Alright, big boy, what’d ya reckon it’ll be: beef or chicken? Let’s bet on it. Fish. Fish!? Stop messing about. Only cats eat fish. Whippets eat fish too. Maybe in your house. What’s he like anyway, the old boy? Pretty useless. That figures. He’s kindly and forgetful. Always apologising. Not a pack leader. Not like yours. OK, anyway, beef or chicken? Chicken. No, I’m betting on chicken so you’ll have to choose beef. So how’s it going? Like it down here? Alright. Warmer than where I’m from. Oh yeah? Don’t start the old grim up north toffee with me, brindle lad. Where exactly you from? Born in Boston. Boston? That’s in bloody Lincolnshire. That’s not north, that’s midlands. Then we moved near Doncaster. Ok that’s a bit north. So was it always just the old boy? No there was an old girl too. She was the pack leader. She used to feed the cats but after two nibbles they’d clear off so I’d reach up and nudge the bowl off onto the floor. Clever. There’s an art to that. There is. So I’d eat the rest of it in one go. She never minded. Made her laugh. Soft-hearted? I don’t know about that. I used to get a few tellings off. Yeah? See she had this old Jack Russell. Ugly-looking. Had a docked tail. Really? That’s cruel in it? I wouldn’t want that. Mind you, if I could have chosen between losing that or me nuts… That’s right. But I think it made him mean. He could be a bit of a bastard but he was like a dad to me in the end. Cunning though. Yeah? You got stories? Well, in the kitchen they were always leaving out stuff thinking we couldn’t get it. One day they left some pork pies in a bag on the counter. So the old Jack Russell said, You reach up and get em and we’ll share em. So I get right up on my hind legs, strain like mad to get the bag - just about get my teeth to it - drag it to the edge then pull it over. It come crashing down to the floor, but before I had chance to get some he’d snaffled the lot, just leaving a bit of crust for me. What a bastard. Yeah, but I gradually learnt how to bring things down so he didn’t get so much. He still got most of it, though. But it was fun. We had quiche - anything with egg in I liked best. Actually I could tell you a story about an egg. We had sausages, bacon, bread rolls, biscuits, fruit cake. And you can guess who got all the blame? Coz old shortarse could never get up there could he? Yeah, clever. But they’re all right, int they, terriers? You can have a laugh with them. Not like some of these other tossers. That’s right. So tell me this story about the egg. Oh boy. They had a huge garden once. Lawn was on two levels. They had four chickens. Vicious bastards. They are int they? I’ve found that out. So one day the old girl’s picked up some eggs from the hutch and put them in a basket, then she starts yakking to a neighbour like she always does. Distracted. So I stick my head in and get one in my mouth and run away with it. She starts shouting and I’m off racing round the garden. Leaping over raised beds and wooden steps and fish ponds. They’re shouting and laughing and they can’t catch me. Five minutes later I just stop, open my mouth and the egg’s still perfect. Wow. You were a master thief. And I got the tea. Tea? What’s all that about? Yeah. She would always leave her tea on the window-ledge when she went to the bathroom. I found I could stretch up and put my snout right in. Never spilt a drop. Never knocked a cup over. I like tea. And she always had Earl Grey. Lovely and sweet. I had the lot. Earl Grey? You’re having a laugh now ain’t you? No. I’m not. Earl Grey? Is that what you grim-up-northerners drink? Not like softy southerners eh? I never say that. So you ever get caught? Only by the old boy. He told her and laughed about it. She told me off. Then the silly cow left her tea out the next day too. So it was just you and him, this Jack Russell then? Well, there were three of us at one time. We had a Jackawawa for a while. Jackawawa? Yeah. More wawa than Jack though. You know, chihuahua cross. I see. Another annoying yappy thing. That’s right. Hilarious she was. Silly as arseholes. If we encountered a German shepherd or something in the street she’d play the little Napoleon, telling him to get out her way and he’d just stare at her like she was a rat. Funniest thing was her trying to get up a tree once to catch a squirrel. Frantically trying to get her little legs up the trunk, she was. She couldn’t do it. The squirrel just sat on the branch laughing at her. That’s funny. Handbag dogs they call em. But I ask you, what’s the point? I mean, you ever been in someone’s handbag? Yeah I have actually. The old girl’s. Oh yeah, sure. No I have. I’ve pulled out cosmetics, hair brush, hair net, notebook, cigarette pack. You’re a right little kleptomaniac. Where’d you put ‘em all? I kept them on the lawn till she found them. I had hats, shoes - visitors were told to keep theirs on - even one of them little umbrellas. Blimey. Could have had your own shop by the sound of it. I could. Except I’d never want to sell em. I just liked to have them. I see. So what happened to the other dogs? The Jack Russell died of a stroke and she— The jackawawa? Yeah. She went back to her original owner. She was trouble. That’s interesting. See,I think all these new breeds nowadays are either just vicious bastards or totally useless. All fluff and nonsense. Might as well be in the zoo. Breeds had a point once. You had your chasers like us, you had your catchers, diggers like your Jack Russell mate, and so on. This new lot - we’ve had a few of them in here all dandified, prettified little tossers, but cross them and you’ll know it. Right mouth on some of them. I mean where’s the grace, where’s the elegance, and what’s the bloody point? That’s right. So how do you find it here then? Lots of little yappy things round your way, is there? Yes. Quite a few whippets too. Some of the young uns? Boisterous little buggers int they? Need to keep out of their way. Yeah but we all used to be like that. I still am. Yeah? Yeah, when I’ve got my zoomies on. Zoomies? Yeah I have my routine. I run from the lounge sofa through the hallway, to the bedroom, fling myself around like crazy on the old boy’s bed, race back to the lounge, leap clean over the coffee table straight on to the sofa. Then do it all again. It winds up the old boy something chronic, worried I’ll injure myself. Yeah? And after how many Earl Greys is that then? None. He don’t drink earl grey. Darjeeling he has. Oh blimey. Not as sweet though. Plus he’s crafty with it. Well, I’ve just seen something. I reckon it’s chicken so you can concede the bet now. Too early. OK. But i do know she bought some today coz I saw her taking it out of the car. So, tell me, you got any hard nuts down your way? One or two. They don’t tangle with me. Fancy yourself, do you? I’m used to it. I used to have three German shepherds on the regular walk barking away. Bark back? No just gave em me look. I bet that worked. Oh hang on I think the food’s coming now. So we’ll see who won. Winner gets first dibs. Ok. You know, I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve had a good laugh. Whippets got to stick together. Better than the miserable bastards we usually get here. Always moaning. Owner does this. Owner does that. Get over it, I tell them. Oh no. No I don’t believe it. It’s bloody fish! I can smell it. What’s going on? She must be clearing the freezer out. Must be for your benefit. And it looks like she’s put sweet corn on it. Like that? Love it. So I guess since I chose chicken I won. How’s that? I said fish. No we agreed it was between beef and chicken. And you chose beef. Alright. So it’s a no bet then. No as I said, I chose chicken and, being white meat, that’s closer to fish, so I won. But you’re a guest so we’ll forget about it. Very gracious of you. And you can have some of the sweet corn since you like it so much. Have it with your Earl Grey. Come on tuck in, me first.
My daddy is a miner. He is very clever. He goes down big holes in the ground and gets black gold out. We put it in our fire and it keeps us warm.
Daddy looks sad tonight. Mummy and him are whispering in the kitchen. They don’t know I’m sat on the bottom stair and I can hear mummy crying. I’m not allowed to be awake this late. I have to get up for school in the morning. My brother is being good. He’s asleep, sucking his thumb like a baby even though he’s five.
This morning Mummy looks sad and I know she’s been crying because her face is red and she keeps blowing her nose. She’s a bit cross too because my brother is being slow eating his breakfast. She says we have to be extra quick this morning. I don’t know why.
I’m scared going to school today. My friends and their mummy's are shouting funny words and throwing things at us. My brother is crying. I ask mummy what scab means. She says she doesn’t know and makes us run all the way to the school gates.
I’m sitting on the bottom stair again. I know I’m going to get into trouble. Mummy and Daddy are arguing in the kitchen. Mummy doesn’t want Daddy to go to work. She says it’s too risky. I don’t know what risky means. Daddy says he has to go. I’m scared if Daddy doesn't get the black gold from the ground then we will be very cold.
Auntie Vi collects us from school today and her face looks very white. I know she’s forgotten to put her makeup on. She always wears makeup and she lets me borrow her lipstick. She says mummy has had to go out for a while so she is looking after us. The nasty people are still throwing stones at us and calling us names.
Daddy hasn’t come home for ages. There are lots of people in our house today. They are wearing black and eating lots of sandwiches. My brother is crying again. He keeps saying he wants Daddy. I want Daddy, but I don’t cry about it.
My Daddy was a miner. Mummy says that he has gone to heaven to do a different and very important job. I think heaven must be a very long way away and Daddy must be very busy, because he still hasn't been home for ages.
I had been a bit of a loner as a teenager. My big sister wanted to spend time with her boyfriend and the last thing she wanted to do was to spend time with me, my parents both worked and I had no real friends where I lived so I would spend many hours simply walking through London, visiting the sights, the museums and the parks. If I didn’t feel like walking, or time was a bit short then buses were my principal mode of transport as they allowed me to see where I was going. On the top of the bus one could see into the upper windows of the shops and houses that one passed as well as looking down on the crowds scurrying along the pavements on their way to somewhere. Occasionally I would use the tubes, but they didn’t have the same attraction for me. It always seemed to me that by the time you had walked from the entrance to the platform and then, if you had to change lines, walked between lines, you might just as well have walked all the way.
My walks would take me all over London, past the old markets of Smithfield, Billingsgate, Covent Garden and Leadenhall, strangely quiet in the afternoon. Into and around the great Royal Parks always buzzing with activity of one kind or another. On a weekend I would love to venture into the City of London which was ghostly quiet with so little traffic I could walk down the middle of Cheapside without fear of being run down. But my favourite trips were to the great museums. Of course, I would go to the British Museum because it was such a grand building with such extraordinary treasures, and then the Natural History Museum with its fabulous architecture and the displays of dinosaur skeletons and models of huge elephants and the Blue Whale, but to a young boy, the best and greatest of them all was the Science Museum. Nothing could beat the displays of vast steam engines which, at the press of a button would whir into life or the aeroplanes and locomotives and cars on display all available at no cost. In the basement there was a special children’s gallery which was a paradise of button pushing and automation. I spent many a happy hour in that museum and knew the basement so well I think I could have navigated it with my eyes closed.
I am older now, but I still cannot resist the lure of a button to press, nor have I given up walking through London. It was on one such walk that I came upon the button that said “press”. I had been made redundant a month or so before, and I was at a loose end. It was a weekend and I decided to head into the City to see if it was as quiet as it used to be when I was young. I headed down Goswell Road, onto Aldersgate and into the Barbican Centre. I had seen this modernist development being built when I was growing up and found it fascinating, not least because it gave one an opportunity to walk on pedestrian only walkways without fear of traffic. It was like nothing else in London with shallow lakes and raised flowerbeds surrounded by towering skyscrapers containing residential flats overlooking the roofscape of London. The high-level walkways were hung with creepers and the lakes were filled with huge carp. It hadn’t changed much. The trees were more mature as were the gardens and the whole thing had softened, but it was still as fascinating now as it had been then.
I crossed London Wall and into the old City by the Guildhall across to Cheapside and then into the myriad of alleyways and courts that make up the old city. I am familiar with the City, having worked there for some time and, as I have said, walked it many times at a weekend, so I was not afraid that I could get lost. I turned to left and to right, sometimes coming out into places that are familiar to all like the Bank and The Royal Exchange, sometimes into less familiar places like Cowper’s Court. I could feel the history of these places as places of commerce, and I could almost hear the bustle of the coffee houses that must have lined each of these alleys and streets in the past. I reached a crossing of two alleys and instead of following the alley I was in, I turned to the left and found myself in a place I had never been before. I walked for about 50 feet at which point the alley took a slight turn to the right and narrowed to a dead end. I was about to turn to retrace my steps when I noticed the button.
It was a plain button with the word “Press” printed in its centre. It was quite unlike one of those wonderful buttons that used to be on the old Routemaster buses; red buttons inside a silver-coloured metal ring with the words “Push Once to Stop” engraved around it, or any of the small brass buttons in the Science Museum. It was about an inch in diameter made of some ceramic material set in a metal frame, itself set into a brick wall about two feet wide. The short alley that I had turned into led under a building, so it was more of a short tunnel than an alley. There were no windows on any side, and, because of its position, it was quite dark. I hesitated. The button did not seem to control anything. There was no door, no speaker that I could see and no bell that I was aware of. But the button said “press”.
The man stood on the deck of the Seagull as the vessel was tied off and her gangway lowered. Moments later the man stood on the quayside. After nine years at sea. He was home. He had done well during his time away. And was buoyed up with thoughts of enterprising prospects. He felt uplifted. In good spirits. Looking about the bustling harbour to familiarise himself with half-forgotten landmarks, the man became aware that his feelings of well-being were draining from him and his good spirits dissipated. He sought a cause for his unsettling mood swing. The quayside was busy. Stevedores and dockers were offloading cargo onto a convoy of waiting drays; the air was heavy with the tart smell of the sea mingled with smoking fish; market traders lined the street to the town square; their stalls laden with vegetables; meat, fish, bread, pastries, clothing, and leather goods. Townsfolk moved about amongst the market stalls; men, women, children. On the surface, the scene appeared normal to the man. His senses told him otherwise. Something was wrong. He studied the faces of people moving by. They all looked miserable, unhappy; unwell, as though in the grip of some ague or fever. The man took note of what was missing from the scene before him. It was the commonplace everyday sounds and noises of a busy harbour town: the absence of banter, laughter, and shouting. The townsfolk were going about their business in a desultory and half-hearted manner. Fearing the town was recovering from some form of plague, the man shrank back. Was his hometown not to be a haven? With creeping uncertainty, he made his way to the town square. The King’s Head was where he remembered. It displayed years of neglect. Entering the tavern the man noted that although the place was relatively busy, its patrons were unusually quiet; the atmosphere sombre. Taking a tankard of ale from the unhappy-looking landlord. The man crossed to an armchair by the fireplace. In the chair opposite, an old man sat staring into the fire. ‘Good day to you, sir,’ the man said. Without turning, the old man said, ‘I’ll grant you it is day, but it is not good.’ Intrigued, and thinking again that some sorry plight had befell his hometown, the man asked. ‘Why so?’ He leaned in, his voice low, ‘Has the town been visited by a plague?’ The old man raised his head. ‘Would that it had,’ he muttered. ‘A town can recover from a plague.’ He glanced away, warily, lowered his voice, and whispered, ‘Not so a curse.’ ‘A curse?’ the man said, mimicking the old man’s tone. ‘The town is cursed?’ ‘Aye,’ the old man whispered back, ‘it is. These past seven years.’ ‘How so? By whom? By what?’ ‘By Clara Wetshall, that’s who.’ ‘Who is she?’ ‘She was a witch. Burnt at the stake out on the square.’ ‘Are you saying that she put a curse on the town?’ ‘I am,’ the old man whispered. ‘How so?’ ‘By her dying words,’ the old man said. ’What were they?’ The old man glanced slowly about the room, then leaned into the man, lowered his voice to a faint whisper, and said, ‘As the fire consumed her limbs, she cried out, “From this day forth none here shall know neither peace nor restful sleep; neither shall they know happiness again.”’ The man sprang back as though bitten. Two men approach. ‘We’ll take your purse,’ one hissed, displaying a rust-tarnished knife. The man rose slowly, turned aside, and put his tankard on the stone mantelpiece. When he turned back he held a pair of flintlock pistols at chest height. He cocked their hammers. ‘Step aside,’ he barked. ‘Or take a ball each.’ The men complied. Guardedly, the man moved to the tavern door. Outside, the man concealed his pistols beneath his cloak and retraced his steps to the quayside.
He encountered the Seagull’s captain. ‘Do you sail on the morning tide?’ the man asked. ‘I do.’ ‘I will book passage with you.’ ‘Very well.’ The man looked back up the harbour road to the town square. He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘I shall abide aboard your vessel this night.’
Kevin's response to the trigger 'book'
Ginny Lynn sat in the light and airy atrium, which is the waiting hall of her city’s new law court. She was hugging her hessian shopping bag, knowing that the look on her face was a smug smile. She was proud of herself.
On New Year’s Morning, admittedly many months ago, but that was Covid’s fault, not hers, Ginny was alone in the house and thought the noise she heard might be one of the family sneaking guiltily back in. Her ears alert, she heard no more. No spoil sport, she didn’t want to reinforce any pangs her children Will or Amy may feel about staying over at his or her girlfriends’, so she stealthily donned her mules and crept out to the landing and peered over the banister.
No one in the hallway below.
Ginny stole down the stairs taking a stretch over the known creaky step and peeped through the glass-paned lounge door.
Her hand went to her throat. Her new Christmas table cloth was spread out on the floor in front of the TV. She froze, only her eyes exploring. Will’s new virtuality goggles were peeping out of their box, and Amy’s fancy new hair rollers were sitting on top of their box. Was that her own new coffee machine behind it?
There was a movement under the Christmas tree.
A pair of legs.
Ginny tip-toed towards… but froze again at a clicking of plugs and Bill the Burglar let out a quiet gasp and tried to extricate himself from behind wires and unopened twelfth-night presents. His rustling allowed Ginny to look around for some defence. She saw her Dad’s family bible, long in need for purpose and clutched it with the firmest grip.
The deep-pile of the new Axminster, allowed her to silently hover as Bill turned to hear ‘Die Bill!’ and see the white and gold tome flash into his face.
It was the last thing he saw.
‘Mrs Hyman,’ said the voice of her new best friend, PC Hamed Johnson. ‘Your big day. Thank you.’
He offered her a hand up, but she handed him the bag and sprung herself to her feet.
‘So this is what saved the day,’ he said, realising the significance of the bulk in the bag.
‘Yes, Hamed,’ she said. ‘Not the Koran, sorry.’
He chuckled as he steered Ginny towards the courtroom. ‘My Mum might regard it as less blasphemous. But I see it as our saviour.’ He took the Bible out of the bag, placed it on the bench back in front of them. He stroked the white leather, traced the gold lettering, his finger stopping beside a small maroon stain. He looked across to the accused hanging his head in the dock.
Ginny saw both and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s his blood. Just a drip - like him. Something to tell the grandkids. Proof, eh?’
‘Indeed. How Dai Bwlch was Retford’s most elusive cat burglar and their brave grandma saved the day and brought him to book.’
“Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Seat Leon. Its five month mission to explore new spaces to put all the junk that we have accumulated over the years”. John often nattered to himself in the car when he was alone. He and Sarah were planning to move to a new-build house from the large and expensive Victorian Terrace that they had been living in for the last 30 years.
The kids had left home and had set up in their own houses, but of course hadn’t taken all their stuff with them. “Oh Dad” Lucy had said to him with that soft endearing look in her eyes “Please look after all my dolls. They can stay in the loft until I need them for your granddaughter”. Well, so far, no granddaughter had arrived, but that wasn’t to say that one wouldn’t arrive sooner or later, and anyway, he was never able to resist Lucy’s requests. Of course, Jake hadn’t taken all his stuff with him when he went.
He appeared to be in such a rush to leave and live his own life, but in addition to wanting to leave his old life behind, it seems that he was also happy to leave some of his clothes (“I haven’t got wardrobe space in my new place”) his old toys (“you can’t get rid of those Dad, I remember playing with them”) or his multigym and weights (“You should have a go at them Dad, it’ll stop you getting fatter”). All meant well of course, but it did hurt a bit.
As if that were not enough, there was also a fair amount of Sarah’s parents’ furniture and some other trinkets that apparently couldn’t be got rid of. “Just to remember them by.” said Sarah. In the privacy of his car John admitted to himself that he had a fair amount of stuff stored that came from his parents. There were books that he would read when he had time and there was that old dresser that his Dad had started to renovate and John had promised he would finish.
So much stuff had been given away on Freecycle or taken to a charity shop. They were very careful to spread the load between the various local charity shops “We have to be fair” Sarah had said, though in truth they were somewhat embarrassed about the amount of stuff they were getting rid of and wanted to spread the guilt. John counted 10 trips to the tip, mostly getting rid of stuff from the garage that never did come in useful.
Anything they could sell, they had sold on Ebay, Amazon Marketplace, and finally at an auction, but still they had too much stuff. It wasn’t as if the new house was particularly small, it just didn’t have the storage space the old one had and so here was John in search of a self-storage yard to rent a small container at a large monthly cost.
In the middle of these reveries John realized that he did not know where he was. It had happened before that he had been so focused on his thoughts that when he had refocused on his driving he had not recognized where he was. Usually in a matter of moments, he had reestablished his bearings, but this time he really could not work out where he was. This was a regular route for him, so he hadn’t bothered to switch the satnav on, preferring to turn it on when he really needed fine detail of the location of the storage yard. He pulled into a layby to activate the satnav. Instead of coming up with a map and directions, it put out a message to say that it could not establish contact with a satellite. John tapped the screen in the time honoured fashion as if that might help with the satellite connection.
Nothing happened, the screen continued to show its irritating message and would not even show a map.
John looked up from the screen and realized that while he had been concentrating on the satnav a thick fog had come down and surrounded the car. “Dammit” he cried. “I can’t drive in this”. He had no idea where he was, the satnav was not working and now he couldn’t see beyond the end of the car. He picked up his phone to call home and pressed the fingerprint sensor. Nothing happened. He pressed the power button. Nothing happened.
He turned the headlights on. Nothing happened. He pressed the brake pedal to start the car. Nothing happened.
“Ah well” he thought “It is what it is”. He felt remarkably calm and unconcerned by the situation he was in even as he felt himself drift away from the car. It was a strange sensation. He didn’t move, and yet he drifted away from the car. Once he was outside, he could no longer see his feet. He stretched his arm out and he could not see his hand. “Is this what invisibility feels like” he thought. He could no longer see any part of himself except when he looked back at the car and saw himself sitting there not doing anything. He was still unconcerned. That too fascinated him. Surely he should feel something. He could not see the ground, so he crouched down and felt for it. It wasn’t there. He felt for his feet and then his legs and his other arm. He felt for his head. He could feel nothing. “I guess I am not here then” he thought. “Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am, that Frenchman said”. If he could think he must exist, but if none of his senses worked, what sort of existence was it?
He moved further away from the car “How am I moving?”. He was nothing and he was moving into nothing with nowhere to go. This was so strange. What was he doing before this happened? “Am I dead?” The thought did not disturb him, he just thought that there should have been more or perhaps even less than this if he was dead. Was this the limbo that the Roman Catholics used to speak of. After all it was only abolished in 2007. Whatever happened to all those souls that were still in Limbo? Are they still there? Would he meet some of them? Would they be at least a little disgruntled that they never had a chance to move on before Limbo was abolished? Fortunately for John he was not a Roman Catholic and only Roman Catholics could have ended up in Limbo.
Sadly, that didn’t help with what was happening to him. The only thing he could see through the fog was his corporeal self just sitting in the car. He didn’t look dead, but neither was he doing anything, just staring into space. And what space it was. Lots and lots of it and nothing in it. No stuff.
He felt himself drift back towards the car. Then there he was, sitting in the driver’s seat and staring out at the rapidly dissipating fog. When it cleared he realized exactly where he was and set his satnav to the self-storage yard; though he wasn’t sure he needed it now. He was pretty sure he just needed to speak to the kids and ask them if they really needed the stuff because he wasn’t going to store it for them anymore and tell Sarah the same. The stuff he was hanging on to he would just get rid of some way. It had somehow come home to him that that he only needed the space he had need of and he didn’t need any more stuff than he could comfortably keep in the space he had.
He switched the satnav off, executed a 3 point turn and headed back home.
It was the applause, always the applause. Every night when Jonathan closed his eyes, he could see and hear his adoring audience showing their appreciation for another triumphant performance. Women of a certain age would lose all inhibition in making their affection clear. Their partners would clap and nod knowingly in recognition of his enviable appeal to the fairer sex. Even children would squeal with excitement, their faces red from laughter at his effortless hilarity.
It had been that way ever since his perfectly timed ‘Baa’ as second sheep from the left in the Year 2 nativity. It had earned a spontaneous standing ovation – well, his mum had leapt to her feet in the front row, clapping and blowing kisses in his direction. This caused one of the kings to forget which gift he was proffering before promptly bursting into tears and making a hasty and tearful exit in the direction of the boys’ toilets.
Undeterred by the ‘silly over-reaction’ of the boys’ parents and head teacher, his doting mum was more convinced than ever he was destined to be a star and he was delighted to be indulged. She assured him ‘jealousy’ was behind his failure to land leading roles in subsequent school productions although even the head had to admit his oak tree portrayal in the Robin Hood panto was unsurpassed in its poise.
Her conspiracy theory gathered momentum when, despite appearing in her hand-made, full Dickensian urchin costume at preliminary readings, he failed to land the role of Dodger in a local production of Oliver! Still, she maintained, Jonathan managed to steal the show as part of Fagin’s gang despite being annoyingly obscured from view by the ‘awkward big boy’ determined to steal his thunder.
A back-street agent begrudgingly agreed to take him on his books when he left drama school with a ‘pass’ in his diploma but, despite his mum’s almost daily badgering by phone or in person for the last five years, he seemed unable to land his big break – until now.
His latest reverie was interrupted by a knock on his door and those magical words – “You’re on in five, Jonathan.” He’d replayed that phrase in his head thousands of times but now it was reality.
He stood up, straightened his cardigan in the mirror saying to himself, “This is it,” and took a deep breath before turning the handle and stepping out.
“The popcorn, crisps and chocolate buttons are on the table, just as you asked, and there’s even a bottle of shandy. Curtain up in one minute.”
The happy family scene was so familiar to Jonathan from the numerous takes and rehearsals which had prolonged the agony of his wait for his big moment.
The actor playing the father was an experienced pro who managed to conceal the undoubted pain from his scalded hand following a domestic mishap on the morning of filming. His bad luck had been Jonathan’s good fortune.
The scene unfolded and Jonathan could barely hold the remote control in his sweating hand due to the nervous sense of anticipation. “There!” he shouted and almost leapt in the air as he pressed the pause button with all his might.
He had timed it perfectly. Frozen along the bottom of the screen was the caption ‘Spice up your family’s meals with our new range of Saucy Sauces’. Above it was the hand, poised with the bottled condiment at the perfect angle to display its eye-catching label. But it wasn’t just any hand it was HIS hand, unmistakable due to the scar left when one of his daydreams had caused him to staple himself to the cardboard during an uninspiring craft lesson.
He could barely breathe with excitement as he turned his head to the seat on his left. There, his mother drew a tissue from her apron to dab away her tears of pride and joy before composing herself, looking lovingly at him and pronouncing: “And they said you’d never make it!”
Excuse me, all this scribbling, does it have a use?
Because if so, to me it’s exceedingly abstruse.
All I see is moping and lazing about,
When you could do something useful like taking me out.
But I’ll let you have your hobby - it could never be mine,
Besides, being your guard dog is my job full time.
I’ll leave you to your dreaming and sitting on your arse.
If I ever get the urge to write I’ll surely let it pass,
Although I see there’s others, deluded just like you,
Folks with too much thinking time and not enough to do.
But I quite like Wednesdays when you dreamers all meet,
Though I wouldn’t mind a sofa and a blanket for my feet.
With all you lot’s pretensions you deserve to be on stage
On the old West Pier you could be the short-lived rage;
A friendly enough bunch, though different every week,
With readings often funny, sometimes weird or even bleak.
And if by fluke you prosper in this peculiar writing game,
Don’t forget your Wednesday mates - Olliebob’s the name.
You can mock this effort - to me it doesn’t matter,
But only call it doggerel if you’re sure you could do better.
Cadwaladr
Just before dawn, the owls up in Fullers Wood called to each other as young Mordicai followed his father across the cobbled, shadowed filled, yard. Mordicai was cold and sleepy, but he would not miss this day for any amount of warmth or sleep.
His master, Lord Kendrick Griffin, was leaving to join the King’s crusade to relieve Jerusalem.
Mordicai’s father, Jared, along with many more squires and men-at-arms, would be accompanying Sir Kendrick on his long journey.
They would be away for a long time.
With his head bowed, Mordicai held a spluttering torch high and clutched his shawl to his throat as he followed his father between the stout wooden doors beneath the high arched entrance to the inner chamber of the stable block.
This was the first time Mordicai had been allowed into the forbidden area.
This was the first time his eyes would behold Cadwaladr.
Lord Kendrick’s war horse.
Forewarned by his father, with bated breath, Mordicai moved to the shadow of the circular chamber. Holding the torch aside his attuned senses inhaled the comingled stench of horse dung and the sweet smell of hay.
Muttered voices rebounded off stone.
The click clack of hooves on stone.
Flicking light appeared from a high tunnel.
The sound of iron striking stone rang loud.
Two squires entered the chamber.
A dark form filled the tunnel.
Then, led by two burly grooms, Cadwaladr entered the chamber.
Standing tall, black as a moonless night, wide-eyed Cadwaladr pranced and rippled with barely supressed energy.
Spellbound by the size of the creature, with hoof beats ringing loud in his ears, Mordicai bit down on a cry of awe.
From the darkness Mordicai watched his father and the grooms and squires saddle Cadwaladr, place a coat of chain mail on the mighty horse, and drape that with a white caparison bearing large red crosses.
Even as he watched the war horse being prepared, Mordicai heard jangling, metallic footfalls descending a flight of stone stairs.
Then, led by two squires, Lord Kendrick entered the chamber.
Clothed from head to foot in chain mail, and comparisoned in a white gown and long cloak with red crosses, his Lordship stood tall and broad. Upon his head he wore a round helmet and against his thigh hung a long sword.
Cadwaladr, seeing his master, tossed his black head, and pranced and whinnied, eager to be off.
Lord Kendrick mounted the horse and led him beneath the arched doorway into the outer courtyard.
The sun was up over the courtyard.
To the sounds of the readying baggage train, Mordicai watched Lord Kendrick holding Cadwaladr on a tight rein as the horse pranced, its hoof falls echoing loudly as man and beast passed through the castle keep.
In their wake rode Mordicai’s father, Jared, and nine other squires and grooms. The combined hoofbeats of their mounts drummed loud as the party cantered across the timber drawbridge and unto the open countryside.
Mordicai’s mother, Bronwen, laid an arm across his shoulder as he watched his father ride off into the distance.
Mordicai was not to know that he would never see his father again.
When the party had fallen below the horizon, and the baggage train was preparing to set out, Bronwen, patting Mordicai’s shoulder, said, ‘Shall we go and have some hot milk and honey and bread cakes?’
Cadwaladr bore Lord Kendrick to Dartmouth. From where the party took ship to Lisbon, and from there to Marseille, and from there, to Rome. From Rome they took the long sea voyage to Acra. From there they journeyed through the Holy Land to Jerusalem.
On that long and arduous trek across central Europe Cadwaladr carried his master through several bloody pogroms against the killers of Christ and other heretics to the true Cross.
Besieged for many months in Jerusalem by Saladin’s mighty Arab army Lord Kendrick’s horse Cadwaladr, although weakened by hunger, was itself one of the remaining sources of food.
Lord Kendrick, unwilling to allow his horse to suffer such an ignominious end, and in defiance of his fellow knights, refused to surrender, chosing instead to go up against the enemy one last time.
Aware that he was being readied for battle a new energy surging through Cadwaladr emaciated frame.
The gates were thrown open.
Resplendent in full battle dress, horse and rider cantered forth.
Before them stood the serried ranks of the enemy horde.
Hearing Lord Kendrick draw his sword, Cadwaladr, snorting and whinnying, pounded the hardpacked sand with his iron shod hooves.
Raising his sword aloft Lord Kendrick cried aloud.
‘FOR THE CROSS OF CHRIST! GO CADWALADR! GO!’
In response, Cadwaladr reared high, snorted and whinnied aloud, flailed the air with his forelegs, dropped down, and leap forward into a ground eating gallop.
Horse and rider were mere metres from the enemy ranks when, unseated by a lance, Lord Kendrick heard the cry go up.
‘DARAR LA AL-HASSAN!’
‘DARAR LA AL-HASSAN!’
‘HARM NOT THE HORSE!’
‘HARM NOT THE HORSE!’ https://medium.com/@husnazainab/another-yusufs-tale-saladin-be48539c2384
‘Hey.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Stan Whitman. I’m Jack Shackler’s agent.’
‘Bobby Holler. What do you want?’
‘You’re the spitting image of Jack.’
‘I know that. What do you want?’
‘How’d you like to be Jack’s stand in?’
‘Stand in?’
‘His double.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Very. Jack’s in great demand. He can’t be everywhere at once. He needs a double.’
‘I don’t sound like Jack.’
‘No problem. It’s strictly a walk-on role.’
‘How long for?’
‘Until the pressures off.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘Difficult to say. He’s a popular guy.’
‘What exactly would I have to do?’
‘Appear where he can’t. Parties, receptions, premiers, etc. No TV, no interviews.’
‘What do I get in return?’
‘An all-expenses paid lifestyle. A grand a week. Plus, Jack’s identical wardrobe. To keep.’
‘...Is this legit?
‘Absolutely.’
‘...I’d want a contract.’
‘No contract. Strictly cash.’
‘When do I meet Jack?’
‘You don’t.’
‘When do you need me?’
‘As of this Saturday. An A List party, in Juan les Pins.
‘Where’s that?’
‘South of France.’
‘Sounds good. Strictly cash. No cash, no show.’
‘That’s the deal.’
Bobby still found it hard to believe his luck. He had been banking a thousand bucks a week for the past nine months. Now, wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit, he was being chauffeured to Grauman’s for the latest movie premiere, in company with a well-known actress. Okay, so she was off limits. Who knew.
The stalker wanted an audience when he took down Jack Shackler. So he chose this red-carpet event for maximum publicity.
Bobby Holler’s feet had barely touched the famous forecourt, when the stalker moved in. He swiftly pumped four .38’s into Bob’s chest and turned to flee.
In the ensuing confusion and panic, he was cut down by a hail of .45 slugs fired by four members of Jack Shackler’s personal bodyguard.
His body was handed over to the LAPD.
Bobby Holler was rushed by private ambulance to a private hospital. Where he was pronounced DOA.
JACK SHACKLER MAKES REMARKABLE RECOVERY
After being gunned down outside Grauman’s just eight weeks ago by Guy Montelle, the superstar is said to have made a remarkable recovery.
Immediately following his attack Montelle — who had been stalking Jack and making death threats against him for the past year — was shot to death by Jack’s private bodyguards.
‘You got the creep, Stan.’
‘We got him, Jack. It worked like a charm.
‘I can come out of hiding.’
‘Sure can. Just play the part until the spotlight shifts. And you’re in the clear.’
‘No comebacks, Stan. No loose ends?’
‘None whatsoever. It was a sweet operation, Jack. We’re clean.’
‘GELLANO!’
‘Yeah, Chief?’
‘Missing male for you. Robert Anthony Holler’, the Chief said striding up and handing over a glossy colour photograph.
‘Hey Chief!’
‘Yeah?’
‘This is Jack Shackler!’
‘Who?’
‘The superstar! Guy was gunned down outside Grauman’s. Last new year eve!’
‘No way! That’s a picture of Robert Anthony Holler! Just came through from his ol’ man in LAPD! Been missing close on a year.’
‘Well hell Chief, Robert Anthony Holler sure is a dead ringer for Jack Shackler.’
Retwords 