 
FISH HEADS AND ROSES

by

Buxton Authors

Stories and Poems from Buxton U3A Writers' Group

Smashwords Edition

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CONTENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**Bill Burgess** by Lois Mcgill Copyright©2013 Lois Mcgill

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

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

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

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

The Path by Sheila Cooper Copyright©2013 Sheila Cooper

The Concert Pianist by Jill Radcliffe Copyright©2013 Jill Radcliffe

Reflections by Kate Briant Copyright©2013 Kate Briant

**Two Short Poems** by John Griffiths Copyright©2013 John Griffiths

Converging Destinies by Ken Smith. Copyright©2013 Ken Smith

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

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

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

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

Three in One by Simon Rogerson Copyright©2013 Simon Rogerson
The Two Roses

by

Sheila Cooper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A Story for the Grandchildren)

by

Maggie Hale

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't worry," said Egbert, kindly, "You can share my breakfast."

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

"Have some of my milk," offered Egbert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" demanded Winona impatiently.

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

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

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

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

(or "Who would have guessed it!")

by

Jackie Corrigan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Phew, fresh air! Come on Hugo, we'll go and feed the ducks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by

John Hadley Evans

Martin

"Thunderstorms over the Cheshire plain, moving east."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan

"Thunderstorms over the Cheshire plain, moving east."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is the third time she's asked you to go and help recently!"

"What else can she do? She's twisted her ankle and she can't afford to hire anyone."

"If she can't make it pay, it's time she gave up farming!"

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

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

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

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

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

Martin

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

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

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

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

Joan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he...?"

"He's cold, Missus. Been up there all night I reckon."

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

"Lying on his back, he is, with his eyes open."

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

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

Later that day the questions began.

"Why was he up on the ridge in a thunderstorm?"

"Was he normally so foolhardy?"

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

"Did he often drink and drive?"

"How did alcohol affect him? Did it make him depressed?"

"Did he ever talk about taking his own life?"

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

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

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

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

by Jill Radcliffe

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

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

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

She thought herself pretty, and charming too.

But stupid and vain – and FAT to be true.

She had heard of my title and money

whilst sipping warmed lemon and honey.

She claimed not to eat, just staying quite slight,

but her girth began quickly to equal her height.

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

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

So innocent I, and no doc to deny,

I began to fear that a wedding was nigh.

As I watched her grow bigger and bigger.

a baby would seem to explain her burgeoning figure.

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

Tho' somewhat perturbed as she grew ever fatter.

We married quite quickly without much ado.

Before very long, she could not button her shoe.

She lounged indoors to avoid prying eyes

whilst I stared aghast at her still-growing size.

Larger and larger she grew, eating swan,

and, often a hot buttered scone.

She gorged on rabbit and all kinds of stew

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

Like an elephant she was, but not wise.

Red face, rolls of fat and enormous thighs.

Eating all day, her bread dipped in wine,

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

Round eyes now slits, and her nose full of snot

thoughts of her beauty completely forgot.

Obese she became, her maid left in shame.

Blubber and wobble was what she became.

Her fat arms so fat and fingers so round

a blobby blob noise was her only sound.

Her mouth now so small, still food piling in.

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

Now so massive in size, what of the child?

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

More food on a dish, she swallowed with glee.

From the cellars came the finest brandy.

"What of the baby?" I asked nervously.

"What baby?" she shrieked. "I just want my tea."

"No baby?" I cried. "You terrible witch."

"Get more food," she screamed. "Don't call me a bitch."

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

I knew she would munch all night until late.

I had the gun. I would do it that night

as her teeth sank into a pudding delight.

My plans were laid but I wanted no trace.

She carried on eating – fried cod and grilled plaice.

When calling for more, a servant arrived.

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

"No more food in the kitchen," he declared.

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

She shouted and squirmed, waving fat pudgy arms.

"I must have my food – get me six barms."

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

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

I loaded my gun, but Fate was with me.

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

She'd guzzled and munched from breakfast to lunch.

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

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

"At last," cried her chef. "The Duchess is dust."

The Iceberg and the Titanic

by

Jill Radcliffe

It is white.

Everything white -

except for the blue and the

turquoise

of glaciers which slide and sleep

and nudge and swipe

as fearful ships punch

through skyscraper icebergs

dense and silent

as 42nd Street on

Christmas Day.

Arctic birds swing across

the ice floes and soar so high,

making pale blue shadows

caress the mirrored

ice below.

Daggers of late light

sharpen the sky.

Ice rasps.

Giants stalk.

A small snowflake bird

with salt on her wings

flies high and wide

to escape the

coldly lit world beneath her.

Pale blue clings to the night.

Light bends and refracts.

Strange mirages deceive and delude.

Icebergs, trapped in a hangar

of silence, whisper on,

shuddering in their hallucinations.

Death on the horizon

as ship and ice collide.

And shiny black shoes

slip and fall.
Seven Variations on the theme of

"THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT"

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

John Griffiths

The cat sat on the mat

And waited... splat!!

And with wide-angled eyes

Gazed at her prize

And with smug moggy purr

Dragged the mouse

Towards her

"Beep!" went the computer

Woken from sleep

& & & & & & & & &

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

Jackie Corrigan

According to Pauline,* my "get up and go",

Has got up and gone away.

I can't climb the trees

Or chase after bees,

I'm no longer young and gay!

Birds mock from their nests,

While I do my best,

To shin up, but fall on my tummy,

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

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

I'm an old tom cat,

With moth eaten fur that

falls out in chunks on the floor.

My joints are all rusty and I smell quite fusty,

Don't think I can take much more!

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

So I snuggle in front of the fire,

They'll buy a small kitten

With whom they'll be smitten

'Cos this pussy is due to retire!

M-i-a-o-w! Goodbye!

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

& & & & & & & &

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

Ken Smith

The cat sat on the mat - either that or he'd fall down flat

For the cat next door, who was a bit of a go-er

Suggested they started a brat

This blonde young floozy (with a bell)

Was totally open, and well!

She told him quite straight that they were to mate

or she really would give him all Hell.

He gazed at this puss with some hauteur

And said you could actually be my own daughter

She laughed in his face - said, "I'm an utter disgrace

but get over here and do what you aughter.''

She turned on her elegant paws

And wiggled her way away out of doors.

She oozed down the path, he gave in, with a laugh

and followed her rear on all fours

He followed her trail to the bushes

where she turned and gave him a wink

Said she, 'Now's the time,' he said, 'Oh that's fine

But I really could do with a drink.'

She scowled at him over her shoulder

Her patience was starting to break

Said 'Get on with it do, I'm waiting for you . . . '

Said he, 'I'm getting this terrible headache and I want a lie down'.

& & & & & & & &

The Cat That Sat on the Mat

by

Jill Radcliffe

I'm sure you have heard of the cat that sat on the mat?

But, did you know that the cat that sat on the mat did not want to sit on the mat?

The cat that sat on the mat wanted to fly to the moon.

So she asked a bird if he could fly her there.

She asked the bird because the bird did not sit on a mat – and had wings to FLY!

But the bird that did not sit on the mat was very small.

And to him, the cat that sat on the mat looked very tall.

So the small bird, in a small voice, said to the tall cat that sat on the mat,

"No, I can't fly you to the moon because you're too tall."

So the tall cat ate the small bird, wings, beak and all.

& & & & & & & &

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

Simon Rogerson

They all come in

There's a family din

But the cat sat on the mat

Tea time done

They have some fun

But the cat sat on the mat

It's early evening

Kids are screaming

But the cat sat on the mat

Eight at night

Kids out of sight

But the cat sat on the mat

News at Ten

For Kate and Ben

But the cat sat on the mat

A cold winter's night

Folk tucked up tight

But the cat sat on the mat

Three in the morning

The house is snoring

But the cat sat on the mat

Mice scurry past

Could it be their last?

But the cat sat on the mat

Seven in the morning

Milk is pouring

But the cat sat on the mat

What is wrong with this cat?

Oh - it's dead!

& & & & & & & &

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

Kate Briant

The cat sat on the mat and washed his whiskers

He'd had a very satisfying day.

He'd breakfasted on Gran's left over porridge

And the butter mum forgot to put away.

Then he took a little stroll around the garden

And did those things a cat just has to do;

Then found a patch of sunshine in the bushes

And snoozed there till twenty-five to two.

A rumbling tummy signalled it was lunchtime

And he woke to a most tantalising smell.

'Cos Mum was making fishcakes in the kitchen

So he thought he'd try his luck on her as well.

He sunbathed 'til the kids got off the school bus;

They snacked on corned beef sandwiches and cake

So naturally, a self-respecting tabby,

Scoffed all the little titbits he could take.

The cat lay on the mat and sang his purr-song

His tummy was as full as it could be;

Then he dozed and dreamed of birds and mice for chasing,

And woke up just as mum put out his tea.

& & & & & & & &

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

Thelma Turnbull

Like Martin Luther I had a dream.

Of plates of chicken and bowls of cream.

and soft warm hands to stroke my head.

Of pillows and duvets and cosy beds.

But home for me means draughty hedge.

and stolen nights in open sheds.

Until she shouted, " Come in, cat!"

That's when I saw the worn old mat.

So I sat on it.

& & & & & & & &

The Cat Sat on the Mat

by

Lois Mcgill (with a nod to 'The Gruffalo')

The cat sat on the mat

The mouse watched the cat

That was sitting on the mat

And he didn't like that

The owl saw the mouse

Where it hid from the cat that sat on the mat

And thought – I fancy that

The owl swooped low with talons keen

The cat, the owl, the mouse between

Squeeked as loud as loud can be

And woke the farmer's wife – Oh Me!

The farmer's wife, she grabbed the broom

And brushed that mouse right out of the room

Shoo Shoo Away, the mistress cried

A mouse in the house I cannot abide

The cat returned to his soft warm mat

The owl to his leafy tree

And the mouse he laughed and laughed and laughed

Then had toasted cheese for tea

& & & & & & & &
Looping the Loop

(to be read largamente)

by

John Hadley Evans

My name is, or was, Karl Fraser. See, over there on that granite slab, with just the two dates: born 1990, died 2010. A bit stark isn't it? but that's lowland Scots for you, plain and simple, not much sense of style. First name Karl, of Germanic origin, meaning 'free man'. Surname Fraser – of Scottish origin, obviously – meaning uncertain, maybe 'of the forest'? I never found out why my father chose the name Karl, but knowing his enthusiasms at that time, it might have been after the composer Karl Jenkins, or the philosopher Karl Marx. Strangely, after he started making money as a lawyer, he lost his interest in Marx.

My parents met at Glasgow University, married when they graduated, and I was their first child. Naturally they encouraged me to go to university too; so, at the age of eighteen I enrolled at Edinburgh, and two years later I died, falling off a church spire which I was climbing for a Rag Week stunt. If I hadn't visited the pub first, I wouldn't have fallen off the spire; but then without a few drinks, I probably wouldn't have made the climb in the first place.

Well that was it: my 213th life. It was a short one this time, but one of my better lives: pleasant whilst it lasted, with a quick ending. I can remember all my lives, although the earliest ones were hardly worth remembering. If only we could keep our memories when we're in a body! Then we might have a chance of learning from our past mistakes, although perhaps too many memories would be confusing to a developing child.

Overall, my lives are definitely getting better. I only survived childhood once in the first five times around the loop – sorry, that's shorthand for life, death, and back to spirit again. I think it was about my thirtieth life when fire was discovered; and a while later we started to grow food instead of running around trying to kill it. It makes a huge difference, when you can keep warm and eat regularly.

Over the years I've died in every possible way – I've been shot, stabbed, hung, and drowned. I've died of every disease known to man, and several that don't have a name yet. I've even been crushed by a mammoth; though that was a long, long time ago.

Most spirits consider it in rather poor taste to visit the place where one's last body is buried, where sorrow clings to the stones and the mouldering flowers. After all, we can go anywhere. We can admire the view from the top of Everest; or inspect the craters on the moon; or visit forgotten tombs where kings still lie, amidst piled treasure and walls covered in scripts that only we can read.

But I've always been interested to see how I am commemorated. My favourite monument, so far, has been an angel in white marble with a very touching inscription – which was odd, because it wasn't one of my more virtuous lives! I remember where all my graves are; some are marked, most are not. In the earliest days we just used an unusual stone, or maybe a carved wooden marker, although those don't last long in countries where termites are common.

Before long, that strange tugging sensation will come and I'll be drawn back into the cycle again: to lose my memories for a while; to be born; to learn to walk and talk once more – any language – anywhere on earth. Why we have this merry-go-round of living and dying, I don't know. People now don't seem so very different from when I first started looping the loop. Maybe the goal isn't so much improving individuals as getting the whole species to pull itself up by its own bootstraps. It doesn't seem like a very efficient way to make progress – unless you're working to a very long timescale, and have lots of patience.

Anyway; whilst I still have the freedom I'll travel a bit; socialise with old friends to find out who's in the flesh and who's out; and maybe I'll board the express train on Thursday. My father's due to have his heart attack on the 5.15 out of Glasgow, and I could ask him why he chose the name Karl. Not that names really matter. After all, they change each time around the loop.
Bill Burgess

by

Lois Mcgill

It had upset his mother, when Bill had had to change his name to be allowed in the Screen Actors Guild. She now had to work hard to bring the conversation around to the latest films on general release when meeting new members of the WI, who had not yet sat through the bulging scrapbook of Bill's notices and clippings. It seems the name Bill Burgess was already bagged by an actor of some advancing years who was still travelling the country playing ageing lotharios in second rate plays in small provisional theatres.

It had not upset Bill - or Will, as he now liked to be called. Will Wonderman: now there was a name that could conjure up any number of possible characters. Unlike Bill Burgess. Whenever he thought of that name now he would hear it said with a strong Lancashire accent - a long Burrr, pause, and then the ess. A Bill Burgess would be a salt-of-the-earth Northerner, married to a Deidre with three grown up children,Tracy, Darren and Sandra, the last of whom would go to university. Bill would have an allotment, keep pigeons and support Accrington Stanley.

Will admired character actors who brought Alan Bennet's and Willy Russell's plays to life but Bill Broadbent (now there was another Bill Burgess name) had all the best roles sewn up and, anyway, he hadn't start acting to portray real life. He had had enough of that living in Barnsley.

According to Barnsley's own city website the most famous son of the town was Stuart Bennet, a snooker referee for international matches in the 90's, although his dad would argue that Dickie Bird was a much better candidate for such a position. Barnsley was dull, but not depressed enough to be an inner city slum from which a gritty and determined youth could drag himself up from. Not that that stopped Will embellishing the truth somewhat about the extent of the poverty in the area, when being interviewed by southern softie journalists aching for an angle on which to hitch the emergence of a butterfly from the grub.

In truth Will had had a happy childhood, but boring. His dad had a steady job, mum did some cleaning, but was always home after school. Holidays were spent in Morecambe – more genteel than Blackpool – and their council house was well kept and had Nana installed in the upstairs back bedroom.

Now, as he sat next to the original Bill Burgess at the Oscar ceremony nervously waiting for the comedian on stage to announce the winner of the best actor award, he regretted his choice of movies. He had accepted the easy ones, scared at the prospect of being stretched and not being elastic enough. His acting roles had been limited – he had to admit he was typecast – and the latest, "Love is a Four Letter Word," was a rom-com. Better than most he had made, but he regretted the name he had chosen. It had certainly been a childish homage to the superhero; and magazine articles sometimes sniggeringly hinted at possible narcissistic tendencies. The good-looking boy next door look had kept him in work, but he had been unable to break the mould as Di Caprio or Jude Law had done – perhaps he just wasn't that good.

Of course Bill would get the Oscar. It would be Hollywood's charity award to an aging actor lifted out of obscurity to play the role of a lifetime as an escaped Nazi living in Chile. Any holocaust movie had a head start in Hollywood, so his box office rom com hit didn't stand a chance if the industry wanted to be taken seriously. It had been a surprise to even be nominated and he was working on the look he should adopt when the result was announced and it wasn't him.

"And the Oscar goes to . . . Bill Burgess, for Love is a Four Letter Word."

There was confusion, both of them stood up then sat down. The host read the result again. Bill and Will looked at each other. Suddenly it dawned upon the compère and the audience – a lackey rushed on stage, a terrible mistake had been made – the right actor; the wrong film. It was quickly decided that for this year only there would be joint winners of the Best Actor Award.

Bill walked up the steps leaning heavily on Will's arm. It was agreed all round that an embarrassing situation was salvaged by the humour and generosity of Will, who refused the prize with aplomb and wit.

The audience had laughed at Will's on the spot jokes about the mistake, their embarrassment gratefully avoided, and a thankful Academy never forgot how he had saved them from a disastrous evening.

So much so that the following year he was offered the job of the host at the Oscar ceremony and later a part in an historical drama about the Boer War, and became in great demand on chat shows. In an interview with 'Hello' magazine he was the first to admit he owed a lot to the name Bill Burgess.
The Plate of Cakes

by

Kate Briant

Molly put the last gingerbread square on the heaped plate and smiled to herself. The boys will soon polish off this lot. She glanced fondly at the framed photograph on her sideboard. It showed two laughing boys squinting into the sun; her grandsons Bobby and James. She seldom saw them nowadays, since Michael's work had moved him to Norwich. So far away.

At last the doorbell rang and she flung the door open in welcome.

"Michael, I'm so glad to see you." She gave him a hug and looked expectantly over his shoulder. "Where're Sally and the boys?

"They can't come, Mum. Can we go in?"

She closed the door behind him and followed him into the sitting room. "What do you mean, "They can't come?"

He smiled in reassurance. "Oh, it's nothing much, Mum; Bobby's got a bug and Sally's keeping an eye on him. James is staying at his friend's house for a few days."

Molly could have cried with disappointment. "Why didn't you ring me and let me know?" she asked reproachfully. "We could have arranged a different day, when Bobby's better. I _would_ like to see them before they go back to school."

"Sorry, Mum, I didn't think. It's difficult getting time off work at the moment. First we had to get the new office up and running and now we're starting a big advertising campaign."

He did look tired. She seated herself at the table and relented. "You must be worn out. Come and sit down. Help yourself to something to eat."

He looked at the plates piled with food. "This looks terrific, Mum. Were you expecting the Royal Family to turn up? You shouldn't go to so much trouble for us."

She smiled at him. "Michael, you, Sally and the boys are _my_ family. I wanted to give you all a treat." She waved her hand at the food. "Perhaps you could take some of this home with you."

He picked up a wedge of pork pie but didn't eat it. Instead he turned to her. "Mum, I've got something to tell you. The Directors at work are making plans. Big plans. They're setting up a franchise in New Zealand." He paused. Molly held her breath, her heart sinking. He continued, "And, they've chosen me to manage the branch in Wellington."

Molly couldn't speak. She sat there trying not to cry. Norwich had been bad enough but New Zealand?

Eventually she asked the terrible question, "When are you going?"

"I'm leaving in two months. Sally and the boys will be joining me when I've found us a house."

This time her silence lasted much longer. New Zealand. So far away. It felt as though they were already gone from her. She looked at the photograph of the boys. They would be on the other side of the world.

The plate of uneaten cakes mocked her.
No Conversion

by

John Griffiths

He was playing rugby football

On the day he got his bus pass

They took him to hospital

When he took a hospital pass

And it came to pass

That he passed away

On that long-awaited

Bus pass day

He thought he'd play soccer

When he got to heaven

Be like Gareth Bale, Number Eleven

But it was not to be, no, alas

He's forever the scrum-half

With a quick long pass
The Elements

by

John Griffiths

'Tis the element that makes

The kettle boil

Unless you're using

Gas or oil

Or throwing coal or wood

Onto a fire

But earth for me

Is a green and yellow wire

And with water and tea-leaf

To complement

I am in my element

Eight Variations on the theme of

"The Man With The Violin Laughed And Walked Away"

The Man with the Violin

by

Lois Mcgill

It seemed a bit of a laugh to begin with, an anecdote for an after dinner speech or an experience retold at parties to amuse and show how cool he was. But after a strip search and a night in the cells the joke was wearing thin. Visions of the Birmingham Six or the Guildford Four came to haunt him. Were the police any better now; were Muslims the new Irish?

He had thought the machine gun in the violin case a Mobster urban myth; a device for 40's Al Capone movies, not real life. But the police didn't think so: a tip off, more likely someone playing a joke, but in the present atmosphere not to be ignored.

How long could they hold him, what were the rules these days? He had thought the stories of police brutality were blown up by thugs. He lived in Sevenoaks for goodness' sake, played cricket, belonged to the National Trust and owned a retriever. When this was all over he would complain forcibly. The discrimination he thought he had overcome all his life was as nothing, he was just a Paki to them. He had given them names. The conductor was well known and could vouch for him, but obviously he had not been contacted – too caught up in the moment, he could hardly answer his mobile.

Months later his story of how he had missed the Olympics Opening Ceremony was a great party piece – what a great chap they would say. He watched Mr Bean's performance on You Tube in the station the next day while waiting for his release. He was given an apology and tried to be the bigger person.

So the man with the violin laughed, and walked away.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
The Man with the Violin

by

Sheila Cooper

The passers by would have been surprised by how profitable busking was. The bedraggled trio at the entrance to the city precinct also were unaware of how the casual chucking of coins added up - except for the violinist, Ron. Good old Ron, he was the unofficial manager. He pocketed the cash if it looked too much to elicit sympathy from the shoppers who donated small change on their way back to the car park; he collected up the hat at the end of the day and paid the other two at month's end. The other members of the trio were considerably younger than Ron and regarded him as dull, not to say boring, but he was a great violinist. He was always reluctant to head home because his wife despised him and his home life was composed of nagging rows and bitter silences.

But today would be different. He set off as usual to the pitch and played as normal. Inside he was a mass of whirling emotions. He gloated over the flight ticket and large amount of cash in his money belt. So many years, he thought, and no-one had suspected the careful extraction of cash every day. They trusted old boring Ron. But today he would no longer be boring. He'd be off to the new life he had planned - no more busking on soggy days; no more going home to marital disharmony just freedom.

At the end of the day when the last shoppers had drifted away Ron scooped up the hat, laughed and walked away.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
Götterdämmerung

by

John Hadley Evans

I was at the World Violin Congress of 2005 . . . the last one. The programme was diverse, with much of interest to players of all abilities. It was inspiring to see the great of the concert platform mixing freely with those at the beginning of their professional careers. The talk of the week was the recent sale of the Stradivarius called the "Lady Tennant," for two million dollars.*

On Tuesday, we were waiting for a lecture on 18th century bow making to start in the main hall, when a grey haired man in a dark suit walked onto the stage and started to play. Within seconds the chatter in the stalls died away and an absolute stillness gripped the audience.

First he played a simple melody of surpassing sweetness that showed off the warm, rich tone of his instrument. Then he began to improvise on it, producing variations of amazing complexity without losing sight of the original theme. Dazzling cascades of trills, fine-drawn high notes that pierced the listener, delicate arpeggios that drifted up to caress the rafters. He finished with a brisk coda.

I turned to my neighbour, one of the greatest players in the business, to find him crying unashamedly. Everywhere in the hall people were looking dazed. With that one short piece the stranger had demoralised a whole generation of violinists and destroyed many careers.

With an elaborate flourish he bowed to his audience, mocking them, then turned on his heel, laughed and walked away.

*Sold at Christie's in New York, April 2005

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
Fiddle-de-dee

by

Ken Smith

Lambert hooked a cautious, inquisitive eye around the corner of the building. He had heard enough. This had to be a careful survey. Someone was lying in wait for him. They wanted what he had, and he was determined that they should not get it.

Enough stories had gone out to make him extra cautious, and prompted him to walk carefully in the back streets. He was intelligent enough not to spend too much time in the dark on his own. But life was exciting, this additional peril gave him a buzz, and made him feel so alive.

Now again, from the darkness, came that sound again. Despite his steady nerve, there was something in that peculiar noise that caused the hairs on the back of his head to stand erect. He had to know more. Cautiously he slid down the dark road into the bright lights of the busy High Street. Car Fumes. Cafe smells. People shouting, talking, cursing, as they rushed to the theatres. Small groups standing listening to the buskers on the pavement. It was all normal but worrying. Somewhere in that cacophony was the danger, but where?

The busker was playing an old fiddle, briskly but badly, producing a horrible screeching noise with the ancient strings. A shaken listener saw Lambert and pointed to him.

"That's what you want. Some new gut!"

The cat, hearing, streaked away across the road, diving dangerously under car wheels to escape, and the man with the violin laughed and walked away.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
The Man with the Violin

by

Thelma Turnbull

The moonlight shone in through the dirty windows, and the old man wriggled his big toe which stuck out of his worn old slippers. He was oblivious to the noises and strains of music that drifted up from the other rooms in the shared house. As he leaned forward the steam from his mug of tea reached his weatherworn skin, giving him a deceptively healthy glow.

Around him lay the meagre belongings of a man on the edge of poverty. The old crochet blanket, second hand music books, yesterday's discarded clothes still lay in the corner. He had been a rat catcher before he had to retire, and as he walked around the market in the evening, he despaired of the amount of litter thrown around.

When he was working he could clear an area very quickly, he had developed his own poison, unofficially, so he could clear an area of rats super quick. A beam of sunlight came to rest on his violin which lay on the table. His Hungarian father had taught him well.

The next day he took his violin to market and began to play beside his begging cap. He wrote on a small piece of cardboard that he was the Pied Piper, and could clear the market of rats. People smiled.

That night, in the dark he placed his delicious deadly poison in amongst the takeaways in the market place. It felt good, he would rid the market of vermin and the people would notice. Maybe he could make a living. His beautiful violin playing entranced the small crowds. The council soon noticed the rats were almost gone. They decided to reward him with a substantial cheque; he was happy because he was useful again.

One day he settled down to play in front of a small crowd. Suddenly a familiar face pointed at him, shouting, " I know you! You were the best rat catcher in the city!"

And the man with the violin laughed and walked away.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
The Man with the Violin

by

Maggie Hale

He was always there, playing his violin in the café, earning a few coins as he moved between the tables. Life was hard and some days he couldn't afford to eat. His clothes were shabby, his shoes let in the rain. So when the artist offered to pay him to sit and do nothing, he couldn't believe his luck.

"Just sit there and hold my violin?" he asked in astonishment.

"That's right," confirmed the artist, gesturing to an empty chair.

The man sat, perching the violin on his knee and gazing into the distance in what he thought was a suitably fetching pose. The artist moved him around a bit and set to work. He's not looking at me much, thought the man with the violin. How's he going to get a good likeness?

After all, when an artist paints you, you do want to look your best.

Eventually the painting was finished and the musician walked over to take a look. He was shocked at what he saw: overlapping greyish rectangles, a single ear, a shattered violin recognisable only by its f-holes. This wasn't art, it was a travesty!

"Don't give up your day job," he remarked with a smirk, "You'll never make a living from that stuff."

Flushed with anger, Picasso flung thrust some notes into the man's hand and packed away his paints without uttering another word.

None the wiser, but somewhat richer, the man with the violin smiled and walked away.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
A Day at the Fair

by

Kate Briant

We were a merry throng of people at the Grand September Fair

With our pockets full of pennies for the treasures we'd find there:

Toffees for the children, woolly hats to wear,

Oranges with cloves in, gingerbread to share.

Within the busy fair ground the air was full of noise:

The jingling bells of Morris men, the shriek of laughing boys.

Four men were playing folk songs and tunes to start feet tapping,

Squeezebox, fiddle, banjo, drum – set our fingers snapping.

But as the day drew on and people thought to leave the fair,

The sound of Bruch's concerto drifted on the cooling air.

Playing tunes he loved so much the fiddler played on

And the crowd, so close to leaving, delighted, all stayed on.

The music kindled memories among the people there:

The pain of unrequited love and the joy of passion shared.

The shy delight of love's first kiss, the sorrow of the last

When lips are cold, of life bereft, and happiness is past.

His audience fell silent to listen to him play

Then the man with the violin laughed and walked away.

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $

The man with the violin

by

John Griffiths

The man with the violin  
Has a case

$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
TWO TERRIBLE TALES!

It's Time We Changed Places

by

Ken Smith

Jenny climbed in. Sat on the cushions and stretched her long elegant legs before her, the thin tight trousers clinging like a second skin. Maddy followed her. She spread her dress around her and took the oars. It was a perfect afternoon - a gentle warm breeze just rippling the surface breaking up the dazzling reflection of the sun.

Jenny watched as Maddy propelled the rowing boat through the water, smoothly, her body flexing and rippling to the exercise, the oars skimming the water as she did the return stroke.

"How she manages everything so easily and so well, and still manages to look great," mused Jenny, with a grunt of amusement. "She even managed to grab hold of Guy and marry him before I could even blink. And I didn't say a word. Bitch! I can't bear to see how happy they seem to be. They don't seem able to keep their hands off each other. Laughing and kissing. I suppose that's how Guy and I would have been, if...." She deliberately stopped her thoughts and gazed bleakly into the distance.

The sudden breeze blew and swept the long dark hair into her eyes. She raised a hand to brush it back into place and looked across at Maddy - married Maddy. Her hair wasn't even slightly out of place. Her make up was perfect and her figure in the light yellow summer dress was shown to perfection as the slight wind moulded the dress to her shape.

"You know, Maddy. You're such a beautiful girl. I don't blame Guy for marrying you instead of me," Jenny said as she leant back against the cushions watching the girl rowing.

Maddy laughed. " You're a nut. Guy is always going on about you. How beautiful you are. He's still crazy about you. Do you know, I found he still has photographs of you in his wallet. When I annoy him he always says, 'Well, Jenny would never have done that.' And he's always comparing your figure with mine. He's a rat. I could kill him at times."

"What's the matter. Aren't you still in love with him?" Jenny tried to keep any inflection from her voice. She was not sure she succeeded.

Maddy laughed. "I suppose so. He's fun to have around. He's a good provider. And he's magic in bed. But he always was - wasn't he?"

She looked at Jenny slyly, and smiled knowingly. Jenny stared at her for a moment. "Well, I knew he was but I hadn't realised that you did."

Maddy looked up in surprise at the tone in Jenny's voice. "Surely you're not mad at me for marrying him. Not after two years? We always seemed to share our men. We've had lots of fun doing it. And he was very keen on getting me into the sack when you weren't around. I thought you two weren't really making it, so I just thought I'd have a crack at him. I'm not sure I wanted to marry him, but it happened."

"No. I don't think I'm mad at you now. But at the time I think that if you had stepped in front of my car, I would have run you down, and laughed."

Jenny's voice had gone quite matter of fact and quiet. She was trailing her fingers in the water, and seemingly watching the ducks bobbing up and down on the ripples sent out from the thrusting oars.

Maddy looked at her queerly. "I thought you took it too quietly." She paused. ''You know, I believe if I disappeared, he would be after you again like a shot. Sometimes I think he wishes he had married you, not me." She laughed. "I guess what he would really like is to be married to both of us. At the same time. Do you think we should have?"

Jenny stretched. Looked down at her long shapely legs, and laughed gently. "I don't know. Maybe it would have worked. But we would have had to work out a rota for everything. I don't think I could do that. I'm too impulsive. Spur of the moment girl that's me. It would have worked for you. You're organised, you plan. Anyway - it's illegal."

Maddy rested her oars, looked across at Jenny and nodded. "We wouldn't get away with it. You're right - it's illegal for a man to marry two women. The law would have something to say about that."

Jenny was silent for a minute or two, then,: "You know, I believe we could get away with it. There is always a way around everything if you just try. I'm sure I could work something out to solve the problem".

She stretched and said, "Come on. It's time we changed places and I row for a bit."

Maddy looked at her. "Are you serious - about it working? And you always say you're impulsive. You can't plan. You never could."

"Oh, I could plan for something like ... this." Jenny paused, then, "Come on. Let's change over. It's time you had a little - rest." She laughed as she said it.

The two girls stood up carefully, and moved around each other ready to change places. As they moved past each other, Jenny tripped. Lurched over and somehow pushed against Maddy, who with a shriek ended in the water.

She surfaced safely, puffing and blowing water. "You idiot. Look at me I'm waterlogged. Why did you have to push me in?"She looked up at Jenny standing there gazing down at her. "Come on. Give me an oar to hang onto, and I'll try to get in over the stern."

Jenny lifted an oar and started to lower it towards Maddy, then stopped.

"Oh, get a move on will you. I want to get dry."Maddy was getting a little impatient.

Jenny looked down at her. "I wonder what would happen if I didn't help you. If I left you in the water?''

Maddy, obviously not believing what she was hearing, said, ''Oh, come on. You're not still mad at me, are you? Anyway, you'll get me out. I'd bet anything on that. Come on, give me an oar."

Jenny just nodded. "Yes. I'll give you an oar. Here it comes."

She lowered the oar and as Maddy reached out for it, Jenny lowered it even more and carefully rested the end against the swimmer's shoulder, and pushed down - hard.

Maddy spluttered, and cried out, "Watch it, you idiot! You'll have me under in a minute."

Jenny smiled coldly. "Yes, I will won't I?" And pushed down, harder, and kept pushing.

Maddy was thrashing the water like a crazy person trying to get to the surface, but Jenny kept up the pressure until Maddy stopped struggling. Even then Jenny's beautiful face seemed to show no emotion. She just kept the pressure on until she was sure that Maddy was not going to spoil her life again.

Maddy surfaced, and lay motionless on the surface of the water. The thin yellow dress floated up around her 'til she was looking like a wilted daffodil. Her long blonde hair was washing gently around her head.

Jenny stared down at the white face below her in the water for a moment, then smiled. Dropping the oar into the water, she started to scream loudly: "Oh, Help! Help please!Anyone. Help! Please. She's drowning. Help, my sister's drowning!"

THE PATH

by

Sheila Cooper

Renoir's painting 'Path through long grass' depicts an apparently delightful rustic idyll. It portrays a group of children laughingly walking along a path through a flower-bedecked meadow. The path ahead of them disappears over the brow of a hillock and is lost to the viewer's sight.

The Quentin children presented a similarly outwardly charming scene as they crossed the field below the garden of their house, in single file. Alice, as befitted her status as first born, led the way carrying a wicker picnic basket. She was dressed, as was her younger sister Lucy, in a white flowing frock adorned with a blue satin sash. Typically, Alice wore her broad brimmed straw hat slung by its ribbons down her back, whilst Lucy's identical hat was firmly in place atop her golden curls, its ribbon tied in a neat bow under her chin.

Alice was rebellious but was only able, as yet, to show her discontent in small ways. Four-year- old William just tagged along behind the girls in his sailor suit, glad to have escaped the nursery on this gloriously sunny day. Only the Nannyless state of the household had enabled them to be permitted this foray into solitude, and the new Nanny was due to arrive in the evening.

It might have been expected that the sisters' thoughts would be light-hearted on such a day of unusual freedom. A casual observer, seeing the three heads flung back in childish laughter, could have been forgiven for assuming that was the case. But there are many kinds of laughter and theirs was not childish at all.

Today was the last chance they would have to accomplish the task they had set themselves six months ago. Alice and Lucy had whispered to each other last night in the nursery, long after William was asleep. They had leaned on the wide window sill gazing out onto the field, now demoted from gold to silver beneath the moon, and remembered and plotted. The path too had changed colour and stood out as a grey ribbon meandering through the metallic meadow. From

this vantage point it was just possible to make out the line of the path as it slid over the rise and down towards the stream in the gully. The undergrowth changed it to pewter and the shadows were leaden and inky.

It was at this same windowsill that Alice had explained to Lucy what was meant by a lover, and why she thought that Sir Peter was their mother's lover. She recalled the more frequent visits when Father was away; the dreamy expression in her mother's eyes and her faraway look; and the time that she had surprised her mother gazing at a locket which she had quickly hidden inside her blouse. And then the realisation that dawned that all this would cause such misery to the one person they all adored the most – their father.

So for the next few weeks they had watched and waited and finally their vigilance had been rewarded. They had discovered the mossy edging stone in the rose garden which the lovers used as a post box. This knowledge they felt must be used as a weapon to protect their beloved Papa. But until last night they had not seen a way to use this sword to untie the Gordian Knot, and they had waited and watched and learned to hate.

It had not been strictly necessary to pass through the garden to reach the wicket gate that led onto the path to the flower meadow, but with one accord they had done so. The latest note, written evidently in haste in their Mamma's handwriting, simply said, "The dell near the stream - two o'clock."

Whilst Lucy diverted William by playing "He loves me, he loves me not" with the daisies, Alice drew a pen and travelling inkwell out of her basket and added a single stroke to the time, then slid the slip of paper back into its earthy tomb. Nodding to Lucy over William's bent head she indicated by holding up first all her fingers and then two the new time of the assignation. And so the siblings had frolicked with such apparent innocence towards the dell.

Normality reigned for a blessed interval as they played with William and paddled where the stream was shallow. Then Lucy read aloud from a story book of fairy tales with black and white silhouette illustrations and happy endings. They spread a rug under the great ash tree that grew where the stream narrowed to a deeper pool. The shade was welcome for the sun was high in the sky now and the air shimmered with the heat.

Renoir would have found another attractive subject for his genius: a canvas entitled, 'Children at play?' But these children were nor playing! After the picnic Alice sang to William and, as she knew he would, he slipped quickly into the dreamless instant sleep of the untroubled young. Then, and only then, did they silently and without hesitation act on the plan of the previous night.

They carried the sleeping child, the basket and the rug much higher up the stream out of view of the ash tree, and Lucy stayed with William. Alice returned to the ash tree, selected a large stone from the stream bed and climbed the well-known branches. Insects buzzed, the stream rippled and murmured and the whole countryside waited.

It was all over so quickly: the gentle call of a name; the smile of recognition on the man's upturned face just before the heavy stone smashed into it; the dainty white slipper pushing the head under the water and forcing it down; the splash as a stained stone was returned to its natural element.

Later, much later, three children could have been seen returning along the path through the long grass, innocence personified. And this time they were laughing happily.

\+ + + + + + + +
The Concert Pianist

by

Jill Radcliffe

See the pianist's fingers lift with a snooty disdain.

Wrists arch. Fingers scuttle. Shoulders sway.

Nose with an aristocratic lift samples the air.

Long feet dance and tap. Right toe, fashionably pointed,

strokes the pedals.

Seat shifts. Spine curls.

A triumphant chord sends the left arm skywards,

in delight.

Then arms strangely stiff, hands duetting alone.

Knees crammed under the keyboard.

Black brows.

Closed eyes.

White cuffs.

Tiny bald spot on the back of his head.

A finale of a white hanky to wipe the brow

and press the lips.

Then a far lean back, head coquettish to the right

as the strings take over.

Long hands resting lightly in his lap,

head back, eyes closed, in a euphoria of sound.

And so the pianist luxuriates in his private bliss,

until,

jolted from his reverie,

he hears the applause.

Slowly, gracefully unfolds himself to stand,

embraces the conductor

and bows

and bows

deeply and sincerely.

right hand on heart.
Reflections

by

Kate Briant

I was sitting on a bench overlooking the gardens and enjoying the afternoon sunshine when, through the half-open window, I heard a tour-guide enter the room behind me and address his group of visitors.

"This is the Blue Room,"he announced and recited the room's many attributes, finally drawing attention to the portraits. "And here is our Gainsborough," he said proudly. "The woman in the blue gown is Lady Eleanor, wife to Robert, the Fourth Earl."

"Isn't there supposed to be a ghost here?" someone asked.

The guide lowered his voice dramatically. "A few years ago workmen discovered the walled-up skeleton of a woman. They say _she_ haunts this room."

"Who was she?"

"Some think she was the Fourth Earl's mistress and that Lady Eleanor killed her out of jealousy. To avoid a scandal the Earl sent his wife abroad and had the girl's body bricked up in the chimney recess which was being remodeled at that time."

There was an audible collective gasp and someone murmured, "How awful!"

How awful, indeed, I thought, but they were all wrong. It was Lady Eleanor who was bricked up behind the wall, murdered in a drunken rage by her husband when she tried to stop him beating a young chambermaid. If the workmen had looked further along, they would have found the girl's body too.

It was time to return to work; I rose from the bench, shook out my blue gown and drifted through the wall back into the Blue Room.
Two Short Poems

by

John Griffiths

Trip to Leek (with High Peak Writers)

We went to Leek  
Just last week  
Gallery and Park  
Home before dark  
No sign of rain  
Can we go again?

Graffiti  
Graffiti has had its day  
The writing is on the wall
Converging Destinies

by

Ken Smith

The candle flame flickered and bent as the old woman leant forward to help ease the new born child from its young mother who fell back onto the straw mattress sweating, her breath spilling out in a hiss of relief. The local healer held the baby up to inspect it, stared into its wide open eyes, and almost dropped the tiny form. Cursing, she thrust it hurriedly at the mother.

"Go on. Take it - take it. I don't want to hold it anymore."

The mother tried to sit up, pushing her long thick hair from her forehead and clearing the sweat from her brow at the same time. She was now in a panic. "What's wrong with it. Is it not complete - strange?"

"No. No - it's a girl. It's got all its parts. Just take it! " Her voice raised, almost to a shout.

"Then what's wrong?

The old woman shook her head, and busied herself with getting ready to go, not looking at the young mother. "There's nothing amiss with the lass. It's just I thought I saw - something? Something that's to come in the future....?"

She shook her head as though to shake off a disturbing thought, her voice tailing off. She held her hand out abruptly."You promised me a penny if I'd help."

The young, black haired mother in the bed raised herself, fumbled for a moment under the grubby sheets, gave the old woman her fee, then watched as the bent figure shuffled to the doorway, stopped and turned, looking back at the tiny figure lying there besides its mother, who was alarmed to see the flicker of fear in those old faded eyes.

"What? What ?" she shouted in her fear at the figure by the door, which just shook its head and disappeared into the darkness.

The young mother in the bed stared down at the new born baby trying to make out what the old woman had seen, but all she could see was a tiny naked child blowing bubbles of spit. She looked on for a long moment then, dismissing her fears as groundless, reached down and hugged the tiny child to her breast, smiling in the joy of holding it.

On the far side of the village, at the same time, in a great house with tapestries on the wall, carved furniture, soft coverlets on the bed another woman, surrounded by helpers, was delivered of a child - this time a red faced boy, already squealing. He was passed straight away to a wet nurse, hired for the job, where he quickly set to, greedily taking the first drink of his life. Born into warmth and comfort and privilege there was no-one there who would look into the man-child's future and foretell evils to come, or to show the time and way of convergence of these two new mortals.

Certainly not the well paid, self important Physician who had been in attendance on the lady. He would have been dismissive and greatly annoyed if anyone had tried to suggest he could tell a future for this child. He took his fee and left, exclaiming loudly over the boy's sturdy frame, good looks and obvious great future, almost as though he was offering a blessing on this noisy child.

The priest in the corner, watching, said nothing. Eventually he blessed the child as he knew he would be expected to do, and the mother, and he gazed at this heir to a great estate. The mother had pride at her achievement and was not without a measure of relief that all had gone well, and that it was a boy and not a girl . Her husband, a Lord, expected her to fulfil his demands for a son and heir.

The priest looked with a measure of unease. He felt there was an odour of unpleasantness about this next in line to the great estates, but he knew he would have been given short shrift if he tried to speak out in this house about the son and heir.

And the children grew.

The girl playing in the dust among pigs and chickens, running wild in the great wood, learning from her father the mysteries and ways of the forest. She learnt to use a bow, and could track and stalk small animals. Her father made her a bow and she learnt how to kill with it, and to gut and skin and take meat home for the family pot. While hunting she wore the clothes of a youth. Long hose with a jerkin over the top, and leather boots. She felt comfortable in them. It allowed her to slide through the trees and bushes easily in search of her quarry.

From her mother she learnt the mysteries of the household. She helped her mother to cook and care for the small family and took their advice, learning how to avoid the Lords of the Soils - men as they hunted and watched for poachers. Her name was Annis. It meant Chaste, and whilst she played with the local boys, she watched. Watching boys and men watching her as she grew.

Her father had seen also. One morning he talked to her when they were hunting in the woods. He sat down on a fallen tree and beckoned her to him. "Child, I need to talk to you."

"Can't it wait, father? We're close to the deer now. Let's take it and then when we're home you . . .''

"No. Now, the deer can wait." He patted the tree trunk he was sitting on. "Sit here. I can say what I have to without anyone interrupting."

She sat down. She was too fond of her parents to make any fuss. If her father wanted to say something to her then she would listen. She smiled at him. Her conscience was clear, She hadn't broken anything, and had had only her share of the hard won food, not stolen any little extras.

"What is it, father?"

"You're growing up, my love. The village boys have noticed. You must be careful. Those boys you played with when you were small now want to play different games. Be sure you don't put yourself in their hands."

He paused. "And Sir John's son. He is getting more dangerous. He and his men ride these forest glades these days looking for prey. Make sure they don't find you. You would find too much excitement with them. You know the forest better than most. Use your skill to steer clear of them."

She had seen the Lord of the Earth's men with their doxies, and any other women they could drag into the shelter of the trees for their sport, but hadn't told her parents. By the time she was fourteen, the mysteries of men and women's games were mysteries no more. She became more cautious, always keeping out of sight when men were around - but she hadn't learnt yet to really fear them.

The new born boy from the big house, Hugh, grew also. His childhood was spent surrounded by wealth and comfort. He quickly learnt that he was well born and that his views counted over any but his father's. He learnt to ride, to hunt and kill. At fourteen, he'd learned to curse and beat servants, and knew that all others apart from his mother and father were inferior to himself. That any girl or woman on the estate he wished for was his with no restrictions. He was always encouraged to exercise his Lordly rights in whatever way he chose. As he grew bigger he would ride the estates, his father's men encouraging him in any excesses he chose. By the time he was sixteen he was an evil, hard-drinking, loutish, dangerous bully.

His mother had died when he was six, and any gentle influences had disappeared early in his life.

Then Hugh's father died and the boy/man came into his own. His depredations grew worse and, one by one, the men who had followed left his side, until the only one who might have had some control was God himself and he seemed to have forgotten this small corner of the land. Sir Hugh, as he was now, day by day ranged further and deeper into his estates until one morning he came upon the cottage in which Annis and her parents lived.

By the time the girl, Annis, was sixteen, she was a tall, strong, slender girl with a mind of her own, who could live in the forests and hold her own hunting, and trapping animals, and had learnt how to deal with the men of the village who thought in their cups she might provide sport for them . They proved simple to deal with. Having been decried by her razor sharp wit, describing their habits, looks and antecedents, she flayed them with her sharp tongue and they slunk away red faced to find some gentler quarry.

Her father was in the leafy depths, a full mile away. Annis and her mother were working, preparing meals and doing household tasks. Her mother was outside, bent over a washtub with sleeves rolled back showing a sturdy form and strong brown bare arms. She was suddenly aware of being watched and, turning, saw the man sitting on a horse just at the edge of the forest, studying her intently. She straightened, lifting her arm to push back the lustrous growth of black hair from her face. The movement seemed to release a switch in the man, who urged his horse forward and trotted gently over to where the woman stood.

"You know who I am?"

"Aye my Lord. You are Sir Hugh D'Estes."

"Then you know you are on my land. Who are you?"

"My name is Joan, sir. My husband is a forester. A free man. This land was given to his father by your father after they had both fought in the wars together."

"You have an insolent tongue!"

"I mean no insolence, sir."

Hugh urged his horse closer, crowding the woman. The rider suddenly leant over, seizing her by her dark hair, pushing her head back, and gazed into her face. Then he let his gaze wander lewdly over her full figure, displayed in the low cut dress.

He laughed. "I could use you in my own house. You'll enjoy it. But no matter if you don't. Up you come."

He bent further and took her with both hands to pull her across his saddle, when a voice took them both by surprise. "Leave my mother be!"

Sir Hugh looked up in surprise to see the tall figure of a pretty girl standing in the doorway of the cottage, clad in a green jerkin with breeches clinging to her strong legs, her long blonde hair falling loose over her shoulders. She presented a pretty picture standing there in the sunlight, and his eyes lit up. The girl might be a better quarry than the mother, until he realised there was nothing pretty about the razor sharp arrow in the bow drawn back to the girl's ear, the brown arms tensed and quivering with the strain, the face full of deadly intent.

This was the first meeting of the two whose destinies had been joined those years ago, at the moment of birth. There was no doubt as to the girl's intentions. Furious and evil he may have been, but he was intelligent enough to release the girl's mother and began to back his horse away.

"You will regret this." He was annoyed to find his voice cracking with nervousness.

The girl laughed. "Not as much as you, my Lord, if you do not leave our land now. I would prefer your back to your front."

She gestured with the bow, and the man tensed with nervousness as the bow stretched a little more. He turned with a curse and urged his horse away as slowly as he dared, trying to maintain some shreds of self importance. As he trotted away, he turned in the saddle and called back, "You will regret this!"

The girl, still watching, just gestured with her bow again without replying, and he rode home cursing her and swearing dire reprisals. But he knew the girl had seen him for what he really was and that he hated.

Three days later the morning was good and Annis went hunting. She was gone all day and the new Lord returned to the cottage.

The evening sky was looming and the shadows turning blue as she returned, laden with small game. She had had a good day's hunting and was tired and hungry but happy. She had glimpses of the cottage through the branches as she got closer. She could smell the smoke from the small village beyond where she lived and her hunger became real.

As she got closer, a feeling of disquiet caused her to quicken her pace. She tripped over a root, and caught a branch to aid her balance. In doing so the branch moved so she could see directly to her home. She was puzzled. There seemed to be a large black bird in the apple tree at the side of the cottage, and one of the Lord's men was trying to catch it.

Then she realised with a thrill of horror that she was looking at her father, with a rope around his neck hanging from the branch whilst the manservant was pulling on the dangling legs. She realised that the colour she had seen to one side, a few minutes earlier, was her mother's bright red skirt all rucked up. She was lying on her back and struggling with a man - the new earth Lord.

The manservant, busy with deadly game, looked back at his master, threw his head back and laughed. The laugh was his last act on this Earth. A silent scream filled Annis's mind, blotting out all else. A split second later the man servant was choking on his own blood as an arrow pierced his throat. He stood for a moment, choking, then collapsed, blood trickling from his misshapen mouth, in an untidy heap beneath her father's legs.

The noise must have reached her mother's defiler who turned at the movement made by Annis as she stepped into that sun-lit, horror-filled glade. Seeing her, he stood up. "Ah, good. The girl as well."

His voice was harsh and he stepped forward to seize Annis, then stopped as he saw the arrow point aimed as his throat and saw in her face the destiny of them both. He put up a shaking hand in mute defence, and Annis released the arrow.

In that moment was realised the converging destinies of these two mortals that had accompanied them since birth: he to die paying a price for his deeds, and she to flee the area and live for ever with the trauma of seeing her father hanging from his own apple tree, and her mother ravaged on the ground in front of her own home.

An hour later the villagers saw smoke rising above the trees, and went en masse to help if possible. They found a scene of horror. The cottage burning fiercely, no sign of its owners anywhere apart from a newly-turned short stretch of earth. But it was the fruit of the tree that made them fall back shuddering. Hanging from a branch of the apple tree that had been there for years were two bodies hanging by the neck, twisting slowly in the evening breeze - the rope creaking as it stretched under its burden, throats torn open by arrows. A manservant, and next to him one of the Lords of the Earth.

In a town, miles away, could be found in a small house in a back street a woman who had once been comely and bright, but now lived in a world of her own looked after by her young blonde daughter. The pair were always together, the girl never leaving her for a moment. No-one knew them, or where they were from. Anyone who tried to talk to the girl would look into pain filled eyes and wonder what had caused, such misery in such a young beautiful girl.
Little Red Riding Hood Revisited.

(With a touch of Raymond Chandler and Frankie Howard)

by

Thelma Turnbull

It had been a bad month, well actually a bad year. I glanced at the pile of files on my scratched old desk. I studied the dirty sink in the corner, and the filthy net curtains. The rain beating down on the window reminded me that there were holes developing in the soles of my shoes. Oh, the glamorous life of the private detective!

Only the top file was new work and, hopefully, money. This case concerned a silly old guy who was convinced his old lady was playing away. Apparently she had been buying new jewellery, and he wanted to know where the money was coming from. Okay, she's a smart little bird with a coat and hat to match, but she's hardly mistress material. Anyway it's my pleasure to inform him that she buys all her own jewellery. She buys it after a rendezvous with a Bingo hall. This is one lucky old lady. Well, as I watched her from the coffee bar of the Bingo hall, I learned the language of the balls - interesting stuff. I watched her go bananas when she won the jackpot of a thousand pounds.

My fee for this last case should pay the rent, but after that who knows?

Then I noticed the outline of a figure in red through the glass of my office door. The gentle tap on the glass registered. " Come in!" I called.

There she stood in a red velvet hoodie, a cascade of golden curls framed her pretty face. Tight red trousers, and dainty little ballet shoes, which were all damp from the rain - poor kid. I knew I was hungry, but she awakened a different kind of hunger in me. I cut off my fantasy, I stood up and asked her to take a seat. Why, I asked myself, did I not tidy the place up?

"How can I help you dear?" I enquired.

"I'm so worried about my Grannie," she said softly.

Wow! this was a girl in a million. Who worries about their grandmother in this day and age? Pen at the ready I took her name and address. She told me she lived in the woods near her grandmother. She visited Grannie on a regular basis.

"The problem is," she said,"I became involved with a guy, and when I dumped him last month, he threatened to wipe out Gran and myself . I feel we need protection, and Gran has given me the money to find someone to keep an eye on us."

I asked her if she had a description or a photograph.

"He is a slippery character. He calls himself Wolfie."

She told me he was very hairy, and could polish off a whole chicken at once.

"I am so worried that he will attack us in the woods, or get Grannie first as she has to rest in bed a lot. He seems to be holed up like a military man waiting to pounce."

Well when she looked at me with those baby blue eyes, I knew I could help. Better get out my chopper. My gold-tipped chopper to be exact.

The following week I crept about those woods like the Pink Panther. Just as I was about to give up, I saw him. Well - I smelt him. Baby blue eyes was not exaggerating. He had the hairiest chest I have ever seen. I swear I saw an owl peeping out of it. This was not the time to start a fight, as my chopper was in my rucksack. I would have to catch him off guard. Better check on Grannie.

I arranged for Little Red Hoodie to meet me just out of sight of the cottage, just in case. Old Sausage Chops was hanging about. As I approached the cottage she stepped out from behind a tree.

" I've got a horrible feeling about this," she said.

It was very quiet in the cottage as we entered by the back door.

"Grannie are you alright?" whispered Baby Blue Eyes.

If this was Grannie she was ugly, with a face like bag of spanners, and she was badly in need of a shave. We realised it was Wolfgang, and when he saw my gold-tipped chopper, he became a snivelling wreck.

"Don't kill me, I've not hurt your Grannie. I'm homeless, I just had nowhere to sleep. I've had a terrible childhood. I'm a loser! Please help me."

Now it is not in my nature to kick a dog when he is down, or in this case a wolf. We found Grannie asleep upstairs. She gave up her bed for this tired mess.

Anyway Blue Eyes and I are now hitched. And Wolfie got help from Social Services. He now has a beautiful council house. Fully furnished with a forty-two inch television. Sometimes I think he is better off than I am.
If it Wasn't for the Dog

by

Lois Mcgill

Maureen had agonised over what to wear for at least ten minutes. She would catch a chill if she dithered any longer, standing here in her slip with only the one bar of the electric fire on - and she mustn't be late. She held the blue crimplene shift dress against her and squinted in the gloom at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. No it would not do; it would have to be the tartan skirt and the blouse with the Peter Pan collar, even though she had worn it to the office all week. She could take out the dress shields and wear the pretty scarf that Jane had bought her when they left secretarial college.

What plans they had had. Mother's illnesses had put a stop to that. Dr Murphy had said no one could fault the care she had given her – she had sacrificed much and now, when her mind had gone too, it would be quite understandable if she wanted Ma put in a home where she could get the twenty-four-hour nursing she needed.

But the old cow had had enough nouse in her to know when something was hatching. "What kind of daughter would put their own mother in a home? After all your father and me have done for you! Thank God your Da isn't here to see what an ungrateful girl you have become!"

And she would cry and wring a promise from her, and the years passed Maureen by.

When mother did eventually die and the house was sold, Maureen dared to hope that there may be some small bequest left to her. She could buy a small flat even go on holiday. How she would love to see Paris or Rome! But her inheritance had been spent. The sale of the house hardly covered the debts and Mother had left what remained to Michael. What had he done for them? Left for America as soon as he could, always promising to visit or send money for his wonderful ma to go over for a holiday. Oh Michael could do no wrong, the sun shone out of Michael so it did.

Patrick too had thought hard about what to wear. He wanted to show off his new jacket with the velvet collar to the rest of the gang. What a laugh, the old bird really thought he was going to take her out!

It was the girls in the office that had put him up to it. "Make her day," they'd said. "Give her a bit of excitement." What an ejit!

Limerick had been full of desperate spinsters. He'd seen them at the Saturday dances, worn down by work and poverty, the weekly visit by a touring showband the highlight of their week. Those left by the end of the night would do anything with you for the price of a drink. Patrick couldn't wait to leave the farm. It would go to Rory when Da died anyway, so what was the use of staying? Not that he wanted to. Hard graft twelve hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, and for what? A cold and bitter life. It's what he saw in Da, what he had seen in his Ma before she died and could see in Rory already. Not for him though – good riddance to it. He had a chance of a life in Dublin and he was going to take it.

Maureen glanced through the greying net curtains. The snow was beginning to settle so she would have to wear her coat. She had hoped she could wear the jacket, but her skirt would get all wet if she did, so the old coat it would have to be. But she wouldn't wear the brogues – in those she would look frumpy; she would manage in the courts. Decision made, she turned to the Sacred Heart hanging above the bed. She gave up a small prayer: please let tonight be a success, and forgive my selfish thoughts.

Perhaps Patrick would be the one; he seemed very nice. At first he had ignored her – perhaps he was shy, but she had seen him chatting and laughing with the copy typists. They had stopped as she looked up, but he kept making glances at her – perhaps he was asking them about her. They wouldn't be able to tell him much because she hadn't made any confidants since getting the job after mother had died.

She had tried to talk to the other girls, but she knew so little of what they were interested in. The last dance she had been to was a showband out in Stilorgan, when Jane had come home for a holiday. Maureen shuddered at the memory – the rough stubble against her face, the stink of fags and Guiness as he slobbered over her, barely taking the trouble to stub out his fag. That was ten years ago. Jane had never come back to Ireland again; she had a husband and three children and was living in England now.

Since that night Maureen had been content with the pictures and the odd concert at The Royal. She had joined a night class in Classic Literature for a couple of years but the one gentleman in the class she had hoped might lead to something moved away to live with his children. He had often enquired after her well-being and shown her small courtesies. Although he was older than her, she had dreamt of companionable evenings together discussing the latest novel, going to art galleries and museums; she would invite his children over for Christmas, and she would decorate a tree and make a snowman with the grandchildren in the garden.

On the bus she tried to think of topics to talk about; perhaps one or two anecdotes about her holiday to Portrush, when the sea wall collapsed. She must try and sound interesting, but not pushy. All the magazines emphasised that listening was more important. Yes listen, be interested in what he had to say, ask questions. She went through some in her head: how long had he lived in Dublin, did he have any brothers and sisters, what were his hobbies. The bus stopped outside the cinema with a couple of minutes to spare – he wasn't there yet.

Patrick never reached Molloy's. The bus swerved on the icy road to miss the runaway dog and slammed him against the riverside railings. He was pronounced dead when the ambulance arrived.

Maureen waited under the shelter. That way she could be taken as waiting for a bus not a date. She stamped her feet to keep warm, but the snow had come in over her shoes and thawed so that the insoles were wet and the stick-on sole on the right shoe looked as if it were beginning to come away. It was getting windy and the snow was swirling around the bus stop. She took the rainmate out of her handbag and covered her head. She had spent all day with the Twink perming lotion smelling out the room and she didn't want it spoilt. She could whisk it off as soon as he came. Please come. Perhaps she'd misheard the time – the second showing didn't start until eight, and the 'B' film often wasn't worth seeing.

Maureen heard about the accident at work on the Monday. All the girls were crying. What had they to cry about? He was her boyfriend. She had dreaded going in – would they all know she had been stood up? But she hadn't been. He'd been on his way to meet her, they would have held hands in the pictures, had a drink afterwards and he would have thought her a welcome change to the flibber-de-gibbets in the office. They would have become a couple, chosen a solitaire for their engagement, laughing with the salesman about their whirlwind romance. They would have had two children, a boy and a girl, and moved to Bray where they would walk on the beach every Sunday after mass. Maureen cried too and smiled - at least she had her memories.
The Most Important Question In The World

by

Sheila Cooper

Is the universe still expanding?

Are we rushing outwards into nothingness

Is our galaxy just a point in eternal space?

Is our solar system diminished to a meaningless dot?

And I on planet earth merely a point on a dot on a speck

hurtling to who knows where?

I fear to know.

Is all well with my newborn?

Gasping from the effort of birth

I ask the question of universal motherhood

Does it have four limbs, enough toes and fingers

Are its lip and palette perfect?

Is the face symmetrical?

Is it breathing in the life-giving oxygen?

I long to know.

How long have I got?

Will the answer be a platitude or the truth I crave?

How long will I be active?

Will the end be slow, painful or mercifully sudden?

I am not afraid merely resigned to what I already thought

Will I be rational to the end?

I need to know.

All these thoughts and doubts and questions

Whirl and struggle to escape and seek an answer

Each hoping to find a solution

And lock on to a soul mate.

Existence, birth or death?

It is a wise soul indeed who could choose.

I cannot know.

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
The Most Important Question in the World

by

Thelma Turnbull

I lost my brother last week. I miss our deep conversations. We used to discuss things like what is the most important question. We worked nights together. I suppose you could call us trailblazers, We make trails. One of the questions was how do we enter houses? Well, we enter in such a way that people hardly notice. Then we start. Our trails are like crop circles, shining in the moonlight. I have lost count the number of times we have transformed a worn old rug or carpet. Boy did we enjoy our work.

If only my brother had not listened to that large blue bottle, who dared him to stay until morning. 'I'll bet you will chicken out and leave early,' he buzzed.

Now nobody dares our Sydney.

I left early. I know! I feel so guilty I stayed long enough to make it to the hole in the skirting board. I'll never forget the fly screaming.

"SALT!"

And then the owner of the house sprinkled the deadly chemical on our Syd. All I saw was his shrivelled-up body from my warm dark hole.

The fly laughed quietly.

Now I know the most important question is: how long will I live?

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
Three in One

by

Simon Rogerson

Three environments are explored within

Nature is the obvious place to begin

Human society has its darker face

And this is found in the second place

Every building has a message to convey

In the final part a church has its say

Three in One: Act 1

The purity and simplicity of nature are there to behold

If we open our eyes nature's colour spectrum will unfold

Nature's colour spectrum

Across the valley the gentle meadows lay

The lush grass would grow and then become hay

But for now on guard the poppies stood

Their masses formed lakes of deep red blood.
Battalions of olive trees standing still

Stretch across the landscape from hill to hill

In the bright summer sun this sight never stops

Until beneath the horizon the blazing orange ball drops.

The forest stands through seasons galore

Proud oak, elm, ash, beech and sycamore

Naked skeletons of trees are there to be seen

Until their bodies are clothed in shades of green.

Winter's gloom gives way to the hopes of spring

Mating swallows and swifts soar, swoop and sing

Early blooms are marshalled to answer their call

See bright yellow carpets of daffodils all.

A becalmed ocean to the horizon reaches

Nothing stirs and no sign of any beaches

A cloudless sky touches its watery friend

Thus a rich blue palette is formed in the end.

High on the tops the rugged moors stood forlorn

Then snow and fog are vanquished in the new dawn

A warming sun nurtures the moistened peat

And with it heather casts her violet sheet.

Nature's colours of red, orange and green

And yellow, blue and violet will soon not be seen

They converge to form one uniform light

For in the winter the land is simply snow white.

Three in One: Act 2

One world for haves another for have nots

Fate deals some people very cruel lots

Two worlds yet one society

The children in their designer clothes giggle and chatter as they explore the gleaming play area of this pleasant place,

Whilst mums discuss the latest fashion at the same time texting their friends about nothing in particular.

This is a safe and beautiful world of opportunity and prosperity, a world of advantage and plenty,

And yet, just a short distance across the hills is an unknown world which is so very, very different.

A cold northern wind bites into the soul as it drives down streets and buffets corners.

An ancient car splutters to life, coughs its way up a desolate street and wheezes to a halt at a red light.

Crumbling facades of once-elegant buildings shower concrete confetti onto those below.

High street shops used to hum to the tune of every trade but are now dominated by charity and emptiness.

This is a sadly familiar traditional world of stereotypes and deprivation.

Worn out people with life-weary looks trudge the streets of despair.

Once-working men with haunted faces and sunken eyes linger on street corners,

As women in well-worn clothes plod home carrying plastic bags of two-for-one brands.

In this place there is no colour, no current fashion, no smiles and no rosy future,

just a sense of existing, toiling, surviving and heart-felt sadness.

The hopes and dreams of fresh-faced youth have been replaced with an acceptance of inevitable disappointment.

A melancholy aura pervades even on the sunniest of days.

As the edge of this place beckons the grey clouds of despair lift,

The manicured landscape of prosperity emerges on the horizon.

But to those in this place it is simply a mirage of bounty beyond their reach,

Society seems a facile whole with two worlds that we cruelly allow to coexist.
Three in One: Act 3

Islamic and Christian forms merge together

Yet these two faiths seem at odds forever

La Mezquita

Massed crowds of all creeds jostle to enter  
Inside cool air and dim light calms the soul  
Eyes gaze around this spiritual centre  
Built form and faith symbols create a whole  
In the greatest mosque squats the Christian place  
Two toned stacked arches on columns in line  
Iconic forms give an opulent face  
Geometric shapes in a complex design

Religion with social is the Muslims' way  
Sahn, zullah and mihrab lead one to prayer  
And then Christian gospel no social say  
High alter dominance makes one aware  
Caliphate, Gothic and Baroque do converge  
Yet these two faiths so close will never merge

Three in One: Epilogue

Three poems converged to form one whole

The beauty of nature had a leading role

Society seems to be divided by wealth

This world is created by power and stealth

The scars of oppression are hidden by art

How cruel that faiths have each played their part

THE END
