't enough."

He hasn't said it so far but if he did how would I get out of that?

Make light of it. "Don't be silly, Alan. Want a coffee?" That's it, escape to the kitchen and put the kettle on. "Tea or coffee?"

"I've had some hours ago."

"I didn't intend to be this late. Really I didn't. But we were doing so well." I'd told Derek there'd be no inhibitions tomorrow.

"How many did you get?"

"What?"

"How many signatures did you get this time?"

Yeah, he'd ask that, even though he cared as little about the petition as I did about badminton. "Not enough. We need at least another thirty."

The kettle would boil and I'd probably fill a cup and then remember I hadn't put in the coffee. When I put that right it would float on the surface in great big blobs, refusing to dissolve.

I'd go back into the sitting room. "I'm not buying that cheap stuff anymore. Look at this mess."

Alan would glance at it and then at his own cup, still half full, the contents long since lumpily cold. "No, don't. Foul, it was."

We'd been through that routine several times but we have to watch the pennies so we haven't gone up market. He'd grimace and there would more than one meaning behind that look.

If I didn't care for him it would be easy. But I did so how could I be open and honest, as we'd always agreed to be?

Alan would start pacing the room. It was one of his favourite ways of dealing with difficult situations. He'd be desperate for me to talk but hoping I'd make the first move so he didn't have to probe. And up to a point I wanted to explain. I wanted him to understand I couldn't help the situation. Derek was special, a once in a lifetime spark of contact. I couldn't, wouldn't, stop seeing him. In all the years ahead I might never get another chance.

If only Alan hadn't found out. I needed time, time to sort myself out. End of term was approaching. The holiday would give me a chance. I couldn't imagine it but next term Derek and I might cool off. If Alan hadn't known he wouldn't be hurting now and maybe we could get back to where we should be.

I climbed the stairs. Oh, God! I don't need this scene. He's got to trust me

Our front door was slightly opened and, as I'd expected, Alan was sitting on the settee, a book open beside him. But, he wasn't quietly and patiently waiting for me. On his other side was a girl, her head on his shoulder, his arm round her waist.

I froze in shock, completely stunned.

"You're so kind," the girl said. She turned her head towards him and kissed his cheek. "I wish I'd met you ages ago."

Alan smiled, his lips only inches from hers.

I couldn't move, I hardly breathed. With a kind of horrible fascination I watched their lips meet. The girl sighed, holding him gently. She kissed him again. "We shouldn't be doing this. Jane could come in any minute."

I took a quick backward step in case either of them looked towards the door. But they had eyes only for each other.

"That's not the real reason," Alan murmured.

The girl giggled. "No," she admitted. "You're married so if Jane was here now, I wouldn't be."

Alan snuggled a little closer to her. "I'm not so sure I like that idea."

"Neither do I, but I'll have to go soon."

Alan reluctantly agreed. Then he asked, "What about tomorrow? Same time, same place?

"You bet. No matter what he says, or does."

Alan said, fiercely, "That's assuming he actually cares."

The girl looked troubled for a moment and then she sighed. "It'll all come out in the wash."

Alan grinned. "I use Squeeky Cleen."

"Does it work?"

"It's painful, but yes, it cleans things up a treat."

"What about the fabric? Will it stand the strain?"

"That, my girl, depends on the quality. You'll be ok."

The girl said, doubtfully. "It's taking quite a chance."

"Yes but it is the best bet."

"Either way I'll find out, won't I?"

"That's the point. He will cave in."

"If he doesn't there's always you."

"What, second place again?" Alan joked.

The girl smiled softly. "Silly. You're a bit special, you know."

I couldn't take any more of that so as she leant into him again I hurried down the stairs. I was fuming. To think I'd been worrying about hurting him! What a bitch; she knew he was married to me.

She left ten minutes later, swinging her handbag, and smiling. After a decent interval I went back in, and noisily climbed the stairs.

"Hi," I said, brightly, shutting the door, and hanging up my coat. "Been in long?"

"Ages," Alan replied, shutting the book he'd been reading. "Want a coffee?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm bushed. I'm going straight to bed."

"Ok," He looked at me. "I'll join you in a minute."

It was only when I was safely inside the bedroom I realised my shirt was hanging out. So what! I got undressed and into bed and curled up small. By the time he came in I was going to be three parts asleep.

The next night I didn't get in until one in the morning. Derek and I obtained our three hundredth signature at nine, and our three hundredth and fifteenth half an hour later. We didn't have to go on, but I didn't want to call it a day, and neither did he. We haunted the common room until we were alone.

"Drive you home?" Derek offered.

"If you like." I'd been expecting him to offer something else.

He smiled and took my hand and I relaxed. That was better. It wouldn't end there and both of us knew it. Everyone had said the petition was impossible, that was why the staff had agreed to receive it. Clearly they'd thought we couldn't deliver. Well, we had. We'd done it. And with that success Derek and I were bubbling.

We got in the car and sat grinning at each other.

"Congratulations," he said, happily, his eyes alight with triumph.

"Congratulations to you, too," I grinned back. I leant towards him. It was awkward in the front of the car, but that kiss was heaven.

"Not here," he said, breaking away.

Reluctantly, I agreed. I didn't want to cut short this special moment, especially as now my conscience was completely clear. But the gear lever had been threatening to dislocate a couple of my ribs, and anyway, outside the college was not the most ideal spot.

We didn't drive very far. "Come in the back," Derek said, as soon as we were discreetly parked. "The front's useless."

My heart thumping and feeling deliciously shameless, despite what I'd witnessed the night before, I got out. For a moment I stared at the stars, bright and twinkling above us, looking as they had a million years ago, and looking as they would a million years from now. In that context this was just one insignificant night yet so exciting.

From inside Derek opened the door. I hesitated no longer for I'd made my decision.

"You're trembling," he whispered, as I lay in his arms. "Scared?"

I shook my head in the darkness. "I want you."

He kissed me, softly. "I know. And I want you."

I clung to him urgently. "Like last night?"

"More than last night," he said, as eager as I. "Last night we hadn't finished the job. We hadn't won. But we have now. We're both about to win again. Sorry it has to be in the car."

Already my shirt had come loose. "Make sure it is a better place tomorrow?" I teased him.

"Wherever, I'll want you."

"And next week?"

"I'll want you."

"And next term?'

He didn't answer immediately. We were otherwise engaged. But when I repeated the question he leant back, peering at me through the gloom. "I don't think anyone can look that far ahead," he told me, carefully.

"Well, I can't see you in here," I giggled. "Come closer."

Strangely, he was holding back. "There's something you should know," he said.

"You."

"Hold on a minute. Your Alan,"

"Don't speak to me about him. He's a hypocritical louse. You know what I found when I got home last night?"

"Sharon."

"It might be her name, I don't know. What I did see was this girl in his double dealing arms. God and I felt awful about us."

"Really?"

"Only because of him, I have no reservations about you." I began to feel uneasy. "How did you know, anyway?"

"Sharon's my girlfriend."

"What!"

"She plays badminton, and lately, very badly."

"So?"

"So they've been crying on each other's shoulder."

"That's not what I saw!"

"It is, you know," Derek said, quietly. "She told me this morning."

"But," I objected, "They were kissing. They were in each other's arms on the sofa."

"Is that why you're here, with me?"

I slapped his face, hard. "You know it isn't. The petition,"

"Oh, hang the bloody petition," he said, ruefully, touching his cheek where I'd hit him. "You made it quite clear from the start you were interested."

"Well, I like that! You knew about Alan." This was horrible. This was not what I wanted. Desperately, I reached for him. "Derek. Come here. This is stupid. We're a great team!"

"You're right," he said, as my arms went round his neck. "We're stupid."

"What?"

"We're a great political team. But this is stupid."

I couldn't believe it. Derek the adventurer, Derek who ignored the disapproval of others, Derek who last night had only agreed to wait because I'd promised there'd be no inhibitions once we'd finished the job; this self same Derek had cooled off on me. "But why, why?"

"I wanted to see how far you'd go!"

I nearly hit him again then. I didn't, because my motives had been very similar. We'd taken on a dare, the challenge of the College authorities, and as a result had got involved in one another.

I still had no inhibitions but I slumped back in the seat, away from him. "You haven't found out how far I'll go."

"I think I have."

"It's not wrong."

"No," he replied. "I don't think it is. Especially if we finish now."

"You mean that?"

"Oh yes," he breathed. "Oh yes."

I knew what he was implying. It is only wrong once you start to hurt others. We'd already done that but I didn't want to end it now. I was in a loss or lose situation. "You said you wanted me."

"I still do."

"We finish now?"

"Oh yes," he said, as desperately I snuggled closer. "We finish and we tell them it is over."

"We?"

"You tell Alan. I'll tell Sharon."

"You mean that?"

"It won't be easy but it's what they both want to hear."

I lay quiet, thinking it through.

"Agreed?" he prompted.

I was very reluctant to end it yet I desperately wanted to finish. He stroked my cheek. "Agreed?" he repeated, softly.

There was only one answer. With very mixed emotions I nodded my head. "I agree."

And, eventually, when he said, "I'll drive you home," I agreed with him again.

back

*

History: What Really Happened?

2. Lord Burghley's Revenge.

George Bernard Shaw used to write long prefaces to his plays in which he discussed issues of the day and, of course, himself and his relationship to The Great Bard.

Now George Bernhard Shaw suggested he might be better than Shakespeare, or at least, better than the person who used the pseudonym, so may I suggest I might be better than him at least in the quantity stakes for I offer two prefaces and a part of a play and an informed commentary explaining the origins of the same.

Preface 1.

Dear reader I must tell you that the Great Bard was both great genius and great oaf. He was also victim of the greatest cover up in history. As soon as I first read the official biography, such as it is, I knew there had been a cover up. Until now I neither knew who did the covering, nor why. What I did know was that no ignorant country bumpkin, living amongst the lowest ruffians and vagabonds of the age, could write about kings and princes, their courts, their history and foreign places which he had never seen. Further, a thousand close packed pages of print as small as this comprise my version of The Complete Works, yet not one play written in his own hand has come down to us. Not one. Not even a sonnet. Not, do you believe me, a single page! No bill for pen or parchment has come to light, no note to his tailor, no letter to friend or lover (and, knowing how famous he was surely one of them would have treasured the original and passed it on as an heirloom?). But no, we have none of these. All we have is his signature scrawled on his will. A shaky hand, the effort one might say of one who was not only expiring but also was unused to putting pen to paper. The Will of the Bard? Will it do? IT WILL NOT.

This shattering lack of evidence is too staggering to countenance. Surely, if anyone consumed writing materials like there was no tomorrow, the Bard used to do so? Someone must have done so. Where is all the missing paperwork?

It has been suggested, facetiously, that if Shakespeare did not write the Complete Works then someone else did, using the same name! Quite. Even before I discovered the truth I had deduced this much and when you have read the evidence you will wonder, as I do still, how it is the historians and other experts have failed to recognise that Shakespeare, the author, obviously adopted a pseudonym, to wit, Shakespeare. Once one grasps this elementary fact, that Shakespeare was not his real name, then it is relatively easy to explain how the man who wasn't Shakespeare managed to write the Complete Works.

More than this, no longer blinded by the propaganda, we can begin to understand what manner of man the Bard really was. Surely this is historically important! The other fellow with the same name did walk with crowds and swear with kings, in several languages at once. He was always keen to point out his skill by including annoying quotes in Latin and French, which I refuse to translate, and which present similar difficulties to anyone lacking a classical education as did the supposed Bard.

What's more he must have had money and servants to do the daily chores. How else would he find the time to write 37 plays in so short a space of time?

My prime suspect is Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford. He dissipated his inheritance. It is on record he supported the players of his age so this is a major clue and he needed to promote his own work. What author does not?

Even if I am correct it is unlikely recognition will be Oxford's. Too many reputations are hitched to an impostor's star for any revolution now and this is entirely due to the revenge exacted by Lord Burghley's. For four centuries this eminent statesman has called the tune. Read on, dear reader, discover the truth, and even though the 38th play is incomplete you may be encouraged to spread the word. Who knows, if enough of you look hard enough and long enough, one of you may discover the rest of Burghley's script, or other, supporting evidence.

Preface 2

Lord Burghley (surname Cecil) was the first Queen Elizabeth's chief minister for decades (and also for foreign affairs), in both, her good and faithful servant. Thus, the propaganda. It is nearly, but not quite, true. For much of his long period in office Burghley kept from the Queen a piece of information she very much wanted to know. His refusal to let her into the secret naturally bugged her excessively, so she bugged him. She placed listening devices (maids in waiting, so called because that's what they mainly did) in all the strategic places; she set verbal traps for him like, "Well, Burghley, what ain't you told me today, eh?" She even placed ear trumpets in the wainscotting and used to employ wainscot tourers to monitor them. To no avail. Burghley was nothing if not prudent. He knew he had a lousy microphone voice and kept his lips tightly compressed.

So effective were his tactics that it was not until he was about to expire from old age and the strain brought on by excessive silence, that the Queen saw a chance to prize the secret from him.

The Queen acted swiftly. At her command a special potion was prepared and as soon as she had possession of this she stepped out of her Royal Dignity (two doors along from the Palace of Westminster, for discretion's sake, you know,) and hurried to the dying minister, determined to take full advantage of Burghley's weakened state. It is a common trait of the female of the species to act thus, ask any man, and most marked in Queens.

Arriving at number ten (one door down from Royal Dignity) she found the old man slumped in an armchair, much too weak to move, let alone arise. It did not matter; he'd already been knighted before he was ennobled, but now he was nobled well and truly.

"Aha! I have you at last!" the Queen cried, forgetting for a moment she was supposed to be the virgin queen.

Burghley, half dead, knew if she did it would finish him off. Cautiously he opened one bleary eye. The Queen was brandishing a spoon and bowl, and in the latter was a thick, sluggishly moving liquid. The threat was worse than he'd expected, but you don't get to be chief minister for decades (and foreign affairs) without a certain insight into the way of monarch's. Gamely keeping his lips firmly closed Burghley held up a notice he'd previously prepared in a beautiful italic script. "Is that Mulligatawny?"

"Quake, O faithless one," the Queen cried, triumphantly. "It is!"

Burghley peeled away the top page to reveal another previously prepared note.

"Mulligatawny, Ma'am, is poison to me. Give it to Lord Oxford, or Walter Raleigh."

"No chance," barked the Queen, thrusting a brimming spoon against his clenched teeth. "Open wide!"

Burghley turned the notice over. "Never!"

"I command you!" the Queen commanded, imperiously, thrusting hard and scraping the spoon against the minister's teeth. Several layers of plaque were removed but the Queen failed in her objective, further penetration.

Shakily, Burghley held up another previously and beautifully prepared italic message. "I'd rather go to the Tower."

This was true. They did Thames broth in there which he quite liked. Usually it comprised a ladle of river plus whatever solids happened to be picked up. Tastes, in the 16th century, were different.

The Queen knocked aside the notice. "We both know you'd expire before you got there," she retorted. "You shall drink Mulligatawny." Again, like a duellist, left leg back, right knee bent, she thrust with the spoon.

"THIS IS TORTURE!" the next note read.

The Queen permitted herself the beginning of a smile. "Has it occurred to you a scene like this will make a damn fine film clip?"

Burghley scrabbled amongst his voluminous robes and finally located a piece of board. "I'd get all the sympathy!"

"Oh, no you won't," the Queen retorted. "I shall edit the script!"

Burghley, aghast at this lack of regard for historical verisimilitude, was struck speachful. He must protest and as his mouth dropped open realised too late she had sprung the trap.

As quick as rising prices the Queen jammed spoon and its contents between his teeth, grasped his nose in a pincher like grip using pliers previously acquired, and so forced Burghley to swallow.

Mulligatawny to Burghley was like Thames broth would be to us. He knew he would never recover. To make sure of this the Queen was poised to deliver a second dose. That would be beyond endurance. His tired old frame could take no more. He had finally lost and he knew it.

"Your majesty is so cruel," he eventually muttered, grimacing in aftertaste. "I have no wish to carry this with me to heaven. God, that would be hell!"

"Cruel! Me! For thirty years you've kept me in the dark. My father would have beheaded you years ago!"

"Then you would never have found out."

"That is why you lived."

"Ma'am, it is excessively cruel to bring about and then to torture my final moments."

"No point in torturing any others," the Queen retortured. "Defiance has a price."

Burghley sighed, heavily. "I know, and I know you know I know you know. I cannot face another spoonful. You win."

The Queen beamed. "You mean it?"

"Give me wine and I'll reveal all."

"Just the facts," the Queen insisted, primly. "Keep the party clean." She poured him a generous goblet of red but only allowed him to sip.

"More, please. I need more!"

The Queen denied him. "I want a sober tale, not a meandering whining."

Burghley, to show he'd got the joke, smiled weakly. He opened a secret drawer amongst his drawers and produced an ancient roll. Staggering to his feet he offered the parchment to the Queen.

"A manuscript," the Queen cried! She was delighted for she loved reading scrolls in imperious voice. Then her smile faded as she realised what she'd been given. "This is a drama!"

"Indeed, Ma'am," Burghley admitted with a weak but wicked smile. He knew she deplored all things thespian. "At least it is written by me in modern English. You'll know when you've been slandered."

"We'll see," the Queen replied, grimly. She thrust Burghley back in his chair. "Don't go away."

"No, Ma'am. I'm dying."

"That can wait!"

Elizabeth settled herself in the window seat opposite and began to read.

What follows, dear reader, is Burghley's work, discovered by me, and never previously released. You see, afterwards the Queen did alter the film script and suppressed the original. Until now the following pages have been buried in, Aha, not so fast. That would be telling and I will not.

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*

The Thirty-eighth Play.

Act One.

Scene: London, late 16th century, at the Court of St. James.

Enter--A young Lord Burghley (i.e. Cecil) and daughter followed by the youthful De Vere (AKA the Earl of Oxford).

DE VERE: Are you Burghley?

CECIL: No. Cecil still.

DE VERE: Ah, yes, methinks in time to come

You will be elevated. And so, by

Dreadful reckoning, like a seadog

Amidst the heaving sea and

Tossing spray of oceans wide,

Are we all lost in the present. Now

Has to be a long time ago.

Well, then, Cecil, here am I, not creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school but, heeding the storm

Raging within my frame, do know I need

Assistance. Schooling I want,

And that most speedily.

CECIL: Schooling? From me?

DE VERE: (Looking about, striking oratorical pose).

This is the Court, the foremost Council

In the land. And you are Cecil,

To be Burghley, and burly are you

In the Queen's eye. In short,

You are top dog, and this, your pup

Must be top dog's daughter.

I deal with none other.

CECIL: Is that a fact?

DE VERE: Refuse me not, mighty lord to be—

Or not to be (Hmmm I must remember that one)

If spurn-ed not is this proffer'd love of learning

You shall profit of it, and your wench.

CECIL: How so?

WENCH: Yes. How so?

DE VERE: I shall write plays, and you, dear Cecil

Shall be my pa-tron.

WENCH: And I?

DE VERE: Dear love, you shall be my ma-tron!

How elegant is a tron with

Ma and Pa attached. Know

I have been parent-less, an orphan these many years.

CECIL: A Bastard writer! The Queen in her majesty

Deplores the stage. I must deplore that which

She doth deplore and do so, most heartily.

Get you gone!

WENCH: And yet, dear father, he has a certain,

CECIL: As all men have! You will learn.

DE VERE: Wise wench! Oh a Danielle come to Justice!

WENCH: Danielle? Yes, methinks

I grow exceeding tired of wench.

Henceforth Danielle shall I be.

DE VERE: There's more! The coffers

Of my late lamented father are brim full,

My fortune well established;

Yet 'tis unestablished too.

My mind teems and yearns

To set down part form-ed lines

On Parchment, for which I have the wit

But lack the writ. Impatient is the world

For you to do your duty.

CECIL: I am the Queen's minister. Your writ

As you call it, and I the pa-tron

May authorise your fame

But it'll be the end of me. The Queen deplores,

DE VERE: What she does know. So do we all

Yet long to know the more, the more knowing to deplore.

But sir, if it be our secret, excluded

Like the dust of Damsons must be the fate

Of her deplores.

DANIELLE: The dust of damsons?

DE VERE: 'tis nothing, wench. A mere metaphor.

CECIL: These wise keen eyes of mine have never

Spied the dust of damsons.

DE VERE: How could they, it is mine own invention

And there are thousands more you will know

'fore I am done. Nor will the Queen if, in charity,

Mum we keep.

DANIELLE: Can I meet her?

CECIL: In all the waking moments of the day,

And doubtless dreaming hours of sleep

I do suppose you speak thus ever and anon.

DE VERE: Frustrated authorship doth curl my tongue.

Come, sirrah, hitch your wagon and your wench

To my rising star.

DANIELLE: I do so like rising stars!

DE VERE: Well you might, for I do tell you,

'though valiant be your father's labours

On the Queen's behalf,

And nationally valuable,

His work is destin-ed to die with him

Save a few scratchings 'mongst the dust

Future history men may chance upon.

My Complet-ed Works,

My every phrase, shall live, each comma

Commanding generations of attentive effort

The world over, 'though I but dashed them off.

Your name, too, if with me you will associate.

At this point the Queen peered angrily over the top of the manuscript. "I thought you claimed you'd written this in modern English."

Burghley nodded, feebly. "So I have, Ma'am. Save for His Words. You wouldn't have me edit the glorious Bard as I might a common journalist?"

The Queen was far from mollified. "Think of the children, suffering from insufferable pedants for centuries to come!" She shook the papers. "Dreadful stuff. This is, words fail me!"

"You, Ma'am, are not a poet."

"Nor do I wish to be if this trash results. And you kept the perpetrator a secret from me for all these years! I saved our green and pleasant land from Spain and the Inquisition, and all the time you've harboured and encouraged this scourge upon our future. Oh, Burghley, how could you!"

"Keep the secret? Quite easily, despite the wainscotters and maids in waiting. Once his hand I'd tutored I did compel him publish under another name, that of a common actor. It pleased him not a lot and that I do admit was a mistake. He has a violent temper."

"I'm not surprised," the Queen replied, scanning the roll. "Even the devil craves recognition of his sins. Damn this tiny print. It hurts my eyes so I cannot make out the words and when I can hurts the mind. Yet, strangely I would have more. On, on; tell me what happens next."

"You must read, Ma'am."

"Must! You dare must your Sovereign!"

"Forgive me; what must be must be for my memory and my strength are gone. I cannot help you."

Act Two.

Scene: The same. Uproar off stage. Enter Cecil and de Vere.

CECIL: What news of the kitchen,

From which, by your manner and

The gherkin on your ketchup,

I know you come?

DE VERE: Ketchup on my jerkin? Not words

Of mine. I thought 'twas blood.

CECIL: Whatever. What news?

DE VERE: Thomas, the Under Cook, is dead.

CECIL: That is no surprise.

Many has been the occasion him I did inform

He would undercook once too often!

DE VERE: The lady Salmonella did not claim him

'though I agree his fate thereof

Was certain had he not felo de se.

CECIL: Felo de se!

DE VERE: Indeed, my lord. See, upon my sword

The blood still runs. Here, upon this point

Did he impale his future

Even as he sought most evilly to divulge

The dread secret which we share.

CECIL: But why?

DE VERE: 'tis plain enough;

He sought to gain from our discomfort,

Nay, our fall!

CECIL: It is indeed a mercy

Your unsheathed blade

Arose to be most handily poised.

Was it so?

DE VERE: In truth, sir, no. I drew in passion-ed moment

And well I did, for I have saved your life.

CECIL: And, by happy coincidental chance, your own!

But, beware. There will be a trial.

Away with you, abroad

'till I can square the peers.

DE VERE: Is it possible to square that which is

Both long and thin, and wet beneath to boot?

CECIL: You'd better hope it is.

DE VERE: Rome, Venice, Carthage, Thebes,

I go, a great welling, a dozen dramas

Bursting for release from my inner self.

By the by I love your daughter.

Enter Danielle, (Sheepish).

CECIL: I do suspect a plot.

Sir, did you preplan this?

DANIELLE: No, my lord father. 'twas I.

CECIL: You! My Treasure! My Wonder kid!

But why? It is perverse

To love a man dealing in blank verse.

DANIELLE: Who said ought 'bout love?

I want a bit of sun!

DE VERE: Great Rome! Fair Venice! Ancient

And Venerated Carthage.

DANIELLE: Nothing old hat dear heart.

DE VERE: Then away to Wigan, or Southend

And beyond with grateful thanks

To lordships who collectively do speed our journey.

Destiny thou beckons, those dozen dramas

Now a score so rapidly my mind doth conjure

Characters out the very ether!

DANIELLE: I hope we're talking the same language.

DE VERE: (Hurriedly, to Cecil) But yes, I would have your daughter.

CECIL: A score of curses. Blast and double blast!

Get you gone, yes both

Before the Queen peers too closely at this matter.

DE VERE: A pun! Why, Cecil, you would rival me.

No matter 'though I durst admit it irks

My secret work is heralded another's.

CECIL: God's blood! Are you never satisfied?

Admitted at the Court you are the best

For comedy, and your verse

Has lyric beauty I am told. As for your secret work

Does it lie mouldering in a chest

Other than thine own? Is it not

Globally performed to swell that

Which is already overlarge, your head?

What more can you desire? Take care

That swollen pate does not grow so much

That spotted is it and lopp-ed off

Like some overripe fruit.

DE VERE: Your point is well made.

I shall depart. Yet mark thee this,

One day, Cecil, the word must out!

CECIL: Not while I have a dozen breaths left in me.

How the Queen, so percipient, so omniscient,

So wise and wonderful a prince in all things worldly

Has failed to learn that you, all conquering at Court

Has also authoured the scurrillous dramas she so abhors
Beats me!

DE VERE: I shall create her father.

DANIELLE: You'll do king Henry VIII?

DE VERE: He lies at Windsor, long since dead

And out of reach.

CECIL: My daughter indicates a book.

DE VERE: Hmmm; promising although I fear

It might not be one of my best. Still

It shall be insurance for us all.

Meanwhile your daughter,

CECIL: Go!

DANIELLE: Aye, father, and willingly.

DE VERE: Think you a pair of velvet gloves would suit?

DANIELLE: You, or me?

DE VERE: Why me, dear heart. (Hastily) Or both.

I think I shall acquire a personal souvenir

Of our foreign travel. A new cap, too,

And silken hose. Becoming what?

CECIL: Becoming dangerous. Get out!

The Queen paused in her reading to find Burghley slumped in his chair, his eyes closed. She hurried to his side and felt his pulse.

"He lives a while. Good. I haven't finished with him. This villain, this writer, by these lines I know him. My lord of Oxford, once at the court, 'till I sent him away. But back, he dares come back?. I'll root him out even if I have to burn my poor eyes with more of Burghley's drivel."

She settled at the old man's side. "Let's see what more is scribbled here!"

Act Three.

Scene: The same. Cecil writes at a desk. Enter his daughter.

CECIL: Daughter Danielle! How little

Have I seen you since you married!

DANIELLE: How little have I seen HIM since I married.

CECIL: Come now, Danielle. You have three children.

DANIELLE: They are his doubt not, but little sight of me

Had he in getting them. It was 'Dearest Danielle,'

And 'Danielle my lovely', and 'Danielle

You are my one true love,' his lips

To mine ear as you might hazard.

CECIL: Trying out his speeches whilst in love's throes?

DANIELLE: That is the nature of The Bard. What else?

And if, by chance, distracted by mine own passion,

I do not catch every vital syllable,

It matters not.

The world's a stage, he says

And true it is. A short step

To the Globe and I revise

Each whispered lie of love

I missed the night before.

CECIL: His pleasure done he doth depart?

DANIELLE: He doth. I do not complain.

What other wife has daily matinees

Of last nights frolics

To fill the afternoon?

CECIL: More than you know I do suspect.

I am surprised you find it tolerable.

DANIELLE: Instructive is more apt, dear pa,

I hear other lines and these

Not premiered to me.

CECIL: Other liaisons do exist?

That is not on! No man

Should use a Cecil so.

DANIELLE: And yet he does, my lord.

CECIL: I shall have him one day, mark my words.

The Queens' threatened displeasure

Is his Achilles heel. There will come a time

Most fit to gently tell her.

DANIELLE: She does not know?

CECIL: She does not and will not yet; and yet,

It is in my mind to scribble a short drama of mine own--

At which I show a tolerable hand--and leave

It in my will for her perusal

When I am out of reach, in Heaven.

DANIELLE: Hoist by his own petard!

I like it, father dear.

I have some lines you might include:

A little apish hat,

Couched fast to the pate,

Like an oyster;

French cambric ruffs,

Deep with a witness,

Starched to the purpose;

Delicate in speech;

Never quiet;

Quaint in array;

Conceited in all points;

In courtly guiles,

A singularly odd man.

CECIL: Excellent. My daughter you rival me

And both of us his genius.

DANIELLE: A genius he is and not just literature

Does he stir up. He has insulted Sydney

In the Tennis Court, no love all there

And duelling with Knyvet,

So pricked his pride for he was hurt

With everyone a snigger.

The result of which in his own house

He is now a prisoner

By order of the Queen.

Duelling she does not tolerate.

CECIL: Serves him right.

DANIELLE: Yet serves us ill for he scribbles all the more.

He patronises his actor friends and now

His fortune is all but gone. Worse yet

I thought our foreign travels would curb his pen

But both his wander and his lust are undimn-ed.

CECIL: I curse the day I let him in this house.

Ill has he used me, you more so.

Flouting every rule. I am made a

Laughing stock and you, poor Danielle

Are much estranged.

DANIELLE: Methinks it is a curse, devised in Hell

Round writers all. Particularly cruel.

CECIL: Indeed.

DANIELLE: Troubling those proximate much more

Than the scribe himself. He'll write

Until the grave, and on, and on; it is our fate

To suffer.

"Talking of which," the Queen stirred, grasping Burghley's wrist yet once more, seeking his pulse and finding it ere non. "Faint, to be sure, but, faithful Burghley, you live, by my command, as you always have. I can forgive you much for that."

"Can you, Ma'am?"

"You old fox! Open your eyes. Quit feigning."

"It always was my keenest joy," Burghley announced, looking at her, "To gaze upon the fairest Queen in Christendom."

Elizabeth glowed with pleasure. "Take strength from me, old chum. Here, the wine."

Burghley struggled to sit straighter in his chair. He sipped the claret offered, then gently sighed. "You should read the rest."

"Later, perhaps. For completeness and to admire your unguessed skill. I know the secret now."

"You are content?"

"You should have told me sooner. But, yes, I am content."

"In all but this I have served you well."

"In this too, Burghley. I well liked Henry VIII."

"Your father!"

"Not the man, old fool. The play. It told the complimentary truth. Had I lopped the head from that proud bard the nation would have been the poorer. Yet, he should pay for his deceit."

"Then, if you agree, Ma'am, I would propose a little plot, 'twixt you and I. One last secret, good company to keep with the many others that we share."

The Queen brightened. "Go on. If I know my Burghley it will be good."

"'Tis very good, Ma'am. Most apt. Most just. You know that all these years the pretence has been our famed dramatist is just a common actor. Quite laughable in fact, since he is barely literate."

"I did suspect the falsehood," the Queen insisted.

"That I did not doubt, for as I've said, you are the wisest prince in Christendom. But even you, Ma'am, knew not the hidden identity of the actual author."

"Until today."

"Quite so. He is, my daughter claims, and I do not doubt it, conceited in all points. Conceit grows fat on recognition and pines when it is absent. Our dramatist would have the world applaud his genius. Sour is his temper that to this day an actor gets the credit."

"I told you that."

"How much sourer will he be if for all time's span the Stratford Ape is king!"

"No more than he deserves! He's used you ill, my Burghley, and your family."

"Then we're agreed. Suppress my script. Keep it for your private pleasure and let my lord of Oxford know if ever he lays claim to what he wrote he'll permanently lose your favour and probably his head. A secret you will tolerate, pending his future good behaviour."

The Queen was delighted. "I like it! He can even go on writing, in another's name, and the more he does the more he suffers lacking recognition for his labour. And since he cannot bear not to write he cannot but suffer all the more. Good Burghley, my faithful servant to the end, it is a pretty plot."

"A damn pretty plot," Burghley murmured.

The Queen thought he said more, and bent closer the better to hear but Burghley had expired, a smile frozen for all time upon his lips. Revenge is sweet.

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*

Don't Count Your Chickens Before You Have Crossed The Bridge.

The liner Queen Elizabeth, out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, was battling homeward through a severe autumn gale. The time was two o'clock in the morning and notwithstanding the entertainments the ship could offer, even at that hour, most of the passengers were asleep in their cabins. All, that is, except two very wide awake and worried gentlemen. They were sitting at a table in the day room of one of the ship's first class suites.

"How are we going to do it?" Bert demanded. He was big and brawny, looking as if he'd be more at home on a building site than on board the world's biggest floating hotel

"I don't know," admitted his colleague whose name was Lionel. "I've done my part."

He put his hand into his pocket, withdrew a small cloth pouch, untied the cord round the top and spilled onto the table a small heap of diamonds. They both stared.

"Wow!" exclaimed Bert. "It's something else when you actually see them. How did you manage to get them aboard?"

"Never mind; if I tell you I probably won't be able to do it again."

"I won't tell!" exclaimed Bert.

"No, you won't."

"I resent that!"

Lionel caressed several of the stones further apart. "Beautiful. Need to know. You don't Bert. The real difficulty will be getting through customs in Southampton. We're known. Still, that's Meekin's problem."

"Where is he? It's gone two o'clock."

"He'll be along."

Without warning the cabin door opened. "All right, relax. It's only me."

"You might have knocked, Meekin. If someone else sees these we're sunk."

Meekin strode over to the table and picked up several of the stones. "No trouble?"

"None at all," Lionel replied.

"What happens in Southampton," asked Bert.

"I don't know yet," replied Meekin.

They stared at him, incredulously. "Do you mean to tell us you still haven't thought of a way to get these into the country? It's only two days before we dock!"

"So it is," replied Meekin, lightly. "Thanks for reminding me. I've got one or two other things to arrange."

"Forget them," Bert snapped. "There is £250,000 at stake here."

"We have plenty of time. I'll think of something. In the meantime," he added, scooping the stones up into his hand and dropping them casually into his pocket, "It's time I got some sleep." He went to the door. "Good night."

"Is that another 'need to know gambit?'" Bert demanded.

"I don't know. It's worrying."

"Yes, Lionel old by, it is. Now you know how I feel."

When Arthur Meekin stepped off of the Queen Elizabeth two days later in Southampton he already felt at home, although it was the first time he had been on English soil for nine years. He had spurned the offers of help made by his two associates. Indeed, he had told them to keep out of his way until they were clear of the docks. He would see to the arrangements himself. He had no choice in the matter of the customs.

"Have you anything to declare?" demanded a uniformed, gold braided and peak capped individual who looked far more like the captain of the ship he had just left than the captain himself.

"Yes, I have."

They stood there in the customs shed, looking at each other. Then the officer, realising that Meekin was not going to elaborate, said. "Please don't be difficult. I'll ask you again, have you anything to declare. Any wines, spirits, tobacco products," he smiled cynically to himself, "contraband?"

"Yes," agreed Meekin.

The customs official had dealt with difficult travellers before. The cleverer they think they are, he reminded himself, unconsciously setting his peaked cap more firmly on his head, the harder it goes with them. It is always the same. Well, we'll see what sort of a bill we can run up for this bright little lad.

"I need details. If you haven't completed the appropriate form perhaps you could just tell me. We can then write down the details, examine the items and calculate any duty that may be due."

"Of course, what would you like to know?" said Meekin in the mildest of tones.

"You are aware of the concessionary limits?"

"Oh yes, they told me on the ship."

"Very well. You realise that knowingly to omit items that are chargeable is an offence?"

"Of course."

"Let me help you," the custom's man said, well aware that Meekin had a number of question marks hanging over his head. I'll do it in stages, let him sweat. "Have you any perfumes, psittacotic birds,"

"What's that?"

"Psittacosis is a parrot disease."

"I'm no pirate."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir. Have you any liqueurs, illegal drugs, such as....?"

"Hold on," interrupted Meekin, in some agitation.

Aha, thought the customs man, I have him now. Unconsciously he again touched his cap, re-adjusting it to a jauntier angle. "Well sir?"

"You go to fast. You're not trying to trap me, are you?"

"I am simply trying to assist you, sir," was the cold response. "You should know you cannot import large quantities of tobacco based products or perfumes..."

"Yes, yes. You've already told me that."

"For clarity, sir. When you sign the paper work you will be acknowledging that."

"Then aren't you going to do something about it?"

"No sir, I can't change the regulations, you should know that."

"I don't intend that you should," replied Meekin, deliberately exuding impatience. "All I want to know is how much I owe you?"

"Nothing, sir. I can not accept any gratuity."

"I should hope not," Meekin exclaimed. "The very idea!" It had been worth a try. "All I want to know is how much duty do I have to pay?"

"That depends upon how many cigarettes you have, "

"Five thousand, four hundred and..." Meekin fished into his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, opened it, counted the contents, "and eleven," he finished.

"Indeed. You'll need an import licence for such a large quantity."

"Of course. I have one."

It was still unusual. When import licences were involved the quantities at stake were usually millions. It was time to nail him down. The customs official called to one of his fellow officers who had been waiting expectantly in the background. At the same time he thrust his cap hard down onto his head.

"What's the trouble?" asked the second customs official. He was as elegantly dressed as the first.

"This gentleman, Mike, says he has five thousand, four hundred and eleven cigarettes."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, it is," snapped Meekin. "I also have three pounds of tobacco, a bottle of whisky, five gallons of a unique Fijian liqueur and an import licence."

"Where is his luggage?" asked the second customs man.

"It is all over on the trolley. There are the three trunks and two green suitcases," interrupted Meekin. "But I have only my personal effects in them. The dutiable goods, apart from the liqueur which is in a carbuoy on the other trolley, are packed in this case." He indicated a battered wooden packing case behind him.

"We will have a look."

"Feel free," Meekin replied airily. "I admit I can't see the need but I suppose you must do your job."

"Precisely, sir."

"Can't I just pay the duty? I have a train to catch."

"It is in your interest, too," the first customs official informed him. "We might over charge you unless we take a look and see exactly what you've got."

"You are thorough."

"We try to be, sir."

The second customs official had opened the case by this time and began to examine the contents. "But these are English cigarettes," he said in surprise.

"That's right."

"You can buy as many as you like once you get outside the docks. And no questions asked."

"I happen to think exported cigarettes are superior to those on sale at home, and so do my associates. So from time to time we re-import them. It is all above board, I assure you."

"I'm sorry sir, but we shall have to open some of the packets" said the second customs man, straightening up.

"Is that necessary?"

"I'm afraid so. It's just a precautionary random check."

"I suppose I can consume them myself," sighed Meekin, who was a non smoker.

"A label means nothing, sir."

"It is perfectly absurd," Meekin replied, but not too harshly. "Ok. I'll catch a later train. Please do whatever checking up you think necessary."

"Oh, we will sir. We appreciate your co-operation."

"I think I'll phone for a car," Meekin replied. "This could take some time."

It was some hours later that a nonchalant Meekin walked out of the customs shed and found his two companions were anxiously waiting.

"Is everything all right?" Bert asked, immediately.

Meekin ignored him, turning his attention instead to the two men who were struggling to load the carbuoy of Fijian liqueur into the boot of the car. It didn't fit too well but eventually, precariously balanced, it was tied down. The other luggage went inside the car. All three climbed in.

The car hire firm had supplied a driver as well as the vehicle but as this did not suit Meekin they instructed him to drive straight to the firm to change the arrangements. There were no significant problems encountered and it was not long before they set off again, Meekin driving.

Ever since they had been re-united with Meekin the other two had been trying to find out how he had fared, but it was not until they were well on their way to London that Meekin explained.

"Did they give you much of a going over?" Lionel asked

"Oh yes," Meekin replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "They went through all the suitcases, examined the lining looking for false bottoms; they ran scanners over everything and must have opened nearly every other carton of cigarettes. Hey, look at all these cars," he exclaimed in surprise, as they edged into an almost continuous line of traffic going the same way as they were. "I thought it was bad enough the last time I was here! Now look at it!"

"Pretty bad," agreed Lionel.

"The diamonds," prompted Bert.

"Oh yes," replied Meekin, dividing his attention between them and the road, which is always a dangerous thing to do. "Well," he continued, "They went through all my pockets and then took me to a changing room where they made me undress. They practically pulled my clothes apart as I gave them to them. When that was over they took me back to the shed. They lifted the carbuoy of liqueur out of its cage. They were particularly suspicious of the straw. That was shredded and finished up all over the place. There was nothing to find, of course. Not there. I helped them repack. They even tasted the liqueur." He grinned, "It'll probably put them in bed for a week. It's filthy stuff, but legal, if you pay the duty."

"Did you?"

"Of course. Oh, I wanted the cigarettes, they really are better than those you can buy here. Our friends won't complain.

"The diamonds; you've got the diamonds?"

"Of course I've got them. You don't think I went through that pantomime just for the fun of it, never mind the expense!"

"But why the liqueur? It must have cost hundreds."

"Nearly a thousand, actually. It was worth it."

"You hid the stones in it?"

Meekin laughed. "They thought so. I won't bore you with the details of all the tests they ran. They found nothing, of course which did not a lot to dispel their suspicions. But they couldn't nail me down."

"But they even tasted the stuff," objected Bert. "You said so."

"The point is," Meekin explained, "I needed something large enough into which to conceal those diamonds yet something so insignificant that it would be over looked. Those customs guys are sharp, you know. They've seen it all before," he laughed again, "except this one."

"Don't keep us in suspense, please! We've all got a lot invested.

So in the end Meekin explained. "It took me a while. I knew I needed something normally thrown away. Before we sailed I was racking my brains, sitting in the hotel, staring at the bottled water. It was when I tossed the lid in the bin that the solution came. A bottle top, the only problem was it had to be a big one.

"Hence the carbuoy of liqueur!" Bert exclaimed.

"Bright boy," Meekin grinned. "I needed a diversion. The carbuoy provided that, combined with the other stuff. Well they got diverted. Besides, I helped them and paid the import duty with a smile."

Lionel and Bert looked at him with admiration. "That's pure genius, Arthur, pure genius," said Lionel.

"To think they actually handled the top," chortled Bert.

"I told you not to worry," Meekin said, smugly.

By this time they were crawling over Westminster Bridge, in even heavier traffic.

"Look out!" cried Bert, as Meekin grinned at him.

The warning came too late. In the second or so Meekin's attention had wandered the car ahead had stopped. They crashed slowly into it. That was not a disaster and although all three were thrown forward essentially they remained unhurt. Unfortunately the car following them was also unable to pull up in time and ran into their boot. They all heard the tinkling of broken glass.

"The diamonds!"

They jumped out of the car. It was much too late. The carbuoy, smashed by the bonnet of the car that hit them, was scattered in several pieces in the road. The thick, creamy liqueur dripped slowly down the bodywork and on to the tyres. It spread everywhere, smelling horribly. What riveted their attention however was the sight of the stopper which, still intact, had bounced onto the tarmac. It did not break. A bus, coming the opposite way, tried to avoid it. The driver almost succeeded, but not quite. The front wheel caught the rim of the stopper and flicked it, as in tiddlywinks, high into the air, over the traffic, over the parapet of the bridge and down, down, down towards the river.

Horror struck, the three importers rushed to the rail. They were just in time to see the splash as the stopper disappeared below the surface.

"Well," sighed Meekin, turning to the other two, "I wonder which of you will look best in a wet suit?"

back

*

Silly Verse

Be Warned By the Path that Walked in the Night!

When the nights are long and day's clouds hang low,

Creep to the fire, take warmth, ward off fright,

For as the temperature drops and winter winds low,

Folks tell of the path that walked in the night!

If you switch off the box when horror films start,

If vampires and ghosts turn your eyes fever bright,

Beware gentle listener, and those of weak heart,

Don't learn of the path that walked in the night!

Built of fine, white blocks, deliberately laid,

Where once was but mud, the traveller's blight,

It eased the footsteps of old man and young maid,

'Till it became the path that walked in the night.

Daily those slabs caught the first rays of the sun,

When came the dread morn, and there it was, Gone!

Did it leave of free will? Was it forced from its site?

To become the path that walked in the night?

Did an ogre, stealthily, just before dawn

Creep from the shades, a dark deed to perform?

A foul thing, or foul person, of considerable might

Must have caused that path to walk in the night.

Spare a thought for the homeless, poor deprived souls

May you never be in a similar plight;

Your home and your hearth wrecked by inhuman ghouls

And crushed by the path that walked in the night.

God's creatures they were, ants earwigs and woodlice,

The survivors struck numb when in dawn's wat'ry light

They witnessed the carnage; death is not nice

If you're crushed by a path that walks in the night.

When you cut it, or spike it, or roll it out flat

Grass is in pain, did you know that?

Imagine the anguish when from any height

Come the blocks of the path that walked in the night!

So, be warned gentle citizen, stand guard o'er your door,

For in this evil world what chance have the right

To accumulate chattels, be they rich man or poor,

When even a path can walk in the night!

back

*

The path really happened: tell you about it.

(It's that cottage again. As before I've changed names to protect the guilty)

The Better Bet.

The little cottage cost me every penny I had, plus a few I hadn't. I sold everything to buy it. The car, of course, a battered old Mini, was on of the first of my luxuries to go. The bike I'd had since my fifteenth birthday, and lovingly maintained ever since, was also on my hit list. One of my new neighbours, a merchant seaman, home on leave, offered to take that for £25.

I'd just propped my bike against the rose clustered porch when I heard him say, "Going to buy it, then?"

I looked up. He was standing by the gate of the house next door, tall, sunburnt, in shirt sleeves and slacks, and far too close for comfort. I wanted none of that. I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone.

I turned away without answering, put the key in the lock, and hurried inside. It was my lunch hour and I hadn't much time.

The little hall was filled with sunlight and looked even better than the first time I'd seen it, a few days ago. To my right was the long, narrow carpeted lounge, its low ceiling supported by two massive beams. In the centre was a super open fireplace. Sitting there of a winter's evening, bleak with my own thoughts, I could at least burn my own toast before my own, real fire. And in the summer I could open the old fashioned garden door, with its tiny, irregular squares of glass and catch the evening sun on the terrace outside. The small walled garden was already pretty but I would make it an enchanting spot with the flowers and shrubs I planned to add. Yes, rain or shine, this was the place to drain away the tensions of the day without the encumbrance of a companion. I sighed. It would be magic.

It was probably my imagination but the hall seemed darker. He stood in the doorway, partially blocking the sunshine.

"Well, are you?"

To my left was the kitchen. It had been modernised and was small, clean and efficient. With no one but myself to cater for and not much time or inclination to spend hours in that kind of domesticity, it was just right. The purists might complain, but to me it was perfect. I escaped upstairs, away from the lad in the doorway.

There were only two rooms. The bathroom, like the kitchen below, had been warmly modernised and next to it was the bedroom. Like the lounge it was long and had a low ceiling. Once I got rid of the heavy old oak furniture that was still there, good quality but right out of place, I'd have plenty of room for my bed at one end and my desk at the other.

It didn't surprise me that the estate agent had said there was a lot of interest in the cottage. It was beautiful. But for me it meant two, difficult truths I had to swallow. The absentee owners were not likely to accept a reduced price offer from me, and I had to make up my mind quickly, today or tomorrow. My problem was the £500 I was short. I couldn't ask Mum and Dad for more. They hadn't got it. I'd already obtained the maximum advance possible from the building society, I'd already cancelled a saved for and planned holiday and, as I've said, I'd already sold the car.

Slowly I descended the stairs. £500 was all I needed. A paltry £500! I hadn't got it.

He was still there. I glanced at my watch. I had barely half an hour before I had to get back and a good bit of that would be taken up cycling. Lhe last thing I wanted was to engage in polite conversation with a perfect stranger.

He had moved into the kitchen. "Tea, or coffee?"

He had already filled the kettle. "It's all right," he smiled. "I've been asked to keep an eye on the place just in case any undesirables turn up." He looked at me. "You're not undesirable, are you?" It wasn't a question. "No," he went on, "I saw you here the first time, with the agent."

He put two mugs on the table and repeated. "Tea, or coffee?"

I glanced at my watch again. "There isn't really time. I've got to get back to work."

"Get yourself a car. Beats pedal power any day, even a battered old Mini."

"I've just sold it," I snapped.

The kettle boiled and he filled the cups, pointing to two jars on the shelf. "There's tea in that one, coffee in the other, and my name's Ian."

"Fantastic, but I really must get back."

"Where to?"

I named the firm. "I'm a computer programmer there."

His eyebrows rose. "I wouldn't have thought they were big enough for a computer section."

"I'm on contract."

"Oh, I see. Got to keep up a good impression or you're out on your ear. Well, that's no problem. It'll only take five minutes down the by-pass. You can sling your bike in the back of my van and I'll drop both of you off."

"That's kind, but..."

"There's no milk." He sat down. "I could dash home to get some but that's no good, is it? No time."

"No time," I agreed. Reluctantly I sat opposite.

"When are you going to move in?"

"I'm not," I snapped.

"Why ever not? If ever someone fell in love at first sight it was you," he stated, flatly, and gave me a long, hard stare.

"The furniture upstairs is all wrong." Even to me that sounded lame.

"Sell it, then. Or chop it up for firewood. I'll help, if you like. The next time I'm home on leave."

That explained the sun tan and the confident air. But in case I was in any doubt he gave me a ten minute sketch of what life was like as a radio officer in the Merchant Navy. I listened with half an ear. Who wants to hear other people's joys when you're miserable yourself? I was already feeling down. Now he'd made it worse.

Suddenly, he said, "It's a lovely cottage. I might even buy it myself. That would be very convenient, wouldn't it? I live next door and it would be a good investment for my spare cash."

That was me out of the running, then. I had no chance if he was the opposition. I was to remember that thought more than once, later on.

I stood up. "I must go. I'll be late as it is."

He scrambled to his feet. "No you won't. I said I'd drop you off, and I will." He beat me to the door, wheeled my bike to the road, held it with one hand and opened the rear door of his van with the other.

"Nice bike," he said, cheerfully, lifting it in. "A bit ancient but you've looked after it well."

"Oh, it's positively antique," I muttered, bitterly. "Want to buy it? You only need £500."

He laughed. "Maybe in a hundred years." He slammed the rear door. "Today's price is about £25, I'd say. I'll take it off you for that, if you like. My sister needs a bike."

"Tell me where I can get another £475," I said, gloomily, "and you can have it. Then I could buy the cottage."

"Oh. I see."

The journey was short and accomplished in silence. I was thinking about the 'phone call I had to make to the estate agent. Ian seemed lost in thought. He stopped the van on a double yellow line, right outside my office.

"Here we are. Not late." He looked as if he had something else to say but a glance at me made him think better of it. He helped me get the bike out, shut and locked the van and again looked as if he had something to say. Don't try it, I thought. Just don't. I'll bite your head off. The last thing I want to do is get involved. Not again. Not with you. Not with anyone! To distract any possible advances I pointed out the obvious.

"You'd better be quick. You're parked on a double yellow line."

"What? Oh, that." He grinned suddenly, attractively. "No problem. If I get a ticket I'll be halfway across the Atlantic before it arrives. Besides, I've got something to do." He turned and headed along the High Street. The Estate Agent was down there.

I reached my desk on the stroke of two o'clock and was immediately up to my ears in a crisis. The program I'd installed earlier had crashed, no invoices could be sent out and the boss was going berserk. It was nearly five o'clock before order was restored and I had a chance to think about my own problems. Perhaps that was as well. I was tired and resigned to losing the cottage. It was simply out of reach.

I picked up the 'phone and rang the estate agent.

"Ah, yes, Miss Jones. I've been expecting your call. Can you meet me in the morning, about ten o'clock? Or would midday suit you better?"

"But I..."

"We should be able to dot the "t's" and cross the "I's"," he went on, smoothly. "It doesn't take long"

"There doesn't seem much point in that," I began, only to be interrupted again.

"I know the details can be tedious but we must check out the inventory carefully. It avoids later disputes, as I'm sure you appreciate. Now, I've had another look at the contents of the bedroom and I'm prepared to go as far as £750. You could, of course, go to auction yourself, and you might make more, perhaps even £1,000. But that will take time and speed is of the essence, isn't it? I've other prospective buyers, as you know. And a bird in the hand, as they say..."

"I'm sorry. I don't think we can proceed..."

"You drive a hard bargain," he went on, remorselessly. "Well, Miss Jones, I respect that. Maybe I'm being a little too cautious. Yes. I'll tell you what. I'll give you £800 for the contents of the bedroom, in cash. There are some genuine pieces there as you obviously noticed. I can only do this if you give me instructions to proceed with the purchase of the cottage immediately. You have your mortgage arranged?"

"Oh, yes," I replied, faintly.

"Then I think we can go ahead. My firm will take care of the removals and storage and confirm everything with the vendors. I think they will be quite satisfied. Our instructions were to sell the house and contents in one go, if possible. This solution of yours is very much the better bet all round. The vendors will be perfectly happy on my valuation of the furniture."

Slowly, I replaced the receiver, unable to believe what had happened. The cottage, that wonderful cottage, was mine! Mine! All I had to do was sign the papers tomorrow lunchtime. Feeling quite light headed I keyed out of the office, caught the bus home, and only when I kissed Mum hullo did I remember I'd left my bike at work.

"I always knew you'd do it," Mum told me, when I told her. "Clever little girl, aren't you."

"Just like her old man," Dad said, pleased as punch. "She drives a hard bargain. Now you really can get back on your feet."

There was one cloud on the horizon, Ian, the boy next door. He is the kind who never take no for an answer. He is the kind who, with one look, let you know exactly what they have in mind. I wasn't having any. Oh no. Not yet. Not so soon. That left a problem; he had most definitely had a word with that Estate Agent. I'd last seen him heading to the agent's office. The agent was buying the furniture, on a risk. Rubbish. Ian must have guessed I wouldn't take cash from him so he'd done it this way which meant, if I did go ahead I'd be in his debt, like it or not.

"Is something bothering you, dear?" Mum asked. "Is it the money?"

"No, no. There's enough."

"From what you say you could even get your car back. Or another," Dad said. "Nothing special, but it'd do you a turn for a year or so. I could look it over to make sure of that."

Mum was more perceptive. "There is something. Want to tell us?"

I hated shutting them out, but I shook my head. "No, Mum. It's nothing. I can handle it." I was determined to go ahead and hang on to my independence. Ian was a problem for the future.

He was home on leave twice during my first six months in the cottage. On both occasions I knew he was back before I saw him. There were daffodils on the kitchen table. The logs I'd bought had been cut and split. There were lots of little signs like that. Even while he'd been away he'd been unable to leave me alone. I had two postcards from New York, one from Bermuda, and several from the West Indies.

The first opportunity I had I put my foot down. I gave it to him straight.

"Look, Ian. You were wonderful over the cottage. I've happily burnt loads of toast all winter. Grubbing in the garden is just heaven. I really am grateful. You saw a way through my problem when I couldn't, and I'll always remember your kindness. But that," I added, with determination, "is where it must end." Naturally I felt a bit guilty, and a little uneasy. I wasn't at all sure he'd got the point. He just nodded and that seemed to be that. I felt even more of a heel.

Naomi, my sister's seven year old, was staying with me while her mum was busy having her third, and early one Sunday morning she came into my room and tugged at my shoulder.

"Wake up, Auntie. Wake up."

How I hated that! It was true, I was an aunt, at twenty-three.

"Mmmm?"

"Oh do wake up, auntie."

I unglued one reluctant eye and peered at the clock. It wasn't quite six a.m. "What's the matter?" I groaned. "Has your Dad rung? Has she had it yet?"

"No, no," little Naomi cried, impatiently. "Something much more interesting has happened."

I yawned and snuggled lower beneath the covers. "Come in and have a cuddle."

"There's no time," she cried.

"Oh yes there is. We don't have to get up for ages."

"Yes we do."

"Why?"

"I told you. It's about our front path. You know our front path."

"Yes. Of course I do."

"Well," she piped, triumphantly and pausing for effect. "It's gone!"

Reluctantly I opened both eyes.

"Really," she assured me, happily. "Come and see."

"If this is some kind of trick to get me up..."

"Honestly," Naomi said, seriously. "I wouldn't tell fibs to a clever person like you. I promised Mum. She said you'd know, anyway."

The damaged was done by now and I was wide awake. I dragged myself out of bed, groaned at the clock that still hadn't reached six o'clock and allowed her to lead me to the window. I looked.

"See!"

Sure enough, there was our path, gone.

One of the attractions of the cottage had been the green open space, owned by the Council, between my front door and all the other houses. Across it, until now, had run a zig-zag path of large, irregular and very ancient paving slabs.

"But that's absurd," I muttered.

"What's absurd mean?" Naomi asked.

"Daft, stupid, crazy," I muttered, my voice rising a little. "It's unbelievable."

Naomi showed me a pair of muddy feet. "I went outside to look. It might not have gone very far, but it has really disappeared," she said, adding seriously. "It is absurd."

After much internal debate whilst sitting in the lounge I dialled the local police station. I mean, they chase theives, don't they? This would test them.

My call was answered promptly. "Good morning."

"Good morning, officer."

"Can I help you?"

"Er. Well, I'm not sure. It seems so silly."

The policeman laughed. "Let us be the judge of that. Just tell me the problem."

"I don't think you've handled my type of problem before."

Again I heard that merry, policeman laugh. He must be near the end of his watch. "There's nothing new under the sun, madam. I'm sure we'll soon sort it out for you."

"Well, it is only a little thing, really..."

"No it isn't," Naomi protested, loudly. "It's big and long and heavy."

"Shut up," I hissed.

"How will he find it if you don't tell him what it's like?"

"Let me handle this."

"Tell me what what's like?" the officer enquired.

I shooed Naomi a little further away. "You're not going to believe this, officer..."

"Of course I will."

I took the plunge. "It concerns our front path."

"Yes?"

"It's been stolen."

There was silence at the other end. Finally, he said, in a strange sort of strangled voice. "You're right, madam. I don't believe you."

"If you can come down here you'll see it has gone, vanished."

Again there was a longish pause. "Er, tell me. When did you last see this path of yours?"

"The last time I walked on it. Last night."

"And it's not there now."

"No."

"Is it, is it a big path, madam?"

I could hear the struggle he was having to keep his voice neutral.

"There were about thirty slabs each nearly a metre square."

"I see. That is not the sort of thing one could quietly sling on the back of a lorry."

"No. Anyway, the traffic can't come up here."

"Can you describe it more fully, please."

I did the best I could. I mean, can you describe your front path, in detail. I didn't try. Instead I gave him our path's late address.

"We'll make enquiries madam," he told me, when I'd finished. "But I don't hold out much hope. Perhaps you could check with your neighbours. They may have heard something in the night. You never know." There was a distinct sigh on the other end as he hung up.

I tool the policeman's advice and that was how I came to knock on next door. Ian answered.

"Er, I'm sorry to trouble you," I said, feeling a fool. "Did you hear anything unusual last night?"

He looked surprised. "No. Why?"

I blurted out, "My front path's been stolen."

I went through all the explanations again, dragged him outside and showed him the scar of raw earth. We checked with his parents as well, but they slept in a room on the other side of the house and had heard nothing.

"Oh, well," I said, suddenly conscious I was still in dressing gown and slippers. "Thanks anyway."

After breakfast, with Naomi safely watching TV I wandered outside again. Mr. Griffiths, whose back garden skirted the green, was there. He did not look very friendly.

"Morning," I called.

"Haven't you lost something," he demanded, angrily.

"Stolen, more like."

"Hmmph. Come here young lady, if you please."

"Yes?"

He pointed an accusing finger inside his garden, just behind the hedge. "Are these yours?"

I stared. Indeed they were. Thirty paving slabs piled neatly between the hedge and the first of his apple trees.

So I explained it all to him, too. A lot of damage could have been done but none of his trees had suffered so much as a scratch. He calmed down then. It was clear I hadn't put the path there, and what was more, I wanted it back.

I had to make a second embarrassing 'phone call to the police, to explain my path hadn't walked very far in the night. He sounded relieved but couldn't resist asking if any of my other garden things were still where they should be. Like the fish pond?

All four of us, Mr. Griffiths, Ian, little Naomi and I worked very hard that Sunday. The two men did the heaviest work, carrying and relaying the paving slabs, whilst Naomi and I kept them supplied with coffee, biscuits and wet cement.

At two o'clock the 'phone rang. It was Naomi's Dad. "Great news," he cried. "I've got a little boy, 7lb 1oz and doing well."

"Congratulations," I said, automatically. Babies are not my thing. "How's his mum?"

"Oh, she's all right."

"Good."

"The thing is, she'd like to see us all. Well, I would. I want to take a family photo at the beside. Can you bring Naomi over at three? If you leave now and go straight to the maternity ward you can just make it. Ok? I'll meet you there, then."

I looked at Naomi, happily smoothing mortar and wiping her hands on her jeans as she had been doing all morning. A quick wash of her face and hands would have to do.

When I returned home it was nearly dark, the path had been completely put back and I found Ian sitting slumped in a chair in my kitchen.

"Good grief," I exclaimed. "Look at your poor hands!" They were covered with small cuts and much of the skin was raw. Where it wasn't the grime was deeply ingrained.

I spent a quarter of an hour bathing each hand in turn in a mixture of disinfectant and warm water, carefully sponging away the loose grit and dirt. "You should have worn gloves." His left hand, when I'd finished, looked much the worse, so I bandaged it.

He looked at the result. "The wages of sin," he said, ruefully. "Thanks."

"Hardly that," I replied, closing the medicine drawer. "You really worked hard."

"Mr. Griffiths stayed until three. Then he had to go. My Mum and Dad and the Griffiths are visiting friends tonight."

I looked at him. "So you haven't eaten?"

"No."

It left me no option but to cook for him. I could not turn him out after what he'd done, whatever my misgivings. And, in truth, I felt a little ashamed of them, anyway.

We ate, we cleared away, and then we went into the lounge and sat either side of the cheerfully crackling fire. Two gloomy people in just about the most romantic situation you can get. My own gloom, of course, was deliberate. I was not going to give him an opening. I could respond to his friendliness with a kind of neutral attitude, but nothing more. He didn't like that. The immobile way he sat staring vacantly at the flames was not all fatigue. He was young, and fit, and now well fed. He should have been reviving. He showed no signs of doing so.

"When do you join your next ship?" I asked, clumsily.

He replied with a statement. "You want to get rid of me."

I laughed, awkwardly. "Well, when it's bed time I will. That's some way off yet. There's no immediate rush."

He nodded to himself, lost in his private thoughts. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet. "This won't do at all," he exclaimed. I've got things to do. No, it's all right. I can find my way out."

I followed him to the door. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

"It was the least I could do," he muttered.

"The whole day has been stupid. Someone has played a silly, practical joke."

"Yes."

"God knows who, or why. I couldn't have put the path back without your help. You really have been very kind." On impulse, which I couldn't stop, I planted a friendly, platonic kiss on his cheek. "But then, you're like that, aren't you."

He gave a wry sort of grin and turned away into the night.

I tossed and turned for a long time in bed. It was true. He was kind. He could be a very good friend and, God knows, there are few enough of them about. I was my own person now and I liked it. It suited me. There were no ties, no complications, no conflicts of interest, no drunken scenes, no deceptions and no heart rending disappointments. There was just me, with no one to blame but myself for my errors and no one to thank but myself when things went well. My job, my cottage, my self to be determined future, and I could not sleep.

In the end I got up and made myself a cup of tea. There was no future in deceiving myself. I'd done enough of that in the past and life would have been a lot less painful if I hadn't. I'd been a fool over Nigel, and now I was beginning to wonder whether I was being equally foolish again, but for the opposite reasons. I was trying to tell myself Ian's kindness was only skin deep, like those scratches on his hands. Did I really believe that? Ok, so what do I do? Should I keep my new found peace and security and independence, so hard won, and go through the years wrapped in an iron shell of emotional neutrality, my armour against the fearful world of people outside?

I wandered to the window, pulled aside the curtain and gazed at the sky. They say there is a new star there, but I couldn't see it. The cloud cover was heavy, and building. The wind, too, was getting up. There was a momentary glow of light as the moon briefly shone through and then, what was that? The thief, come back?

He was sitting on his booty, half turned away, staring, like I had, at the sky. I went to the front door and opened it. "You'd better come in," I said, quietly.

He turned quickly, saw me in my dressing gown, and hesitated. "I don't know, I'm not so nice as I want you to think. I,"

I didn't answer. I left the door open and went back to my fireside, now cold and dead. But if I shivered, was it the temperature? My heart was beginning to thump painfully and my legs trembled, just a little. I had to sit down.

He didn't close any of the doors and wouldn't come into the room. "There's something you should know," he began, from the doorway. "There wasn't a thief. It wasn't a practical joke."

"I know," I told him, quietly.

That shook him. "But, you can't, there's no way, I was so quiet."

I smiled at that. "You were extremely quiet. I never heard a thing. Nor did little Naomi and she wakes up if I change my mind. Come on in for goodness sake. And shut the door."

He would not. "How?" he asked. "How did you guess?"

"I bathed your hands, remember?"

He frowned, looking down at them. "You did a good job. They hardly hurt at all."

"Well, they should," I snorted. "It's bad enough laying a path like that in a day, but to do so after you've uprooted it the night before; no wonder you were exhausted." I paused and then added, "Some of those cuts and scratches were not quite as recent as the others."

He nodded, slowly. "Harassing people isn't very nice. Why haven't you called the police? You haven't, have you?"

"I did."

"Oh."

"It's ok. I told them it had been found. I think they were relieved. It'll probably be the office joke for a week or two."

"Oh," he said again. "Don't you care?"

"Not much."

"Well, I do," he said, fiercely. Then, more calmly, "I'm not here most of the time. That is the problem. There was so little time. I thought, after the furniture thing we might have, well, started to be friends,"

"Instead I put you off. It didn't stop you, though, did it?'

"It should have," he said. "I had a chat with your Mum, well I had to, didn't I? She told me about that pri... that Nigel. So, I'll leave you in peace. I promise. My ship sails at the end of the week."

"I've been thinking about that," I replied, slowly. "It sort of makes things easier, in a way. Two weeks at home every few months isn't so very long, or so very permanent. Maybe..." and I stopped. As the estate agent had said, months ago, this could be the best bet all round.

The poor lad was properly confused. He didn't seem to know where to put his feet. "You mean...?"

I couldn't be sure of what was coming my way, but, I'd risk it. After all, when you think about it, ever since Nigel I'd been taking chances of one kind or another and it hadn't turned out too badly, had it? "For goodness sake, Ian, close that door, get over here and put some life in the fire. And put some in me. I've been freezing for far too long."

back

*

For The Young and Young at Heart.

2. Super Kids

At first the Super-kids did not know they were Super-kids. Neither did anyone else. Stephanie and Alison are sisters, Stephanie a tomboyish eight year old and Alison a stirring ten. Jason, Lee and Wally are brothers, a fact not everyone appreciates, for Jason is a thin twelve, Lee is stocky, at eight, and Wally decidedly impish at seven. They are all friends with Claire, most of the time, and depending upon your point of view, are disgustingly normal, perfectly ordinary kids.

And yet, they are not. Normal, that is. Not when all six of them get together in the same place and at the same time. That's when they become Super-kids and have super adventures. Fortunately for the world at large this doesn't happen too often. But when it does watch out!

On the day they first found out Alison, who reads a lot, had just finished reading "Biggles and the Camel squadron." Seeing her close the book Jason breathed a sigh on relief. "Thank goodness for that. Perhaps she'll now stop boring us with what it was like flying in the old days."

Lee, who is quite bright sometimes, had an idea. "If we saw a real old aircraft, we'd know more than she does. There's a museum,"

He didn't have to finish. Jason had already realised the possibilities.

Unfortunately for them they forgot to tell Wally it was a secret, he boasted to Alison, and she reacting quickly said to Stephanie, "Let's go to the old aeroplane museum."

It was necessary to obtain her sister's agreement otherwise her Dad wouldn't take them.

"Why?" demanded Stephanie, who was happy enough picking off ants with her peashooter.

"To see an old Camel, of course" Alison replied, sarcastically, and since this did not appear to go down too well, added cunningly, "You never know, they might let you sit in one"

Stephanie thought that a promising idea.

Getting to the museum was a problem easily solved. Alison offered to wash up, Stephanie managed to hide the broken plates in the dustbin whilst Dad finished his after dinner coffee and then both of them, without being reminded, cleaned their teeth.

"I hope it's worth it," Stephanie muttered. She hated brand X. Her mother usually bought it because it was advertised so much.

"You'll see," Alison replied airily and ran downstairs to let Claire in.

"Sorry I wasn't quicker," Alison apologized loudly, to make sure her father got the point, "Steph and I were cleaning our teeth." She went into the lounge. "Da-ad,"

The old airplane museum was in a big hanger, on the edge of an airfield.

When Alison, Stephanie and Claire arrived, Jason and Lee were already inside. Wally was not. He was having one of his difficult moments. He'd decided that the sweet shop by the gate was much more to his liking than ancient aircraft and was refusing to budge from it until he'd been bought a toffee apple.

The girls went into the hanger and started to examine the dusky old machines they found there.

"That won't fly," Stephanie said, taking in the first exhibit.

"It used to," Alison replied. "The wings are made of cloth, of course. But all the rest is wood."

Stephanie challenged that. "No it isn't."

"Yes it is," insisted Alison.

"What about the engine, then?" Stephanie pointed out, triumphantly.

"I meant everything except the engine," Alison explained, hurriedly. "Look, here comes Wally. He'll agree with me."

He didn't because Stephanie got in first, but he did offer them both a lick of his toffee apple.

"Alison is quite right," a man said, coming over to them. "Mind you, I prefer paper myself." He looked around. "Oh good. There are six of you. Then it is Super-kids time. Come over here and help me."

"Why?" demanded Stephanie.

The man looked at her in surprise. "Don't you know? You are the Super-kids. An adventure is about to start. Providing you lend a hand."

Mystified and curious they followed the man across to an empty part of the hanger. Spread out on the floor was the biggest sheet of white paper any of them had ever seen.

"Now" said the man, "Jason and Lee stand on those two corners and make sure the paper does not move. You others help me pick up this side. We've got to fold it in half, you see."

When they had finished that the man gave them some more instructions. "I want all of you to stamp up and down where the fold is to make a nice, sharp crease."

Step by step they folded and stamped quite happily, though wondering what it was they were making.

Wally dropped his toffee apple. It left a sticky patch so Jason was cross but the man said, cheerfully, "Never mind. It'll do for glue." Shortly after that the super-kids realised they'd actually made quite a passable imitation of Concorde.

Wally took the remains of his toffee apple out of his mouth. "That won't take off," he jeered. "Nothing Jason helps make ever works."

The man looked at Wally in surprise. "It is not meant to fly. I'm going to prop it up against the wall, like this and then if you fetch that ladder you can climb to the top and slide down."

"Great idea," Stephanie enthused. "Bags I first."

Later on she was quite glad Lee beat her to it. He ran up the ladder, jumped onto the top of the paper plane and with an expression of sudden uncertainty, let himself go. Down he slid, faster and faster until, as he neared the bottom, the paper plane bent under his weight so that instead of ending up on the floor he suddenly found himself going upwards, right off the end of the slide, high into the air. He passed clean over one of the old aircraft then fell straight down into the open cockpit of another.

Before he could shout out in triumph, or wonder at his escape the airplane's engine started, the propeller whirled round and, to the astonishment of everyone there, the plane trundled out of the hanger and took off.

"Hey, come back with my brother," Jason cried in dismay. He knew his mother would blame him.

"You'd better go after him," advised the man. "Don't run. Use the slide. It'll be quicker."

A moment later Jason found himself sliding down, down, down, then up, up, up, just as Lee had. He flew over two airplanes and then landed in the cockpit of a third which happened to be the most rickety of the lot. However, its engine started, just.

Ker fump pah; ker fump par; ker fump pah, went the engine, jerkily. Jason jerked with it. Ker fump par; ker frrump par; brmmm, brmmm, ker fump pah.

The others could see Jason's lips moving but it was too noisy to hear what he said. Actually his words were, "Gosh," jerk, "ooh grief," jerk, "oh goodness," jerk, "Oh golly," as the plane went brmmm, brmmm and then, "Ooh well," as it shuddered and shook its way out of the hanger and into the air.

"lf Jason can do it, so can I," Alison thought. Fifteen seconds later she was airborne. Wally, also not to be outcome, went up the slide and down, into a rather natty airplane, painted completely red. He too headed for the clouds. Claire was next to go.

Stephanie, at the top of the ladder, realised all the old airplanes had gone. Only one machine remained. It was a shiny, silver, rocket-like brand new fighter. Written on a notice were the words "Top secret! Don't touch. THAT means ALL RUSSIANS!"

"Well, I'm not Russian," Stephanie grunted. Sure enough, when at last she slid down the slide and up in to the air she found she was heading straight for the shiny, silver, top-secret plane.

There was a problem. The cockpit was closed. Stephanie looked skyward, despairing at her luck and wondering when she picked herself up which part of her body she'd have to rub better. Probably all of it. Down, down she fell and, just after she closed her eyes in resignation, the cockpit canopy swung open and she fell into an exceedingly soft pilot's seat.

"Phew," she exclaimed. "That was close."

"No it wasn't," a tinny voice contradicted her. "I had ten micro-seconds to spare."

The voice was coming from somewhere amongst the controls. It went on, "Everything is automatic on this projectile. Fasten your seat belts."

Stephanie doesn't take orders very readily. "If you're so clever, do it yourself" she said, challengingly.

Immediately, like snakes, two belts emerged from the seat, measured her up, then snuggled close and gripped her firmly in position. At the same time the canopy closed over her head. The light dimmed, but Stephanie wasn't worried. She was staring at all the coloured lights around her.

"It's like a Christmas tree in here," she said, and went on to examine the hundreds of clock like dials in between the lights. Some had just one hand, some had two, some had three and one even had twelve, all of which started to move.

"Pay no attention," ordered the tinny voice. "They're only there to confuse the Russians."

"Who are you?" Stephanie asked, in her cautious, but not unfriendly voice.

"This aircraft is absolutely secret," the voice replied, crossly. Then it went on sadly, "It is so secret even I don't know who I am. But," eagerly, "there are lots of things I can do. Shall I take off?"

"Why? We have only just met," Stephanie objected.

The voice apparently treated this as agreement for the next thing that happened was a mighty roar behind her which quickly became a whine and then even that went quiet.

"Get a move on," Stephanie urged, impatient for action.

"We are now flying at an incredibly high but utterly secret height and moving faster than a supercharged rifle bullet," the voice intoned, grandly. "Can't you tell? Even our engine noise is unable to keep up."

So that was why it was so quiet. Everything outside the window did look blurred. "Where are the others?" she asked.

"0h," replied the voice, carelessly. "We passed them a long time ago. Ooops; now they're ahead of us again. Ooops, sorry again, we've just overtaken them and, hang on a second, they're up front once more." The voice laughed to itself. "Work that one out, if you can!"

"It's like a race track," Steph thought, so she said, "The world is round so we're lapping them."

"Bother," said the voice. "We can do that forever if you like."

Stephanie wanted to be with her friends. "Can't we slow down?"

"Not yet."

"Where are we going?"

"To nowhere and everywhere," the voice replied, sounding like a railway station announcer. "As many times as you like."

"That's useless, if we don't stop," Stephanie complained. "I want a nice adventure, like on a desert island."

"I can fire rockets for you," the voice interrupted, eager to please. "Or we can drop bombs, photograph the whole earth, shoot up some bandits,"

"I want a desert island," Stephanie repeated, firmly. "The others must be able to get there too."

The voice sighed. "One Desert Island coming up. Or rather, going down. Don't you care if I get sand in my intakes?"

The next thing Stephanie knew she had been landed on a hot, sunny beach. The others were nowhere in sight.

"I'm hungry," she said.

"If madom would care to choose from our extensive menu," the voice said, now sounding like a snooty waiter. "Madom has a preference?"

"I do like chocolates."

"Press the green button and put your hand in the little cubby-hole beneath," commanded the voice.

Stephanie did so. "Nothing's happening." Then she snatched her hand back because it had been covered in warm, sticky chocolate, squirted by the plane from a pipe.

"Please do not complain," the voice reproached her, as Stephanie pulled a face. "If you wanted it in a tube, like toothpaste, you should have said so. Have you a favourite dish?"

"Custard!" Stephanie replied, licking her chocolate fingers. Immediately out popped a small white tube.

"I'm afraid it is brand X," the voice informed her. "We're not allowed to advertise."

With a frown Stephanie undid the lid of the tube and very cautiously tasted the tiny drop she squeezed out. Her face cleared. It was real custard. With a grin she popped the end of the tube into her mouth, and squeezed.

"Careful|" warned the voice. "There's more in there than you think!"

It was true for although she took three big mouthfuls the tube still seemed to be full up.

From a distance came a sound she recognised. "Ker fump pah; ker fump pah, oh stop it, Ker fump pah."

It was Jason, in his jerky plane. He landed on the beach beside her. Stephanie squinted out of her cockpit and saw the others approaching. One by one all the old aeroplanes landed and the kids got out. They wanted to see who was in the shiny silver plane.

Suddenly hundreds of yelling natives burst from the trees. They swooped down on the five kids.

"My breakfast," beamed one happy cannibal, picking up Wally and dropping him into a cooking pot some of the other natives were carrying.

Claire and Lee were grabbed next by an enormous green and white man who wore palm leaves where his trousers should be. "My dinner," he told his friends, delightedly. "Two courses."

"This one will do for the cheese and biscuits," announced another cannibal, capturing Jason. Jason's expression showed he was certainly cheesed off.

A man painted completely blue stopped Alison from escaping.

"Stay where you are," he commanded. "Your name?"

"Alison," Alison replied, staring at him. "Why are you blue?

"The paint hides my spots. Come along, into the pot. You'll make a nice sweet."

"She's not sweet," Stephanie thought. Maybe, maybe not, but the cannibals were content. They danced round the cooking pot, singing a very complicated song which, when roughly translated and simplified, becomes:

"You only get thinner if you hunt for your dinner,

Why work when you're not in the mood?

Tell the witch doctor guy our larder's the sky,

And rains people, our favourite food!"

In the silver plane the voice asked, quite politely for him, "Well, are you going to save them? They'll be cooked pretty soon if you don't."

"Oh yes," Stephanie replied sarcastically. "I'll give them this tube of custard."

"No need," the voice announced. "They can have roast beef, chicken and stuffing, baked jam roll, or even," the voice added, as if it couldn't believe how clever it was, "Tapioca pudding!"

Stephanie was about to tell him that even the cannibals would prefer Alison to tapioca when she had an idea. "Can you really put any food in to a tube?"

"Of course," boasted the voice.

"Even food these people will like?"

"I am so good I can actually put in spaghetti," crowed the voice. "Not many machines can get spaghetti in a tube. Out, yes, but not in!"

"Oh good," Stephanie said. "Then what I want you to do should prove quite easy." She whispered five special dishes.

"And you?" queried the voice.

"I forgot me. Yes, I think you'd better do me as well."

The coloured lights flashed, there was a hum from the cupboard and then the six tubes popped out, all labelled brand X. Stephanie took them with her when she jumped out of the plane and landed feet first in the soft warm sand of the beach.

"Run for your life," Alison yelled when she saw her sister. "They're cooking us and they'll cook you too."

"Of course they won't," Stephanie shouted back. "I've got something better tasting than you." She waved the six tubes in the air.

A pair of naked yellow feet advanced on her. They stuck out from beneath a long white coat. Above that were two, white sleeved arms; in one hand a stethoscope whirled like a helicopter's propeller and in the other was clutched a dog-eared copy of "A Gourmets Guide to the Peoples of the World." On his head the newcomer wore a tall, black pointed hat.

"I suppose," Stephanie sneered, "you're the witch doctor."

"Up to now," agreed the newcomer, gloomily.

Stephanie was glad for he was just the fellow she wanted to see. But he was not a happy man. "You look grim," she said.

"You'd be grim," the Witch Doctor snapped. "Life has its ups and downs but I was coping until you kids arrived."

"We've done nothing!" Stephanie exclaimed.

"No? You've dropped out of the sky. That's what you've done. Until you did that they," he gestured in the direction of the dancing, singing cannibals, "They believed me when I told them we had to fish for our dinners, or go on hunting trips. Can you see them now? They're laughing at me." His voice became more menacing. "Just for that I'm going to eat you raw." Slowly he produced a very sharp knife from under his white coat.

Stephanie took a step back and held up the tubes. "These are magic," she said hurriedly, and unscrewed one of the tops. "Here, taste a bit."

The witch doctor stared suspiciously and then very gingerly applied the open tube to the tip of his tongue. He smacked his lips which had the effect of changing his frown of doubt into a wide, witch doctor smile.

"It is just like eating that one!" he exclaimed, delightedly pointing at Claire. "Only better."

"Two Claires, actually. One for now, one for later." Stephanie told him. She held up the other tubes. "This one is like two Jasons. He's the tall, sarcastic boy. This is two Alisons, a bit sharp. I've got two Lees, plump and juicy, and if you merely want a snack, here's a Wally or two."

"What's that one," the Witch Doctor demanded, pointing at the last of the tubes

"It is the best of the lot, me!"

Stephanie dodged back as the Witch Doctor made a grab for her.

"Oh, no you don't. I'll swap them for my friends."

"Hah!" the Witch Doctor grunted waving his knife. "We'll eat you all up and have the tubes as well for afters."

"If you do that," Stephanie warned the greedy cannibal, "my silver plane will spray you with poisonous, thick, sticky gravy. It comes out all in one lump and sets hard in five minutes."

The Witch Doctor staggered back in alarm. "Oh no," he groaned, for fresh in his memory was an aunt he had had who made gravy just like that--until he'd solved the problem by eating her. She'd been a bit tough but anything was better than her gravy.

Stephanie knew she was winning. She stamped her foot with impatience.

"You must choose. You can have the six of us, or these magic tubes."

The Witch Doctor snatched one of them from her hand and ran back to his friends. In some excitement he explained what he had, pointing frequently in Stephanie's direction. Eventually the other cannibals gathered round.

They looked dubious, unwilling to believe what he said. Even when he applied the stethoscope to the tube and invited them to listen they were unconvinced, that is until they summoned up their courage enough to have a taste. Then they smiled. Then they cheered. Then they all wanted to squeeze the tubes into the cooking pot. When they did suddenly there were three Alisons cooking, two from the tube and the third was her sister. That might not be a good idea, Stephanie thought. One Alison was enough for anyone.

The Witch Doctor ran back to her. "Give me the rest of those tubes." he cried.

"First let Alison go free," Stephanie insisted.

The Witch Doctor badly wanted the other tubes so he shouted instructions and Alison was lifted from the pot. Stephanie handed over another and suddenly there were three Wallys. One was freed; another tube was handed over, and so on, until there were five kids jumping up and down excitedly on the beach, eager to know how Stephanie had managed to save them. The Witch Doctor was happily giving orders to the other cannibals clustered round the pot. They could see him thoughtfully consulting his book for details of the approved level of seasoning.

"Quick! While we have the chance," Jason cried. "Let's get away."

For once no one argued despite the fact it was a good idea. They jumped into their aeroplanes and took off. Even Jason's machine somehow staggered into the air with a kef fump p, p, p bah, ker fump p, p, p pah and a "Oh my giddy goat," from Jason himself. The cannibals did not bother to watch them go.

Back at the museum Claire's Dad grabbed her and marched her off to a music lesson she'd a nearly managed to miss, so then they were five and were no longer Super-kids. So that was the end of the adventure.

They went their separate ways home.

Burnham on sea is an ordinary kind of town except one day it wasn't. Shortly after the adventure a cannibal's war canoe was seen approaching. It came straight for the beach; the cannibals jumped out, ran across the sand and headed for the shops. They completely ignored hundreds of dinners lying on the beach. It was surprising, for most of these were already unwrapped and some were being very nicely cooked by the Sun.

The supermarket manager rubbed his hands when the Witch Doctor showed him an empty tube. He pointed the way to a shelf containing hundreds more all marked 'Brand X'. The cannibals started to fill their shopping trolley until one of them was thoughtful enough to taste what the tubes contained. Then his face contorted in an expression of disgust. More tubes were sampled and the mood turned ugly. With howls of rage tube after tube of quite pleasantly flavoured toothpaste was hurled to the floor. And Jumped on.

The supermarket manager was equally cross. He called the police. But by the time he'd managed to convince them there were cannibals attacking his toothpaste the invaders were already wrecking the shop next door. And then the one after that.

But, everyone was happy.

The supermarkets were happy. Brand X hadn't been selling very well, because of advertising. Now it was all gone they could stock a great new line.

The kids in the town were happy because for quite some time it was impossible to buy any toothpaste anywhere.

Lots of dentists were happy for they had more work.

The police were happy, although they did not catch the cannibals, for they like a quick chase and they had a good excuse to give up. There was a sudden outbreak of missing persons to deal with. This, it was thought, was the reason why even the cannibals went home happy. Or so claimed the anxious relatives of the sunbathers who'd disappeared. It was mostly the burnt ones who'd gone.

And, of course, Stephanie was happy. She'd found out they could become Super-kids and she had saved them. So the others thought she was super clever.

But she does sometimes wonder, even now, after lots more adventures, if it was the real Jason who was let out of the cooking pot, and if the real Alison and Claire and Wally and Lee who were rescued and not the dinners which came out of the tubes.

There is no way she will ever know for certain, but, well, Wally does not seem as Wallyish as before, Alison does not stir so much; Lee looks plumper; Claire is actually a tiny bit musical; and Jason, would you believe, sometimes goes a whole hour without making a sarcastic remark. This does make tomboy Stephanie wonder, just a little, as to who her sister and their friends, the Super-kids, really are. Not forgetting herself, for occasionally, although she'll never admit it, she actually feels like a girl!

back

*

For the Young and Young at Heart

3. Half a Monster Tale.

On a warm, sunny afternoon Stephanie was lying on her stomach in the garden, one hand trailing idly in the fish pond water. Her other hand was busy worrying a loose tooth. Beside her Panda-ted was happy for he was sitting right in the middle of the mud pies Steph had made for him.

"Teatime," Mum called from the kitchen, as Dad arrived home in a mood. "Come in and wash."

Stephanie heard Dad say. "I'm not dirty!" A big sigh followed. "The busiest time of the year and what do the council do? Dig up the roads. I've been stuck in a monstrous jam. I'm so cross I nearly hit a lamp post. But I didn't. It's Steph's friend, so I just brushed it down."

Mother said, "Wash your hands and we'll have tea."

By the pond Stephanie said, "You know, Panda-ted, there's too much soap in my life."

"Soap pig is fun," Panda-ted replied, staring at the pond.

Stephanie removed her hand from the water and looked at it. "See? Clean. But I bet they make me wash it again. Actually, there's quite a lot of me that isn't muddy." She'd forgotten the other hand, worrying her tooth. It was also good at stirring mud pies.

"You are cleaner than me," Panda-ted agreed, staring even harder at the pond water.

"No I'm not," Steph said, shaking her head. "You're black. Anyway, it doesn't count. That's how you were made."

"All I wanted was a quiet sit in the evening sunshine," they heard Dad complain. "So, of course, it's cloudy now."

"The water must be very deep," Panda-ted said, seriously. "I can't see the bottom."

"That's like Loch Ness," Stephanie replied, yawning. "Dad says Loch Ness is so deep the bottom goes all the way to Australia."

"Plenty of room for the monster," Panda-ted told her, gloomily.

"And me," Steph cried, plunging both arms in deep.

Panda-ted said, "I can smell seaweed."

"The sea is miles away," Steph retorted. She lay back and held up her arms so she could watch the dribbles of water run down from her hands and draw clean lines on her arms. She looked next at the pond. It did seem to have got bigger, so big, in fact that they could no longer see the house on the other side. What they could see was high hills and lots and lots of gloomy dark water.

"What's that?" cried Panda-ted. "It looks like a leaf."

"It smells, so you're wrong," Steph shouted back. "Can't you see? It's a gi-normous fish scale! And look who is on it. Soap pig!"

Seeing them, Soap pig yelled, "Help, Stephanie. Help!"

"What are you doing there?" Stephanie demanded as Soap pig drifted by.

"I'm trying to wash the fishy smell away," Soap pig replied, busily doing so. But as you and I and Stephanie know, when Soap pig gets wet he gets bigger. So the smell gets bigger, too.

"Silly pig," Stephanie muttered.

"He needs rescuing," Panda-ted told her. "We've got to help."

Steph sat up. "I can't reach him. We need a rope." She waved and called to Soap pig as he went further away. "Have you got a rope?"

"No," Soap pig called back. "But there are road works just round the corner. Try there. And hurry, because of the fishy smell I'm being chased by—"

But Stephanie and Panda-ted didn't hear the rest. They were running down the road.

A traffic light glared redly at them. "Don't come near me," it snapped. "This road is closed. The Council is digging it up. So," it sneered, "My job is not to let anyone go past."

Sure enough there were hundreds and hundreds of cars, with hundreds and hundreds of furious drivers banging their steering wheels and hooting their horns. It was quite noisy.

"I've got a red light on both sides of me," the traffic light said, gleefully. "No one can go anywhere."

Stephanie put her nose in the air. "Who wants to go past you?" she shouted. She had to shout for it was still very noisy. But she did want to go past because she could see rope, and cement mixers, a gas lorry and lots and lots of tools, just lying around and all tired out because the workmen had been so busy.

"You will want to go past," Traffic light said, evilly. It flashed red, yellow and green all at once then quickly went to red again so no one could move. "You will. Any minute now. Soap pig won't get away, and nor will you!"

One or two cars bumped into each other and so did one or two drivers. That made a bit more noise. But there was an even bigger noise behind them. It was a tremendous swishing, a crack like thunder and then a huge splash.

Panda-ted jumped in alarm. "Look," he shrieked. "It's gigantic."

"What is," Stephanie asked

"Here it goes again," Panda cried, and ran round Stephanie, to hide.

Swisssshhhh. Crrraaccckkk! Ssspppllaaasshhh! It could have been a mountain, but it was bigger than all the mountains for it hid them completely. It could have been a rocket plane whizzing by. That was the Swisssshhhh. It could have been the world's biggest firework going off. That was the Crrraacckkk! It could have been the moon crashing in the water of the loch. That was the Ssspppllaaasshhh!

Stephanie was awed. "Flippin' Henry," she breathed, clutching Panda-ted tight. "It must be the biggest monstrous thing in the Universe."

"Let's go home," Panda-ted wailed.

"I'll get you if you do," Traffic light cackled, evilly. "And if I don't, it will."

Suddenly there were monstrous waves on the loch. A moment later and what came out of the water was more than a monstrous plane, more than a monstrous mountain, more even than a monstrous moon. It was the monster itself!

Swisssshhhh! Crrraacckkk! Ssspppllaaasshhh! That was its tail wagging. A roar that sounded like "Grrrooaaarrhhh!" came from its mouth. It had so many teeth crammed in there Steph was surprised the sound could get out. It would have to open very wide and that was what it was doing.

"Good grief!" exclaimed Panda-ted, fearfully.

"I know," Steph agreed. "I thought it was all tail. This end is all mouth!"

"Run for it," Panda-ted cried, having already started.

"Good idea," Steph agreed and went into top speed.

"Oh no you don't," the Monster roared. "I'm starving and you two look like the start of dinner to me. So, if you don't mind," it added, suddenly polite, "I'll just gobble you up."

"They are a bit dirty, don't you think?" Traffic light observed, wrinkling its nose, yellowly.

"Nothing a quick dip in the loch won't cure," the monster replied. "I think they look quite tasty as they are."

"Well, thank you," said Panda-ted.

"Not at all," replied the monster. "Excuse me," and it stuck out its tongue. Like the rest of it the monster's tongue was monstrously long and monstrously curly and monstrously quick. In no time at all it had licked up Steph and Panda-ted and put them in its mouth.

It was dark inside the monster's mouth and getting darker as it closed its jaws. "We're being eaten alive." Panda-ted shrieked.

Stephanie was clinging to a broken tooth. She saw it had a big cave in it. "Climb in here with me," she shouted. "It can't chew us when we're in the cave, or swallow us up."

The monsters jaws came together and started chewing. As Steph said, it couldn't reach them and for the moment they were safe. But it was even noisier than outside. Crash, crunch, bash, grind, wobble, crash, crunch, bash, grind. Stephanie clasped her hands on her ears and then suddenly she thought of something. She looked round their cave. "If I had a cavity as big as this in my tooth," she bellowed in her loudest voice to Panda-ted, "I'd have the world's biggest toothache."

"Of course. He roars so much because he monstrously hurts," Panda-ted shouted back.

The crunching suddenly stopped. "Look out," Steph cried. "Here comes his tongue."

The tongue was probing each tooth in turn. Ducking deep in the cave Steph and Panda-ted kept out of the way until it had gone past. "Phew. That was close."

"We've got to get out of here," Panda said, "And upwards, not downwards."

"That makes two reasons," Stephanie agreed. She was looking carefully at the cave walls and cave floor. Then she looked at her shoes.

"Two?"

"Have you forgotten poor old Soap pig? My three month shoes haven't!"

You see, the shop assistant had told Stephanie's mum they would never wear out. Steel capped they were. "Good," Mum had replied. "That means they'll last three months. With luck." Since that was only four weeks ago there was still a bit of metal left.

"What can we do?" wailed Panda-ted.

Steph looked about to make sure the monster's tongue was lying down quietly. Then she stood up. "Watch," she said. She drew her steel-capped foot right back then gave the wall of the cave her hardest kick.

"Aaaaaggghhhh! And AAAAggggHHHH again," roared the monster. Hot fishy breath rushed past them but he kept his mouth shut.

"This monster's too polite for his own good," Stephanie told Panda-ted. She gave the cave another huge kick and then jumped up and down, digging her heels into the soft floor of the cave and shuffling them hard. "It screams and eats with its mouth shut."

"AAAGGGGHHHHH!!!" the monster was in agony. Like a gale more fishy breath rushed past so hard that Steph and Panda-ted had to hold on tight to avoid being blown away.

"Do you give in?" Steph demanded, shouting down the monster's throat.

"No, I don't," the monster thundered. "I'll get you. I'll chew you up and then, ooohhh, AAAGGGHHHHH," for Steph kicked his bad tooth again. "Oh, don't. Please don't do that."

"Give in, then," Steph told it firmly. She raised her foot to give another kick. The monster couldn't see this but it must have guessed. "No," it said, bravely, but not so loud now. "I won't give in."

Steph knew she was winning so she only tapped her foot gently against the tooth.

"Yeeeaaggghhhhh!" wailed the monster. "Oh stop. Please, please stop."

"Only if you promise not to eat us," Steph said, sternly.

"Oh, yes. I promise. Anything. I couldn't stomach you now, anyway!"

"Good," Stephanie said. "First you must open your mouth and let us out. And, if you rescue Soap pig, we'll," What could she do? She put on her hardest thinking expression, like Dad did when he was doing the lottery, "We'll cure your toothache."

Panda-ted was cross. "You mustn't say what you can't do. That's lying."

"Shut up," hissed Steph. "He doesn't know that."

"You mustn't tell untruthful things."

"I'm not. I have a plan."

The monster also had Dad's concentration look on its face, though of course Steph couldn't see it. It didn't really believe Steph, but anything was worth trying to get rid of the pain. Besides, it could always eat them later.

Stephanie gave her orders. "You must put me and Panda-ted on the shore and then save Soap pig. I need him."

"If you trick him he'll be monstrously cross," Panda-ted whispered.

"Hold tight," the monster said, beginning to swim towards the beach. It opened its mouth just a little, to let daylight in. "You'll have to climb on to my tongue, but please wipe your feet first."

"Mind you don't swallow," Steph warned. "If you do I won't be able to fix that tooth."

"I've promised," the monster said in a slightly aggrieved tone. "Not all monsters keep promises, and they are really bad. But, you see, I'm not really monstrous. I'm just big. You can trust me." And to prove it he swam very carefully to the shore and gently set Stephanie and Panda-ted down on the sand. Then with a determined look in his eyes he swam off down the loch to find and save Soap pig.

Nearby Lamppost was feeling very sorry for herself. "No-one loves me," she complained. No one wants me. All they do is bash me with their cars."

"My Dad doesn't," Steph said.

"No, he was the only one to brush me down."

"What are you doing shining by a loch? You should be outside my house."

"Well, I was but with all this digging and cars I thought it better to follow you and go on holiday. Instead I find all this bossy traffic light." Lamppost sighed. "It is not my day. I'm just in the way. No one needs me."

"I need you," Steph told lamppost, kindly.

Lamppost brightened for a moment. "Thank you, dear girl." Then it dimmed its light again. "You don't have to pretend."

"I'm not," Steph told it.

"Oh, my goodness me," Lamppost exclaimed suddenly, it's light becoming much, much bigger, like wide staring eyes. "Oh, my life. What a monstrous thing!"

The monster had returned. "Actually, I'm AquaBigsaurus," the monster said. He had Soap pig with him and set him down beside Stephanie. "Now I've rescued your friend you must keep your promise," he told Stephanie. He tried to look stern. "Otherwise, I might, well, you see, I should, if you don't mind too much, well, I should eat all of you!"

Soap pig straightened his jacket. "I'm in charge here," he said. "All of you do as I say."

"Why?" demanded Stephanie. "I've got a plan."

"I know you have but I am the best organiser." Soap pig told Stephanie. Then he faced the monster. "Does saurus mean strong, or just big?"

"Actually," the monster said, blushing red to the tip of his nose. "Well, actually, it means both. I'm very big and very, very strong."

Soap pig stroked his chin. "But not strong enough to crunch up cars. And certainly not that old Gas-tanker Lorry."

"Oh yes I am," Aquabigsaurus said. "No trouble at all." And with one big bite he crunched the tanker lorry in half.

"Breathe in!" Soap pig ordered. "Breathe in your hardest." The monster did. A very stupid grin crept over his face as he breathed in all the gas. His eyelids drooped.

"Quick," Stephanie shouted. "We must prop open his mouth. He's so polite he's bound to sleep with it shut." And, indeed, Aquabigsaurus was beginning to close his jaws.

Panda-ted, Soap pig and Lamppost exchanged looks. They nodded to each other and then suddenly leapt on Traffic light, picked him up and jammed him in the monster's mouth. The jaws were kept half open and Traffic light was well and truly fixed in place.

"Put me down," cried Traffic light, flashing all its colours on and off. "Put me down. I'm not a monster toothpick. I'm a real live monster traffic jam maker."

"You can help us better like this," Steph said. There is no pleasing some people and Traffic light must be one of them for it was cross. "All my cars are getting away," it wailed. And they were.

"Now for the noisy bit," Soap pig told them all. He pointed to the road drill. "Steph, you must dig out the bad part of the tooth. You'll need some light."

Lamppost said, eagerly, "Tell me where to shine and I will. My brightest."

So Panda-ted Stephanie and Lamppost climbed inside AquaBigsaurus's mouth and began to work. "It's a bit like a disco in here," Panda-ted said happily, sweeping up the old and broken bits of tooth that Steph was chiselling out., and dancing while he did it. "Thanks, Traffic light."

"Don't thank me," Traffic light snarled. "My lights flash when I'm angry."

Everyone else was happy, though. Even poor old AquaBigsaurus seemed to be smiling in his sleep.

Soap pig started up the cement mixer then fetched sand and water. "Now for the messy bit," Stephanie cried, gleefully. Even Traffic light perked up and changed from yellow to green.

Soon they were all shovelling and stirring and splashing water all over the place. Some of it even went into the mixer and made the cement wet.

"Slurping nicely," Soap pig approved. He watched a moment more then cried, "Stop. It's slurped enough. Tip!"

Much of the cement went onto the road, but that was all right because they'd helped the resting workmen quite a lot. In fact they'd done more than the workmen had. But then, the workmen hadn't got Soap pig to organise them. It shows how good Soap pig was when some of the cement went into a big bucket stuck to a mechanical shovel. "Delivery time," Soap pig ordered.

"That's your job," Stephanie cried.

Soap pig blinked. "So it is," he said, surprised. He climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and then steered the bucket into the mouth of AquaBigsaurus.

Panda-ted was standing beside the bad tooth and now he was giving orders. "Careful. A bit more. Left hand down a bit, no, no, that's too much. We mustn't concrete his tonsils."

Stephanie was pulling a face. "Cement tastes awful," she agreed, having sampled some.

Panda-ted carried on. "A bit more. That's it. Halt. Ok men, Tip!"

In the cab Soap pig pulled a lever, the bucket swayed about and the cement mixture sloshed and slurped into the hole in the monster's tooth until it was brim full.

"That's enough," Steph yelled.

"Good," Panda-ted said. "There isn't any more."

"I hope no one else has a toothache," Soap pig said, giving Steph a trowel.

Steph did use the trowel but she really liked using her hands. So she did until the cement filling was really smooth.

Lamppost watched her with great interest. "Can I carve my initials before it goes hard?" she asked. "I've always wanted to do that."

"Quickly, then," Soap pig warned. "That gas was unleaded so he'll soon wake up."

Lamppost worked quickly and had only just finished when Aquabigsaurus began to stir. First one eye opened. Then the other. Then he giggled like a happy tadpole and then he realised where he was. "See," he said, proudly. "I told you I could bite that lorry."

"Feel anything?" Stephanie asked, anxiously.

"Of course not," the monster snapped. And then because it's teeth neither hurt from the bite nor from anything else, it sat up straighter. It stared thoughtfully at the sky. His great tongue explored each tooth in turn. He smiled, he grinned and he laughed aloud. "I'm cured!" He leapt in the air and came down with an enormous happy splash. "Oh, I'm frightfully sorry. What a silly thing to do. Are you all right?"

Luckily they'd all hidden with the sleeping workmen in the hut so they didn't get wet. One thing, though. With all that talking and jumping Traffic light was able to jump clear. But he wasn't pleased. Oh no. He ran off down the road crying "My cars. My cars. Come back my lovely cars!" Naturally they'd all gone home for tea long ago.

Soap pig was still in charge. "Now, AquaBigsaurus," he warned him, "You must not eat any whales, or houses, or ships for at least two days. The filling is firm because we've used Ever So Quick Drying Cement, "but it hasn't reached full strength yet."

The monster's face fell. "But, I'm hungry," he complained.

"You'll undo all our good work," Soap pig warned. He was good at warning people and monsters.

Aquabigsaurus sighed. "All right then. I'll just nibble a shark or six."

"Not even that!" Soap pig was stern. "Stick to liquids."

"But all I can get at this time of year is cold swamp soup and I hate cold swamp soup." He looked at each of them in turn. "Please!" Everyone shook their heads.

"Oh well, all right. I certainly don't want toothache again," Aquabigsaurus said. Then he brightened. "I ought to give you a reward. Would you like a ride out to sea?"

"Oh yes. We'd love that," Steph cried. "Can we go to Australia? Dad says there is a lot of it over there and I think he means sand."

"Sorry," replied Aquabigsaurus. "There isn't time. I'll tell you a secret instead. There are two monsters in this loch and the other one," he shuddered, "Is too awful for words. Why do you think I was so hungry I nearly ate you? I'm not like that at all, you know. The reason was this other monster steals all my food. But, I must go. Can't you hear your mother calling?"

Steph's face fell. Soap pig said, "Don't worry. This adventure isn't finished so the next time you go to sleep, anywhere," he emphasised, "it will start again. Somewhere. Bye. See you." And off he went.

Panda-ted was peering at the grass. There was something white and shiny lying there, near to Steph. Panda-ted picked it up and gave it to her just as her mother arrived. "Wake up, Stephanie. Tea time."

Steph jumped up. "Hey, mum, my tooth fell out."

"So it has," Mum replied. "Let me see. Hmm. You must put it under your pillow tonight. It's quite a monster one."

"Oh no," Stephanie replied, picking up Panda-ted. "We filled that with cement."

"Did you, dear? Well, I think it is big and since your father is now in a good mood because it has just said on the news that the road menders have woken up to go on strike I shall tell him so. Maybe he will talk to the fairies and who knows what will happen. A monster tooth deserves a monster surprise."

"I think I fancy that," replied Stephanie, and went in to have her tea.

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About Me

I have had my ups and downs. As far back as I can remember I have always wanted to write. I started a school magazine (as a diversion from Latin lessons), largely written by myself (in schoolboy English), which continued to be produced after I left school. Other successes include a 50 minute radio play broadcast by the BBC, (great), numerous articles (over 50) published in local and specialist magazines, and a story outline for a Garth cartoon which ran for several weeks in the Daily Mirror, a U.K. national daily paper (great again). Then the Editor axed the series which had been running for 40 years! Another paper I wrote for closed immediately I did so (Gympie Life!). The actress Pauline Collins wanted to play the lead in a screen play of mine. For a variety of reasons, the key, most probably, the difficulty of obtaining appropriate finance, the project fell through (very sad). In the U.K. I turned a ₤2 million loss making business into profit in 3 months and so the owners sold it (they couldn't before!) and I was made redundant (don't be too successful!) Being jobless and over fifty no one wanted to know me (you too?). Needing to eat I drove a taxi. On one trip I was challenged by three pretty teenage girls to write a whodunit. The Treetop Murders was the result (We were driving up a steep wooded hill at the time.) It is selling (fantastic!).

I have been a Marine Radio Officer on the Queen Elizabeth and on other ships, a charity fundraiser for paraplegics, a Business Systems Analyst and programmer, a bread delivery salesman and I'm often involved in building projects, planning, bricklaying, wiring up and plumbing. D.I.Y is challenging, most projects are for the first time so I make many of the novice's first copy cost mistakes but what I get is what I want and not someone else's (maybe received or conditioned) views. Very satisfying; it is cheaper, too!

I was born in the U.K., living there until I married a second time. I now live in Queensland, Australia in 6 acres of long grass and tall gum trees amongst which I can often be found searching for golf balls. In between, as always, I continue to write and publish in various formats. I have to. I cannot help it.

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More Stories by me

The Ghosts of Fitzsenior Hall**

In Two Minds**

Oliver Castle Mysteries:

1. The Treetop Murders**, 2. The Deadly Dog Watch**,

3. No Accident

Radio Play:

The Glorious '79 (Available on DVD/CD)

For Children:

1. The Waterbed Lady

Screenplays:

1. Shilling for a Soul, 2. Blue Levee, 3. Abi on the Beach and in the Air

Note that those marked ** are available in Smashwords

For availability of the others please contact:

mailto: iampetertranter@skymesh.net.au

All feedback is welcomed.

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Finally, Are You a Genius?

(From the notes attached to "In Two Minds," a novel about the different lives of a sea going radio officer.)

The short answer is yes, potentially. Apart from a relatively few freaks whose reflexes, perception of sensory data and processing is marginally faster than is true for the vast majority of the rest of us, and those who unfortunately are not quite so sharp, we are all cast in much the same mould. We are a product of our genetic inheritance and of our environment. So what marks out the so-called geniuses?

Following the death of Albert Einstein fifty years or so ago his brain was examined to see if it was physically any bigger than the norm. Of course, it wasn't. Those who thought it might have been simply demonstrated a complete lack of understanding of the nature of brains. A thousand years ago such ignorance might be understandable, but in the 1950's? At that time, too, it was commonly held that we only use about 10% of our brains, the rest being dubbed the silent areas. Even I was uncomfortable with this assumption. Why, Charles Darwin's theory of natural selection and evolution based on the survival of the fittest in a given but changing environment had been around for a century and what that theory demonstrates is that nothing in nature happens without a reason, especially in living organisms if there is a significant cost involved. Big brains make huge demands upon the body's resources so if we have big brains it is because we need them. If the silent areas were really unused and doing nothing they would not be there.

The trouble is, lacking a reasonable and demonstrable explanation it is all too easy to assume away the inexplicable, the unknown brain, or to invent mystical qualities to account for the extra-ordinary achievements of some individuals. Ah, but you see, they were born like that. Mozart was writing music before he was five years old. Yes, but it was mundane and unoriginal. The evidence is that he had been studying several hours a day for more than ten years before he began to produce truly original and high quality work.

In Genius Explained (See Genius Explained by Prof. M. J. A. Howe, Cambridge University Press, 1999.) Michael Howe provides a very readable and convincing explanation of the nature of genius. It is not mystical and it is not innate. Instead he identifies some key characteristics in a series of case studies of eminent people, including Darwin, Einstein and George Stevenson.

The word genius is a frequently applied label reflecting an outstanding achievement. The achievement, though, depends upon the possession of very high skill levels and large amounts of daily practice over long periods of time, typically in excess of ten years. There are no exceptions. The individuals concerned exhibit intense curiosity in their field of endeavour, they are dedicated to learning more, they persevere through sheer hard work despite difficulties arising or obstacles placed in their way. Far from being reclusive they usually possess other skills involving the ability to get on with and communicate with others and they sometimes benefit from special opportunities, even sheer chance, although these opportunities usually arise as a result of all they have done before. Great inventors never produce sudden and dramatic advances but build on the work of others and of their contemporaries so that their innovation, when it is produced, is more akin to their problem solving skills (abilities we all share) rather than some mystical insight or 'Eureka' moment. Important too is timing; how conducive to progress is the nature of the current social climate and the technology being actively pursued? A large investment of time is spent planning and developing ideas. It is crucially important particularly when it comes to the onerous task of writing it all down.

None of this is to deny the existence of special moments of insight (as described under the general heading "The Nature of Thought" in the notes to "In Two Minds"). In fact Howe's thesis positively supports those ideas. He concludes by observing that the lives of such famous people illustrates just what we, as humans, are truly capable of and that provides the answer to the question, are you a genius? Oh yes, if you really, really, really want to be one.

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