2020 Hindsight

2020 Hindsight A unique collection of short stories, poems & commentaries

Empowering vulnerable children in Zambia futurepillarszambia.org.uk

If this digital copy of the book has been forwarded to you, please be kind enough to forward a donation to: https://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/Team/with2020hindsight

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Foreword Welcome to this cornucopia of stories, poems, lyrics, reflections and polemics that is ‘2020 Hindsight’. For many contributors, offering their written pieces has been a new experience into the publishing world and I congratulate each one of them for bringing this dream to fruition.

The publication of ‘2020 Hindsight’ is a fundraising initiative; a purpose beyond just getting a publication ‘out there’. Nick Andrews, the Editor, is one of the trustees of Future Pillars Zambia – a UK charity set up to support one school – Family Future Community School (FFCS) - in Kabwe , Central Province, Zambia. The school serves a particularly challenging part of Kabwe, with orphaned and vulnerable children coming from three shanty compounds. As a result of FPZ’s involvement, the children are fed and educated daily free of charge. Under the leadership of Rev Moses Kopa the school is going from strength to strength. Currently, the school runs from preschool through to the Zambian equivalent of the UK Key Stage 3 (11-14 years). To enable the children to continue their education at the school beyond KS3, we are building a new classroom block and all proceeds from the book are dedicated to this venture. If you would like to know more about FPZ and the school, please visit our website: www.futurepillarszambia.org.uk Nick has inspired, supported and gently cajoled all and sundry to contribute to this book and then he and Lynn have exercised their editing powers to collate the finished product. Aware that I am writing this before the final edit, if the Foreword in the final copy consists of 4 lines, you will know he has been extremely ruthless!

One aspect of last year which many people used to great personal effect, it seems, was the enforced ‘down time’ – a chance to take stock of one’s life, without the usual cut and thrust of daily living, as we used to know it. Rushing round the ‘hamster wheel’ it seemed there was little time to consider ‘the important’ because ‘the urgent’ commanded pride of place. Then came lockdown and suddenly an opportunity to re-evaluate. We are all familiar with the phrase ‘with the benefit of hindsight’, but that is of little use if there is insufficient time to reflect and learn from the past.

Certainly, this publication is witness to the fact that looking back through the horrors of last year; it is possible to re-appraise, to learn, to benefit, yes, potentially to change something in our lives. It may be that you have abandoned something less beneficial to begin something aspirational and new which you would not have imagined in 2019, or, having read this book, you will now be inspired to do so.

So I offer my sincere thanks to all the writers in the forthcoming pages who have supported the publication of this book, helping us to fulfil our dream of providing greater provision of education in a very impoverished environment.

Barry Chair Future Pillars Zambia

of www.futurepillarszambia.org.uk

Gransden Trustees 2

Contents

Covid Reflections Short stories Poetry Commentaries The Novel Within - Jackdaw

Editors’ Introduction It has been a pleasure, privilege, and delight to receive the pieces of writing from so many writers and we would like to thank the contributors for their effort, care and creativity. As you will be able to see, the items are splendidly diverse and we hope you will enjoy dipping in and out of the selection.

The book is a testament to the talent of everyone involved and we would like to thank the Trustees of Future Pillars Zambia for providing us with this opportunity. The writers have donated to the charity to facilitate this publication and we have collectively raised around £1,500 for the school in Kabwe, Zambia. As the ebook link is shared and passed on, we hope and expect this total to rise.

If you have received this book and have yet to make a donation, please do so at : https://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/Team/with2020hindsight

Nick and Lynn Andrews

Disclaimer The views and opinions expressed herein are solely those of the authors and do not represent the opinion or policies of Future Pillars Zambia or the UK Trustees.

Copyright of the items herein remains with the authors and has not been ceded to FPZ.

Where the item is a work of fiction; names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Although the authors and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at the time of going to press, the authors and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

Where advice is given, this book is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians.

Authors and Titles Covid Reflections Becky Gransden

2020 Hindsight

Patricia McAughey

Masked and Silent

Peter McAughey

Round and Round the Garden

Precious

Caring in a Care Home

Jon Harvey

Lockdown, Rockdown

Lynn Andrews

Virtual Hugs and Kisses

Valerie Ruddle

Lockdown Victims and Heroes

Marjorie Stockley

Minding the Moment

Mike Neary

Pandemic, Fear, Exercise and Looking for my Inner Peace

Eden Gransden

Virtual Girl Guides

Jason Clark

Role Models in 2020

Arnold Gransden

Greek Myths and Covid

Vicki Jackson

A New Day

Jon Harvey

The Need for Cafe Leadership

Sianne Plenderleith

The Door, the Calendar and the Christmas Tree

Short Stories

Chris Webbley

Are you really listening?

Zinaida Kouznetsova

The Magic Powder Box

Nick Andrews

A Correspondence

Jo Disberry

Grandma’s locket

Colin Bryer

Black Fruit

Heidi Neville

Full Moon

Agnes Osborne

Freedom

David Brennan

Three into One

Kate Van de Broek

The School at Jealous River

Ella de Silva

The Mother, the Tree and the House

Jodie Bradby

My Return

Naseer Mohammed

The Stationery Chronicles

Louise Sanderson

Treasures

Vincent Georgiev

The J’s Jazzy Journey

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Poetry Jay Tang

Poetry

Tim Bird

Doggies

Tom Andrews

Helios

Millie Perry

African Poems

Brett Fitzgerald

Lol

Ben Fisher

Autumn & a Symphony of Witches

Commentaries Julie Jackson

Intrepid Travel

Gill Peacock

Is there Honey still for Tea?

Jenny Haines

Taking an Allotment

Winsome Webley

Dear Me at Sixteen

Elzabe De Santos

Language Secrets

Pat Adams

Brundish - A Hamlet

Barry Gransden

We’re O.K.

The Novel Within

Jackdaw

Andrew Reston

Chapter One

Andrew Chatfield

Chapter Two

Lynn Andrews

Chapter Three

Becci Andrews

Chapter Four

Max Heathcote-Smith Chapter Five Terry Dean

Chapter Six 6

COVID Reflections

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by Max Heathcote-Smith

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2020 Hindsight

by Becky Gransden

According to my diary, 2020 promised to be an exciting year, with a range of planned activities including a major one being a cruise to Easter Island in the spring. However as January rolled into February the diary, which had once looked like a book of promises, took on a more barren look as awaited promises rapidly became ‘no shows’.

The empty spaces and enforced non-contact time with other human beings became a glaring reality.

How to fill all this time? The sun lounge had a total clean inside and out, the patio was re-grouted and the garden trimmed and pruned to within an inch of its life, plus the added bonus of endless sunshine. These activities were not enough however to replace the regular contact we had previously enjoyed with our immediate family; with ‘sleep-overs’, visits to country parks, walking the dog and so on. One began to realise how important these contacts had been, especially conversations, amusing situations and just being able to share our lives with each other.

The gap grew.

It was whilst chatting with my oldest grandchild that a possible solution emerged. Both she and her younger brother had recently started to join in with free, on-line, painting tutorials aimed at all ages. “Why don’t you have a go Grandma? We can do our paintings and then share what we’ve done with each other.” Sounded like a plan!

Now, I’m no artist, a gift which can be traced back to one of my father’s cousins, but certainly hadn’t come down the generations and fallen in my lap, or so I thought.

Despite a feeling of trepidation, I had a go and joined them both in the next tutorial. My first attempt at a giraffe was interesting to say the least, but the grandchildren enjoyed sharing the results and over a period of time all three of us became adept at constructive observations. Over a series of weeks, we became more confident and, I for one, was spurred on to continue with this new pastime. I gradually found a new way to share with the grandchildren and also to use that non-contact time in a positive way, shutting out the world and losing myself for a couple of hours at a time. Don’t get me wrong – I am still no artist, and several attempts have found their way into the bin, but experiencing enjoyment, seeing progress and developing a new interest has been worth its weight in gold.

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Masked and Silent

by Patricia McAughey

I soon realised as the lockdown started that, in order to keep sane, I would have to start writing a daily account of what was happening and how I was coping.

Whenever anything traumatic happens in my life I turn to writing. My diary would not be on a par with those of Samuel Pepys or Anne Frank. It would simply be a means of sorting through my thoughts as I began to establish a new routine.

Suddenly deprived of normal life; going to the shops, having lunch with friends, meeting family, doing my weekly duty as a National Trust volunteer and so on, meant I had to revise my daily routine. Perhaps I convinced myself it wouldn’t be so bad after all. I could finally get on with clearing my files, throw out unwanted papers, get on with a novel, undisturbed for once. I could tidy the drawers, sort out the junk, have a thorough spring clean.

Or could I? I didn’t feel like doing any of this after the initial excitement wore off. What I did irritatingly do was wake up at a ridiculously early hour when the rest of the day would stretch ahead with nothing much to do. I would shower, dress and put on my make-up. Why make-up? I have no idea. Then I would read the paper which thankfully continued to be delivered throughout the lockdown, thanks to the local newsagents.

I would set myself a target – I could not do another thing until I had solved at least ten clues in the Telegraph cryptic crossword, and that is a tall order. Regrettably, I had to downgrade this to five as I cannot get into the head of the Thursday compiler. I set up a jigsaw – 1000 piece – on the dining room table but only allowed myself a set time otherwise I might sit there all day. I knitted for the first time in a long time. An Aran sweater with an impossible pattern that required extreme concentration – a lot of cursing and unpicking was involved in that.

I walked the dog who was thrilled that I was around so much. No more being abandoned at home alone – so he thinks - but instead multiple walks. (I know, we were only allowed one walk per day but honestly … I live in the countryside and the lanes round here were deserted).

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I would write my grocery shopping list for my long suffering daughter. “Mum”, she said, “it’s like a challenge from the ‘Apprentice’ with some of the things you ask for.” The bags would be delivered and we would talk through the window.

And then, joy of joys; the daily Coronavirus update which I didn’t want to watch, (but felt compelled to do so) with its scary graphs and grim-faced scientists delivering the statistics standing either side of a Minister trying his or her best – and not quite succeeding - to invoke a feeling of calm reassurance.

We would get through this. We would meet again.

I think I trusted the Queen and her message that little bit more.

After that, dinner and something light and fluffy on television, preferably comic to ward off the feeling of impending doom. After a while as the novelty wore off, I began to feel increasingly nervous about going out again into the big wide world. I hadn’t driven for months and the little lanes had become my world and venturing beyond was going to be difficult. The first time I did my own shopping I felt a strange sense of achievement but it made me realise how quickly we become used to a new routine, a new way of doing things, and how it isn’t quite as easy as we think to return to the old ways.

There were some lovely moments during lockdown. On VE day my neighbours and I celebrated, in the evening sunshine by bringing out our chairs round the fountain in our lovely communal garden. We had a glass of wine and listened to the old wartime songs (all within the rules of social distancing of course!).

By the time the second lockdown came around, we were alarmingly used to it.

I went back to church this Sunday for the first time in a long time. The sun shone through the stained glass windows sending splinters of light all around us, as we sat ‘masked and silent’. I so wanted to sing the hymns but we had to be content with listening to the choir doing that.

If lockdown has taught us anything, it is that we must never take our normal lives for granted. Life has ups and downs; sometimes exiting, sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes irritating but … how we long to go back to normal.

Let’s raise a glass to that and God bless us all.

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Round And Round The Garden: 260 laps to raise money and morale

by Peter McAughey, FPZ Treasurer Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, one step, two steps, tickle you under there. Yes, that is a well known nursery rhyme but my fundraising idea is definitely more influenced by Captain Sir Tom Moore and the incredible walk for his 100th birthday a few days ago. It’s April 26th 2020.

As the 40th London Marathon had to be postponed the charity sector came up with the concept of the 2.6 challenge instead. FPZ are embracing it and I’m trying to do my bit.

In other news, Boris is back at work at Number 10, apparently. But it’s Priti Patel doing the daily Coronavirus briefing, announcing to ‘incredulity’ that shoplifting numbers are down during lockdown. No, I’m not making that up. To be honest my mental health needs a tiramisu (that’s Italian for ‘pick me up’ by the way). For the first time in years I’ve spoken to a GP and, feeling anxious like many of us, have a new supply of pills in case I need them to cope with the world in 2020. As it turned out, to my immense relief, I didn’t.

We are six weeks into Lockdown V1.0; encouraged to ‘Stay at Home’, ‘Protect the NHS’ and ‘Exercise’ but only once a day.

So I decide to loop around the garden of our barn, like a teddy bear. The bear description is accurate on account of my uncontrolled consumption of homemade cakes for the previous 6 weeks. 26 laps of the garden wouldn’t be enough so my idea morphed into 260 laps. As a marathon runner I’ve never been scared of a challenge but quietly I do have doubts. Perhaps 200 laps will be enough? Maybe I’ll get an injury? Or perhaps just topple over from dizziness, which has been known a few times; once in the local Medical Centre, to my embarrassment. Maybe I can just pretend?

No, no, no - that’s a non-starter.

The old mantra is that ‘failing to plan is planning to fail’, so I mark out a course that measures one eighth of a mile. I get two pairs of shoes ready plus three pairs of socks and a host of snacks: some sweet and some salty. It helps that base camp… well, it’s right there. As is the ever dependable wife with provisions and motivation. She thinks I’m bonkers by the way. But she’s still in bed as I set off at 5:50am. Sensible, that girl.

It’s still fairly dark but the forecast is dry and warm. There are 260 laps of one eighth of a mile to go. Come on mathematicians… well it’s over 32 miles. Plenty of daylight, surely it’s in the bag? I’ve walked over 30 miles in a day twice before and last year I ran 29 miles in 6 hours over multi terrain. So this will be easy… I wish!

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So come on then I hear you cry, “What’s your route?” I start from the front door onto the gravel, around an outside table, turning right around the side and back of the barn, through a narrow gap (breathe in), around the washing line, along the perimeter of the puppy pen, then skirt the stone walls and hedges to the top entrance. Turn around, turn left downhill across the grass, back to the gravel, and touch the door and …. that’s one lap in the proverbial bag. It’s now 5:52am and a bit. Repeat 7 times and that’s 1 mile. Reverse the direction and do 8 laps anti-clockwise. That’s another mile. Only 30 and a half miles to go. I’ve been advised to change direction frequently to prevent injury. It works! The only injury appears to be a brain one when I came up with the madcap idea of 260 laps.

I decide to walk for about 2 hours then have a rest. But not a long ‘Hollywood’ rest because at my age (50, thanks for asking) things can seize up. So it’s 2 hours of walking (about 6 miles or 48 laps), half an hour rest/eat/shower etc and repeat. I am basically in my own odd bubble. I’ve got headphones on for some of the day but there’s no Buble in my Bubble. There’s some ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, a bit of ‘Rise Up’ and even ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ (I don’t attempt this as I wouldn’t want the neighbours thinking I was mad…). Oh, by the way, the 26 th April is ‘Hug an Australian Day’ apparently. It’s fair to say that if Kylie Minogue came ‘Spinning Around’ then I’d take one for the FPZ Team. Gladly, ‘I Should Be So Lucky’.

Fast forward to 6:30pm. Oh boy it’s been warm! It’s going to be dark by 8:50pm and (yikes) I have 8 miles to go (64 laps) so it’s foot to the floor… one step, two steps… but no tickling under there. I’ve worn more shoes today than Imelda Marcos (Google her anyone under 40) and it works. Zero blisters. I am feeling almost dizzy and quite emotional as I set off on my the last lap. 140 seconds left. Or is it right? Sometimes I have got confused on direction, just like real life. Thoughts turn to why I’m doing this silly walk. It’s to support 1,000 highly vulnerable children in Zambia who really need a leg up. Not my legs though. I know that, if they could, they’d be carrying me around the last lap. So that’s what they do. And nobody drops me. 9:10pm over and out.

So some stats? Peter walked 260 Laps. 32.5 miles in 10 hours and 36 minutes. Over 3,300 calories burned. Check out his Strava picture - will the grass ever recover?

Funds raised for FPZ £1,469. Not quite Captain Tom’s £33 million but a decent effort.

And from our reporter in the garden at Grovetown Barn in Cornwall, it’s back to the studio.

“If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.”

Dr Martin Luther King.

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Caring in a Care Home

by Precious (Working in Social Care during the first lockdown)

I remember hearing the name CORONA VIRUS on the news for the very first time, like it was yesterday. Nothing could have prepared us for the invisible storm that was brewing nearby. For the next couple of weeks Italy and Spain dominated the news. At the time, I was still convinced that Corona virus was just a made-up story, fabricated to instigate fear.

Little did I know that the storm was about to hit so hard!

The early days of March were just like any other month, until one of our female residents became poorly. My co-workers and I did not think it was anything serious. After all, the elderly are regularly coming up with one illness or another. And each time they have been poorly, 90 percent of them got better after a couple of days.

But boy, was I wrong! This was not anything like we had seen before and our lives were going to change forever.

Looking back now, I realise that the symptoms were obvious but because there were not any recorded cases here in the UK at that time, symptoms were overlooked. And these symptoms were not so different from flu symptoms, which was common among the elderly at that time of the year. I remember thinking that the first person that showed symptoms was suffering from hay fever. Maybe this was because I still did not believe the dreadful virus was real or because I refused to live in fear. As the days went by, more and more residents became poorly.

I started having second thoughts..."Could this virus be real? Are my residents suffering from Corona virus? No! “It is not true.” However this was going to be the last time I had doubts.

The next couple of weeks was like a scene from a horror movie or a warzone. We were overwhelmed at the rate our residents’ health deteriorated. By now, we knew what we were up against was something serious. The first Corona virus case was recorded in the UK and what followed next was a progressive never-ending nightmare of new cases recorded daily.

As viral as Corona virus is, PPE was not going to let the virus take all the spotlight! Our beloved NHS did not have enough PPE, so one could only imagine how most care homes struggled to protect their staff and residents. Personally, I feel that the government cared too little about the elderly; we did not get any help whatsoever until a couple of months later.

Thank goodness we have a fantastic management at my care home. The team spirit and passion for the wellbeing of our residents, gave us the zeal to keep pushing on. I could tell my colleagues were stressed and anxious with everything that was going on; I was too but that never slowed me down.

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I remember my seven-year-old asked me why I always shouted at her and her siblings, each time I came back from work and they tried to hug me. I paused and tried my best to give a simple answer; but all I could come up with was that "Mummy was dirty", and yet she told me she couldn’t see any mud on my body. She was right because the ‘dirt’ that we feared so much was invincible, invisible, and far from muddy.

Then came the social distancing rule! Social distance in a dementia unit? “Hmmm, this is going to be tough”, I remember saying to myself. Anyone that has worked or lived with a person ‘living with dementia’, knows how difficult it is to change their daily routine. So, telling my residents that they could not live life like they used to was the new challenge.

My heart broke into a million pieces every time my residents asked why they could not sit close to their friends, or why their family members were not visiting anymore. We tried our best to explain what Corona virus was many times, only to be asked why again few minutes later.

Their communal life and family ties were being stolen from them by this virus.

Sadly we lost residents to the virus. The saddest part is that most of the residents that died did not get the chance to see or say goodbye to their loved ones because of the national lock down. I take real pride in the fact that my colleagues and I did everything possible to make sure the elderly in our care were always treated with love and compassion. I try not to focus too much on those we lost because it slows me down. Instead I try to think more about those that are fortunate enough to still be here.

Thank goodness we are more settled now, as we can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. We have not had any new cases for some weeks now. Fingers crossed, the deadly storm is over, and we can all see the beautiful rainbow in the sky. There are so many lessons to learn; ‘What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.’ Future generations will look back at this time and realise how brave and resilient we were. Hopefully, there will be no Phase 2 to this pandemic, though history does have a tendency to repeat itself.

Without our elders, we would not be here today.

My message to everyone; please remember we are all going to become elders one day remember that everyone is important even though they are no longer strong and cannot contribute to the economy.

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Lock Down, Rock Down

by Jon Harvey

Lock down, rock down Maybe not a hoedown Maybe just a hosedown What about a lowdown?

Do we need a crackdown?

Are we heading for a sundown?

Mother Nature’s knockdown?

Lock down Rock down Rock up Lock up All your daughters, your sons All your pets, and your someone's The virus is coming to light up your head The virus is coming to show you to bed Lock down Rock down Economic meltdown?

Lock down Rock down Busy life slowdown Lock down Rock down Old ways shakedown Lock down Rock down Not another dumb down!

Lock down Rock down Rock up Look up 16

To the skies and the future To the ideas that nurture To the schisms needing suture Lock down Touch down To the hearts that need healing To the people who still are reeling To those who are feeling and then kneeling Lock down Rock down Time for a teardown?

Lock down Rock down Time for showdown?

Lock down Rock down Time for a… time to think What now, what next, what hope… what to hope for…?

If not now, when?

If not you, who?

If not…?

If what…?

What if…?

Lock down Rock down Time for a cool down Time… for a...

Lock down, rock down

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Virtual Hugs & Kisses

by Lynn Andrews July 2020

Mum has been 'living with Alzheimer's' for a number of years and we have watched as this utterly cruel condition has slowly robbed my, once vibrant, and independent and highly organised, mother of the fundamental pillars of her identity.

Just as 'lockdown' became a word we were all to grow familiar with, Mum took her customary stroll along the path adjacent to the bungalow that she and my Dad moved into as newly-weds in 1959 (as a temporary home until they could find something a little bigger!). In the intervening sixty odd years she had come and gone from the family home probably several times a day to walk the dog, off out to work, rushing out to play badminton and tennis, opening up and organising the art club, etc.

Her friend and neighbour called me on this particular day to say "Please don't worry" (which of course had me worrying immediately!) but she had found Mum standing outside the house unable to recognise it! Even with the guiding arm of this lovely neighbour, Mum still wasn't sure she was in her own home as she sat in the lounge with a cup of tea, thoughtfully provided. Suddenly it seemed that Mum's last vestige of independence was gone - she was no longer safe living on her own. What to do?

I called the team at Ashridge Homecare; they had been providing us with a carer for Mum for two hours everyday - checking on Mum's tablet taking, preparing a meal and providing companionship. I would aso visit Mum several times a week and we would go shopping or have coffees or lunches out and she would often come to us for Sunday lunch.

This had been working well until the call from the neighbour. And, of course, COVID-19 was going to change everything - suddenly we were in full lockdown.

We were fortunate that we were able to get a live-in carer in place immediately. For Mum, there was the enormous change to her everyday life - suddenly she had a complete stranger (however caring) living with her 24/7, in her own home. To Mum’s credit, even though she wasn't sure why she needed daily help, she accepted this level of care with her usual positive spin - she felt sure that my brother and I were happier with this arrangement and that’s what mattered to her.

18

Under the new COVID rules, my Mum and her carer would become a bubble and I would be unable to visit Mum. This was a heartbreaking situation. I was however still responsible for obtaining Mum's medication and setting up her weekly tablet box so, under that exception to the rules, I was at least able to see Mum once a week, albeit from 2 meters away.

This was so hard for us both. No matter how many times I tried to gently describe what was happening in the outside world, I could see the bewilderment on Mum's face as she tried to comprehend the effect this pandemic was having. In those first few weeks I had to keep reminding her to "Step back", "Keep away" and almost resorted to "Back off Mum!" at one point, in my haste to stop her rapid approach.

To help us through our "Hellos" and "Goodbyes" we invented the concept of 'virtual' hugs and kisses - these did little to meet our need for the comfort and familiarity of physical contact but they at least demonstrated our deep, abiding, unconditional love for each other.

Mum keeps asking me when this will all be over!

I wish I knew.

19

Lockdown Victims and Heroes

by Valerie Ruddle

Farmers frustrated - crops but no pickers; Home schooling - parents struggling; Stay-at-home workers miss social contact; Performers silenced - loss of income; Many redundant - poor compensation; Children are hungry - larders near empty; Lonely and fearful desperate for company.

People in mourning - no hugs for comfort.

Lockdown victims trapped by the virus, do not despair!

Doctors and nurses - total dedication; All key people tirelessly working; Medical scientists promising break-through; Food chain suppliers keep trolleys rolling; Bus and train drivers keep the wheels turning.

Schools are now open - teaching at distance; Neighbourly kindness - food on the doorstep; Food Bank helpers - generous donations; Befrienders busy chatting to the lonely.

Ingenious performers lifting our spirits; Lockdown heroes are doing their utmost, gratitude abounds!

20

Minding the Moment

by Marjorie Stockley

“What is this life, if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?” by W.H.Davies Well, Covid19 has let some of us do just that - stand and stare. The strange times we are living through now have made us all stop to think and appreciate the ‘nowness of now’ - as alluded to by Dennis Potter in an interview with Melvyn Bragg in 1994, when Potter knew he was dying.

During these pandemic ‘lockdowns’ some of us have been lucky enough to have the time and space to enjoy ‘memorable moments’ : - listening to a wren singing - watching butterflies rough and tumble with each other - seeing a toad coming up for air in a pond - hearing and watching a baby badger snuffling in the garden hedge As I sit and write this in the coolness of a summer evening in Ottery St Mary in Devon, England, I am reminded of the opening words from Dylan Thomas’ ‘Under Milk Wood’ “Time passes...

Listen...

Time passes.”

And so a moment very quickly becomes a memory.

These reflections are not negative thoughts but positive ones – how important it is to take the time to appreciate the small things in life and to be grateful for them. The enjoyment of a moment in time is often not really recognised until it becomes a memory. So don’t let moments become memories too quickly – appreciating the NOW is what is important.

“Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realise you. Do any human beings ever realise life while they live it - every, every minute?”

Emily - ‘Our Town’ by Thornton Wilder Enjoy the realisation and the moment and take care of yourselves.

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Pandemic, Fear, Exercise and Looking for my Inner Peace

by Mike Neary Owner of Managing Excellence Through Training and Under The Thumb Sports Massage

I remember receiving a phone call from one of m6 training team reporting that there was to be no requirement for training for the remainder of the month or, indeed, for months to come.

I thought, “Don’t panic this can’t be right”, so I made the appropriate phone calls to the NHS, who would surely still need our services? “Has no one called you Mike?”, was the reply, “We have to close all of our Learning and Development sites and turn them into crèches so that the wars can be staffed.” “OK, I completely understand”, was my immediate thought. Later that day I turned on the news to find it was official; we were being locked down.

Immediately I responded by calling a team meeting to reassure everyone . I am fortunate, in that having served with the RAF Regiment for 22 years and it has taught me to think quickly and critically in difficult situations. I started to run various scenarios through my mind; “What if this? What if that? What if we lose everything?” Then before I knew it, I was told my Sports Massage business also had to close for the foreseeable future.

“Could it get any worse?” “Yes”, of course it could!

A few weeks into lockdown I had to have my best friend Archie, my faithful Springer Spaniel, put to sleep. We had had him almost 14 years. A great dog; he didn’t like other dogs or other humans, but he loved us; a fantastic character.

We could all now exercise for 1 hour a day, but some people weren’t taking social distancing seriously enough. This, to be honest, was infuriating me, to the point that I was more stressed when I came back from a training walk than when I started!. As a fitness instructor I know that exercise is meant to give you the ‘feel-good’ factor.

How was I coping? All through my professional, and even personal, life I have heard people say to me “It’s alright for you Mike, you don’t have to work at it, everything’s easy for you.” Well, let me tell you, “It is not!” I have to work hard at everything I want to achieve.

And these were tough times; I was thinking of all the people around me, my wife Ann-Marie, my team, those who I Nordic Walk with, and my Mum again. I do not show my stress easily; I was taught to ‘man up’ and ‘get on with it’, so I just had to cope.

I have been on operational tours all over the world and coped with life changing situations and it seemed like everyone now was looking to me for leadership and inspiration. I was starting to feel the strain. I increased my walking regime to 70 to 80 km a week, working on my own inner consciousness; trying to stay focused. I wrote daily exercise training plans for the team and even posted articles on ‘Linkedin’ on how to stay focused and plan your day; boredom can be such a danger. The pitfall for many is ‘putting food in their mouths’; we have all heard about the COVID stone (for some it was more than just one!). I told a client to put a lock on the fridge door and wear boxing gloves; he did laugh I might add. I was still looking for the answer to my inner dilemmas. “How could I stay as stress free as possible?”.

When I was a young man, I spent 5 days a week practicing martial arts. I explored karate katas and different styles of punching and kicking. So now I started reading about the external and internal Chinese arts and the teachings of Taoism and explored Tai Chi Qigong. Tai Chi translates as ‘The Supreme Ultimate’, and Qigong means ‘energy work’, the ancients called this Chi Kung. My issue was that I had studied some of the moves and started performing them as a martial art using full power of movement. When performing this ancient Chinese art it’s meant to be performed slowly, as energy, or Qi, will not travel through tense muscle or tissue. The principles of the practice of Tai Chi are: relaxation, concentration, meditation, harmony and breathing. “So, could this help me?” I found that it did. In fact, I have practiced Qigong every day and have since gone on to become a Qigong session instructor and now teach individuals and groups the 18 moves of the Shibashi set. This set is medical Qigong; each movement is energetically balanced and each move has a specific benefit to internal organs. It is something everyone can do but it does take practice. The focus is about whole-body relaxation.

Recently, I think we have all learned a lot about the importance of staying physically and mentally fit. More people have taken up physical pursuits and started to get in tune with their bodies, this really pleases me. I am fortunate that I have always been really fit but I have to work at it more, now that I am 57 years old. I previously played rugby and basketball, however my main sport was road cycling. I would normally cycle between 150 to 200 miles per week. I had to stop four years ago due to injury. I then became a Nordic Walking Instructor and, wanting to work with sports people, I studied Sports Massage. I opened a clinic called ‘Under The Thumb Sports Massage’ (UTTSM). My focus for those who attend the clinic and those who Nordic Walk with me is to look at the whole person; from the physical fitness of the individual to their mental well-being.

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At times of stress we ignite our central nervous system; releasing adrenaline and putting ourselves into a chaotic state. The message is: try to relax, re-connect with the simple things in life, become aware of your breath and take some time to sit quietly. We all need to learn how to become ‘centred’ and ‘grounded’, and take ‘time out’ just for ourselves.

I find physical exercise in the great outdoors a remedy, appreciating my surroundings, thinking of how lucky I am to have access to this countryside. I also recommend that people look into Tai Chi Qigong as a daily practice.

So, here we are again in another lockdown, January 2021. This time I am in a better state of mind. I practice Qigong every day; it doesn’t take a lot of time or effort but is truly beneficial.

This has been my journey from March 2020 to January 2021. I’ve learnt a great deal about being a business owner, husband, exercise instructor, Tai Chi Qigong session leader, friend and confidente to a lot of people.

We still have a lot to face in our post-COVID world. Nonetheless, I am looking forward to our new future and working on how we can all find our inner peace.

So; stay focused on what truly matters, breathe deeply and relax whenever possible.

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Virtual Girl Guides

by Eden Gransden (aged 12)

2020 has been a crazy year. It's crazy to think that in the year 3000, or even before, people will learn about 2020 in schools. Not long before VE day, my brother's class was set homework to ask someone who lived in WW2 what life was like then. Imagine in 75 years someone asking you what life was like in 2020.

What would you say?

What did you do in lockdown?

My answer would be...

I did online painting tutorials. They were made by a lady called Elle Smith, who does fantastic artwork of animals. In my back garden, my family and I made a flower memorial to commemorate people who have died of Covid-19. My family also planted carrots, lettuces and tomatoes and we made lots of salads with them.

As schools closed, I had to do lots of home learning and I did lots of Zoom calls; I even did virtual Girl Guides. During lockdown, my Dad got Covid-19, but luckily he made a swift recovery and is safe and well again. Lots of events were cancelled this year as well, including the Mayflower Pantomime, which I would usually see every year with my best friend Grace because her birthday is on the 22nd of December.

2020 has been a truly historic year.

Let's see what 2021 brings.

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Reflections on Role Models in 2020

by Jason D. J. Clark

At the start of 2020, I was studying a Psychology module which looked at the part role models play in the learning process and in changing society. I started taking note of those role models who had made a difference throughout the year. The role models I will be discussing have helped me feel like part of a community this year, and have made the year a more positive experience than would otherwise have been the case. Some of my traditional role models have also helped shape my thinking during the pandemic, and I found I was taking inspiration from some unexpected sources.

When 2020 began, I was reading a book about the making of the film ‘Spartacus’, which was written by one of my childhood role-models, Kirk Douglas. I finished the book two days before Kirk passed away in February. In the process of reading the book, I discovered a new role model in the scriptwriter, Dalton Trumbo, who had defied the House of Un-American Activities Committee and had been convicted for contempt of Congress during the McCarthy era. After serving time in prison, Trumbo was forced to use pen names in order to get work in Hollywood.

Winning an Oscar whilst using one of these pen names, Trumbo was forced to watch someone pretending to be him, accepting his award for the film ‘Roman Holiday’.

2020 has been the year when identities have been all-important.

Joe Wicks rose to prominence at the start of the first lockdown, helping people think about their health and fitness over the extended period we were isolated. In a TV interview, Joe explained that he had been active before the pandemic, visiting schools and trying to get youngsters interested in fitness – he is a good example of someone whose reputation has been built over time, but who had an unexpected boost as a result of the circumstances we found ourselves in.

Sir Tom Moore quickly rose to prominence during his fundraising walk for the NHS, becoming a national treasure overnight. His example has inspired people of all ages and backgrounds and, as a result, there was a lot of fundraising during the pandemic that might not have taken place otherwise.

Several celebrities used social media to engage with their audiences on a more personal basis - Jodie Whittaker posted videos in-character as Doctor Who, helping youngsters cope and adapt at the start of the first lockdown; Sir Patrick Stewart posted videos on Twitter each day, reading a Shakespeare sonnet; and Sarah Millican was active on Twitter helping isolated people connect with each other over Christmas and New Year.

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There were odd events like dolphins spotted in the much clearer canals of Venice, and deer wandering into housing estates here in the UK. I have been an avid watcher of Sir David Attenborough’s documentaries for many years, and have seen them change over the last 20 years to include an environmental message – it was no surprise that he was active in talking and producing documentaries on this theme in 2020.

2020 saw a lot of polarisation, evident in all media. Labelling yourself and others seems to have become more important this year, as a way of self-identifying, and in finding similar people with whom to create communities online. The identity-based transphobia row centring on J.K. Rowling in the middle of the year highlighted how global communities form online, and how people may have multiple labels as part of their sense of self. It was also a warning to me of how reputations, built up over many years, can be damaged in moments.

TV celebrity Rob Reiner presented a powerful two-part documentary late in the year, which tracked a few people as they travelled to Europe to find out what had happened during the second world war to their family members. The documentary reminded me that there were people who had lived through much worse experiences than a pandemic, and has inspired me to read more about the topic. It also made me wonder what it would be like to take a journey researching your family history whilst not knowing what you would find out when you reached the end of it.

The end of the year saw the usual firework displays across the world. A notable exception to the socially distanced displays in other countries was the one in Auckland, New Zealand.

Jacinda Ardern’s leadership of her country during the pandemic has been widely praised. She has been using regular Facebook Live updates to let people know what she is thinking. She has led with both wisdom and humour – I particularly enjoyed her press conference in April where she declared that both the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny had been given essential worker status. Lockdown measures were cautiously lifted in New Zealand in May, and citizens were able to celebrate New Year in relative safety.

One of the most powerful articles I read in 2020 was written by a 32-year-old man who was terminally ill with cancer, and who had been sent home during the first lockdown. Living on his own, he was looking forward to his sister coming to stay to look after him as the lockdown lifted. He had spent some time planning an around the world trip, and wrote about some of the things he wouldn’t do. His philosophy was that ‘a life well-lived is long enough’.

It has been a year for many of us to adapt to new technology, and I’m sure the pandemic would have been a different experience without the connectivity we now have. There may be a lot of negativity online, and polarized views, but the examples of the people above have helped me see that the internet overall is a much more positive force for good than I expected at the start of the pandemic.

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Greek Myths and Covid

by Arnold Gransden (aged 11)

Dear reader, my name is Arnold Gransden and I have found these stories in Greek Mythology, which I think represent similar challenges to the things the world has faced in 2020 because of Covid 19. I hope you take something from this today just to think about within these hard times.

Respect - Arachne and Achilles Arachne wasn't called Arachne at first; she was a skilled weaver who became arrogant and challenged the god Athena to a contest of weaving. Arachne was very critical towards Athena's piece and although Athena saw Arachne's work was better, she decided to punish her arrogance; she gave the weaver six big, violet eyes on her forehead and eight long, hairy legs below her waist and lavender skin all over her body - a spider's features - then she had to weave for the rest of her life.

Achilles was a feared warrior and defeated all his enemies in battle - everyone thought he was invincible until one day Paris fired a poisoned arrow into his heel, the only weakness on his body.

I think Covid has shown us that we should respect nature in all its forms and understand we're not always the most powerful beings on earth. It is dangerous to be arrogant and ignore things that can really hurt us - it feels like we were unprepared for Covid and we got caught out.

Sacrifice - The Minotaur One of the better known stories is the minotaur which is filled with suspense, action and sorrow. In this tale, a maze was built, containing the vicious Minotaur. Once a year, seven boys and seven girls from Athens were sent from their homes to Crete as sacrifices. One year, when the fourteen Athenians were picked, King Aegeus' own son, Theseus, volunteered to be eaten by the beast. The King of Athens was worried, but let him go anyway.

As the father of Theseus, King Aegeus, let him go which was brave and reflects sacrifices that are being made during Covid. If a member of your family is a nurse or doctor or a key worker you have to let them go and protect people. King Ageus trusted Theseus in the same way; letting him go and face danger.

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Adapting to Change - Orpheus Orpheus lost his wife Eurydice when she was bitten by snakes but he made a deal with Hades, the god of the underworld that she could come back to Earth. Hades made a condition that Orpheus couldn't turn to look at Eurydice and had to trust she was with him.

During lockdown lots of us haven't been able to meet up with our friends and family so we've had to find new ways to be together like using Zoom and Google Meet. This has helped me not to miss people like my Grandma and Grandad as much as I would have if I couldn't see them at all.

Complacency - Icarus Daedalus and his son Icarus were imprisoned in King Minos' tower but Daedalus crafted makeshift wings stuck together with wax which meant they couldn't fly too close to the sea or the sun, to avoid getting wet or melting. Icarus didn't listen and flew too close to the sun.

It is really important that people remember that the vaccine might not work for different versions of Covid - it feels like we might be able to escape lockdown but we have to be really careful.

Perseverance - Odysseus, Hercules and Perseus Odysseus and his men were home-bound when they encountered Polyphemus the Cyclops. Polyphemus was dangerous and attacked them, eating a handful of the men. One of the survivors was Odysseus and he tricked Polyphemus and telling him that he was “No one.” After that, when the Cyclops was drunk and tired, Odysseus stabbed out his one eye, blinding him and enabling them to escape by hiding in a flock of sheep.

In this myth, Hercules is set the task of capturing the several-headed hound,Cerberus, which protected the underworld. Hercules, without any weapons somehow emerged victorious and paraded Cerberus throughout Greece.

Another famous myth is Medusa. She had snakes for hair and her eyes were death for anyone who looked upon them. Perseus managed to defeat Medusa by using the reflection in his shield instead of looking her in the eyes.

The Cyclops, Cerberus and Medusa seemed impossible to defeat - a bit like Covid. By persevering and thinking around the problem, the heroes showed that nothing is impossible which is like the scientists who are inventing the vaccines and thinking of ways to keep everyone safe.

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A New Day

by Vicki Jackson

It was a dark, frosty morning as I peered through the curtains like a performer on opening night. As my eyes adjusted to the view laid out in front of me, I could see the weak, white, wispy flakes dancing in the sky. Falling downwards, they joined their companions to caress the frozen carpet of grass below; slowly weaving and resting gently at their final destination.

As I gazed upwards, the sky was covered with a grey blanket that kept the stars secret for another day. As I stretched, moving every muscle in my body to help them wake up, I realised what day it was. The sombre feeling that had awoken with me had now flipped its face like a coin, revealing its bright, beautiful, bold smile.

It had been a long time since something positive had come along, but it was here, and I didn’t want to waste anymore time.

I had laid my clothes out the night before, reminding me of my youth when it was the night before a school day. Bag all packed, my freshly ironed clothes hanging with pride on my sturdy bedroom door. Today, I truly felt like a teenager going to school, however, it wasn’t going to be the same.

Long gone were the days of having the freedom to roam the streets with my friends, to have the freedom to sit in a café and talk for hours, the feeling of being … free.

As I turned on the shower, the water cascaded like a waterfall, freezing cold water turning quickly into a luxurious warm feeling, just like stepping onto a beach in the Bahamas. I stood still, letting the water envelop my body, allowing the stream to move downwards, soothing my worries away as it made its descent into the gloomy, black hole of the bath.

As I came down the stairs, feeling fresh and clean with my hair perfectly placed, I felt a light spring in my step. Suddenly, I noticed I was smiling. It had been a long time since I had felt so joyous. Putting the kettle on, I glanced at the calendar. A new month was upon us but this month would be like no other. I glanced at my watch, it was time. Placing my half empty mug by the sink, I reached for my coat. Carefully, I wrapped my scarf around my neck, my security blanket for the morning.

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As the front door clicked open, the fresh, frozen feeling broke into the house, brushing past my body, desperate for the warmth. Taking a deep breath, I embraced the world and all its wonders. I was pleased to observe that the ground was still concealed by a fresh layer of frozen, white water. No footprints, no tyre marks, no animal prints; just freshly laid snow. As my foot descended from the warm, fluffy carpet onto the crunchy, wet path, I locked the door and made my way down the isolated lane.

Although it was a town, the lane was on the edge, away from the hustle and bustle of endless cars, free from smoke emitting buses and away from busy and impolite workers, rushing to their place of work with no consideration for others. The walk was always pleasant and I never had to make my way into town for my job. This gave me solace on such an important day.

As I entered reception, I felt a feeling of pride, glad to be back. I grasped my badge and with a flick of my wrist, the loud sound of a beep ignited the air. It had been that long since I had used the system, my body jolted backwards before shivering as if a ghost had walked through me. Composing myself, I entered the door code and slowly walked down the corridor.

My footsteps ricocheted off the walls, intermittent lights guided me through the quiet corridor, my eyes darting left to right, taking in the paper memories that had adorned the walls. Time had started to take its toll, corners that had escaped being pinned down.

Time had stopped...and now it was starting again.

As I entered my room, the flickering lights embraced the darkness and the room quickly transcended. I stood still, my eyes becoming swathed in tears, not through sadness, this day was never about sadness, it was for pride, joy, excitement. My desk was just how I left it, albeit more dusty than I would keep it, but the familiarity was here, like a home from home. I felt comfortable.

Once I had got everything in its place, I walked to the white board. It had remained unchanged since I had last seen it, although time had made it look tired with dust becoming its makeup, waiting for a fresh start. I took in the information that had been on the board for what felt like eternity, had it really been this long? With a slow, sweeping motion, I removed the written numbers. History was being rewritten, it was no longer 18.12.20. With my pen,I started to write the new date, 05.01.22. It had been 382 days since I had last stood here,382 days since I saw anyone from here, 382 days since I had taught in person.

The silence had now been broken as the sounds of children’s laughter and talking started to pierce the air. Today was the day I would be able teach again, COVID was no more and I felt free.

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The Need for Café Leadership

by Jon Harvey For ideas go to: crackingquestions.com

The world has been ravaged by a lethal and disabling virus causing much untold grief. The efforts to limit the impact of the bug has led to us all living through extraordinary, distressing and very strange times.

With some notable exceptions of (in the fields of health, policing and social care etc), our jobs and our social lives have changed dramatically. The trains are empty, we all talk about zoom meetings and sales of casual wear have rocketed! But at the same time, many have felt cut off and isolated, and sadly many have or are about to lose their employment. The economy has nosedived and it will take a great deal of effort, shrewd public policy, ingenuity and determination to build our economy back to somewhere close to where it once was.

And in the middle of all this, our leaders in politics, employment and communities have struggled to adapt to this odd world we now inhabit. Some leaders have seemingly done it well while others are flailing, unable to work out how they need to alter their approach to leadership.

Now is the time, like no other, for great leadership, I propose a simple model of leadership that I think we need now and into the future as we work together to build a ‘new normal’.

It has four features: ★ ★ ★ ★ Energy and

Compassion Agility Focus

is

underpinned

by

a

core

practice:

Good conversations As never before, we need leaders who are compassionate, who will seek to understand what has been and is happening to people and their loved ones.

The one thing that last year has shown is just how adaptable people can be: how we can learn ‘new tricks’ even when many of us are ‘old dogs’. Likewise, the requirements of lockdowns and social distancing have forced many businesses to adopt new technology or different working arrangements in an effort to maintain, if not improve, efficiency and productivity. As these restrictions are being eased, now is not the time to abandon this agility, but to explore how more of it can be applied to make organisations even more elegant and innovative.

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The first time I came across the term ‘strategy’, I was daunted and scared. It seemed such a big concept and something I needed to understand in great depth. I bought two or three books so that I knew what strategy was and how it should be practised. But now I know it is really just about focussing on what you are trying to achieve and working out the best way to get there.

The leaders who succeed in 2021 will be those who know what they need to be focussing on and carving out paths to realise those ambitions.

And none of this is possible without leaders who know how to maintain their energy, their well being and indeed their ‘zing’! Great leaders know what helps them feel good and what brings them down. Moreover they know what helps others be well and content. Exercise, diet, mindfulness and all the usual practices matter of course. The trick is knowing your own energy ‘map’ - the thickets to avoid, the hills to climb and scoot down, and the waterways to calmly let things flow away.

Many people wonder how to ‘practice’ great leadership. I think it comes down to being able to have good conversations with people. Indeed I would contend that every great achievement in human history started with a simple conversation. It’s about listening, explaining, laughing and crying. Good conversations can last you a lifetime and have the potential to inspire such fundamental change that you may never have thought possible. Leadership is mediated by conversation.

Five questions for you: 1. How can you be more compassionate?

2. What does agility mean to you and your organisation?

3. On what should you now focus?

4. What improves your energy?

5. When was the last great conversation you had?

Great leadership will help the world move on from the pandemic and (I hope) build a fairer, more innovative and thrilling world in which everyone gets to dream and have ambitions, and have the wherewithal to achieve them.

We can do this!

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The Door, the Calendar and the Christmas Tree

by Sianne Plenderleith

It should have been a flawless November day, bright, cheerful and inviting, even though winter was looming. Yet the mood of the household was one of tiredness, sorrow and drained of all excitement; knowing that winter was about to incase them all with even more worry and darkness. The calendar hung awkwardly in the entryway of the family home. It was once the central hub of all the exciting and energetic coming and going of activities, now it was empty and abandoned. The main front door, highly polished and inviting, a portal to the outside world, was one that opened many times a day, yet now it remained closed and locked for the foreseeable future. A faux christmas tree, newly purchased, lay unboxed on the hallway floor, disassembled and fragmented.

The door had never before been a barrier before and I had never feared crossing it. Yet, that is what it was now - until… on a joyous day, in due time, that door will open and stay open. Until then, the door serves as armour against coronavirus and the people that carry it.

Only eight months ago, the calendar was the heart of the family's happiness and opportunities, with enriched activities, experiences and highlights in life being added and removed, every day. It boasted of social events, important meetings and appointments, celebrations and holidays and many more spontaneous days out that now one could only wish for.

Now it hung, neglected and destitute,, empty of life,referencing the beginning of this eight month harrowing journey where everyone feared leaving their homes and no one was allowed to roam freely. The calendar had become obsolete and so had the family’s positive thinking.

The door, formerly a gateway to life, remained firmly shut (apart from the odd daily opening to receive online purchases). That was part of the ‘new normal’ routine being formed by this bored shopaholic family member, acting solo in her new hobby and rebelling against other family members' request to stop. Part of this new habit was the purchase of the plastic Christmas tree, so desperately needed! The buying of the Christmas tree, once seen as a seasonal event on their calendar, was our journey into the outside world. The purchasing of a nearly perfect natural one would be documented in staged photos on social media, it seemed like a distant memory now compared to the new reality of this plastic... object; made in China and shipped in shrink wrap directly to the door, lying naked and abandoned by the family members, disgusted, at such a faux object and its fake promises of bringing Christmas delight.

It was these three objects that tell the tale of the family's journey from the beginning of lockdown to now, the cusp of Christmas and how life, the world and Christmas would never be the same again.

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Short Stories

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Are you really listening?

by Chris Webbley

Two people met on the street.

“Hi! How are you?”, asked one.

“I’m fine,” came the reply. Then, after a short pause, they added, “But one of my parents is having some difficulty walking. I’m not sure I can afford to pay for a doctor.”

There was a longer pause.

“Sorry, what did you say? I was watching that dog over there. Isn’t it cute?”

“I said that my parent is having difficulty walking and I’m not sure I can afford to pay for a doctor.”

“It’s expensive, isn’t it? D’you know, I had to pay such a lot of money when I broke my arm. I was playing football against the All Stars – such a great team – and really trying my hardest because I wanted to impress the coach, you know, the guy who took over last season. Well, going for a killer shot I fell heavily and was in such pain that I knew something had broken. My writing arm, too, so I decided I had to shell out, but it did cost a lot.”

“That was a pity. Is your arm OK now?”

“Oh yes, thanks. It is quite mended.”

“But I guess you are going a bit easier with the football?!“ “No, I still give it everything I’ve got. I’m that sort of person, you see. 110%, that’s me!

Anyway, I’d better go. Sorry about your mother, and I hope they get better soon.”

“It’s my father, actually.”

“Oh, yes. Your father. ‘Bye.” Further along the street, two people meet.

“Hi! How are you?”, asked one.

“I’m fine,” came the reply. Then, after a short pause, they added, “But one of my parents is having difficulty walking. I’m not sure I can afford to pay for a doctor.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is it your father or your mother?”

“My father. He’s not that old and has been active all his life.”

“So, I guess this is a bit of a shock for you? Seeing him change like that?”

“Yes it is. It’s like something I was always used to has gone away. And the worst thing is that I don’t know whether I can afford to pay for him to be seen by a doctor.”

“Is it urgent? Is he in pain, may I ask?”

“Not really in pain. He gets frustrated and sometimes I think he’s putting a brave face on things so as not to worry my mother or me. So, it’s not urgent. But I don’t think it will get better by itself.”

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“And everyone wants to do the right thing for a parent, don’t they? They’ve given us so much.”

“Yes. That’s almost the worst thing if I can’t help him right now, just when he needs help.”

A pause. There is the silent sound of two people thinking. Remembering.

“Please tell me if I’m overstepping the mark here. But I was wondering whether, as it’s not urgent, that might give you a bit of time to save up for the medical care?”

Another short pause.

“I hadn’t thought of that. When I saw my father limping this morning, I just felt I had to do something right away. You could be right. I could talk with him and see whether we could come up with some sort of plan, even if it takes a little while longer.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Thank you for asking. She’s worried about him, but apart from that she is very well.”

“That’s good to hear. You only have one parent to worry about, then. I hope your father gets the medical care he needs so that he can walk well again and get back to his active life.”

“You’re very kind. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome. But I really haven’t done anything.”

“Yes, you have. You listened.”

There is a click as the teacher switches off the video. She turns to the class.

“So, what did you observe? In the first meeting?”

“Well, the first person didn’t seem to listen at all. They were just looking at the dog.”

“Yes, they did, didn’t they? They allowed the dog to take their attention away from the person they were supposed to be listening to. Does that ever happen to you?”

A burst of giggles.

“Yes, miss. Sometimes in class I’m thinking about tonight’s football on TV.” “I have noticed.”

More embarrassed giggles “Talking of football, what did you make of the person telling his friend all about his broken arm?”

Plenty of reactions to this question.

“It seemed that he wasn’t really interested in the other person.”

“He just wanted to tell his story, not listen to the other person’s problems.”

“It was me, me, me, not you, you, you. I think he is a selfish person.”

A murmur of agreement went round the room.

“Well,’ answered the teacher, “maybe he is, or maybe he was just behaving selfishly at that moment. We only have one small piece of evidence to go on, don’t we? But as far as his listening skills were concerned, he was certainly not being skilful then. He was doing what is called, ‘hear my story’. It’s a very common form of not-listening, when someone just picks on something that they can connect to their own experience and can’t wait to tell that back. Next time you hear two parents talking about their babies, listen out for ‘hear my story’, as each person replies with what wonderful things their little one is now doing.”

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“So, what about the second conversation?”

Plenty of replies come flying in.

“The other person was kind.”

“They asked questions, like about which parent it was.”

“They really sounded as though they were interested in what the other person had to say.”

“They didn’t say anything about themselves.”

“They were really sympathetic to the person’s problems.”

“Those are great answers. You were really listening, weren’t you? Which conversation got your attention more?”

“The second one. I got annoyed listening to that idi … that silly person in the first one.”

(Laughter) “I liked the way the second person gave the other person time to think. And then they suggested a way to help.”

“Why do you think they did that? Why not come straight out with the suggestion?”

A pause.

“I suppose … I suppose it would be ‘hear my solution’, Miss?”

“You have been listening! Very good, all of you. Yes, even if you think you have exactly the right idea to help someone, it will only work if they feel they have been heard. Truly heard.

And that takes time. Now, next session, we will be practising real listening. And I will be asking you why it is sometimes called ‘active listening’. Thank you, class. Session over.”

The room empties. Rather more quietly than usual.

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The Magic Powder Box

by Zinaida Kouznetsova

One of my favorite memories of my childhood was about my Grandmother’s home in Kyrgyzstan. It was full of magic mystery for a five year old girl, especially Granny’s dressing room. It always smelled nice. I still remember the special aroma of a mix of wood, creams, perfumes and a mysterious something else.

It smelled of happiness.

The three things in this room that I remember particularly intensely were a gigantic floor-to-ceiling mirror, a Chinese face powder box and Granny’s pearls. I remember her sitting in front of the mirror, in a flowing silky dress ‘for a special occasion’, brushing her hair and then applying the powder with a very light gesture, at the end of the procedure, putting on the pearls. Before we walked out to the theatre or museum or for a party this ritual was repeated in the same sequence: mirror, powder, pearls. A couple of times, when I was a “Good girl”, my granny even dusted my nose with her magic powder.

Life kept flowing; taking away many things with it.

My Granny’s home went first. Then my Grandparents were kicked out from the country were they had lived and worked for more than fifty years. Next, Granny’s belongings were lost, destroyed or damaged during the move and then, just a few years ago, it was my Granny’s time for passing.

I remember the day when I came back to visit her for the last time. She was chatty and pleased to see me. We drank tea, ate cake and looked at old photos. Granny liked to talk about her past and I liked to listen to her stories; she was proud of the life she had lived had and considered herself blessed. I always admired that in her; she never complained.

Her generation lived through troubled times, they survived the war and then rebuilt the country after it. She worked hard, studied, became a high-level manager and travelled extensively. She bought many exotic things during her travelling, never worrying about the price. She had everything, but then lost it at the end; nevertheless she was never attached to material things.

For her it was, and always remained, “Just stuff”.

The big mirror doesn’t exist any more, neither do her pearls; just the old Chinese powder box has survived. She gave it to me for the memory. Even if the powder in it finished a long time ago, the box still has the scent; the happy scent of my childhood.

I truly believe that it is magic, because when I open it, I am transported back to see my Granny in front of the big mirror with the pearls and beautiful dress; and myself? I am the five year old girl who is waiting for the fairy-tale to begin.

39

A Correspondence

by Nick Andrews

Winchmore House Littlehampton March Saunders, dear chap, Concerned about radio silence and need you to make contact again.

Use the encrypted drop mechanism next time – as there is now some suspicion that our communications are monitored and intercepted. We must remain vigilant; even in these apparently comfortable times. I am sure I am being observed and followed but am currently giving them the slip by staying holed up in this country house.

Shame about that unfortunate business with the Turkish greengrocer in Tangiers. It was inevitable I suppose, given the dodgy nature of those oil shares we had to sell-on to retain our cover. I’m certain the problem emanated from that disreputable Frenchie with non-matching socks who completely misheard me when I said, “Queen and Country”, and kicked off with that gin bottle.

I know we were looking forward to peregrinations and perambulations along the Terrasse des Paresseux, looking down on the azure waters below whilst keeping ourselves politely apart from the non-Panama wearers around us. I can see it now; sensible shoes despite the heat, a flash of colour from a jaunty ‘kerchief and a fruit cake and tea stop in the afternoon.

We did discuss a nod towards continental credentials with a confident latte before lunch.

40

To maintain cover, make sure you keep a low-profile old man.

No leaping as in days of yore. If you do experience a burst of energy then a slight hop, skip and a jump can be engaged in, provided there is no embarrassment to anyone nearby.

Conversations with others should be restricted to a cheery “Good Morning” but make sure you do not indulge in any more detailed discourse that betrays your location.

Remember the last time you gave the game away? shenanigan.

Somewhat of a

But it wasn’t a difficult choice. I had to rescue you of course. Do you remember? I needed the help of an old snooker cue from the secret headquarters of the Dutch transport police. I shall never forget the disturbing screams of grown men in turtleneck sweaters having their moustaches removed, single hair by single hair, by matronly women of an uncertain age brandishing tweezers of an even more uncertain age.

Aye yours,

Braithwaite

41

Kypnos on Sea Greece April Dear Braithwaite, Sorry for poor communication of late. Am currently lying low on a Greek Island … I think. Don’t worry, false identity intact despite slight fracas with a chap in a bar last night, disagreement over coloured socks and the lightly oiled Polynesian boy that I brought with me from Tangiers. He made some reference to “F.O. you pansy”. I presumed he meant Foreign Office but there was nonetheless a fracas.

The men have all deserted due to a misunderstanding about synthetic driving gloves but the trouble & strife has remained surprisingly loyal throughout but is struggling with the lilac bourka I got her in Islamabad, in exchange for those bogus oil shares you gave me. Do not go back there under your own name, under any circumstances.

Will get to Casablanca as soon as released from Greek jail.

Ever yours,

Saunders.

42

Winchmore House Littlehampton May Saunders, Got your recent message – although had to use the Times crossword of Tuesday last to translate.

Have destroyed the evidence in a burning bin – and was pleased to see that the sprinkler system is in good order.

No-one else was pleased.

There is a minor kerfuffle going on here with those Congolese diamonds that were imbedded in soap by that obliging fellow in Dar Es Salaam. They didn’t get through the Airport but were rescued by Nurse M. She is a wonder – I often think about the civil engineering that is keeping her all in place.

You will be pleased to know I managed to rescue them with the loss of only one testicle – so things could be worse.

There is something seriously amiss though.

Last Tuesday, there was supposed to be a digestive biscuit with the tea, and none appeared. I enquired through the usual channels but was blanked by the civil service.

The black market in Hob Nobs is no longer flourishing since Makepeace was taken away – presumably by the Stasi for his past dealings with what he insisted on calling ‘white washing powder’. Those of us who have been around the block a few times know full well what he was up to – the laundering of the money through those volunteering sessions at the Village Shop fooled no-one.

The seasons are shifting, I can see as much from my window.

Braithwaite 43

Casablanca by the Sea Morocco June Dear Braithwaite, Am manning a stall selling authentic Christmas cards outside the Hassan II Mosque, but trade is not brisk.

Thank you for the drop, by local airship of the aforementioned cards – although the code-word ‘Rowlocks’ caused some dismay when I used it to Nurse P., who seemed to take offence.

Sorry to hear about the digestive kerfuffle. I had something similar this week – the grandchildren confused me with the threat of photographs on ‘InstaGranny’ and communication via ‘BookFace’. I almost lost my temper when one of them said he would ‘Tweet’ me. What is the point of all this schooling if all they are going to do is make bird noises and play on their phones?

The whole family seemed to have turned up and there were water works a-plenty whenever I explained our missions, or indeed tried to explain anything.

There is clearly some confusion here; no-one listens to me anymore and they look at each other and murmur under their breath all the time.

I have decided to lie low and keep to my bed until the current flurry of visitations blows over. I will then sneak downstairs, suitably attired in driving gloves and linen suit, fire up the old Morris and repair to the safe house in leafy Bucks and await you joining me.

It’s the safest way.

Chin chin 44

Saunders

Winchmore House Littlehampton August

Saunders, Good idea about staying under cover. I think I will do the same until the smoke clears.

There are a lot of screens around now – presumably to stop me seeing what is going on. I get regular visits from local school children dressed up as doctors and nurses. It’s very impressive really – they use real needles and adopt a very grave expression at times.

They have obviously been told not to give the game away, so they talk in riddles to me now and I have no idea what they are on about.

Do you remember that chap in Damascus that would not leave us alone and kept insisting that we must know Princess Margaret?

Well I did, of course, but I know my secret is safe with you, dear boy.

Sleep a lot now – perhaps they are putting something in the water. Will get to Bucks as soon as possible – wait for me old chum.

It won’t be long now.

Yours in hope.

Braithwaite

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Ward 4 Winchmore House Littlehampton

September

Dear Braithwaite, Nothing more to report.

Nurse T. is typing this for me.

All is well here, no more adventures for a while old chum – they got us in the end I reckon – but we gave them a good run-around did we not?

Carry on.

Saunders.

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Winchmore House Littlehampton October

Saunders, Nurse M. just offered to ‘plump up my pillows’.

Well, she can obviously see something going on under the blankets that others have missed over the years!

She is the only one that makes sense these days. Can’t seem to understand what the others are saying most of the time – obviously a fiendish trick to throw us off the scent.

If you are in heavenly Bucks, then I will be joining you very shortly.

T.T.F.N B.

47

Grandma’s Locket

by Jo Disberry

I awoke with a start, not sure what had pulled me from my slumber. My eyes adjusting to the darkness, I scanned the room. My curtains from the small open window were blowing in the breeze, each time they blew my room was illuminated with the brightly shining moon. I couldn’t see anything that would have woken me. Then from the corner of my eye I saw something glimmering on my bedside table. I switched on my lamp and saw an oddly shaped key on an envelope, which definitely wasn’t there when I fell asleep last night!

I picked up the key, which seemed to glow like a flame when I held it, and ripped open the envelope. It held a map, and not a very good one at that.I turned it around and realised I recognised some of the landmarks, there were arrows making a path.

In the corner of the map there were two written lines; “Follow me if you are bold, Open me up and see what I hold.”

A treasure map!

Really! I’m a 20-ish young woman, I'm not going to start following a map, (which looks like it’s been drawn by a 5 year old), like a crazy chimpanzee in the dark. I put the envelope and key back on the side, turned the light off and snuggled back down in bed. But where did the key and map come from? I turned over again and saw the key still glowing.

“Oh what the hell”, I thought, “in for a penny in for a pound.”

I jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes, grabbed the map and still glowing key and ran down the stairs.

I may be stupid to be chasing around in the dark after a mysteriously appearing map but, not so stupid to not take my phone and torch. I grabbed them both from the kitchen and left.

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It was a warm, clear night, the stars sparkled like diamonds on a black velvet jeweller’s cloth, and the moon cast shadows along the street. Everything seemed so perfect, a little too perfect perhaps. Following the arrows on the map took me through the park, where I had a close encounter with a low level flying bat who I’m sure was the size of a small child. Over the stream, where the water was as still as a millpond, and then into the woods beyond. I turned on my torch and consulted my map. According to the map I walked 25 paces north, 10 paces south and I’d reach a cave. A cave?

I’ve lived here all my life there has never been a cave in these woods; somebody was playing a very cruel trick on me. I was just about to turn around when I saw a faint glow in the distance and... was that someone whispering and mouthing my name? Torch in hand, and my fingers poised to dial 999 on my phone if needed, I ventured on towards the light.

As I neared where the map said the cave should be, the area suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. Through the now blinding light I saw an entrance to a small dark cave. I was as scared as a rabbit caught in the headlights but... “I've come this far, I can’t fall at the last hurdle.” The whispering of my name seemed to be coming from inside the cave, so with considerable trepidation I followed it in.

The cave was dark, the light from my torch bouncing off the walls, the ground beneath my feet crumbled like sand. At the end of the cave, on what seemed like a pedestal bathed in light, was a small box with an odd shaped lock. I fished the key out of my pocket, placed the key in the lock, and opened the box. Inside was a locket, a beautiful, alluring, classic locket that I recognised as it was worn every day by my Grandmother and it was the one she was buried in! As I reached in to pick up the locket I felt a cold, clammy hand on my shoulder. I screamed at the top of my voice before everything went black.

I awoke in my bed with the curtain blowing gently in the breeze from my open window. There it was, something in my hand.

I switched on the lamp, opened my hand and there lay Grandma’s locket!

49

Black Fruit

by Colin Bryer

Thursday

16th

July

1814,

near

Hook

End,

Essex

There were only three trees left standing. Yet William Potter was delighted.

The 32 year-old farm labourer wiped his brow on the sleeve of his shabby tunic and grinned as he looked over his handiwork. Almost an entire apple orchard had been transformed into a twisted mass of sad dark foliage that lay across the ground. William approached the next tree, which stood proud and heavy with near-ripe Egremont russets. Without pausing, he raised his axe and began to chop enthusiastically at the gnarled trunk.

William was in a state of semi-euphoria. With each alternate swing he saw the head of his employer, the conniving bailiff Thomas Owen, followed by the fat head of Samuel Cummings – cotton merchant, gentleman farmer and accursed liar. It made him feel good; he caught himself laughing out loud. He hadn’t always felt this way about the orchard. For so many years, William had loved those apple trees almost like his own children; they had given him hope for a better life.

Eleven years before, in spring 1803, William saved the life of Samuel Cummings’ eldest son, by pushing the infant out of the path of a runaway horse and carriage. In doing so, he was hit side on by a wheel hub, gaining four broken ribs and multiple bruising. That same evening, as he was being nursed at home by his wife Alice, a letter was delivered by a Cummings lackey, who read its contents to the injured, illiterate farmhand. William was rewarded with the freehold of a half-acre square, prize-winning orchard, to be granted when William reached 30 years. The lackey advised him to store the letter carefully, which he did. William could not believe his luck. This was his chance to secure a better future for his wife and two young daughters. So for the next few years he frequently visited the orchard, kneeling and praying for his fruitful inheritance.

Days before his 30th birthday, William’s home was ransacked by persons unknown.

While little was taken, the carefully stored promissory note had disappeared. His boss, the bailiff Thomas Owen, claimed no knowledge of the inheritance and accused the farmhand of talking nonsense. So on his 30th birthday, William walked 14 miles to Cummings’ great house in Chelmsford to seek answers. He was roughly thrown out of the grounds before reaching the door. In the following two years, William regularly tried – and always failed – to discuss the situation with anyone in authority. He had even been threatened with eviction if he persisted.

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Then just yesterday, the bailiff had called all his workers together to proudly announce his retirement. Waving an official looking letter, Owen declared that Cummings had bestowed him the very same orchard as a parting gift.

William’s rage was all-consuming. If he could not have the orchard, then neither would anyone else! He went home that evening, bellowing at poor Alice. Secretly, he resolved to rise in the morning and work a full day as normal, then sneak off to the orchard just before dusk to wreak havoc. Hacking at the tree trunk in a blind fury, William did not hear the voice at first. When he did, he realised it was that of the gamekeeper, Robert Trayne, with responses from two others he could not identify. He stopped still, sensing their direction.

“Someone’s destroyed all them apple trees! Look there! An’ I could swear I heard someone a-choppin’ jus’ a minute ago.”

The voices came from the far side of the orchard. William felt an oppressive silence; even the skylarks had ceased their twittering. His mind raced. He would make for the hedge and hide beneath it until the fading light gave way to blackness, then make his escape. He crept away steadily and stealthily, axe still in hand, until he reached the thicket.

If only that dry old branch hadn’t snapped under his boot.

“Yonder!” came the inevitable cry.

Less than a hundred paces away, the three dark figures at the far end of the orchard were immediately alerted. His heart skipped a beat as the tall stocky figure of Trayne and his two smaller assistants began to walk rapidly in his direction. William cursed as he saw a flintlock rifle in the gamekeeper’s hand. He doubted that the man would hesitate to use it.

A cold sweat broke out on William’s brow as he contemplated whether to run across the meadow behind him or, to his right, climb the nearest ash tree in the hope that the three menacing silhouettes would pass him by unnoticed. He quickly realised that to climb would mean movement of branches and leaves that would probably give him away. In an instant, he turned on his heel. The hedge tore at his tunic and culottes, but somehow he squeezed through the hedge and bolted.

Despite a lifetime of malnourishment, William’s two dozen years of farming toil had kept him fit and strong. But he was no athlete. At 32 years old, he was already well into middle age for a man of his class. Reluctantly, he threw the axe into the long grass. As he bounded across the meadow, he heard air moving past his ears, the swish of the grass and the pounding of his heart. Fear spurred him on and he made good progress.

He would soon be across the far side of the meadow, dashing along the stream to hide his tracks.

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Then the string in his left boot snapped. Within three rapid strides the old ill-fitting leather had detached completely from his foot and spun into the air, sending him sprawling headlong into the grass. He rolled over, winded, but immediately leapt up and, after a slight stumble, began to run again.

Suddenly something else propelled him forward, a hammer blow on his right shoulder.

As his body smacked into the ground, William felt the searing heat of the half inch diameter ball as it tore through his flesh and fractured his shoulder blade. A split second later he heard the resounding loud crack of the gamekeeper’s rifle.

This time, William didn’t get up.

Tuesday 11th August 1814, Moulsham Gaol, Chelmsford “I repeat. Have you anything to say in your defence? Speak up man.”

William stood hunched forwards in the dock, wild eyes darting across the austere courtroom. His shackled right arm hung limply to his side, throbbing constantly. He looked at the stern features of the jury and vaguely recognised several of them as senior staffers in Samuel Cummings’ employ. There were no friendly faces. The farm labourer’s head spun; he had been incarcerated for nearly a month in terrible conditions, allowed no visitors and given no clue as to what fate would befall him. His whole frame trembled.

He slowly turned to the person who had addressed him, the judge himself. He tried to speak, but no sound came out.

“Very well. As there is nobody else here to speak on your behalf, it is my duty to do so.”

The broken man in the dock had been on trial for only nine minutes and did not fully comprehend the judge’s words. Nor did he notice the slightly perplexed and uncomfortable look on the magistrate’s otherwise solemn face.

“Gentlemen of the jury, you see before you a wretched creature who was caught in the act of cutting down an orchard. He may have got clean away with it if his good wife had not called on the bailiff because her husband had not returned home and she was concerned for his state of mind. This is a crime punishable by hanging and his guilt is incontestable. But I ask you to search your souls and ask yourselves if the act of felling 17 fruit trees should not constitute a more lenient sentence? Kindly deliberate and return with your verdict.”

William watched as the jurors filed out of the courtroom. To everyone’s surprise, they were back in just two minutes.

52

Footnote: On 12th August 1814, William Potter was the last person in the United Kingdom to be hanged under the notorious ‘Bloody Code’, the harshest legislation the country had ever seen. The Waltham Black Act had been introduced in 1723 to deter poachers, but in the years that followed, scores of minor crimes punishable by death were added to the law. These included impersonating a Greenwich pensioner, stealing from a rabbit warren and blacking up one’s face. As was common in those days, the accused (almost all from the uneducated working class) were expected to defend themselves alone. In fact, once in court many would be struck dumb with terror. To prevent a hanging verdict, a jury would sometimes reduce the severity of the crime, literally falsifying evidence. Occasionally, as in William Potter’s case, the judge would plead for clemency from the jury, sometimes to no avail. The ‘Bloody Code’ was finally repealed in 1830, by which time transportation had become a more popular alternative to hanging.

53

Full Moon

by Heidi Neville (aged 11)

Wandering through the garden it felt like something was watching her. Icy wind slashed at her face and the rain danced its evil upon her head. Climbing over an old tree, which had fallen long ago upon a once beautifully carved statue, smashing it to shards of cold, deserted stone.

She walked up the creaking stairs of the house, leant her head against the rotting door, and laid her hand against the handle. The door creaked open. The wind blew swiftly into the house, going in every corner, every room. It slowly blew up the stairs, out the attic window, and into the hellish darkness of the night.

She took a deep breath and went inside.

It was a deserted house with only three rooms; a kitchen with a broken oven and sink, and a cupboard tilted sideways, door opening and closing with a swift crack. There was a bedroom with a broken mirror, shards scattered along the floor like flints, leaving dents in the rotted floorboards. The bed was a plank of wood against the floor and moth-eaten sheets on top. The bathroom was barely distinguishable, with a toilet covered in mould and a sink that only dropped a few water droplets per use. It was said that a person had lived there long ago and had disappeared mysteriously, leaving the house behind. She used to tell stories of The Ultima werewolf, a deadly creature that is said to be a legend. The woman said it was not a legend, and that The Ultima is yet to be born. It is leader of all wolves and alphas. She did not know any more about the creature, but other villagers have adapted the story and say the Ultima is dead and will never be seen again.

Raven laid on the bed but couldn’t sleep, her head racing with thoughts. She kept thinking about what had just happened. The wailing, the desperate cries, the darkness. In her dreams she heard the ear-piercing screams, she felt the fear and shock of that day. She saw the destruction of the houses and felt the scene begin all over again.

It was any normal day. She woke up in her beautiful bed, with its soft quilts and fluffy pillows.

Outside the village was peaceful. It was a small clearing in a forest that some explorers decided to make their home. She went outside to go on an evening walk when she smelled burnt wood and ashes. The villagers were no doubt trying to scare away the wolves that attacked last night with fire. Five of them, red eyes and sharp claws. Most say they are just hungry and want the food everybody is cooking. But Raven thought there was more to it. The wolves looked strong and healthy and they had never once stolen food. However, everyday there were less wolves coming. She climbed up a tree to watch the villagers fend off the wolves. She stared up at the stars and the full moon.

54

Full Moon There was an ear-piercing scream in the direction of the fire. She turned to see werewolves tearing open doors with their claws. Sharp teeth gleamed as they sank their jaws into people’s necks, transforming them into other werewolves. Once they had bitten everyone in the town, they licked their lips and receded into darkness. Almost everyone. Raven shivered in a tree, the only one the wolves hadn’t seen. Her village didn’t feel the same anymore and the eerie silence tore her apart.

There was only one safe place now. She ran up the hill to the house and stayed there for hours.

She woke with a start on the bed in a pool of sweat. Light dimly shone through the small, broken window. She had to run. There wasn’t much she needed to pack so she left in an instant.

She went into the forest and began her journey. It became dark in an instant. Growls came from every angle. Wherever she went, she saw the same things. She was going around in circles. She went under a bush to sleep but the fear in her stomach kept her awake.

When she woke, she stared up at the morning sun and jumped back. It was outlined in black, that slowly curled its way around the sun. When it had swallowed it in darkness, the sky went dark in an instant. Growls. Noises. Closer, closer than before. Ice cold air on the back of her neck. Sunlight broke through the glen and she ran, but a hand pulled her underground into darkness, with a small view of what was above her.

She didn’t question who had pulled her into darkness and why she was there. She heard breathing, not hers, nor the person next to her. A second hand reached out and covered her mouth as all the wolves walked by. She didn’t dare breathe. When nothing could be heard but the blowing of the wind, she crawled to the surface and got a first view of the people that saved her life.

They were two people, one was a girl called Ivy with ebony hair, and beautiful emerald eyes.

The second was a boy called Aaron with black hair and a sharp knife attached to his belt, already stained with blood. The pairs of eyes widened, for the two saw what she couldn’t.

“Run!” They stumbled through the forest till they reached a bridge that stretched over a sheer drop with a violent stream. The wolves behind them were getting closer, so they had only one option left.

55

Cross the bridge.

She took a deep breath and ran for her life. Her leg got stuck between two planks of wood.

Raven pulled at her leg, but it wouldn’t move. Aaron and Ivy pulled her leg free. Raven scratched her knee, but she didn’t care. When they got to the other side Aaron used his pocket-knife and cut the bridge. The wolves fell and howled with pain as they hit sharp stones, but soon howls quietened as the wolves sunk and slowly travelled down the stream.

As the three travelled by the stream, a wolf that was still alive reached out and grabbed River and pulled her into the torrent of water.

Gasping and panicking, Raven screamed as the wolf bit into her neck.

Nothing happened.

All the wolves that were still alive stared dumbstruck. Then, they bowed down to her as her friends pulled her to safety. They saw the bite marks on her neck and backed away from her.

“How are you not a wolf?” they asked suspiciously “It doesn’t matter because at least all the wolves are dead” she replied, sweating with fear.

They both shook their heads and pointed.

Raven turned and held in a scream. Across the side of the stream were stones splattered with blood and trails of paw prints that stretched through the wildlife into darkness.

56

Freedom

by Agnes Osborne

My story starts on a day just like today… It was a classic winter’s day; cloudy, crisp, and chilly with the smell of imminent snowfall in the air. There was a quiet excitement in the eyes of the children peeping through the windows impatiently, waiting for the immaculate white blanket to cover the hills. In a very unlikely place there was an even more intense anticipation, in the shed behind the house. There in the dark, dingy, cramped space - hiding behind the toys and tools of summer - laid patiently, waiting for his time to come: The Sleigh.

He remembered the last few years with great fondness, he was lucky to have a few days of snow every winter when he could escape his prison, stretch his old bones and with his beloved friends, the children of the house, whoosh down the snowy slopes into freedom. He adored the days when upon opening the shed door the crystal sparks of whiteness teased him with the promise of uninhibited fun. He looked at the closed little box sitting on the shelf above him, in which was a lump of crooked shaped wax sighing quietly, reminiscing of when he was a beautifully straight, proud candle decorating the dinner table on a Christmas Day. He was wondering why life changed for him so drastically… from an adored spectacle he ended up in this dirty, stinky, little case only to be taken out once a year and even then not to create light but to be rubbed on the rusty runners of this ancient sleigh. He loved listening to the stories of long forgotten winters and crazy adventures of his old friend but he found the slow trickling of days until the snow arrived boring and frustrating. In the summer he jealously listened to the animated chattering of the bicycles after arriving back from exhilarating rides in the countryside and couldn’t wait for their time to come when at the cost of his own body he enabled the creaky old sleigh to zoom down the hills faster than the speed of thought, when they were admired and celebrated again together; the old sleigh proudly grinning with his handlebar and him, the piece of old wax, invisibly glued to the shabby runners.

All of a sudden the shed door opened and their friend, The Boy entered, wrapped up warm in his coat, scarf, hat and gloves, big boots on his feet with bright red cheeks and a big smile on his face murmuring to himself, “Where did I hide you, silly me.” All of a sudden a loud cry like an ancient warrior escaped his mouth, “There you are!!” He pulled the sleigh out from the far back corner of the shed, grabbed the lumpy old wax and expertly rubbed it on the tired old runners, “There you are, as good as new”, he whispered with twinkling eyes.

57

When Three Became One

by Dave Brannan

The Rifle Stanley looked through the barrel into the bright sunshine of his Lee Enfield 303 rifle for the 5th time in as many minutes to ensure it was clean; just as it had relentlessly been drummed into him during his basic training. He had it on good authority that it was reliable... if it was kept clean and well oiled. It would carry out the duty of firing rounds at the enemy when it was required to.

He had enlisted just six weeks beforehand, very much against his beloved wife’s Esther’s wishes. She was so petrified of him leaving her as she had just told him she was carrying his child. They were both delighted and really so much in love; childhood sweethearts that met on the first day of school, at just 5 years old. Esther would often tease Stanley about how he cried as his mother left him at the school gate and passed him to the new teacher, Mr. Galley, a formidable man that ‘took no prisoners’ and had the most horrendous stutter. A stutter that gave the children in their class an endless source of entertainment.

Stanley checked again for any obstruction in his barrel just in-case it was blocked.

He needed it to be working now, for the first time ever. The mud in the trenches had a remarkable ability to get everywhere.

He slipped the 10 round box of ammunition into his rifle and made it ready. His commanding officer had just given them a five minute warning they were going over the top. The Germans were just 400 yards in front of them, dug in, in what he imagined were equally brutal conditions. Surely no one could be comfortable in this godforsaken place? The cold of the winter had the bite of a thousand dogs. He felt great sadness that he was about to take the lives of the Germans. Despite this, he knew he had a duty - to come home to Esther, to his unborn child and to serve King George VI and bring him victory!

The whistle blew; 3 shorts blasts and it was time to climb the ladder out of the trench and confront England’s enemy, the King’s Enemy. He removed the picture of his dear Esther from the inside of his sodden trench coat then kissed it, promising her and his unborn child that he would be home soon. He placed it back inside the metal cigarette box and slipped it back into his inner pocket.

He climbed the ladder from the relative safety of the trench and ran forward… forward and straight into the enemy’s machine guns. His brothers around him were falling like flies. Dropping down, into the semi frozen soil in screams of agony. Surely this could not be happening, these were England’s finest.

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He pressed forward running as hard as he could, the soil giving way under his feet, it was like he was walking in jelly. He pressed on; pointing his rifle towards an enemy he could not see through the mist drifting above the poppy flowers that covered the fields. The bullets of the German’s guns seemed to whizz closer to his ears as he went forward, but he knew that death would not choose him today. He had his Esther and his unborn child to come home to, God and the King would not allow it!

He spotted a small dip with a large rock on it’s brow. As he ran for cover, he fell. His mind wondered. Why was his view of the battlefield now just grey clouds? Why were the snowdrops now landing on his face instead on the top of his tin helmet?

He let out an almighty scream as a rip roaring pain consumed him. He screamed for Esther and his mother. The pain, “My God”, the pain! He gasped for breath as the blood from his mouth spilled down his cheeks, a he mouthed his last words….

“Esther, my Esther, please forgive me!”.

The Medal Arthur stood in front of his local War Memorial as the Last Post played out. He was wearing his late father’s war medal on his right breast, as he had done every year that he had attended the commemoration; every year since the end of the War. He had never met his father; he was killed in France in the Great War whilst Arthur was nested safely inside his mother’s womb. He often wondered about his father and thought how proud he would be of him now; a very successful businessman who ran a company of over one hundred Hansom Cabs.

Despite this, he always felt something was missing from his life, something extra. He felt incomplete. Walking back home after the ceremony his mind drifted back to his father. A lone tear rolled down his cheek. In that moment he made his decision. He would be the first in line this time. ‘There is no queue for a man at the front’, he thought.

Finally he could connect with his father.

Germany had just invaded Poland and Chamberlain had declared war against the bastards. He immediately diverted to his local armed forces recruitment office, an old disused town hall. As he entered, he carefully removed the medal from his chest and wrapped it in it’s velvet cloth. The musky smell of the hall reminded him of his childhood, inside his grandfather’s stables with his cousins playing hide and seek.

There would be no hiding this time though. This time Germany would pay for his mother’s heartache, “By Christ, would they just!”

A mere four months later he was in France; fighting in a unit that destroyed the best that the German forces could throw at them. His father would be so proud.

59

The Photograph Arthur’s son Harry, swept left to right with his metal detector in the soggy, muddy field. Yet again, it was another cold, snowy and windy day in Ypres. The elements blowing in his face were akin to what he imagined a climber endures reaching for the peak of Mount Everest. Christ, it was cold. He had just six hours left of a four day battlefield tour that he signed up for online, a bargain at just two hundred pounds. It had been pretty disappointing so far. A few empty bullet casings and seriously degraded German helmets were amongst his finds.

Harry knew very little of his father or grandfather; his mother would release a few snippets of information about them here and there, normally when she would allow herself a small gin and indian tonic around Christmas time. He wished he knew more but never dared to ask. His father never returned home from France, not that he was killed. Rumour had it that he found love in a French village with a local woman and remained there. His service records showed him as absent without leave, or AWOL as they so eloquently put it.

Harry looked up, a whistle was being blown. Three short blasts. The predetermined call that the tour guide had decided upon, should the weather deteriorate enough to put a stop to the hunt. Harry, although disappointed, was looking forward to a warm shower in his hotel room and a pint of ale afterwards. He just wished the expedition had been more fruitful. He walked back towards the awaiting coach. As he did so, he stood on a large rock, not seeing that it had a small dip behind it, and fell into the icy ground. He cursed as he picked himself up, then brushed off the dirt and snow.

He reached out for his metal detector that was now a meter ahead of him. Bizarrely, it was beeping. Not just a faint beep but a very determined beep.

The coach horn blasted, letting him know that all of the other passengers were awaiting him. “Sod it”, he thought and reached into his backpack and pulled out his trench tool. He dug it into where the alarm had located the metal. As he scratched away carefully he was met with a soft grey cloth like material. At first he thought it was a dead animal. Further investigation confirmed it was a material, possibly a trench coat?

The coach horn blasted three times again. He pulled at the material yet again to reveal a silver cigarette tin shining through the degraded cloth.

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His prize!

He quickly popped it into his pocket and ran back to the waiting coach, folding his equipment as he ran to get on board. He took his seat next to an elderly woman, who rolled her eyes at him in annoyance. He rolled his eyes back sarcastically with a grin. The coach moved away with a sharp acceleration, an indication of the driver’s frustration. “Oops”, he thought but “Sod it.” He wanted to see how many cigarettes were left in the box. Just a silver box, not genuine silver, he thought but that did not matter. He eased a thumbnail into the clasp that sealed the box and it opened immediately. He was met with, not cigarettes, but a picture. A picture in black and white. A picture of a beautiful woman. Her eyes reminded him of his father’s. He studied the picture in more detail, then flipped it over and read the thinly pencilled name etched on the rear. “My Esther. X”.He leapt from his seat and screamed, “STOP THE COACH!”

61

The School at Jealous River

by Kate van den Broek

When the rain starts to fall, the man arrives.

His eyes widen at her answering the door: Em is not the one he wants. He removes his hat, a pale wrist glowing white in the gloom of the front porch against his oilskin coat.

“Afternoon, Miss.”

Em dusts floury hands together. There is a great black horse behind him, tethered to a rail, snorting, impatient at the rain. She had been making bread in the kitchen with Grace, who is everything that Em is not: neat, devout, a good cook. “She will make a fine wife for a younger son who has some land but no money”, says the Missus; prouder of Grace than any mother could be - Grace, the school’s star pupil and now teacher-in-training.

Grace’s hair coils neatly in its braids and will not escape to spiral downwards in humidity. Grace can make bread that rises in a perfect arc. Em also overheard the Missus call Grace “Too handsome for good”, worry loading her voice.

When Em first arrived she marvelled at the colour of the salt. Pink! Was everything more colourful in this country? Amazed, she had remarked that salt at home was only ever greyish white. Grace, sitting opposite at the table, had sniffed, “Of course.

Everything white from your Country: people, potatoes, rice and salt.” Em, just now making bread in the kitchen with Grace, had looked everywhere, “Where’s the salt?”

“Your eyes!” Grace, exasperated, rolled her own. “So pale. Not only ugly but useless too.” She thumped down a small pot of the pink salt collected from a nearby salt pan.

Em replied, ‘“I cannot help my eyes. I was born with them this way.”

“No indeed. But you can endeavour to control your movements. Can this be natural what you do? Your arms everywhere like this – like a windmill!” Grace crazily circled her arms, flour floating through the air; confetti around a bride. Even though her intention was to convey Em’s clumsiness, Grace’s precise deportment made her movements elegant, almost dancer-like. “And your enormous feet! The kangaroos might hear you coming from even across the river. Even three miles away! Always stomp-stomping – .”

Em was laughing when they heard the knock, her eyes were wet and blinking, their hands stuck in dough. A look connected them silently across the table. Only a stranger would knock. Anyone with rightful business knew to enter via the scullery door. With the family away and the school closed for Christmas, there was no rightful business.

Grace indicated with a thrust of her chin that Em should answer the door.

“Can I help you?” Em says to the man because that’s what she was taught.

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The rain knocks insistently on the verandah’s tin roof. Water drops fall to the ground, rolling into sandy spheres. The earth is so dry it cannot absorb the water, tiny rivers crisscrossing its surface, quicksilver on dirt. The rising smell is heady, expanding her chest; eucalyptus. The everything smell of hot earth meeting rain and the scent of the great river, out of sight; curled around the edge of the property, like a sleeping dog.

“I am come for Grace,” says the man, looking past Em, wishing her gone.

She looks down and notices heavy work boots below his suit. She is reminded of the Home. Mr Clarence, the Girls’ Superintendent, wore boots like this. Suddenly Em is wary, the hairs on the back of her neck stiffening. Perhaps it is the memory of Mr Clarence standing above her shouting, “You are dishonest, habitually untruthful, violent and uncontrolled in temper, vicious, and unclean in personal habits!” Her feet feel cold; she realises she’s wearing only her house slippers.

“Is Grace here?”. He makes to move past her, impatient.

Em glances again at his horse; such a strong animal could carry three. She holds her breath, sensing Grace behind her, flattened inside the shadow of the doorway, listening.

“How is it you know Grace?”, Em asks.

“I seen her about.” When he forgets to be polite his face lapses into a resentful entitlement. His nose is too large, and a bit off-centre but the freckles that cross it nearly make his face charming. “I thought she’d want to go into town with me.” He rocks forward on his toes looking past her. “I know Mr and Mrs Willets are away.”

“Grace aint – isn’t here at present.”

His eyes narrow against the rain, now slanting sideways. “Step aside.”

She stands churlishly in place to block him, her mind mapping possible escape routes; by the front door and the drive but his horse blocks the way, along the side path down to the river. This morning their rowboat was pulled up on the riverbank; she hopes it is still there.

Em stretches her lips into an approximation of a smile. She will not show the icy fear squeezing her lungs. She knows this fear, it used to render her insubstantial, blurred at the edges, not quite there. Today she must be substantial; solid enough to delay him.

“Grace isn’t here.”

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She senses a shift of cool air behind her, a new space opening and feels Grace running on bare feet through the rain. Em backs up against the door frame, “Tell me how you know Grace. I am new here, recently arrived from England and don’t know all the people hereabouts.” She babbles one foolish word after another, thinking how easily he could break her arm. How white the freshly broken bone might look, poking out from torn bloody flesh.

He watches her face like a cat watches prey. When he shakes his head impatiently, the unpleasant smell of him reaches her nostrils; rancid - some kind of animal fat. Em cannot conceive if enough time has passed. Where is Grace by now? Has she enough time to row to the middle of the river, halfway to their nearest neighbour? Em turns one ear in the direction of the side path leading to the river.

It’s the clue he’s been waiting for. He shoves her out of his way to take the path. Em follows. Dark rain slicks in little rivers down his oilskin. Her house slippers slide on the wet clay, struggling to keep up; as clumsy as Grace had mimed. She trips and grasps the edge of his flapping oilskin, hanging on tight to stay upright, sliding behind him. She shouts loudly to where Grace might be, “Quickly! He’s coming!”

His boots conquer the distance to the edge of the riverbank and he spots Grace down below. Shin-deep in the water, dress hitched to her hips, balancing the boat expertly to feel the current, face intent with concentration so bare toes may feel where the river bank falls away steeply to unimaginable depths, knowing the exact point to leap away onto the boat.

He slides down the red mud of the riverbank, shouting, “Stop!”, reaching to grab Grace’s red mud ankle as she scrambles aboard. His boots splash - one step, two steps deeper into the river - hand outstretched but the boat is sucked away out of his reach bobbing away from him towards the centre of the river where the current is swiftest, Grace rowing efficiently out of reach.

Disloyal boots. Mr Clarence’s boots. How could English boots know the precise spot where an Australian river is most dangerous? The man oversteps where the riverbed slopes steepest, stumbling into deeper water.

First, his boots betray him.

Second his oilskin coat, it binds around him to suck him further in, where the treacherous current swirls him into its fist. This river is greedy – always envious of the land – wanting what it has. Jealous river happy to have another.

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Third, Em betrays him. She heaves up the spare oar and anchors her toes strongly into the shin-deep shallows, the mud sucking her feet safely into place. She holds the heavy oar aloft, blinded by rain (or are they tears?) The man in the water looks different. She blinks. He is now the spectre of Mr Clarence, Girls’ Home Superintendent. She feels a surge of strength; the power of mortification, “Yes, I am violent and uncontrolled in temper, vicious, unclean!” She flexes her fingers against the oar’s weight, relishing the release of anger. She carried a weapon inside her all this time.

The man flails in deep water, losing against the current. Seeing Em brandishing the oar, mistaking her for his rescuer, he raises a face bright with hope crying, “Help me!” He sinks and rises again, arms outstretched, “Give me the oar! Save me – I beg you!”

She considers. Grace is her responsibility; Em will not allow anyone to harm her as she herself was harmed by people who should have cared for her. Yes, she could gently extend the oar to save him, or she could just let the river do its good work.

She is not slight any longer, nor insubstantial. The wet bodice of her dress rips across the armpits as she extends the oar above her head, tossing it behind her to the riverbank.

The river looks pleased, its brown currents move smugly, rubbing against themselves, like satisfied hands. “The river will take a man and never return his body.” Isn’t that what Mr Willets told her that first day here?

She feels clean and strong. Panting, she rests her elbows on her knees, looking across to the boat nearly across the river now. Grace rows, gazing steadily back at her through a curtain of rain.

Their eyes lock. Em knows they will never speak of this.

65

The Mother, the Tree and the House

by Ella De Silva

“Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner, life as you know it ends ” my mother used to say. I never quite understood what she meant so she would say to me, “Don't worry, one day you will become a mother yourself then you will understand”.

Standing in the deserted house I could hear my thoughts bouncing across the empty walls, it was as if the walls were closing in on me. Absentmindedly I gazed out through the window, it was a sunny beautiful day but the house felt arctic. I could sense the cold stare from the walls as if they were pushing me outside.The house felt blue even the red, high flamed, sun could not penetrate through the withered window.

The silence was deafening, I could not stay in this house one minute longer, I felt suffocated, I felt blue, I felt expelled.

Walking always liberates me; I dashed out of the house like I was running for dear life. The outside welcomed me with a warm splash of scorching air; it was like a slap across my lonely face. Determined not to be threatened by the cruel sun I picked up a quick pace.

After a few miles, the cruel heat mercilessly beating me from the top of my head.

Gasping cold air into my lungs but only to swallow huge chunks of warm air. I realised I could not continue to walk in the cruelty of the sun; I was defeated.

There, in front of me, a huge tree was staring, it was looking at me like it has been waiting for me; its friendly branches beautifully spread out and clothed in bright green leaves. Who could resist such a beautiful gesture? Mother nature was kind after all.

Under the most friendly tree I have ever seen, I sought shelter. The big roots of the tree protruding from the ground giving me a place to sit, I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in the fresh cold air provided to me. I cried with relief, “Thank you for the beautiful kind tree!”

The tree was kind; as if it knew what burden I carried on my shoulders. It wrapped me under its branches shielding me from the relentless heat.

Relaxed, I started a conversation with the tree; mad eh?

66

It listened without questioning, the leaves and branches swaying slowly in coordinated movement. I could imagine they were in agreement with my mad talk; me complaining to the tree on how the house was empty as my two darling kids had grown up and left. Murmuring to the tree, pouring my heart out like I'm talking to my long lost friend I winged on about how empty and cold the house was, how meaningless it felt to be there and how lonely I was in the house.

After what seemed like eternity, I realised dusk was approaching, the sun was almost losing its power. Had I been under the tree that long? Suddenly it dawned to me it was the moment I had been dreading.

Time to go back to the house.

As I reluctantly left the tree, the branches heavily weighed with all my troubles, I dragged myself slowly back to the house. Determined to leave my sorrows under the tree, I lifted my head like a new person. In the distance I could see the house, anxiously waiting for me to return.

It dawned on me I could not escape this house; it's a house full of good memories, the children were born and bred in this house. Furthermore, I thought, the children would be visiting me and the house for holidays.., for a moment I had something to look forward to. Creeping into my head were my mothers words. “Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.” Finally, I understood what she meant; the emptiness you feel as a mother when your children grow and no longer depend on you. It all goes so quickly, it's only yesterday they were born, now they are gone.

It's the end of you as a mother; a person.

I made an instant decision, I was not going to dwell on what my mother used to say, I was going to make a change; I was going to revive the house and enjoy only the good memories.

Just as quickly as I had left I used the same pace going back.

67

My Return

by Jodie Bradby

The wind was howling like a pack of wolves. I could hear the branches crashing against the window as if they were about to break through and grab what they could. I felt cold as if I were standing barefoot in snow, I began wrapping my arms around myself in the hope of warmth.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw a glow. As I turned there I saw a key, a key I had never seen before, glowing as bright as a star in the night sky. “Dare I touch it?” Yes I must...

Gripping my hand around the key a gust of wind swept passed my face, almost suffocating me. I brushed the hair away from my face to see the pages of a book. Without a second thought I lifted the book, like a magnet to my hand. Speaking the words as if I already knew them; chanting like a spell. As I raise my head the room felt unfamiliar, like the first day of school. I could not pull back the words that spilt from my mouth, nor drop the key that was burning into my palm. There was no room for my mind to wonder anymore, it was too late, “I'm going to another place. I can feel it, feel it in my bones, feel it in my whole body from head to toe.” A few seconds to spare, will I ever return?

Everything was black; everyone, everything... was gone. Wait, there was light slowly appearing? It was like light through a keyhole, getting brighter as if someone is opening a door. “I can see you”, I shouted but I was mute. I screamed ‘till I was blue in the face.

“I see you as clear as day but I am just a pixel to you. Stuck behind this screen, I long for you to touch my face as I watch you every day. You turn me on and off like a child changes their mind without a clue of what's happening inside me. I live within the T.V and I don't even know why. I’m now just a memory to you that will start to fade. I watch you float around without me, creating a life; a life we once knew together”.

“I have no concept of time but as I observe you mature, like a fine wine, I know it’s been too long. I would give nothing more than to hold you once more. I’m lost among a million pieces, like shattered glass”.

Every time I get to see you I ask, will I ever return?

Much time has gone on, everything seems bleary as if everything is being erased. I just about see you wrapping your arms around yourself. I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my arms around you like lights on a Christmas tree to keep you warm and to make you smile.

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Out of the corner of my eye I see a shadow, a shadow of a hand. Slowly I raise my hand, then hear the chants of words, words I once knew…wait wait wait… these words that once were unfamiliar, I try to pull my hand away but they burn as if I’ve been superglued. I feel the fibres of my skin resisting to let go.

I bare the thought of what I might be entering into, like walking into the head teachers office. I close my eyes resisting to look as if I were a child playing hide and seek, trying not to cheat, the temptation was larking but the fear of what I may face was crippling me as if I was broken.

I begin to feel cold fresh air suffocating me as if I were sticking my head out of a moving cars window, as a fish I open and close my mouth to catch my breath. The suffice I lay feels hard and cold my skins absorbing the moisture, as I take a moment to consider a gust of wind sweeps my up like a pile of leaves, I feel light as I travel swiftly along all of a sudden tumbling to the ground in a heap.

For the first time I’m able to feel, to feel my surroundings using all my sense like a baby entering the world. I raise my head opening my eyes, I let of a scream...I’m home I stand to my feet like a baby giraffe, taking my first few steps then running to what I know as home.

I see it clear as day, there’s no place like home. I run through the front door like a child coming in from school, shouting your name, but no one is home. I look around everything seems as it should like an original painting. Then I see it, I see the pages of the book as if I’m looking at the devil itself. Then I realise this is not home as I once knew, this is HELL… I let out a terrifying scream praying for someone to hear me but of course my deafening scream is silent. I feel so afraid, alone, lost, lost like an abandoned puppy with no way home. I ask myself how do I escape this hell hole?

I will continue to search for my way out, like a mole underground there is a path for me which I will find. I will not be defined by this source of evil. I belong out there with you. I will find away, yes I will… I just need a bit more time.

69

The Stationery Chronicles

by Mohammed Naseer

The Notebook: The Notebook sat comfortably in its place like a king in its throne. Covering the entirety of the desk, shadowing all its peers with its giant body, as big as the ocean. It demanded to be seen, for all it had to offer. Boasting of the adventures it had inscribed within itself, refusing to stay silent. The tyranny continued, as no one stood against the self-proclaimed ruler of the land.

Days, weeks and months had gone past, and there was no end in sight; then a voice echoed from afar, growing like marching soldiers approaching the battlefield. Suddenly, it appeared. Lo and behold it was a hand; judgement day had arrived. The panic froze all to silence, and then the self-proclaimed King Notebook was manhandled and opened up and ripped of its glory, leaving it naked. Once the hand had left, leaving the Notebook open, it was all too apparent that the Notebook was shallow in its claims. It had lied of its adventures, as everyone saw the pages were, in reality, all blank.

Pen: It was screaming to be acknowledged. It was a giant, like the Eiffel Tower; majestically emitting light independently to its neighbours. Full of energy, ready to fight with every ounce of energy it had stored away. Shielded by its shining black armour, hiding the sharp pointed ‘sword of knowledge’ beneath its helmet. The tales of its swordsmanship had been woven on its glimmering armour. The time had arrived for the knight to wage war! As it departed, with its sword out of its sheath, the unexpected occurred. Tragedy had befallen its enemy the Notebook. The Hand violently jerked the Pen, but it was of no use, as the once mighty Pen had no longer any life left and was nothing but a body without a soul. It didn’t take long until the Pen found itself in the grave of those once glorified; now himself a martyr amongst martyrs, in the bin.

Sticking Sticky notes: He lay like a stubborn child refusing to move, comfortably laying back like a working man after a hard week’s earning. Rumours swept the neighbourhood, which brought shivers to the battalion of sticky notepads. The soldiers at the forefront stood strong, not to let the moral of the rest fall down. However, a glimpse of hope was prevalent amongst those who stood far from danger. A shadow of a behemoth had cast itself over the sticky notepads; it seemed too early for a stride, but it seemed the attack occurred when least expected. Brazenly the first sticky note leaned forward knowing its destiny it had very little to look forward to but to leave behind its legacy… the first one to go. The Hand crudely swept away the first, crushing its fragile limbs like stepping on an ant. Then the horror followed until there was only a handful remaining.

70

Treasures

by Louise Sanderson

I look around my desk and wonder which three objects I could write about. It occurs to me that what I have on my desk is not what I would describe as objects; no, to me they are treasures, they are some of my most cherished belongings.

For starters, there is my beloved computer, this is definitely no object. My computer is perhaps my most greatest and certainly my most powerful treasure.

Through the power of my computer I can become an explorer. With just a push of a few buttons and a click or two of the mouse, I can be visiting Africa and admiring the Victoria falls during its rainy season. I could also, if I fancy it, become a time traveller. Okay, granted it’s not quite as extravagant as flying around in Dr Who’s TARDIS, but at least it’s less bumpy and you don’t need ear plugs to drown out the awful din. More importantly, I get to time travel without the intrusion of weird looking aliens. I can’t help but wonder why the Doctor seems to attract aliens, it’s like she’s a magnet. Anyway, that aside, where to time-travel to?

I could go back and watch the 2012 London Olympics Opening Ceremony. Or, how about watching the 1969 moon landing. Silly me, I forgot to mention something really important.

Whilst I don’t encounter aliens like the Doctor does, I do encounter cats and lots of them.

No matter where I go or what historical event I visit, there are cats all over the internet. It’s no secret that the rumour they are aiming for world domination via the internet is beginning to prove to be true.

Apart from my computer what else do I have on my desk? As I cast my eyes around, I smile as I notice my ornamental baby elephant. Now this is a treasure! It was given to me as a twelfth birthday gift by my mother. She gave it to me when there was just me and her in a room alone. It’s small enough to sit in the palm of my hand, so whenever I’m away from home for long periods of time, I take it with me. Whilst it’s a simple, non-expensive ornament, it’s one that has a priceless sentimental value. This too is definitely no object.

As I sip my tea, I burn my lips, as usual. Before I’ve even thought to stop myself, out come the dreaded swear words. Then it hits me, I could write about my mug. I love a good mug of tea! Apart from being warm and soothing in times of drama, it tastes good. It tastes even better when it comes in a mug from a loved one. My mug was given to me by my fiance as another birthday gift. It’s a white mug with a drawing of a fox on it. Above the fox there are two words, “oh for.” Below the fox there is a single word, “sake.” Actually, thinking about it, should I write about my mug? It is after all a bit naughty and perhaps not something you should present to the world.

“Oh what the hell!” I’m an adult and let’s face it, pens are boring.

71

The J’s Jazzy Journey

by Vincent Georgiev (aged 7)

---o0o---

In the past – What I use to be

I

s not important,

It’s How I picked myself up

To carry on

To never give up

We were all weak once

You will only get stronger -

Your mistakes are your experiences

This is your journey

Don’t live in regrets

Just live it

J

洋

---o0o---

---o0o---

Self-Sabotage

When I was young, I never had confidence...

Although I have confidence now

I still doubt my own work...

Is it good...?

Is it enough...?

What am I missing...?

Is it perfect...?

What’s wrong with me...?

All that I know is I’m worth it...

J

洋

---o0o---

Don’t let negative people get into

Your head thinking you are

Worthless,

You are everything that

You are

meant to be.

Think positive, Be happy,

Be Yourself

J

洋

---o0o---

---o0o---

We ought to be acting

As one species, one race,

One world and yet we don’t,

We divide ourselves,

Destroying ourselves thinking

We rule the planet

When we are only

A part of nature’s evolution

We need to start

Looking after our planet

For we will soon

Cease to exist

J

洋

---o0o---

---o0o---

Courage...Imperfect

As we go through life,

We experience highs

And lows

Our lows is how we learn,

Our courage will help us do that

Noone is perfect,

We all have scars

We like to hide

But these wounds can

Be too deep

Imperfections make us who we are

Lest us not judge

Or be judged and

Live life

J

洋

---o0o---

---o0o---

We have our purposes,

We’ve been put on this planet

To achieve.

We have different tasks

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73

74

75

76

Poetry

77

Poetry

by J洋

Now is the time to Reconnect with the wildlife, Making sure that humans and All Habitat can live a utopian life.

Living in harmony We are into much of our greed Some countries are in poverty.

We must band together Rather than be divided into groups We are humans living on one planet Our planet we effectively destroying Than looking after it As said by Sir David Attenborough, As we continue our destructive path, We are destroying ourselves by greed In destroying ‘our planet’ Mother nature and wildlife do not need us, We need them to provide for us.

Don’t let negative people get into Your head thinking you are Worthless, You are everything that You are meant to be.

We ought to be acting As one species, one race, One world and yet we don’t, We divide ourselves, Destroying ourselves thinking We rule the planet

Think positive, Be happy, Be Yourself

When we are only A part of nature’s evolution We need to start Looking after our planet For we will soon Cease to exist

When you are feeling troubled, with the world Making you feel unworthy...

Shut everyone out and lose yourself in Your zone...

Just walk down the river and let Your troubles flow-away...

Feeling lonely and not knowing why, Is a hard feeling... sometimes you got to Pick yourself up... put on something that Makes you feel happy and proud... ...Accomplished...

Climb those mountains and be confident, Let your troubles be left behind…

Just remember you’re worthy… ...Always…

Courage...Imperfect As we go through life, We experience highs And lows Our lows is how we learn, Our courage will help us do that Noone is perfect, We all have scars We like to hide But these wounds can Be too deep Imperfections make us who we are Lest us not judge Or be judged and Live life

Be Prepared for anything that is to come Don’t forget to allow yourself time to heal -

We have our purposes, We’ve been put on this planet To achieve.

We have different tasks That test us to the Limits.

The Gods want us to be strong And worthy for what is next to come We humans may not know But the Gods sure know And they won’t tell us Everything.

We have been put on this planet To make a difference Some or most of us have lived More than one lifetime…

Those people may be chosen To have a second chance to Live a better life, Some people may have Been chosen because Their previous lives Were inspirational, influential The gods have spoken

Remember taking risks is an opportunity, Failure is trying and learning from it Which leads to being successful.

Always keep that light of hope lit ahead Of you so you know you’re heading in The right direction.

Never lose yourself...

What is it that everyone wants?

What is it that they seek?

We have so many questions...

And yet we never answer them...

We work, we work and we work To follow the dreams we always Dreamed of...

Why can’t we... Stop!... Relax...

Just a take a deep breathe And start enjoying what’s happening Now...

We got the money, we barely spend, It’s time to answer all Those questions...

It’s time to take a break forget About all the negative in the World…

Doggies from Tim Bird

I do not confess to being the author of this amusing poem. I learnt it by heart from a friend of mine many years ago, he in turn learning it from his father before. So I felt obliged to request his permission to submit it for your book. He stated that his father had learnt it when he in turn was a boy, but the source was unknown, and so perhaps it seems fitting that the originator remains anonymous.

That aside, it has and continues to bring me much enjoyment, which is why I felt compelled to learn it in the first place. I hope it makes you smile, as well as answering that age old question…

The doggies held a meeting, They came from near and far.

Some doggies came by choo choo train And some by motor car.

Each doggy passed the entrance.

Each doggy signed the book.

Each dog unclipped his bottom, And hung it on a hook.

Now, one dog was not invited, And this sorely rose his ire, So he ran in to the meeting place, And loudly shouted “Fire!”

This set the dogs into confusion, And without a second look, Each dog grabbed another’s bottom From off another hook.

And that’s the reason why, When walking down the street.

And that’s the reason why, When doggies chance to meet.

And that’s the reason why, By land, sea or foam, Each dog will sniff another’s bottom, To see if it’s his own!

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Helios

by Tom Andrews Home thoughts from Australia

Expected at dawn She arrives on cue And rises up Turning black to blue The steady beat The rise and fall The rhythm that Unifies us all

There’s hope and joy There’s grief and despair Sometimes anger Sometimes kind care

But light brings dark And out of phase Our clocks are set To give off-sync days

These feelings we have They rise and they fall And in a way They unify us all

Across the foam Of endless waves Our loved ones sleep While we catch rays

The dark and light The shade and shine The contrast on which Our lives entwine

We close the gap At scheduled times Some time on screens Or telephone lines

So our ombréd sky May be far from home But reminds us We are not alone

It can’t replace A close warm embrace Or being together All in one place

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African Poems

by Millie Perry (aged 8)

The Nile A river in Africa long and wide.

A river in Africa that’s not put aside.

It’s the longest river in Africa and it speaks with pride.

Number 54 Start with Chad, does it make you glad?

We should go for Seychelles, it has lots of snail shells.

Let’s try Libya – if you go there, it’ll shock your tibia.

Maybe Mali, you’re quite a smarty.

Hot, Hot, Hot! Maybe don’t go if you don’t like hot but if you do give it a shot.

If you want to go try the Sahara desert but you might want to be ALERT! MR BIG BOY ELEPHANT! MR. ELEPHANT is big and mighty, he stays up at night and is very fighty.

They can hose you down with their big trunk, they’re quite a chunk!

He eats meat, he has large feet.

I have to say it may have large pooh, just not bigger than you!

Paradise Luxury hotels, lots of smells.

Very nice with my advice.

Go there go but there is no snow!

Life is great, with food on your plate.

So go, go, go, never too late, with life in Paradise!

Animal, Animal!

Zebras, giraffes, lots of paths.

Monkeys minding their own business.

Lions aggressive with fists out.

Elephants stomping around Chimps making a sound.

Animals always on their way.

Animals may say, let’s head out to the bay.

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Lol

by Brett Fitzgerald

You wait to be placed in the script again Lit up like a fulgent charm Feeling new ways Feeling a change I love that I see smile lines on your face Marks of joy You are Utopia A sunny space You remember my name The one that others forget This new normal stays I love you the same I’ll burn up the sparklers that you gave me But if they won’t catch New plans get hatched We can stay bright Today I recall my life I see your face in mine Love you always Today A new act Of a new play I’ll stay Love you always

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Autumn

by Ben Fisher Autumn leaves lay heaped on sodden Ground, naked trees that tower above Them bearing all.

Many colours mask the hillside of Browns, yellows, and oranges like the Setting sun.

Whispers of Winter crisp, in the air, Birds flying east in uniform lines in the sky.

Changing of Seasons brings the Squirrel foraging nuts for the hoard Calling pigeons and flocking crows Ascending on the rooftops and naked trees, Trees keep on swaying to the rhythmic breeze, Not long now until the big freeze.

A Symphony of Witches Eyes as water; a seeping energy fills their earthy veins, Old as their ways; elemental draw in the day, moon, and weather They have fire in their soul, shape shifting with desire.

So wonderful to love these wise women that can control your heart with a whisper.

So many frightened of a brilliant few Especially religion they deny it as true, You see they believe in the old ways; earth and sun and moon What’s not to love about magic that blooms.

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Commentaries

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2020 – 20 Years of (Intrepid) Travel

by Julie Jackson

My husband and I have been avid travellers since the day we met, and have kept detailed diaries of our exploits around the globe. In 2020 we had to accept that our adventures were to be curtailed for a while but it didn’t stop us reliving the last 20 years through my diaries, and planning where we will be jetting off to next (as soon as it’s permitted!). For the time being however, we are happy to share with you some of our memories (occasionally amusing!) of the six continents that we have had the great fortune to visit. Antarctica sadly is the remaining one un-travelled but we aim to rectify that at some point.

South America – a continent of culture and evolution I pick elements of our trip to Peru, Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands in 2016 for this reminiscence. We are doing the usual tourist things such as getting the rickety old bus up the mountain to Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca city re-discovered by Hiram Bingham in 1911, marvelling at the Peruvian multi-coloured markets and carnivals, and staying in an eco-lodge deep in the Amazon, only accessible by canoe through acres of river-drowned forest. For us though, the highlight is our exploration of the southern Galapagos Islands on an 8-berth motor yacht called the Cachalote I. The berths are comfortable but very small and compact, and once on board, we wish we had not brought our cases with us as there is nowhere to store them except at the end of the bunks – not good for my husband who is over 6’ tall. So the cases come off at night, and go back on during the day!

With the help of pangas (rubber dinghies), we are able to land on the islands and marvel at the extraordinary semi-tame wildlife: fantastic birds and reptiles unafraid and happy to share their strange world with us and we feel we almost have to tiptoe across the volcanic rock and sand rather than disturb it. I have a decent digital camera and the number of photos I take is more than I’ve ever taken before in a single trip. My husband has the smaller pocket camera as he would rather just “point and shoot”. Unfortunately though, while I am filming brown pelicans on a beach one day, he is sitting on a rock a bit too close to the sea when a freak wave crashes and he is drenched. The pocket camera (in his pocket) is as wet as he is and has to be dried in a bowl of rice by the crew. I am able to rescue the SD card but not the camera. It’s a good job I ignored him when he was berating me for packing spare cameras before we left home.

Another day we are snorkelling and encounter a lone green turtle, swimming very close to us near the edge of a reef. He does not seem fazed by us at all, and as instructed, we try to keep still while he swims lazily up and down the edge of the reef and eventually off into the distance. When back on board my husband - an avid Arsenal FC fan - remarks that he has named the turtle Theo. Amid blank stares from the group, he enlightens us. The turtle reminded him of Theo Walcott, who towards the end of his time with Arsenal, did nothing apart from drifting up and down the side!

My final shared memory is that on arrival on the Cachalote, we were given small turtle-shaped bars of chocolate. To everyone’s amusement two days later, one of our group admits that she thought it was a bar of soap and had tried to wash her undies with it…

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North America – a continent of beauty and nature I have two memorable trips to share with you for this continent. The first is a coast to coast trip in Costa Rica which we did in February 2009. The second, and probably in my favourite top 3 of all my trips, is a journey up the Baja peninsula between Mexico and California in Feb 2018.

Costa Rica is well known for its stunning wildlife and beautiful scenery. In our trip, we see as much as there is to be seen: rain and cloud forests, volcanos, mountains and deep lakes, beautifully coloured birds and not so beautiful large spiders. To start with however, we’re staying in an area called Tortuguero on the east coast. Unfortunately we arrive at the tail end of a very heavy rainy period and it is still raining and blowing a gale like we have never seen before. We have to get to our lodge via large open-sided motor canoes but as we travel along the river, we see nothing but floods and there are even cows swimming to find dry land. Those of our group unlucky enough to have suitcases at the top of the pile are going to open them to find damp clothes. When we arrive, our rooms are on a debris-strewn beach about 100 yds from the Atlantic and there is little chance of sleep given the noise we can hear of the waves, the rain and the wind. We go for a walk on the beach but we are taking our lives in our hands because the wind is so strong and there is so much detritus blowing around. But we are dry in our room at least, even if we have to keep the bags on the spare bed because the rain is blowing in under the door!

Once we have travelled away from the rainy coast and are more central, we decide to try zip-lining.

Well, I decide to try it and my husband reluctantly agrees. We climb up the platforms, are harnessed to the cable and shown what to do and what not to do. It’s quite scary and I nearly back out but I grit my teeth, launch myself off and I think it’s fantastic! My poor husband however does exactly what he was told not to and comes to a grinding halt, half way along the wire and suspended 200’ above the Monteverde cloud-forest. Needless to say he has to be rescued. And that is how it goes for all fourteen of the wires we zip along, 2 miles in total, with the last being 2,400’. Our legs are a bit wobbly by the end but it is certainly something I would do again. Not so my husband though…

One of the tastiest meals we have in this part of the world is right here in Santa Elena – grilled sea-bass in the best garlic sauce ever. Dracula would be hard-pushed to get anywhere near us that night. We aren’t the only ones of our group to have it and I suspect our bus smells rather bad the next day.

In Mexico, the main reason for doing this trip is to see the grey whales. However before we do that, we have also arranged a trip up into the mountains near Mexico City to see the Monarch butterfly migration. This however is not as good as hoped. We have a half-hour horse-ride uphill to start with. Apart from the ignominy of not being able to climb onto my horse and being helped by a guide’s hand on my rear, it leaves us feeling rather sore! It is then followed by a very slow-moving queue up a winding path. After two hours, we reach the area where the butterflies are, only to find that the authorities have since decided to stop us from going to the original view-points so all we see is an orange mass in the distance. And on top of that, we are permitted a mere 5 minutes to view before we are moved on. My photographs do not come out well.

In Baja, my expectations are exceeded. As an avid whale lover, I have been looking forward to this trip for years. These enormous gentle mammals come down from Alaska every year to give birth to and raise their young in the warm lagoons off Baja. They are so friendly and safe that tourists are permitted to go out in small boats where the engines are turned off and we simply sit and wait for the whales to come to us. It does not take long, as it is estimated that there can be up to 3,000 grey whales in the larger lagoons at any one time.

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The conservationists among you may say that humans should not touch wildlife, but my response to that is, you should try sitting there and keeping your hands to yourself when a whale surfaces right next to the boat, and waits for you to pat it. The guides tell us if we don’t get involved, the whale will simply leave us and go and find a boat that does. So we all ooh and aah and stroke these magnificent creatures, and even forget the normal desperate yearning to take photographs because all we want to do is sit in awe and marvel. The whales breach, spy-hop, flip their flukes and the mums show the babies how to come and introduce themselves to us. I have tears in my eyes, I am in 7th heaven and don’t want it to end.

Africa – a continent of desert, saltpans, big game…and mice?

My husband has long been wary of travel to Africa but I eventually persuaded him that a safari through Namibia was going to be safe enough. In February 2010, we therefore tried to fit in as much as we could in a 2-week tour, and although it was hard-going at times, it was well worth it.

Fish River Canyon, in the south, is the second deepest canyon in the world, after the Grand Canyon in Arizona. It is also the hottest place I have been, and temperatures average over 40°C during the peak season of Feb and March. The heat however is very dry, and so we do not feel like we are melting as we have in other hot, humid countries. As we sit with legs hanging over the canyon, the scenery is as you can imagine – dramatic, stark, stunning.

Further up Namibia on our way to the Skeleton coast, we stop in a wonderful lodge, built into the rocks. Having boulders as part of the furniture is a novelty but getting out of bed in the night is a hazard to the knees and shins! This particular evening, as we settle down for the night, draw the mosquito nets and turn off the light, something thuds on my pillow about two inches from my face.

It then proceeds to run down my side. Visions of huge cockroaches (or worse) immediately result in me sitting up and shouting very loudly to my husband. I’m sure I have woken up our neighbours in the next lodge. Needless to say I do not sleep at all well that night, and the mosquito net is tucked in so tightly that if there is a fire alarm we would not get out easily. In the morning I find (to my delight!) that our visitor had been a tiny mouse, hidden up in the rafters above us.

We have squeals one day from one of our group who has a “meerkat thing” and believes she has spotted one. But no, it’s a ground squirrel. She also squeals when we encounter a side-winder snake. She squeals at most wildlife actually. There is much to be seen in the game reserves of north Namibia of course: we encounter giraffes, lions, impala, rhino and there is a brief chase by a large bull elephant but surprisingly my favourite is a tiny chameleon which I only spot by accident on a huge walwitchia plant near Swakopmund, and which decides it would like to cling to my little finger indefinitely. I am so tempted to bring it home…

The townships near Swakopmund are not such a nice part of this trip. Thank goodness we don’t spend long here. We all feel like we shouldn’t be here, spying on the poor people who have to live in such hardship. It’s very interesting to see but not right that rich Europeans should stare and take photographs as some provocatively choose to do.

Our final stage of this hectic trip, after nearly a thousand miles of bumpy bus travel, we come back down to Windhoek from the northern game reserves via the luxury Namibia Express. Luxury no, and Orient Express it certainly isn’t! We are lucky enough to have the last carriage which means we don’t get anybody walking past, but we are also furthest from the dining carriage! We have to swing the wash basin over the loo to have a shower – which we can’t turn around in – and convert night-time bunks into seats during the day. Regrettably the scenery is not so dramatic and on top of that, the train breaks down several times! But it does mean we can rest for our last three days in 90 this arid country.

Asia – the largest continent on earth I cannot decide which country to talk about in Asia. There are so many we’ve seen, and so many yet to see. In the end though I have decided on China.

In March 2008, we embark on a three-week tour, trying to do as much as we can which involves several internal flights and a lot of driving. To start with however, our trip does not begin well. We are waiting to check in at Heathrow when it is announced over the tannoy that the flight has been cancelled as the BA staff have decided to strike. A long 10 hour wait ensues, until we eventually get a Virgin flight first to Hong Kong and then back to Shanghai which means that we are shattered and miss out on our first day. And no automatic flight delay compensation either – back in 2008 there was no such thing.

Our group is small – just us and two elderly ladies. This means that we can travel in comfort in a small minibus rather than a large coach, with 55 people all trying to get on and off at once, or squabbling about who has the front seat!

In China, what hits us first is the sheer volume of people. In the cities, there are mile after mile of huge skyscraper blocks of flats, all identical and impersonal and as we drive slowly past in chaotic traffic, it is mind blowing to think of the country’s population. In the countryside it is a completely different matter. Acres of paddy-fields, small villages and very friendly farmers who are happy to have their photograph taken for a few yen. We see cormorant fishing, caves, pagodas and temples, hot springs and visit the giant panda breeding reserve (where the diagrams of the artificial insemination process are a bit too graphic!), and all the while, the most fantastic scenery.

The duckling farms are not so nice considering the end result.

Cruising along the Yangtze we are privileged to see small communities that in a few years’ time will be flooded as a result of the enormous Gorges Dam project. We see ancient wooden coffins set into the caves in the gorge sides, and the people call and wave to us with brightly coloured umbrellas as we sail by.

The cable-car taking us up to the Great Wall at Mu-Tian tells us proudly that we are sitting in the very car that John Major sat in, back in 1991. The one we come back down in also tells us this. We come to the conclusion that as it is highly unlikely that we have had the same car for both up and down, each car probably has the same notice.

In Cheng Du we are treated to a true Si-Chuan meal at a restaurant where there are no other westerners. Our table is piled high with every conceivable type of food but although most of it looks delicious, it is inedible unless we wish to feel like fire-eaters. Even an Indian vindaloo would have competition with this meal. In addition, there are some bowls containing something that looks suspiciously like eyeballs.

In Huanqin we find a MacDonald’s where we treat ourselves to a (vegetarian) burger and a hot chocolate much to the bemusement of our Chinese guide. Chinese food is generally good, but we just feel like having something British!

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The foot/leg-massage we receive in Guilin is not how I imagine. I envisage a calming, gentle but firm massage, helping me to relax after a hard day’s sight-seeing. What I get however is a poking and pummelling enough to make my eyes water and I have to beg the chap to stop otherwise I will develop varicose veins. My husband’s masseur is obviously stunned by the size 11’s he has to massage. It is clear he has not seen such big feet before and will require a bigger tip.

Our final memory of this amazing country that we wish to share is the opera. My advice is if you have never been to one, don’t bother unless you have earplugs and a book to read.

Australasia/Oceania – a continent of many micro-continents with a weird feeling of home In 2011, we spend part of our honeymoon in Sydney, Australia, the world’s smallest continent. The city is fascinating, easy to get around and we spend all 5 days on our feet walking as much as we can. Whilst we are there, I celebrate my 50th birthday and we climb the Harbour Bridge. It’s daunting, especially when we are briefed beforehand and told how dangerous it can be, how steep some of the steps are, how we have to wear all-in-one boiler suits and cannot take anything loose with us (not even a handkerchief) and we will be shackled to a rail for the entire time we are there.

But once we are on our way, we love it, and only wish we had been allowed to take our cameras with us. The steps are not as steep as we thought, and the only thing that is scary is the wind which whips around certain parts and we feel that if we hadn’t been shackled, we would have been blown over. Clearly it’s the very reason why we were shackled.

Sydney also has a wonderful aquarium and wildlife centre. We spend almost a whole day in there, and while my husband coos over the penguins, I am especially drawn to a huge sunken water-tank that we can walk down the side of. From the top I can see an enormous crocodile, known as Rex. He is 5m long and seems to be asleep on a rock. We walk down the slope to the side of the pool. I peer closely into the green water and then all of a sudden, Rex’s snout is about a foot from my face and nearly gives me a heart-attack.

Australians are certainly hardy surfers – there are plenty of them on Bondi, even though in June, it is their winter. We on the other hand are wrapped up well and are quite happy just to stand and watch the surfers riding and others going under. My husband is engrossed in watching one particular lady who is not wearing a wet-suit but is instead dressed in a rather skimpy blue bikini.

Clearly he’s not watching her for her surfing ability!

Scientists seem to call Zealandia the 8th continent nowadays. In truth it’s quite hard to work out what continent the Antipodes actually incorporates but for the purposes of this travelogue, I am including it as part of Australasia.

It is 2018, my husband has finally retired this year and so to celebrate we are treating ourselves to a trip of a life-time by driving from one end of NZ to the other. Well almost. There is just too much to describe as we drove over a period of 6 weeks but I will try and pick out the highlights…

We start in the Bay of Islands in the far north west of North Island. It’s wild yet civilised, rugged, beautiful, the climate is very similar to home and we love it, though I must confess the tsunami warnings are a bit off-putting. I don’t think this part of NZ is troubled by earthquakes as much as the rest but they clearly still do have tremors however mild. Somehow I feel at home here even though I am over 11,000 miles away. I feel like this in several parts of NZ as we travel down…maybe some of my ancestors emigrated here all those years ago.

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In Paeroa we come across a roadside café where we stop for coffee and cake (something we do regularly!). I try a cream tart and it is the most delicious pastry I have ever tasted in my life, honest guv. Naturally I buy another one to take to our next B&B for dessert that evening. Naturally I forget that I put it in the fridge there and we leave it behind the next day. Naturally my husband thinks it’s funny and refuses to go back for it.

Further down North Island, is the little town of Matamata and the huge tourist attraction of Hobbiton, the film location for much of the Hobbit and the hobbit scenes in Lord of the Rings.

Carved into the hillside are the hobbit-holes and standing next to one of them, even I dwarf the round door. My husband has to bend almost double to get inside and cannot stand up straight once in. Peter Jackson called this area “a slice of ancient England”, and it is easy to see why everyone is entranced as we wander round, only mildly annoyed by a group of Japanese who love making the reverse “V” sign in front of the cameras endlessly snapping away.

We didn’t bother with the jet boat ride over the Huka Falls – both of us have dodgy backs and don’t want to risk being thrown around in white water. Instead, we settle for a nice calm ride on a motorised ketch with sails and despite threatening to throw an overbearing know-it-all American overboard, my husband, who is a fan of boats large and small, is in his element again.

Further down South, we decide we will take a prop plane ride up to the glacier at Mt Cook. I have never been so scared in my life. It wobbles, vibrates, jiggles around and basically goes in any direction but forwards. I can almost see the glacier through the bottom of the plane. When we disembark my legs are shaking so much that if it wasn’t for the fact that I am standing in over a foot of snow, would have gone over like a weeble. We take the helicopter back to the base instead.

We visit a gannet colony near Napier, high up on some cliffs and of course the weather changes while we are there. There are about 3,000 gannets all nesting there, and amid the noise, we also have beating rain and howling gales. But our guide lifts up the tail end of the truck and makes a sort of shelter while we drink hot chocolate out of flasks and ponder on how lucky we are. I’m certain though that at home we’d be tucked up indoors with the fire going and bemoaning the bad weather.

Down on the east coast of South Island, we head for Kaikoura which is a beautiful remote part of the country, but in 2016 encountered a huge 7.8 earthquake, the 2nd largest since European settlement in NZ. Compared to the Christchurch earthquake, it went largely unreported because of its location. The road and railway were destroyed, the coastline was raised by several metres and the town was cut off from civilisation for weeks. Amazingly only one person died.

Kaikoura is also where we have a good chance of seeing humpback whales. Yes, you may remember I am a big cetacean fan. Guess what – on our boat trip out to see the humpbacks, we encountered fog and had to turn back. We are staying in a fantastic B&B in Kaikoura. Our hosts cannot do enough for us and like to join us every morning for breakfast to tell us tales of how they coped during the earthquake and its aftermath. The second morning I leave my husband’s red cod liver oil capsule by his plate. When I remind him about taking it, we notice it’s gone. Our host has removed it, not realised what it is and added it to the bowl of grapes on the table.

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On an overnight trip through Doubtful Sound, we are allowed to catch our own supper with lines. My husband joins in avidly, though I must confess to finding fish writhing on hooks somewhat unpleasant. He catches a barracouta, a rather sharp-toothed beastie which is promptly gutted and used for bait. Whereupon he helps to catch blue cod and sea perch, both absolutely delicious. Lying in our bunks below water level at night with the engines turned off, we feel like we are on a water-bed in a giant water tank but it’s very soothing and we sleep well.

Queenstown is our last port of call before flying back home. It is a vibrant city, described as the world’s Adrenaline Playground. It’s certainly vibrant and youthful and although we are not adrenaline junkies, we decide we must do as much as we can while we are still able.

So we go on the luge and speed around bends at goodness knows how many miles per hour (we are not keen on wearing helmets that haven’t been cleaned after their last use though – that part was a bit yucky). We watch (only watch!) the horrifying bungee jumps and drink in the ice bar (temp of -5°C). But the piece de resistance is paragliding. My husband wimps out but I think this might be my last chance ever so I go for it and do not regret it. My legs are wobbly (again) standing on that slope, but I have my “tutor” strapped in behind me and when we take off and float down over the most amazing views, I am once again in heaven. Almost literally.

Europe - a continent of many countries There are so many countries within the vast continent of Europe that it would be impossible to list everywhere we have been and seen. And given that the majority of readers will have possibly been to the main countries in Europe, I will mention only two, both in Scandinavia that appealed to us especially.

Iceland is known as the country of Fire and Ice. It is June 2013 and we are touring this amazing country. There are 16 in our group, we are in a minibus and are stopping in B&Bs and vacant university dorms as we go, and shopping for our daily picnics. One day our guide opens a tin of what we think is fish and passes it around. Nearly everybody reels back and it turns out that it is a speciality in Iceland…rotten shark meat.

To bathe in the numerous hot pools around Iceland, one must first strip completely naked and take a cold shower, though to be fair you can wear a swimsuit in the pool itself. Why the Icelandic people agree to this I will never know but we Brits are largely more refined. Or should I say reserved and it wasn’t easy. Once in though, nobody wants to come out and it is only when our skin turns as wrinkly as an old crone’s chin that we surface.

We do see humpbacks off the coast of Husavik so I am very happy.

In northern Finland, July 2018, we are crouched or seated, both of us in a wooden hide which is about 6’ square from 7pm in the evening to 7am the next day. We have a single camp-bed, a bucket for a toilet, and a packed lunch and flasks. I can just about stand upright but my husband can’t. It is virtually 24-hour daylight, there are hundreds of mosquitos buzzing around outside so we cannot open the windows, but we have been warned not to anyway – we are still happy and excited.

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Our quarry is the brown bear. We visit three different hides over three different nights, and on each night we see several bears, adult males and females and plenty of cubs. They are coming out of hibernation and are hungry hence us not leaving the hide! Our guide has a small single hide with a viewing window at ground level, and he is lying down peering through and hoping to get a grounds-eye view when a bear ambles up and sticks its paw through the gap. Maybe it is attracted by the sound of the camera clicking away furiously. Several come very close to us and start sniffing at the window. We’re not afraid but at the same time we keep very still and check that the door is bolted!

Our third hide is much larger, built for several people and had proper bunks. The toilet facility was better than a bucket – it was a bottomless seat installed over a drop with a curtain in front. We are not worried about the privacy – there is still plenty of that, but there appears to be a gap at the top and I am worried about mosquitoes getting in. In a panic (because mosquitoes seem to love me), I wear my full anti-mosquito kit, including hat and head-net, gloves over my sleeves, socks tucked into boots and still by the morning I find I have been eaten all down the back of my leg. It must have been whilst visiting the loo – one of the little blighters has crept into my trousers. You men really don’t know how lucky you are!

The Arctic – ice, ice and more ice I had always thought the Arctic was a continent on its own, but it appears that it is classed as Europe. However our experience of this distant icy part of the world was so special that it deserves a mention of its very own.

In 2006 I became an expert in standing up in a zodiac to take photographs.

We are circumnavigating Svalbard in the frozen north – home to the magnificent polar bear - on the Prof.

Molchanov, a converted Russian research ice-breaker. It is a shame though that I neither have a digital camera, nor the photographic experience; the photos I do take do not do justice to the most unbelievable glaciers on the planet – it is impossible to describe the enormous volume of ice, or how far it extends, and difficult to believe that global warming is fast diminishing what we see. We spot glacier calving whilst we are out in the zodiacs and the noise of the chunks breaking off is like a rifle shot, with the resulting mini tsunami about a meter high and rocking our zodiac. Imagine as many shades of blue, green and white as you can, then double that and you might be close to what we are seeing.

At the first sighting of our quarry (a small dot on the horizon) everyone rushes to the side of the ship to squint at a furry white blob in the distance. Two days later we see 13 adults and 4 cubs on a beach only 40 metres away, devouring the remains of a whale carcass which has washed up. One huge adult swims very close to our zodiac and we have to beat a hasty retreat.

Another day we land on a remote island and our tour leader disappears over the brow of a hill to check for predators. Two minutes later he rushes back waving his rifle and shouting “bear here, run, run!” (he was a bit of a drama queen) and we pile back into the zodiacs at a speed to rival Usain Bolt. As we sail around the island, we see what he had been running from – a small male fast asleep on a rocky tor in the arctic sun.

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We hike up the side of a dead glacier where a thin layer of ice exists but is no longer part of the main glacier. Going up is no problem, but coming back down by a different route we wade across what looks like dry mud. Except that it is very wet mud, at least a foot deep, with a layer of ice underneath. We all lose our boots, slip over or end up face down in it. Our professional photographer goes down 4 times with the weight of his back-pack pulling him over. Try pulling yourself out and standing upright when you are laughing so much it hurts! The Russian crew are not impressed when they see the state of the zodiac when we get back to the ship!

One evening towards the end of our trip, we have a barbecue on deck. The crew have rigged up a music player and it is an incredible experience eating steaks mid-Arctic, dressed in 6 layers instead of shorts and tee-shirts. The sun is still shining and reflecting off the glaciers – and it’s 1am! 24-hour daylight is truly amazing, and when you add hot punch and dancing, and then the shout of “whale to starboard”, everything becomes unbelievably surreal.

Nothing has surpassed it yet.

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‘Stands the Church Clock at Ten to Three And is There Honey Still for Tea?’

by Gill Peacock - Beekeeper

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I am a worker bee. I belong to a large family called a colony. There are three types of bee in my colony …

The Queen Bee Her Majesty is the only fertile female bee in the colony. All the eggs in the hive are laid by her, therefore she is the mother of all the bees therein. As in most families, the children inherit the personalities of their parents. If the queen is docile, hardworking and houseproud the colony will be the same. If, however, the Queen is bad tempered, lazy and unhygienic her progeny will be an aggressive, unproductive band of ne’er do wells.

The Queen, our dear mother, lays between 1500-2000 eggs a day so ‘she doesn’t get out much!’ She is totally dependent on us bees to clean and feed her. It is a common misconception that she is in charge of the colony. In fact, the reverse is the case. Some would say, rather disrespectfully in my opinion, that she is no more than an ‘egg laying machine.’

The house bees feed her according to the weather. The baby bees require large amounts of food provided by the field bees. In bad weather, when the bees cannot fly, we workers reduce the Queens feeding so she lays fewer eggs and food requirement is reduced.

The Queen is responsible for keeping the colony cohesive; working in co-operation with each other. She does this by producing chemicals (pheromones) which circulate throughout the nest. If the Queen suddenly dies the pheromone content in the colony decreases. We know that the Queen is absent and we panic. We set about producing a new Queen by selecting a three-day old worker egg and feeding it regularly with highly nutritious royal jelly. Thus, a new Queen is miraculously produced from a worker egg and the colony can continue to thrive.

The Workers We workers are infertile females. At the height of the summer there are 60,000-80,000 of us in a colony, decreasing to around 10,000 in the winter months. As our name suggests, we are the working force in the colony. It is our duty to maintain the wellbeing of our family, More about our duties later.

The Drones The drones are our male brothers. They do not perform any duties within the hive and solicit food from their sisters. The drone’s sole duty is to mate with the Queen. They meet in drone congregation areas (the bee equivalent of a very dodgy nightclub!) and wait for a Queen to fly past. Once they catch sight of a Queen there is an undignified rush to mate with her. The Queen may mate with up to 20 drones during her mating flight. The more the merrier some might say! However, there is reason for this behaviour as a variety of mates provides a strong genetic bank and avoids hybridization with all the problems that might entail. Cousins marrying comes to mind.

You might think, dear reader, that the life of a drone is a charmed one, not so! The act of mating kills the drones immediately. A short life but a happy one. At the end of the summer the drones have outlived their use and are expelled from the hive by we workers. They will then die in the grass. Mother nature can be cruel.

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Having described my family members, I will tell you about my life as a worker bee.

My mother laid me as an egg. After three days I hatched into a larva. During this time my older sisters, the nurse bees, fed me many times a day. They continued to do this until I was eight days old when they placed a layer of wax over my cell to keep me warm and clean.

I remember the wonderful transformation that overcame me over the following days. As a larva I was a mere colourless tube only able to suck the food given to me by the nurse bees. Once I was sealed in my own little private cell (en-suite facilities not included!) an astonishing development took place. As a pupa I spun a cocoon around myself and over the next nineteen days I grew the complicated structures of an adult bee.

Gradually I developed six legs, two pairs of wings, antennae, two compound eyes and my sting. I was longing to burst out of my pupal cell and start life as an adult bee, an active part of the hive community. I couldn't wait to spread my wings and see the world.

Finally, at twenty-one days, I hatched and could now become a member of the highly organised society within my home. My family and I must work together if our colony is to survive. Every bee has her duties depending upon her age. I would be a house bee, not leaving the hive, for the first three weeks of my life. During this time my duties depend on the glandular development in my body.

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Here are some of the tasks I performed as a house bee: 0-3 days. Housekeeper Cleaning all the newly vacated cells. I moved debris and dead bees and threw it out of the hive entrance. No weekly green or general refuse collection in a beehive! I was ravenously hungry at this time so my older sisters gave me plenty of pollen. The carbohydrates and protein derived from the pollen enable my hypopharyngeal and mandibular glands to produce brood food vital for my next job.

3-9 days. Nurse Bee During this time, I was busy tending and feeding the larvae, they needed continual feeding before their cells were capped at eight days. I also had the honour of attending our Queen, our mother. With other courtiers I cleaned and fed her. She is totally dependent on the house bees for food and care. I kept to the centre of the brood nest where I was needed.

9-12 days. Comb Builder I noticed plates of wax sliding out between the segments in my underside. I found myself on the outside of the brood nest building comb with the wax produced by my wax glands.

12-16 days. Honey Manufacturer At this stage I collected the incoming pollen and nectar from the field bees. I processed the harvest, turning it into honey. I removed excess water by evaporating it on my tongue and packed it into the cells as storage for our winter food supply.

16-20 days. Guard My sting was fully developed at about eighteen days. Boy had I developed some attitude towards any invaders! I stood at the hive entrance and checked every bee who approached.

Any stranger was viewed as enemy and a huge punch up arose! My guard friends joined in and the ‘Battle of Hastings’ was ‘Tea at the Vicarage’, by comparison!

20-21 days. First Flight Great excitement! My career as a field bee was about to begin. Before my first flight, I needed to know how to get home after working in the fields. I stood at the hive entrance and flew up and down in a spiral fashion looking around at all angles. Once I memorised the position of my home in relation to all the vegetation and other structures, my life as a field bee began.

21-42 days. Field Bee My role for the rest of my life was that of a field bee foraging for nectar and pollen in plants and water from anywhere.

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The following plants provide my family with the nutrition they need:-

Spring

Summer

Late Summer - Autumn

Snowdrops

Many garden flowers

Evening primrose

Crocus

Sycamore

Old man’s beard

Hazel

Horse chestnut

Michaelmas daisy

Yew

Hawthorn

Ling

Willow

Oilseed rape

Ivy

Dandelion

Bluebell

Rose bay

Blackthorn

Thistle

Willow herb

Currants

Lavender

Top fruit - apple, pear, plum, cherry

Bell heather

Runner beans Blackberry Lime

Initially as a young field bee, it was my job to find a good source of food and water and direct the other field bees to the appropriate area. I did this by performing a waggle dance in a circulatory fashion, indicating the type of forage and distance and direction in which they may be found.

At six weeks old I am approaching my final days as a honeybee. My wings are tattered and I am growing tired. I will soon leave the hive and not return; but content in the knowledge that I have been a diligent member of our wonderful society.

I will have literally worked myself to death.

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Taking an Allotment

by Jenny Haines December 2020/January 2021

I’ve taken an allotment in Cley Lane, close to the town of Watton, which lies at the heart of the county of Norfolk, on the edge of the Brecks. Its name predates the Doomsday Book.

Having returned to the United Kingdom, the place of my birth, in 2015 my future was to find a home in Norfolk. I found Saham Toney, a community that had a local handbook with information on all the local events and activities known as the ‘Saham Saga’; produced by Barbara Harrold, the St.George's Church Verger.

I responded to the notice for people to take plots at the Allotment.

Saham Toney is a community consisting of established residences, with lots of support from families and friends. This was much needed at this time in my life; to be able to enjoy the surroundings, develop a home garden and now, so fortunate, to be allocated Plot 14!

My plan was to plant vegetables and flowers, and after a while Plot 18 also became available where I had space for a fruit cage. Knowing that the strawberries and raspberries thrive here I undertook to give this a go, finding a handyman to build the cage. This gave protection to the plants and pleasure awaited me of harvesting the fruit.

Days were spent digging, improving the soil, planting and generally tending the plot. Results were forthcoming; best of all the taste, these are the literal ‘fruits of our labour’. Another joy was getting to know other plot holders and sharing the problems and joys of small holding.

This is a place where nature comes alive and rewards one for the labour given in sowing and nurturing the soil; the excitement in ordering from the catalogue, planting, tasting one’s own crop, the colours and smell of the flowers and herbs, the sunflowers reaching for the sky, hollyhocks, mint, rosemary and lavender all responding. It was wonderful to see the small Oak take root; one day it will give shelter to the ground around and provide much needed fruit for the animals.

It is a gift to have the ability to work an allotment, having so admired the work of my parents in years past on a commercial farm. I then worked in the forests of Queensland to develop and use the fruits of those forests for the betterment of industry.

I will always be grateful to be allocated a plot on an allotment in Saham Toney, Norfolk.

“One is nearer God's Heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth.”

Dorothy Frances Gurney 102

Dear Me at Sixteen

by Winsome Webley

Ladies, gentlemen, grandma’s and grandpa’s.

I wish I knew these things when I was your age, I would have offered you advice before.

I would say be positive, affirm yourself every morning and every night.

Positive thinking, positive life. Practice gratitude, love, live and laugh, Enjoy the beauty of your youth, it fades eventually.

Each of us teaches each other but we need to have that determination to exist.

Don't worry about fitting in, take one day at a time.

Every moment is precious, sixty seconds is one minute.

Yesterday is gone and tomorrow may never be mine, So every moment counts, make the most of your youth.

You can win the race, it is important that you keep that positive thinking.

Trust yourself, be alert, look ahead at the finishing line.

Time is precious so minimize negative self-talk.

Look into the mirror, enjoy what is staring back at you, that's your future.

Tell her you love her and accept yourself.

God made you.

Tell yourself you are strong, brave and a force to be reckoned with.

The long term benefit of positiveness is success.

Don't worry, you are not there yet.

Keep your focus, you are doing well and breathe!

Yes! that’s your body, let them be jealous and continue to admire you.

I tell you; eat well, exercise regularly and get plenty of rest.

My greatest concern is my parents.

They are fearful, asking what if I fail?

But how can I? I will accomplish anything I set my mind to But you must remember Positive Affirmation is the key to success.

I will remember to go to bed early, sleep is important.

I asked myself, why didn't you?

Enjoy the power of your youthfulness.

A magnificent life is ahead, just trust your journey.

It will be incredible, nothing is impossible.

Just remember; you are a beautiful diamond that shines bright.

Don't worry about the future, continue to move forward.

Choose faith over fear, choose to be positive.

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What are the Secrets to a Language?

by Elzabe Santos (nee Nel) June 2020

What are the secrets to a language?

Words? Sounds?

No …. it is so much more than a random jumble of words and sounds. It captures the essence of the native speakers, their passion, their colloquial expressions, as well as their culture and history. Speaking more languages indeed enriches your life and experiences, you have more choices when reading or watching documentaries or other productions, as well as being able to communicate with a wider spectrum of people. Another reason is, you can read the original text and not rely on a translation, where the essence, the feeling and the implicit references are sometimes lost.

Growing up in South Africa, my mother tongue is Afrikaans. English is my second language, though I have been using mainly English and Portuguese for the last thirty-odd years. My sons spoke both English and Afrikaans until we moved to Portugal. At the time I decided to drop Afrikaans from their language skills, seeing that they would be schooling in Portuguese and living in a country where they had to speak, read and write a new language. I still speak my mother tongue and since I have reconnected to my family in South Africa, I find that I have not lost my ability to communicate effectively in Afrikaans.

I am sitting at my desk in an English town, looking out on a rainy garden and a glistening wet street while listening to a South African artist, singing one of his compositions. I realise that even if my sons could still understand the language; they would miss out on so much of the richness contained in it. It is so much more than words or ideas; it conveys the culture, the traditions, customs and history of a nation. If a person is not familiar with all those, they cannot understand a lot of the concepts, principally the colloquial language and regional expressions. This specific song made me remember so much about my life and the people living in my country.

I remember the days of soft, penetrating, continuous rain in February, soaking the rich, dark soil, ready for the winter crops to grow and bear bountiful fruit. The smell of fresh, homemade pancakes, oozing sugar and cinnamon is a part of rainy days in South Africa (thinking about it, that would be most days in England).

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The making of South African peach brandy, called “mampoer”, is part of the culture and heritage of the country. Certain regions are famous for their copper stills, like Marico. The stills have helped farmers survive periods of drought or other disasters affecting their crops and causing economical adversities. A reference to ‘railway peaches’ transport me to another era, another life: long trips on trains, pulled by steam locomotives, packed food. including fresh fruit. Stones of peaches and other fruits, discarded through the windows, sprouting new trees, bearing fruit next to the tracks. The cycle of life.

Another song from a different artist, mentions a certain brand name, a household name in South Africa, but not in other countries. Should I ask for a drink, “karate water” in a British pub, the request would not be understood, even though it is a brandy with cola. Even English songs, written and performed by South Africans, can lose meaning and context when it refers to some exclusive South African custom, event, history or location.

I am sure that all languages have the same richness and depth, conveying so much more than just words. Thinking about some expressions and their origins, it became clear to me that just knowing how to speak a language is not enough, you miss out on so much of the essence, the implicit referrals and detail being expressed.

Language communicates the passion, the tribulations, raw emotions, turmoil, love, conflict and joys in the life of a nation… if you are privileged enough to understand and feel what is transcribed in those words

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Brundish; a small hamlet in Suffolk

by Pat Adams December 2020

I live at Newton’s Farm, Brundish, a small hamlet in Suffolk, with my dog Robbie, a Golden Retriever. I have the privilege of being surrounded by open countryside where various crops are grown, wheat, barley, sugar beet, peas and rape, lots of ditches and hedgerows; I would like to tell you about the animals and birdlife I see most days on my and Robbie's daily walks.

It is December with cold frosty and rainy days and the birds are working hard to find food. Today I saw 8 blackbirds foraging amongst the leaves for grubs and seeds, 4 bluetits in the lilac tree feasting on the new buds, 2 large rabbits, no doubt after my shrubs and edible flowers, wagtails babbling about in the gravel, my robins which stay close to the house going from tree to tree for food.

Some days we see a small herd of Roe Deer which have several young ones, living in a copse very near. They have plenty of food from the crops which have already began to grow. One day we saw a large flock of Field Farm which was very good, as I had not seen so many for a few years.

The sky is always full of bird life, be it a flock of pigeons or seagulls looking for the ploughed field to feed off the grubs, and the visit of the Green Woodpecker after the ants’ eggs; a permanent visitor for 2 or more years. My small orchard is always a place for birds and small creatures to feed off the fallen fruit.

I look forward to the Spring when the Sky Larks will fill the air with song, and nest in the field only 100 yards away So how lucky I am to be part of their world getting on with their lives. How wonderful is nature.

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We’re OK … a letter to my teenage self

by Barry Gransden

Now put your guitar down, pretending to be Crosby, Stills or Nash, and have a listen.

What is going on? Well, here I am (you in the future) talking to you (me in the past) with half a century between us. Please be assured that I will go lightly on details of the gap – so, no spoiler alerts necessary. Instead, I want to encourage you, indeed, applaud you.

The gap has not been a bed of rose petals, but it has not been a mattress of cactus thorns either. However, the precious stone in your life right now remains. Yes, the same person. A truly inspired choice you made – I am most grateful to you. As childhood sweethearts, you are both strong and determined to succeed as a couple, despite external attempts to derail you – static interference! 46 years ago, I married your girlfriend and my love for her has surpassed any expectations you dare to have. We have enjoyed the patter of tiny feet and a couple of decades later, the patter of even tinier feet – you will love it all, trust me!

Your Christian faith, relaying on to me, has stood the test of time. As I recall, strength of conviction is a real challenge for you and, 5 decades on, me too. Lord, I believe – help now my unbelief.

Of course, the gap needed financing. At 20, you are studying away from home, and your chosen career in teaching has stood us very well indeed – again, I applaud your choice. Getting paid to pursue one’s hobby is an oversimplification, as there have been times of considerable challenge. However, our inherited value system has equipped us well. The thrill of the learner ‘getting it’ and then ‘running with it on their own’ continues to inspire me and, although I have been retired for 5 years now, having had a very full life in the world of education, I have yet to hang up my stick of chalk – where?….now that would be a spoiler alert!

Beyond family and education, our love of sport and music has unsurprisingly endured.

In football, cricket and rugby, our domestic allegiances have remained steadfast, although on the international cricket stage a reconsideration will take hold. Our love of harmony has continued to grow with new as well as a retained interest in US west coast music. Indeed, ‘harmony’ has been a vital contributor in every aspect of our life – appreciating the individual, but then being the architect of the coming together.

A closing thought - I recall a song written by Michael Lennon – a singer/songwriter from LA. In this song, he speaks, as a parent, to his own parents who have long since passed on. Understandably the song has its sad parts, wishing his parents could see, speak with and love his own children, but it concludes with a note of comfort and optimism, assuring his parents ‘We’re OK’. Whilst our unfinished gap of 50 years has had its highs and lows, with kith and kin playing their complexity of roles, I want to say to you – you and me……..we’re OK. 107

The Novel Within ...

The Novel Within …

Jackdaw We asked six writers to each write a chapter of a novel. The first chapter was written and then passed to the second writer and so on.

No-one knew where this was going ... until it got there.

We hope you enjoy this novel within the book.

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Jackdaw Chapter One

by Andrew Reston

Ping!

Another message from the University group. Encouraged to join after another failed New Year resolution to ‘get his shit together’, he had hoped this might have led to a resurrection of the all-night parties and hopeless crushes at Trent.

Instead.

GIFs of surprised cats falling off sideboards, feeble blogs railing against another corruption scandal, stomach churning porn (an offshoot group) and most disturbing of all, forwarded articles to make early provision for your pension. “Never too early to start” “Too late at 30”.

Who would be brave enough to leave the group first, he thought knowing the answer? Only a matter of time before he sent one off-hand comment to the wrong person at the wrong time. He had capacity for self-delusion but even he was aware his easy-going manner had lost its charm. They had all changed. Especially him.

Alicia would have had a plan for this weekend. Endless enthusiasm, ideas, passion. If she was still alive, they would have run 10k by 8; bagels with honey by 9; shopping by 10, galleries, films in the afternoon, obscure but brilliant comics and gigs by night or a succession of friends. Or just talk. And boy she could talk. It used to get on his nerves. Not quite that. He used to worry that it got on other people’s nerves. And she had an opinion on everything. Why do you always have so much to talk about? Why are you speaking to the lady in the queue, you don’t know her. You’re not in Bolton now. “A sweet disposition” my father said at the memorial. Coffees and words of comfort for the homeless. Even bus drivers would smile as she flashed her Oyster…her line not his. But he repeated it often.

He ached to hear her voice.

“She’s gone now, Ben. Move on”. The voice of his older sister mainly but he could see it written large behind the expression of his dwindling number of friends.

He ignored the phone and went out with a black coffee to his balcony and called out for Jack. The constant rain of the past week had ceased but the skies still threatened. Ominous from the west. “Come on Jackie boy”. He used a tone he didn’t use for anyone else. Softer.

Higher in pitch. He was tone deaf but it was his attempt at musicality.

Nothing.

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He used to joke that in the halcyon days of lockdown, Jack was his only friend. Never judged him for smoking weed and reading books when he should have been in the kitchen chasing up solicitors for signatures, verifying mortgage applications, attending ‘virtual’ socials. Jack would look at him patiently. Straight in the eye. “I understand” Jack told him. “You’re not perfect but you’re OK. You can be good. You feed me. I think you even love me in your own way. I’m a jackdaw and you’re a human being but that’s OK. We rub along fine. I think we’ve got more in common that you think”.

But he had noticed that since that final coronavirus spring, Jack was different somehow.

Smarter, less ruffled. More mature. Stronger in flight. Visited him less often. More resilient.

Independent. And did he see him last week flying with someone else? Is that a twinge of jealousy?

The weekend stretched before him. No reason not to go out. Was he hearing the voice of Samuel Johnson’s? Or was it Alicia? Join the boot camp in the park; brunch at Fabio’s, baked beans in a ramekin and a sprig of parsley. London had come alive again over the past six months and although darker and colder days, it was again noisy, suffocating, hectic, the occasional swagger rubbing shoulders with a crushing awkwardness. Special. The swarm of faces avoiding eye contact.

Not like Jack.

“Where are you Jackie boy?”

He placed a handful of seeds on the ledge, turned back inside and did a desultory tidy-up with his Joy Division oven gloves. His last birthday present from Alicia.

Before she disappeared.

He picked up a phone to put on a bet for the evening card in Dubai. Another useful hobby which had blossomed during the pandemic and had continued since in earnest. A new language learnt. Accumulators, trebles, the Yankee, the Heinz, forecasts, combinations.

Endless possibilities. “El Loco” tomorrow at 2:15 in Buenos Aires caught his eye. He decided to wait. “Unless you have local intelligence, don’t go too early” a wise man had once told him.

In Wetherspoon’s.

He glanced at the missed message. He wondered whether if he deleted without even opening, that could be known by the author. Did he even care? But there was no message on the ‘Trentacles’ group. No emails, messages, WhatsApp, nothing. Ben felt relief.

But there was a voicemail. Unknown number. Bound to be a call centre. He was going to bin it but casual curiosity made him press ‘play’. Could it be Jake finally allowed out by his girlfriend to watch the early kick off at the Star and Garter?

An automated message. Robotic.

“Ben, Ben, please answer the phone. Its Alicia Ben, please help me”.

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Chapter Two

by Andrew Chatfield

The city beyond the balcony window flicked to mute. Dissolved into nothing, as if deactivated by a shock command. “Alexa, turn off Clapham.” The dark October sky. The rattling stock at the Junction. The perfume of bacon from Stanley’s Sarnies two floors down. Instant retreat.

Supernova. Vacuum.

Ben’s universe was now just a chorus of what sounded like hyenas in his skull and a galloping drum beat in his chest. His heard himself speaking. “El Loco. Thirty-three to one.

Likes the going firm.”

Then his legs gave way.

The jolt of parquet on lower spine reactivated London for him, only brighter, louder than before. The stench of grilling pig. He sucked in air, trawling for oxygen from the chill breeze pouring in from the still half-open sliding door.

He reached for the phone which had cartwheeled under the table. Its screen had cracked in the fall but still responded to his dancing thumbs. Two more breezy pings. A missed heartbeat. But it was only two more ‘Trentacles’ banalities. Swipe, swipe. Why the hell had he joined that group? His uni peers had devolved into idiots.

He reopened the call log.

Voice message left at 3.27am. Unknown number. Deep breath.

Play. You have one saved message. Beep. Pause. Her voice. Exit. Play. You have one saved message. Beep. Pause. Her voice.

No number. No callback option.

A train sounded it’s horn somewhere.

“Unless you have local intelligence, don’t go too early.”

A shake of the head. “Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben.” He was the idiot.

For a moment there, he’d been one of them. The death deniers. The widows flocking to the séance for a mediated chat with hubby Harry or collie-cross Cookie. His own Gran, telling his 10-year-old self that Grandpa was that star in the sky, looking down on them all. The sunken-eyed parents on local TV chanting their annual catechism - “We still believe she’ll just knock on the door one day” - 25 years after little Evie evaporated from that caravan park in Norfolk.

That wasn’t him. “The Sultan of Cynicism,” Alicia had once christened him, with a look that was not as nonchalant as she had wanted.

That wasn’t him. And this wasn’t her.

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His rational mind raced for answers. It was a recycled recording. An extract from one of those plays she did at Trent. Or poetry readings. A snatch of a lyric she was trying out for an open-mic night. She had used his voice recorder to learn lines, hadn’t she? It was a digital regurgitation, freakish but possible.

Or a prank. A shitty gesture from some sicko ex of hers, who probably didn’t even know she was dead. (Who was that tosser who kept sending her letters long after she moved in with him? Letters, FFS!) Conjuring the voices of the dead? No problem. There’s an app for that.

There’s an app for everything. Probably called ‘Reinkarnation’. Or ‘Still ‘Ear’.

Or it was simply another woman called Alicia. Pleading to another guy called Ben. It was a million-to-one coincidence. It was cruel and it was bizarre. But it was what it was.

“She’s gone now, Ben. Move on.”

But even as these narratives tickertaped through his head, memories were lining up with the unstoppable efficiency of a military parade. From the left, in marched the ranks of questions he’d hurled through sobs at that poor police liaison officer six years ago: “How do you KNOW she was on the plane? Would YOU trust Spanish passenger lists? WHY has the search been called off?” From the right, selected scenes from 101 nightmares since she vanished, the worst fuelled by his Covid fevers. Alicia clinging to a giant teddy bear in waves the height of St Paul’s. Alicia’s body, draped in a torn evening gown, twitching on a rocky shore. Alicia’s shadow on the bedroom ceiling, her outstretched arms mutating into the wings of some giant bird of prey as she whispered over and over again: “Sorry, Benji, I’m so, so sorry.”

He played the message again. God it sounded like her.

He got up and went to the kitchen. He put another 100% Colombian pod in the bright red Tassimo and stood head bowed as the machine buzzed and gurgled. The head hyenas were coming back and he suddenly felt he might vomit. The machine fell silent and the last of the coffee ebbed out. Drip. Drip. Drip.

What now? She’d always been the one to make decisions, to get things going, to organize him.

He should call the police and his dad and his sisters.

He should drive round to Jake’s and scream.

He should lob a grenade into the Trentacles chat: Erm, anyone else had a call from Lish?

No, he should take the phone to Steve at Tech-Check and tell him to pull it to pieces and explain what the hell was going on. ‘Excavations’, Steve called his repairs, when they were purely mechanical. He had another word for sorting out bugs and viruses. Exorcisms. “Just call me the exorcist, Benny boy.”

Yep, Steve was his man. He downed the coffee in two gulps and grabbed his jacket and keys.

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A noise in the living room halted him. A rustling. Then a bang. Glass shattering.

He stepped through the doorway.

On the floor to his left, face up, lay the framed selfie of Alicia and him at that jazz gig at Somerset House, its glass splintered on the yellow rug.

Even the sodding wind was trying to spook him. He shut the glass door to the balcony, turned and knelt on the rug. He shook the shards from the photo and held it up. There they were, Ben and Lish, the couple of the decade. The tops of their heads were tilted inwards, just touching. Her curls obscured part of his left cheek and eye. Alicia was in the middle of saying something, as always. He was laughing.

“What’s going on, kiddo?” he heard himself whisper to the woman in the picture.

The answer came in a high-pitched cackle directly above him. Then another. He toppled backwards and felt a piece of glass puncture his palm. He swore and looked up. On the top of the bookshelf, where the photo had been, sat Jack.

The bird jerked its head in tiny movements but its jet-black eyes remained fixed on him.

“Jackie boy, what you doing in here?” said Ben, trying to sound calm. The bird held its stare.

“It’s all good, Jack lad, it’s all good,” murmured Ben as he slowly got to his feet and gently reached out his hand. The room exploded in a fusillade of cackles and black feathers as Jack swooped over his head. A wing brushed his hair. Instinctively Ben grabbed it with his bleeding hand, but the jackdaw struggled free.

The cackles were now a piercing, constant “AAARRRR” as the jackdaw circled the room in loop after loop. Ben scrambled to the sliding doors and wrenched them open. “Here Jackie boy, here boy,” he shouted from the floor to the screeching blur. Another circuit and another.

On its fifth or sixth pass, its wing caught a vase Alicia had made at pottery evening class and it followed the picture frame to the floor, smashing loudly. Full avian panic now. Its calls rose in volume as it circled with greater and greater speed, skirting the walls in a great arc, dislodging a poster, smashing a lamp, billowing the curtain.

Then, as suddenly as the chaos had erupted, it subsided. That intelligence he had seen in the bird seemed to suddenly activate. It dropped to the table, sat in silence, gave him a final stare and in one swift move relaunched and darted over his head and out into the autumn morning.

Ben slammed the glass door shut and lifted himself to his feet. Hysteria was starting to seed in his belly and it sprouted into a stifled scream when he saw the three jagged red parallel smears on the curtain. It was only when he looked down at the dripping wound on his palm that he worked out why they were there. The bird had been bathed in his blood when he grabbed it, and decorated the cream curtain with its wing tips as it flew past.

He staggered to the kitchen and put his bloody palm under the tap.

And then his phone rang.

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Chapter Three

by Lynn Andrews What was she thinking? What was wrong with her?

Ever since those wretched lockdown years, Jodie had schooled herself to 'be nice', 'be kind', but this now daily mantra was beginning to grate. Why did she always allow Seth to wind her up? He knew precisely what he was doing of course; that by goading her he would force her to lose her temper and lash out, verbally.

He'd done it again and now she felt bad. The same old pattern.

Being 'locked' inside with someone 24/7 (apart from the hourly exercise that they had 'allowed' to take back in the early COVID days) she supposed would be a strain on relationships and particularly one that was relatively new when the whole pandemic had struck. They had both been so sure that moving in together would be a good idea; for their relationship.

been most thing good

Well Seth had been very certain about it, for sure.

Of course, back then, they thought the pandemic would all be over in a matter of months, no one had imagined that it would last beyond that first year, that so many variants would prolong the interminable rules of separation. Now, two long years later, life was very gradually returning to a kind of norm. Winter was around the corner and nights were drawing in again.

She and Seth had met through an online dating agency. Although not her usual type, and aware of how shallow she sounded when excitedly describing her new man’ to her friends, she had been totally captivated by his profile shot. Not that he was a classic 'looker' but his dark unruly hair and those deep brown eyes had her entranced from the start. The two of them had hit it off straight away; “a fizzy chemistry”, and within weeks they were 'an item', and the rest was history, as they say. Cassie and Ben, Jodie's younger siblings, who had seen her crash through a succession of failed relationships had appeared to be pleased that she had found a ‘keeper’ in Seth: they had seemed genuinely glad to see her so happy.

But that was back then.

Did she now detect that their communications with her had diminished somewhat? They used to share long, chatty calls at weekends and would sometimes even include their Dad, Patrick - though he was never a good listener. Even he seemed less inclined to call these days. If her Mum had still been around she would have called; Jodie could have confided in her, expressed her niggling doubts, but not to the others. Especially not Ben. Since Alicia's disappearance, Jodie had found it hard to properly connect with Ben - sure everyday banter was fine but not the emotional stuff. She worried about Ben in the way that old sisters do.

Even now, at times, he seemed fragile, still vulnerable. If only he could find someone else.

But, thinking back to last night's row, Ben was not her top concern right now. No, she had 114 her own troubles.

So, here she was, stuck. What to do?

Maybe she should appease things this morning by suggesting a joint activity together; take a short drive for a leisurely walk through the forest trail with the enticement of a coffee at the new pop-up cafe, maybe? Seth's long working hours, now that the airline's London head office was open again, offered him little opportunity at this time of year to be out and about in daylight hours. Maybe that was what was making him so tetchy lately?

Flights to Spain, as with anywhere else, had been badly affected until the various vaccines had come to the rescue of all would-be travellers. And now, once more, the skies were criss-crossed with folks jetting off to foreign climes. Being a native Spanish speaker, she imagined Seth's position within the airline was pretty secure. Seven years working for the same company - this almost smacked of failure these days! He didn't talk to her about work much. He said he liked to separate his work from his homelife.

Infact, Jodie had only ever been introduced to two of Seth's colleagues; at the 'works Christmas do' - the last social event before the first lockdown. Matias and Felipe had been polite and courteous but she sensed that, even after a few beers, they were holding back; seemingly a bit cagey when she gently probed and asked them teasingly to "dish the dirt" on Seth. Had she detected a fleeting glance, an exchange, between the two of them? They certainly managed to change the subject pretty sharpish, she had noticed, and bizarrely she had found herself being schooled on the odd traditions of the 'La Tomatina' festival - to them, an amusing Spanish custom, apparently! Maybe, since this was not their first language either, like Seth, they didn't always quite understand the nuances of the English language. Nevertheless, the encounter that evening had stayed with her and ever since, whenever she enquired about work or how these two colleagues were, she sensed Seth’s reluctance to involve her and so, eventually, she had stopped asking and accepted that this was a part of Seth's life that she was not entirely privy to.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted - she heard the metallic clink of keys in the door.

Seth strode in and nonchalantly tossed the weekend post on the kitchen work top, flicked the kettle on and slumped onto the sofa, head buried in his newly purchased Saturday newspaper. Not a look in her direction. Not a sound. He was still sulking.

Angry with him already and, contrary to her early plans to smooth the waters, Jodie joined in with the frosty silence. She feigned interest in the 'Breath' magazine her friend Zena had recommended - Jodie wasn't even sure what the publication was supposed to be about!

And wasn't it's title somewhat ironic, she mused, considering the number of people still suffering symptoms of Long COVID? In a further act to annoy, in what even she considered to be rather childish retaliation, Jodie reached for the TV controls. Volume, LOUD! The voice on news bulletin penetrated the still, quiet of the room; it’s subject matter caused both of them to look towards the screen, in unison.

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Chapter Four

by Becci Andrews “Also in the news tonight, more details are emerging about the recent breakout from one of Europe’s high-security prisons. The BBC has obtained exclusive footage of what appears to be large explosion at the south-west corner of the facility on Tuesday night. French security services have not publicly disclosed how many prisoners were able to escape, but this footage shows that at least ten were able to exit the building through the hole left by the explosive device. We go now to our European correspondent, John Yates. John, are there any indications yet of what caused the explosion?”

Seth’s attention snapped from the TV to Jodie. “You never watch the news, why can’t y-” “Shh,” Jodie strained to listen over Seth’s complaints.

“Seriously, wh-” “Shh. Shush. Shut up.”

To her surprise, Seth actually stopped talking. Maybe he could sense the ice that had dropped into the bottom of her stomach. He turned to watch too. The news was replaying the footage now, this time in slow motion. The commentators were focusing on the site and source of the explosion, but Jodie was more interested in the outlines of the escaping prisoners. One figure stood apart from the others before sprinting off into the darkness. She wasn’t sure if it was the way they were standing, or the gait of their run, but one clear and inescapable thought was ringing loud in Jodie’s head.

It was Alicia.

She paused the screen and stared at the few dark pixels. It couldn’t be. It didn’t make any sense. Alicia had died six years ago. No - she hadn’t died, she had disappeared, Jodie reminded herself. The ringing in her head was growing louder now. She fumbled for her phone and with trembling fingers called Ben. ****** The clattering of his phone vibrating against the floor made Ben jump. He was still trying to calm himself from the shock of Jack’s intrusion but as the jangling of his nerves slowly subsided, the pain in his hand became ever sharper.

“Shit.”

Standing at the sink, he looked around frantically for his phone and grabbed a towel to stem the bleeding. The clattering continued, sounding urgent. His heart thumping, Ben found the phone where it had skidded under a chair and answered it without looking at the cracked screen.

He froze. Lish, is that you? He didn’t say it.

116

He felt disappointed in himself. Months of therapy wasted. Countless hours had been spent imploring with a stranger over zoom as the pandemic raged, gently trying to suppress his unresolved expectation that she would simply call, or else walk back into the flat, laugh and explain this all away. But it couldn’t be her. She was dead. Or if she was alive and was cruel enough to put him through this torture, he didn’t want to be with her anyway. Yes. That was true. That was the conclusion he had come to. Eventually.

A voice crackled through the silence.

“Hel- Hello? Ben? You there?”

He breathed again. It was only his sister - checking in on him again, no doubt.

“Yeah sorry Jodie, I’m here. What’s up?” He could hear the tension in his voice, knew it was higher than usual.

“Um. This is going to sound kind of crazy…” Not crazier than the last twenty minutes, thought Ben. “Have you seen the news today? About that explosion?”

Ben frowned. Jodie sounded serious, her voice carrying no trace of the usual lilting pity that she used when checking up on her little brother.

“No? What’s going on?” He heard her hesitate and felt annoyance rising. “Jodie?” Spit it out, he thought. I’ve got enough to deal with here.

“Well there was some kind of explosion. At a prison, I think. In France. A bunch of people died, mostly prison officers...”

Ben had stopped listening. What did this have to do with anything? Drops of pinkish-red were splattering on the floor by his feet, and he could feel a rivulet of warm liquid snaking down his arm inside his jacket. He grabbed another tea towel from the side and returned to the sink. As he idly tossed his phone down on the draining board and hit the speakerphone button, he thought he heard Jodie say something.

“Hang on, say that again.”

“I think it was Alicia. I think she escaped from that prison.”

Twenty minutes later, Jodie knocked on his door. He had managed to sweep up the broken glass and shards of pottery, and the plaster on his hand finally seemed to be sticking. She looked frazzled, her hair still tousled from bed, her jacket slipping off her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said as soon as he opened the door. “I don’t want to bring up any old emotions. But I don’t think I’m wrong about this.” Her eyebrows were knitted together with guilt but there was a determination behind her eyes that he rarely saw. Wordlessly, he nodded and moved aside to let her into the flat. She strode over to the TV and started looking for the remote, scrabbling under the coffee table.

“Hang on, hang on, I haven’t even put the kettle on yet!” Ben laughed mirthlessly in a voice that was not quite his own. “Tea?” Jodie ignored him. He didn’t know why he was trying to lighten the mood. That was usually her role, trying to protect him from the turmoil of emotions that came from confronting reality.

He supposed he was trying to do the same thing now.

117

Jodie had found the remote under a sofa cushion and flicked the television into life.

Navigating various menus and options, she found the segment she was looking for, paused it, and leant back on the sofa triumphantly. But the smile slipped from her face when she turned around to look for Ben and saw him still standing by the open door, anxiety etched into his face. She suddenly felt a surge of protectiveness for her little brother.

“I don’t think I’m wrong about this.” she repeated, softly. He swallowed, nodded, and walked over to sit beside her.

“Show me.” he said, and clenched his jaw.

It did look like Alicia, he had to admit. But then again, surely a moving mass of a few dark pixels could look like anybody? He rewound for the fifth time and played the footage again.

The figure on screen stumbled out of the damaged building and gazed at the rubble, then turned and ran into the darkness. It was her. How it was possible that he could recognize her mass of curly hair, the curve of her back, those long legs he loved so much in a blurry smudge, he didn’t know. But it was her, he had no doubt. As the smudge moved on screen, memories clouded his vision. Alicia laughing and stumbling across a crowded dance floor to drag him into the fray. Alicia turning with surprise when he’d met her at the airport once with a big banner and a bunch of flowers. Alicia running towards him on a golden beach somewhere, the turquoise water lapping at her ankles.

The memories faded, and he could feel a heat in his face as he stared at the screen. He could feel Jodie’s eyes on him as he blinked furiously, willing the tears not to fall.

“She called me.” He hadn’t even really meant to say it out loud. He hadn’t truly believed it until now.

“What? Who?” Jodie asked, incredulous. She gasped. “Alicia?” He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the dark figure on the screen.

“Early this morning. She left me a voicemail.” He played the message.

“Ben, Ben, please answer the phone. It's Alicia Ben, please help me”.

Jodie’s eyes were wide with shock.

“But she died.” Ben looked pointedly at the screen and back to his sister.

“They never found a body.” He could feel hope blossoming inside of him and tried in vain to force it down. Jodie looked like she was struggling to do the same.

“How did she end up in France though? She was on a flight from Madrid!”

“Was she, though?” Ben asked, eyebrows raised. A memory flashed before him again; he was waiting at Arrivals long after the last plane of the day had landed. The flowers in his hand were drooping and the hand-written sign was rumpled by his side. A customer service manager was telling him with a patronising expression that there were no more passengers left to come through the doors, they had probably just missed each other, and she must be waiting just outside.

He played the news footage one more time. He heard Jodie sigh next to him.

“It is her, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jodie whispered. As they both sat trying to comprehend their impossible conclusion, Jodie’s phone buzzed. She scrambled in her bag, frowned at the screen and answered it, turning away and walking towards the balcony. In his stunned silence, Ben could hear a gravelly voice through the phone.

118 “Hey babe, it’s Seth. Where are you? I need to talk to you.”

Chapter Five

by Max Heathcote-Smith There was a long pause and Ben could see Jodie tense up, one hand playing idly with her hair, an expression of concentration on her face. She held the phone tightly to her ear and Ben could then only hear one side of the conversation.

“Look Seth, I’m a bit busy now; call you back in a couple of...” She paused, tilting her head to one side whilst listening. “ What?, When?, Now? Oh, this evening; bit sudden isn’t it? For how long?” A longer pause then “Well ok, I’ll try and catch you at home before you leave”.

Jodie turned back to Ben, throwing her phone angrily onto the table from where it fell onto the floor, skidding on the wooden boards. “Oh, hell” she exclaimed “Hope it’s ok.” She bent down, picked it up and dropped onto the sofa and curled her feet under her legs, grabbed a cushion and held it over her stomach as if it were a comforting protective shield.

“What is it?” asked Ben “Not trouble I hope ?”

She took a deep breath and stared at Ben, then waving a hand dismissively said “Oh no; it’s just Seth being bloody difficult. He said he had a business trip he forgot to tell me about and he’s off to Spain this evening. He’s always off here and there, but it’s the first time he’s forgotten to let me know”. “Sorry ,darling, quite slipped my mind.” Bastard! Anyway enough of that, back to the important matter.” Jodie abruptly stopped, brushed a stray hair off her face, stood up and faced Ben. She hesitated and, as if coming to decision, rapidly said “Ben, we need to go to France, as soon as possible.” She nodded, as if to emphasise what she was saying and stared at Ben, one eyebrow slightly raised, daring him to contradict her.

Ben’s mind was in a whirl. Too much was happening all at once, the phone call, then the news of the prison breakout and now Jodie suggesting, no demanding, that they go to France. His hand was still painful and he felt as if there was a weight on his chest stopping him from breathing properly. He thought about Jodie’s plan and briefly there was an image that came to him of Alicia with arms outstretched running towards him across a golden cornfield in rural France. Just before she reached him she vanished and as he whirled around in confusion a voice in his head reminded him that she was dead.

Abruptly, jerked back to reality, he looked at Jodie and said “No way. Alicia’s gone and I’m not going on a wild goose chase for something that isn’t there. I don’t think I could take it if we waste time in France and end up with nothing.

Anyway, everybody has been telling me to move on.”

“But Ben, you’ve seen the news, you’ve listened to that phone message. You cannot ignore those facts. We both know it was Alicia in the news and on the phone.” Jodie wasn’t pleading with Ben, just stating the facts and when she continued he knew he had to give in.

“Surely you owe it to her to see if she’s still alive. You’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t.”

Raising both hands as if in surrender, he almost shouted “Ok, ok. We’ll go. But how on earth do we even begin to start looking? I hope you’ve a plan, 119 because I have no idea where to start.”

Only a few hours later Ben and Jodie were sitting in the departure lounge at Stansted, with thousands of other early risers, watching the dawn breaking. They had booked tickets to Biarritz, the nearest airport to the prison and had eventually agreed they would contact the prison authorities first, then the Police. Beyond that there was no plan, save knowing that they had to fly home in five days. Unsure of what else to sort out, there seemed little more to say and they lapsed into silence.

Ben slept on the plane, despite having a large Mancunian next him who had body odour that would put a skunk to shame and who passed the time downing can after can of cheap Asda lager, burping loudly as each can was finished and carefully put into a plastic marked ‘Boggs Rods, Quality drain clearing services, Salford’. Jodie smiled at Ben’s discomfort and read a newspaper. After an hour and a half, they swept in over the sea, passing the elegant seafront of Biarritz and landed at the airport, which caused Mr Boggs the drinker (if that was indeed his name) to finish his final beer and give one last loud burp. Passing through passport control, the officer frowned on seeing the new British passports He appeared bored with his job, not really examining the passports but making a derogatory remark in poor English about Britain leaving the EU. They then went over to one of the car hire desks to sign in for the car they had booked. Ben was the designated driver so he leant over the counter signing off the various forms and resisting the oh so smooth sales talk about getting extra insurance.

Meanwhile Jodie wandered off and found a bench just outside the main exit. It was a warm morning and pleasant to just sit and let the world go by. There were the usual frazzled families to see; the parents arguing with one another, whilst the children sat on the luggage and played loud games, mostly involving shouting at each other. Expertly weaving their way around the various groups were the businessmen, with smart roller briefcases and serious expressions on their faces. Unlike the families squeezing into buses and coaches, they were picked up in smart black limousines that silently rolled up to the kerb, swallowed them up and then swept away again. “Lucky bastards.” Jodie thought, “Probably off to some Michelin starred restaurant”.

Just then a large BMW 7 series glided into view and one of the passengers off Jodie and Ben’s flight got in. As he opened the car door, Jodie suddenly jerked upright and momentarily held her breath. What on earth was Seth doing in the car? It definitely was him, but he was in Spain, wasn’t he? Where was it he said he was going? Did he actually say? Yes, she remembered he did, because she has specifically asked him and he had laughed that silly laugh that sounded both patronising and annoying. He had asked if it mattered where he was going and that had irritated her more, but in the end he said Madrid – or was it Malaga or Majorca or Menorca? Damnit, she hadn’t really listened to him and now that it was important, she couldn’t remember. She was about to jump up and call out to him, but the car had gone. She thought he would’ve been pretty surprised to see her, as she hadn’t told him she was coming to France as he was just leaving when she had arrived home.

Just then Ben appeared at her side, shaking a set of keys under her nose and oblivious to her staring intently out onto the road.

“Come on,” he said “Let’s go. I’ve got the keys. It’s some crummy tiny Renault, but I suppose it’ll work.” They walked out of the terminal following signs for hire cars. As they did120 so a figure, who had been standing behind a pillar, walked slowly out ... still hidden, watching them carefully.

Chapter Six

by Terry Dean Sir Patrick Hawley Jones straightened up and gently arched his back. He was grateful for the immediate easing of the tension he’d been feeling. He pushed back a little more in the chair and the pleasant sensation spread further. With his right hand he deftly pushed the precious resin cap back onto the pen. It was a Montblanc Burgundy Great Characters Special edition. This one paid homage to J.F Kennedy. According to the floral description of the catalogue, ‘the design makes symbolic references to his life of leadership and pays reference to Kennedy’s Ivy League style and his time at Harvard University’. He wasn’t entirely convinced but it did look good on the glassy walnut veneer of his art deco desk.

The pen had just been used to sign off on a set of documents finalising the acquisition of another agricultural business in Northern Spain. It would probably be the last added to the European Agrobusiness portfolio.

Agricultural policy in the EU had shifted significantly and subsidies were being targeted to eastern countries. However, he wasn’t inclined to complain. Large profits were made by those who understood how to exploit the system. Europe’s annual farm fund was one of the biggest subsidy programs in the world and accounted for forty percent of the European Union’s budget. The flaw in the system lay in the fact the Commission determined the large sums to be made available but national governments actually carried out the spending. That’s where the weakness was. Despite claims from officials that outright fraud was rare, a 2019 Times investigation revealed how it helped underwrite the fortunes of oligarchs, mobsters and far right populists. Sir Patrick didn’t consider himself to fit into any of those descriptions. Whilst he felt more comfortable described as an exponent of ‘financial engineering’, in practice he was a financial gangster. His fortune built by acquisitions through which he could ruthlessly suck on the teat of EU agricultural subsidy.

It was true there was collateral damage and there were victims. Some involving small family businesses. But he wasn’t a sentimental man. It served no purpose in business.

A soft sound caught his attention and he glanced toward the office door. His secretary entered carrying a tray with his morning coffee on. He smiled. She smiled back and left as silently and gracefully as she had entered. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was efficient and she knew he was nothing but always busy. He reached forward, picked up the coffee and decided to treat himself to another few minutes of the relaxing sensation. His lips pursed as he took the first sip and his eyes drifted to the family photo on the corner of his desk. It was a picture of his three children, Jodie, Ben and Cassie sitting on the taffrail of a boat he’d hired whilst on holiday in the Bahamas. ****** At first it sounded like a giant insect trapped in a jar then the screen sprang into life. The mobile phone continued to pulse and vibrate to attract attention. By the third pulsing Alicia’s right hand had darted from the bed covers and slender fingers grasped firmly around the twitching device. Her mind had been drifting easily in the tranquil place between wakefulness and sleep. The half imagined, half real state was a place she coveted and a vital part of her daily emotional ritual. It was the only place she could bathe herself in a sea of peace.

121

The call was expected, and important, so she threw the last tendrils of sleep from her mind and answered with a clipped military tone. “¿Diga?” She spoke in Castellano rather than Euskera, the language of her childhood in the Basque region of Navarre; it’s what they’d agreed at the start.

“Acaban de salir del aeropuerto en un coche de alquiler. No estoy seguro, pero es posible que hayan visto a Seth.” Felipe had delivered the information with a matter of fact tone. It carried no sense of impending stress or chaos.

“Bien. Solo aumentará su confusión. Sigue siguiéndolos.” Alicia replied.

“Por supuesto. Le mantendré informado.” Felipe would keep her informed and continue to follow as instructed.

Alicia’s slender thumb dabbed the bright red circle with the white cross in the middle to end the call and let the phone slide from her hand back onto the bedside table. So, Ben and Jodie had arrived at the airport and picked up a rental car. Probably a good thing she mused. If they had caught sight of Seth, as she’d said to Felipe, it would have added to their confusion. She shifted the weight of her head, settling it back into the pillow. As her eyes closed her mind zoomed out, like using Google maps. She wanted to take in the ‘big picture’.

The starting premise and strategy had been simple really. Punish the injustice her family had suffered and face no consequences. Weave a web of many strands. Infiltrate. Harvest details. Reap information. She would wrap herself around the victims. Time and patience would be given without limit. The plan would demand an incredible and sustained performance. It was the only way to remain beyond suspicion. Isn’t that what the corporates and the power players did? Put themselves beyond the law. Her gut clenched at the thought. Well, not this time. This time justice and punishment would be served.

Then it had all came crashing down. She had chosen to be the one to collect the guns. A covert meeting across the border was arranged by Matias, through his contacts from his time with the Separatists. The people that they were dealing with had been under surveillance, Alicia got caught up in a raid and ended up in prison. A freakishly unlucky break she thought, but confinement hadn’t been the hardest part. The moment in which the weight of burning revenge would be released to crush their target had been close. To contemplate failure was more difficult than the prison sentence. Then her brother formulated a way to keep hope alive. His job with the airline enabled him to create a cover story, to make her disappear from a flight. He stepped into the scheme so they could make a second approach, he would attempt it through an online dating agency. COVID-19 had given him the perfect opportunity to foster the relationship so much faster than they could have imagined!

Outside a loud rustling disturbed her thoughts. Opening her eyes, she turned toward the open bedroom window. Against a background of the clear blue Pyrenean mountain sky was the crisp outline of a jackdaw perched on the wooden balcony rail. The bird looked in at her, its stare unflinching. In response she resisted the urge to push up the window with her foot in case the bird attempted to come in.

“Nunca deixes entrar a estes paxaros, son os que traen a morte.”

122

“Never let those birds in, they’re bringers of death.” The way her grandmother spat the phrase out sounded like a curse in itself. A brief smile crossed her lips at the fond memory from her childhood. It was nothing more than a crazy country superstition and she stared back at the bird. For a few heartbeats they held each other’s gaze then the bird startled, shrieked a harsh alarm-call and took off into the mountain backdrop.

She pivoted her thoughts back to the present moment and what needed to be done. She hadn’t been sure how Ben would react to her call; arriving here in France with his sister within 24 hours was totally unexpected. However, she determined they’d take the good fortune. This thing needed to get done. It might truly be the last window of opportunity.

Matias would be here soon. She kicked back the covers, swung her long slim legs out of the bed and headed for the shower. ****** Both Ben or Jodie could have afforded a luxury hotel like Le Regina Biarritz or the Hotel Du Palais overlooking the well-groomed sands of Plage Miramar but the confusion and uncertainty of their mission they determined to just head for the Ibis Styles Bayonne Centre.

It would provide some basic comfort and Jodie had booked it easily with an app on her phone. The bonus, the app gave directions! Ben hadn’t driven abroad for a while. It turned out to be relatively straight forward. Except for the bit where he’d been confused by signs for the Hotel Ibis Budget Bayonne. He looped the little Renault around a back street and back on the Boulevard Alsace Lorraine, where they found the Styles Bayonne was perched right next to a bridge. The Pont Saint-Espirit. Faded white lines marked seven parking slots in front of reception, six occupied, one by a plant pot. Ben pulled into the empty one alongside.

They carried their bags through to Reception and were met by the paraphernalia of building alteration. Clearly some ‘styles’ were still to be installed at the hotel, so they asked to for a room away from the works. ****** The Casa Rural Antxotegi couldn’t have been in more contrast to the Ibis in Bayonne. ‘A unique and natural environment.’ ‘Peace of mind for all’ typified the comments in Google reviews. With its typical Pyrenean architecture it nestled amongst dense woodland just across the border in Spain above Pamplona, or Iruña as the Basques called it. Even from its driveway entrance, only a few patches of its white walls and the burnt orange colour of its roof tiles were visible. Matias and Alicia had selected it precisely for those reasons and the fact it had easy access to the A63 on which Bayonne could be reached in 45 minutes.

On the east side of the main house was a small terrace. Alicia and Matias sat opposite each other around a circular table. Two café cortados parked between them.

“I think we should strike rapidly,” Matias said, “Felipe has checked around the hotel. It’s all old town at the back, close quarters, no CCTV. There’s a service access door and parking on that side. Some reform construction is being carried out, we pull up the van and go in looking like contractors.” Alicia took a sip of her cortado. Her shoulders relaxed and she looked back up at Matias.

“Didn’t think it would get to this point so quickly.”

123

“It was a good move to make the phone call,” he replied. “It would have been strange not to have got some reaction but there was no way we could have known they would deliver themselves to us.” He smiled.

“It seems almost too easy”.

“Wasn’t that the point? To penetrate their lives. Endlessly watching them. Find the perfect moment to strike,” he countered. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“Well yeah,” she said glibly. Matias picked up his cortado, drank it in one go then pulled out his phone and clicked on Google maps.

“This is the location where we’ll take them. It’s an old farm building.”

***** It started as a dim sensation, maybe in the animal part of his brain. At this point Ben wasn’t sure if it was a feeling or a sound. As his mind chugged a little further into consciousness he went for feeling. That was good, right? Then panic set in as the head hyenas began to arrive. Pain, hurt, different pain, cold, cough, gag. His breathing like blowing up a balloon.

He could feel the bridge of his nose was swollen. There was stabbing in his shoulders. His hands, for a reason he simply couldn’t grasp, wouldn’t move properly. They were wedged behind his back. A dull ache occupied his head and low ringing bothered his ears. Ah, that would be the sound then.

Surfacing further into consciousness his face screwed in concentration as he tried to understand what was happening. A brief recollection of a violent collision with the hotel room door came and went. That wasn’t now. He shifted in an attempt to ease his shoulders and drew as large a breath as his position would allow. It was cold air with an earthy smell.

There was something else, old and long gone, he would have said bovine.

He sensed movement and opened his eyes to the blurry image of a figure a few feet away.

The outline was feminine and shockingly familiar. Blinking repeatedly, he tried to clear his senses. Was this Covid fever again? He re-opened his eyes and focussed.

“Lish?” His gut turned over. “Alicia?” All the features were there. The curve of her hips blending into the long legs. The warm olive skin and symmetry of her facial features. The flowing curls of hair were gone, replaced by a buzz cut. It was a look she could carry off but accompanied by the coldness behind her eyes she looked more like a marine.

“Hello Ben,” she responded. Ben was confused. There was no warmth or familiarity in her voice. The accent was slightly strange. It sounded like she had said, “Hallo Been.” Alicia saw his confusion.

“Oh Ben. You were expecting this Alicia.” Her tone was light and prim with a hint of a soft Lancashire accent. Ben looked at her in awe. For a few, brief seconds his Alicia was back.

The, ‘let’s do brunch, see some comedy, chat to strangers’ one. The ‘let’s live life to the full’ one. The ONE he loved. His thoughts slurred to a halt. He watched her smile fade and in that moment Ben knew for certain, his Alicia was gone. Confusion now accompanied fear.

“What’s … what’s going on? Alicia, I don’t understand what’s going on, why am I here?” She let his words hang in the air.

“Don’t worry, you’re going to understand why you’re here. You’re going to know exactly why 124 you’re here,” she hissed.

*****

The Cortijo Ander stood at the base of an escarpment to the west of the small town of Lerin.

It’s soil was fertile and the Cortijo lay close to a tributary of the river Ega. It’s buildings were arranged on three sides of a courtyard, a layout derived from the Roman villas, the ruins of which could still be seen in the sweeping Navarre landscape. It’s parched dry stone walls bore the scars of 200 years of the harsh Spanish sun and had been home to the Belasko Ander family for over 150 years.

The main house lay on an east west axis and the morning rays of sunlight were striking a hard beam through its kitchen. The three brothers sat around a large, scrubbed pine table.

It’s top covered by a cluster of documents. The neat rows of type contained the intricate details of a mortgage agreement. The room was still. The only movement the motes of dust, dancing in the beams of sunlight. Slumped into the straight-backed pine chairs, each man appeared to be set in stone. Each one sat with a fixed stare, each one struggling to come to terms with how the family had come to be dispossessed of the cortijo and its lands.

The climate of the Navarre region was ideal for raising cattle. Traditionally it was popular for farmers to raise a mix of breeds such as Betizu, Monchina or Terrena. The Belasko Ander family had always preferred the Pirenaica, the only breed completely native to the Basque Country. Between 1999 and 2009, the average number of cattle present on each farm rose by about 88.3%, making cattle the most rapidly increasing group of livestock during that time.

The increased attraction of beef cattle farming was the easy involvement of other industries such as dairy and cereal. It allowed for more economic opportunities and collaborations.

Agricultural finance specialists helped to enable the growth. Many independent farmers borrowed heavily believing it to be a sure way to larger profits. Xavier Belasko Ander, the boys’ father, had signed up to such an arrangement. In Spain the distribution of water for agriculture was historically complex and frequently the cause of feuds that could span decades; a situation often made worse by local corruption. The river Ega had reliably supplied the soils of the Cortijo Ander. Two years after signing the deal, Xavier Belasko Ander watched the water supply unexpectedly dry up.

As the three young men sat staring at the documents, the kitchen door opened and against the bright morning sunlight appeared the outline of a lithe young girl with long dark curls. It was the boys’ sister. It was (she) Alicia who had found their father hanging in the barn. They turned and looked up at her. As she stepped in, she was followed by a soft breeze that gently lifted one of the documents and spiralled it to the floor. The elegantly designed header carried the name H.J. Financial Holdings. At the bottom of the page, signed with a fountain pen, was a signature. It read, Sir Patrick Hawley Jones.

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****** Ben’s face was drawn and pale. There were two watery patches blossoming on his shirt where tears had tracked through his stubble and dripped off his jaw.

“Oh God, Lish. Please. I’m so, so, sorry. Please, Lish, please... you can’t…” he sobbed.

“Can’t what Ben? Can’t what? Be so cruel? So heartless as to rip your family apart?” The steel in her voice had been forged in the fires of revenge.

“Surely you don’t believe it’s right to punish us Lish?” he pleaded.

“I’ll tell you what I believe Ben, I believe that ‘the sins of the father shall be visited upon his children’.” Tension was clawing at her voice. Struggling to contain her emotions she took a step towards him. As she did so a door at the side of the barn opened. Matias and Felipe were carrying Jodie. The two men placed her limp body on the cold stone floor a few feet from Ben. They were followed in by Seth. Ben turned towards him to be met by an expression that cut right through him. He looked to the others. They returned cold, icy stares and, with the inevitability of prey giving in to the predators, Ben let his body slump back against the wall. Alicia stepped back and turned to Seth.

“We should get to the airport,” then turning to Felipe and Matias, “You know what to do.” ****** A burst of fine orange dust flew up from the wheels of a Boeing 737 - 800 as rubber kissed the tarmac at Essaouira Mogador Airport in Morocco. Fifteen kilometres away, on the Plage Tagharte, a group of backpackers were sitting on its warm sands, chatting and laughing.

Laid on her front at the edge of the group, a girl wearing a broad brimmed straw hat was reading a book. There was a sharp movement between the rim of her hat and the top of the pages. She had no idea that the bird was a long way south of its natural range but as Cassie looked up, she immediately recognised the shape.

It was a jackdaw.

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