On Wood Street by Kevin Murphy (Edit after comments)

Here is an update of a story I put up for comment a couple of months ago (Scroll down to see it). Thank you for comments, both here and in the workshop. Based on the comments, I have edited it:

  • I have added more context – particularly the opening paragraphs.

  • I have got rid of the more intrusive (brackets) to improve flow

  • I have not changed the Accented speech

  • I hope the improvements make it more of a stand alone short story

On Wood Street by Kevin Murphy
I took a final look back across the cemetery to the monastery where I had spent the most momentous year of my life so far. The golden stone, glowed as the sun shot under the deep navy storm clouds gathering over it. I was to turn and walk away into the sun. I hoped that would be a portent for good.
Three months previously I had given up a life I loved, for a love-life. I had divested the habit of Brother Bernard, Franciscan Friar, and at nineteen years old, I was going to test whether choosing a life as a celibate eight years previously, was an informed choice. I was leaving my old school friend in the arms of Saint Francis, but under that cloud, freshly and happily professed as Brother Nicholas.
I had returned to my home and family those three months prior, and that was a ‘climatisation’ period. I got a job at the tax office – now as an adult after several stints there as ‘holiday job’. My Dad took me drinking at the Liberal Club. My sisters and their friends had taken me to several clubs, pubs, discos and bars. I had registered at the ‘Tech’ to do my ‘A’ Levels.
The ‘decompression chamber’ of this acclimatisation was ‘The Rowing Club’, the old wooden one, now a Disco coining money to pay for the new brick one. This was a shack, done-out with fishing net and lit only by ultra-violet and the light from the bar – very cosy. I went three times a week for three months. I sat. I watched. I only got up off my seat to get to the bar and move to a different vantage point.
What I was trying to figure out, was what I later christened “The Courting Code”. My sisters had assiduously coached me at length how to ‘get off with girls’, and what to do with them when I did, but it seemed to me that the code was beyond describing with words. A ‘code’ is obviously a language, but it soon became apparent that, like ‘body language’, there was a lot more than words and movement in “The Courting Code”. When one sister was trying to tell me an aspect, another would cut across and give it a different flavour … ingredient … spice. How had they learnt it? I was the eldest of us, and I just knew that what they were telling me was little more than playground lore. So where had I stopped learning it?
At eleven years old, on holiday at my Grandma’s in Bury, and in the grounds of the Methodist Church on Wood Street, I was the expert, teaching Jean how to do it.
“My Uncle ‘Bombed’ that Gasometer on his first leave from National Service”
“He never did – it’s still there!”
“No, Jean, I don’t mean really! He brought home some ‘Thunder-flashes’ from the Army – they’re great big bangers they use for pretending hand-grenades. He let one off over there at three in the morning, and all the old biddies were running out of their houses and having heart attacks and things. The police and fire brigade came and there was terrible trouble – in the Bury Times and everything.”
“What did they do to him – you can be hanged for treason, can’t you Kevin?”
“Don’t be daft…”
“You can tek yer ‘ands off me if your going to shout!”
I jumped back, put my hands in prayer and put on my best injured-puppy look. “Sorry Honey!”
This was in the Summer of ‘59 – TV was in its American B movies phase. Our whole family was reaching the end of my Dad’s first exasperation with television. Exasperated, because my mum, my sisters and me, we could not resist the novelty of the box. He had only once found the money to take us to the Flicks – to see Charlie Chaplin in “The Kid”. It was like going to another City. Up Headington Hill from Oxford to see it at the Moulin Rouge – what would now pass as an Art House, but was then the area’s cheapest flea-pit.
But my Grandma had a Telly!
Every afternoon they showed B movies on the Telly. These were real B Movies, remember, the crap ones you had to sit through at the Flicks before you could watch what you actually paid to see! War and Cowboys – I loved all the bombing and hiding.
Jean and I were hiding from the bombs.
In the churchyard on Wood Street.
I had to keep leaving her on a railway platform and doing that screen kiss. I showed her: “I put my right arm round your neck,” (She let me!) “and you put yours round mine.” (She did.) “Now I put my left arm round your waist and you put yours round mine and we kiss” (Straight in!!!).
Now I hope your heart’s pounding, because mine is and this was fifty years ago – my first adult kiss – I was eleven, …and anyone who doesn’t believe me… It was real love. I felt the same passion – weak knees, aching heart, sweaty palms – as I did for any of my later loves – much later because Jean was my last love for half a lifetime.
“Mmw … hold on, Jean, now we’ve got to do like the films – I’m so tall…” and we fall apart, laughing.
“You, yer lickle squirt. I only love you ‘cos yer lickle”
She loves me! I know! I stagger about and fall and do one of those deaths the same stunt-man does in “Boots and Saddles” every week – last week he was an Indian; the week before a Cowboy – anyone can die – well not everyone – but he’s the specialist, probably gets a bit of bonus! Here’s what you do: from your haunches, you break cover – stupid ‘cos you’re bound to get shot, but you’re mad at “them Injuns”, or “them Palefaces”, or “dem Gringos”, or “low-down-bums”. You stand up ‘n shoot the varmints, but they get you. You throw your arms up and away with your Winchester/ Bow/ Bluntline Special, (that’s so’s you don’t fall on it during the next bit) …then you do a Roly-poly down a hill, or roof, or hay-stack. But the Methodists’ didn’t have much call for haystacks, so I dived in the Elderberry Bush.
“Are you alright, Kevin?
You can’t flamin’ cry when yer with yer gal. “Aah! A stick got me right in the eye!”
“Ohhh. Let mi luke” (My mother’s accent!) – she holds my head; she can’t see my eyes for the hand that’s over them – the other’s on my side where I really hurt myself. She wraps her arms round my head and clasps me to her bosom – that she hasn’t got yet – but it was as real as any woman who did.
She kisses my head: “It were a lovely dive!”
“Were it… was it? Was it as good as Boots ‘n’ Saddles?”
“Eeh, I don’t know – that’s bye’s stuff”
I shove her up, wounds healed, and charge out of the gate and turn, arms out, Dam-Buster style, and fly back right up to her, nose-to-nose and freeze.
That smell – I’ll never forget it – well I don’t think I have – I went in a Children’s Home once and thought of her – no, not piddle – a sort of unscented cleanliness. Was it Lifebouy, and Tide or Omo? I wouldn’t know – we always had Palmolive and Persil – no carpets, like!
I could have stayed forever, and so could she – we were as one.
“OK, we put our arms….”
“Shush! There’s Nigel!”
Nigel! What a name for the Cock o’t’Walk. But he was! He beat me for Jean. I had asked her to be my girlfriend – it was the dead straight hair with perfect auburn fringe that did it. She had nice teeth, too. Now I know there was a lot more, too -maybe genetically programmed code. She had accepted, but her alleged boyfriend hadn’t. (He alleged  – she sort of shrugged, embarrassed. Looking back – she had to live there – I was probably only a holiday romance.)
For the duel of fisticuffs we had agreed a time – two hours later; a place – The Mucklows, across the hedge from the tryst at the heart of this story; and a referee – a fat, spotty, but mature thirteen year-old.
Rubbing my hands on my T-shirt I took a look around and had had time to realise that we were standing just about where my Grandpa had had his Cobbler’s Cabin, in the years before I was seven and he’d died. Then Nigel grabbed my shirt and it was pulling, puffing and pushing each other for an hour or so it seemed – not a punch, not even a slap. Then he grabbed me round the neck and pushed my forehead into the ground and it was all over in a second – well two seconds.
“Give up?” he asked after an eternity.
I was quiet – choking back a tear from the stone piercing my forehead. I couldn’t move.
“Are y’ givin’ up?”
“Yeah!” I whimpered and he let me go and leapt up. The Ref held his arm aloft – the champion.
I accepted the decision in good faith. My Dad had taught me about the Queensbury rules, but even though Nigel broke them and cheated, I stuck by the Ref’s Decision. I gave Jean up for him and skulked away rubbing my forehead.
Jean mustn’t have been as feudal as me – she wasn’t having lads ‘feighting ower ‘er’. I wished she had said that before he ground my forehead into the grit. But maybe she wouldn’t have had me – a Southern Stranger and the smaller pugilist – if I hadn’t shown the desire to fight for her!
She swished her pony-tail “yewer a dirty cheat Nigel Hemshore. Push off up Back-Charles Street y’ugly mug.” This was very nasty – all the streets had a Back-Street, but this hinted at living down the back out where the Night-Shit-Shifters came – even though her mum’s and my Grandma’s had proper WCs for years by then!
He went in some shame and, strangely, the small audience shuffled off with him.
“He’s gone – carry on” and she just looked at me eyeball to eyeball. What a look – you know what I mean. If you don’t, put this down now, and go and fix a drain!
Firstly just a kiss – eyes closed, and lips too of course, forever. Then a breath -it’s a wonder we didn’t spifflicate.
Relax there’s no pressure. That was just the whole of my life rushing before my eyes – my love life, so far, that is – she’s right with me. I’m just back from bombing the Ruhr.
In the churchyard.
Beside Mucklows.
Next to the Gasometer.
On Wood Street.
In love.
“OK. We kiss, with our arms round each other, but then there’s the special bit they always do in the flicks – while we’re kissing, you have to reach up to me, the camera moves down from our lips, you move onto tip-toe and lift one leg … and freeze!” Delicious.
The love I felt for Jean … I wonder at my kids getting to 18 and not having had a heartbreak.
I loved Josephine Maloney at 5, Vivian Welsh at 8/9 (Unrequited) and Sonia Hartman at 10.
I loved Jean, really loved her, but I loved Jesus and the poor more. I gave her up on 31st August 1960. I cried myself to sleep on 30th. It was the night before returning home, when, like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, I cried out to the Father to take this cup from me – but only as he wished, not as I did. I was to forsake the love of a good woman for the love of all who asked in Christ’s name, in the life of a Friar.
The next day I set off for London and a life of celibacy. I stuck to it willingly all through puberty. It was such a conscious choice that at 18, when I took the Franciscan habit, I became Brother Bernard, taking the Saint of that name as my Patron, because the choice was hard for him too. Bernard – What a lad! He had founded the strictest Order in the Church – The silent Cistercians – St Bernard of Clairvaux – just the right patron for a man in my position – choosing to give up the love of a good woman. In the 1960s.
On his 31st of August, Bernard was riding beside a lake when he saw a beautiful girl.
“Phwoar” is the modern idiom for what he may have thought. Then he remembered he was supposed to be giving up such sentiments. He gingerly clambered up onto the saddle of his horse, and dived into the lake to calm his ardour. I needed a patron with such sense of humour!
My Romance had to last me. It did last me eight years. But it finished just two weeks after the fight.
And eight years later I was Brother Bernard.
There aren’t any lakes on Wood Street, and the inky Irwell in the fifties would have killed me in minutes.
Outside the Rowing Club, many a night before leaving for home, I stood alone, looking at the moon glittering on the Isis. I was not about to jump in to calm my ardour, but I was desperately seeking inspiration on cracking the Courting Code.

Please leave comments, either on this story as it now stands, or on the improvement to the original. K


“Glass Soul” by Brendan Stoneham

“Glass Soul” by Brendan Stoneham.


I am ripped to shards of finest glass,

I have been forced to leave.

Surrounded by

darkest air,

deepest despair.

I speak, but there is no answer back,

I reach out, and there is no hand to grab…

I am a person with no shadow,

A shadow with no person.

I am an after-image blur of who I was when complete,

Light is no more.

I feel myself fading to the air,

Hopelessness chokes me as ivy chokes the tree that was at unity with nature,


Before this insidious interruption,

this barrier between it and life,

Between you and me.

Spaghetti Junction by Kevin Murphy

After September’s Meeting which focussed on “Plot”, using Ted Hughes Poem “The Thought Fox”, with it’s triple plot possibibilities:

  • Describe a Fox
  • Describe Writer’s Block
  • Metaphor – describe two things at once

I decided to upload a story which is wholly metaphor.

Some hate metaphor: “Why can’t people just say it like it is?”

I love metaphor. Do let me know what you think about this little piece.

Spaghetti Junction

Mine is the generation that crossed the bridge from innocent fumblings, guilty secrets, mysterious pregnancies, virgin births, shotgun marriages and worse.

 Mine is also the generation of Gravelly Hill Interchange, but just as we were ignorant of our destination, we didn’t know how far or how long we were to travel, or even our direction. We didn’t even know the proper name of the bridge. Some were forgiven for not even realising we were on a bridge as they were simply going with the flow. We were wholly unprepared.

This new sort of bridge offered so many possibilities, even oblivion – it included a road to nowhere – unfinished dead ends for possible future additional exits. How many of us were lemmings and fell?
For the first time, our bridge did not lead simply from one place to another, and let us not forget the undoubted possibility of return to the original place, or for that matter that each side had an equal call on being the starting point. Not a Capital Bridge crossing the Thames, to be admired for its ornate cast iron filigree – a wonder of its age, or discounted for its utilitarian box girders, or again gasped at for its towering medieval stonework, itself hiding secret engines that opened the gateway to the greatest empire in the world.

Picture my generation at the foot of the bridge, as the throng gathering for the start of the London Marathon. But though we might ask each other where we started, we only conjecture where others finished, never asking where, or even when. We might have a wry smile thinking whether or not one may still not have finished, maybe tempered with sadness at the certain knowledge of ones who certainly did not.

Unlike a Marathon, some were not at the opening of the bridge, indeed such was the buzz of excitement that many were too early, so set off into perilous territory, with no signs or barriers, falling in canals and locks, tripping on rails, cut down by the impatient express. For risking this trip, there was no sympathy at Casualty for the injured and maimed.

Parents warned against entering a bridge when you couldn’t see the other side. A bridge, a proper bridge, needed a foot on each side – and only two sides at that. A generation from war, they knew about burning our bridges. But this was a wonder of the age – many entries and an infinite variety of exits. The bridge was to be a journey in itself: in and out, over, under, across, through; sexy rolling curves, slipping and sliding bends and whorls; steady climbs and easy descents; twists, turns and no tumbles – no one gets hurt. Cleverly we could all be assured that we would not crash into anything coming from the other side.

A hazard the planners had not anticipated, what was not foreseen was if a traveller did not like what they saw as the other side hove into view. Their only option appeared to be to reverse, only to be trampled, the trippers to be flattened in their turn.

Travel sickness was thought of too: many new preparations were available, tried and untested, just right for this magical mystery journey. People looked over from the tops and admired the view, not knowing what they were seeing: mesmerised by circles within circles, disappearing and reappearing, over glistening waters, ribbons of rail. Leaning over too far, thinking they could fly. They never knew that they could not. They joined others who had simply been barged off the parapet in the rush.

In quiet midnight carousing, it has been asked if there maybe lost souls who never made it across, who now haunt the bridge, but they are never seen, for this has become a daylight bright, twenty-four-seven bridge, the only way to get through.

No need to ask how many of us are haunted.

Then there was the one and only cure-it-all Pill, a pill that needed no sugaring, such was its promise. That was the real key to the gateway to our Brave New World. With it we could rock and roll throughout the crossing with complete impunity. It was an ‘Access All Areas’ ticket, indeed it allowed excess in all areas for the very first time.

Subsequent generations give no second thought to such wonders of the age. It’s not a wonder of their ages. They swing on and off with never a care. You’ve got to go places, find the promise at the end of the tendrils. But there is no end for them, just one marvel leading to another, but no longer a marvel.

There was a destination. We knew where we were going. We knew who was going with us – euphorically ‘everybody’. That is not the same as an end to our trip. We ignore the flashbacks, forget the nightmares and, like every generation of its past, wonder at the age – our age.

We do go back, returning, turning again, trying different turns – getting it right this time; sometimes a journey only of the mind. There really is no going back. The start is no longer there.
Many hanker after the simple single span bridge with its known and desired destination. Yes there are many of these beneath Gravelly Hill Interchange, below, even buried in the darkness and roar from the overarching future.

They will not go back though. Ignorance is this, it’s not bliss, but it’s better than the ignorance we think was there, in the good old days before we set foot on Spaghetti Junction.
But we can’t remember that.

A whole generation made that crossing, but still we joke that if you can remember that first crossing you weren’t there.

Kevin Murphy

The Harpist by Brendan Stoneham

The Harpist

Music plays in shore’s setting light,

On a harp played by hands as light as air.

The sound is like summers breeze on golden leaves,

A hundred melodies, 

each as smooth as sunsets light on a silent lake,

Played by a young delicate sight,

with hair as black as stormy night,

And intelligent eyes like moonlight’s falling.

It moves me to write,

Her, this quiet might.

She joins nature and humanity,

Together in musical matrimony,     

Complete harmony.


Brendan Stoneham