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ISSUE 235 Date: 5th May 2012

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Issue 235

Page 2

Thoughts & Quotes ... The captain, Edward John Smith, shouted out: “Be British, boys, be British!” as the ocean liner

went down, according to witnesses. It is also claimed that the legend of the band continuing to play

as the Titanic sank is true.

Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting,

yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a

third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern

town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass

of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of

the undergrowth. Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

Reg, as he insisted on being called, had a memory that he himself had once compared to the Queen

Alexandra Birdwing Butterfly in that it was colourful, flitted prettily hither and thither, and was

now, alas, almost completely extinct. Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

Not the power to remember, but its very opposite, the power to forget, is a necessary condition for

our existence. Sholem Asch, The Nazarene

To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its

prime function of looking forward. Margaret Fairless Barber, The Roadmender

Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid. Ugo Betti, Goat Island

It's good to have a short memory because it keeps life fresh.

Mark Bittman, Spain... on the road Again, episode 108: "A Sultan's View of Andalucía"

A baby is expected. A trip is expected. News is expected. Forgetfulness is expected. An invitation is

expected. Hope is expected. But memories are not expected. They just come.

Giannina Braschi, Pastoral in Empire of Dreams, 1983

I am a miser of my memories of you And will not spend them. Witter Bynner, Coins

A happy childhood can't be cured. Mine'll hang around my neck like a rainbow, that's all, instead of

a noose. Hortense Calisher, Queenie (1971)

To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die. Thomas Campbell, Hallowed Ground

Memory is the thing you forget with. Alexander Chase, Perspectives

The sense of smell can be extraordinarily evocative, bringing back pictures as sharp as photographs

of scenes that had left the conscious mind.

Thalassa Cruso, To Everything There is a Season (1973)

We have all forgot more than we remember.

Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

Oliver Goldsmith, The Deserted Village (1770), line 81

Issue 235

Page 3

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Whilst snoring cannot be cured completely, there are things that can be done to alleviate the suffering

of other family members. From a personal reminiscence I can vouch that during my first marriage

my sleeping was much improved when both parties began sleeping in their own beds: one was in

Devon whilst the other was in Manchester.

The nicest thing about holidays is cream teas, and exploring, and listening to the sea, and going to the

zoo, and eating ice-creams, and chocolate cake, and coming home.

Tricky things hearts ... once they are broken the pieces never quite go back together the same way

When a school closes, the community of generations of former pupils often can be found clinging to

memories — fond and otherwise — on Facebook.

Crunch: Terrible things are happening to sick and disabled people due to welfare benefit withdrawals.

Crunch: Elderly people whose savings have been wiped out by years of no interest are falling into

fuel poverty that means having to choose between food and fuel. They have little voice: no one is

stopping this despicable cruelty.

Crunch: Anecdotally one hears, more and more elderly folk are being drafted in to do „grandparent

duty‟ i.e. taking over child minding roles before and after school and during holidays. This has led to

many of these elderly folk having to give up their usual afternoon social activities — this in turn can

lead to depression and loneliness due to isolation from their peer group. This bleeding away of par-

ticipants also has a detrimental effect on many social activity groups continuation.

unflappable adj

Remaining composed and level-headed at all times; unswayed by adversity or excitement; impossible to fluster; not

becoming frustrated or irritated easily.

hexapod n

Any organism or being with six legs.

amiable adj

Friendly; kind; sweet; gracious; as, an amiable temper or mood; amiable ideas.

Possessing sweetness of disposition; having sweetness of temper; kind hearted; which causes one to be liked.

tip one's hand v

(idiomatic) To inadvertently reveal any secret, particularly a secret that puts one at an advantage or disadvantage.

rescind v

(transitive) To repeal, annul, or declare void; to take (something such as a rule or contract) out of effect.

matronly adj

In the capacity or manner of a matron.

Exuding authority, wisdom, power, and intelligence of an experienced woman.

Having the appearance of a mature woman, often of larger physical stature and somewhat unkempt or dowdy.

devil's advocate n

One who debates from a view which he may not actually hold, usually to determine its validity or simply for the sake

of argument.

(Roman Catholic Church) A canon lawyer appointed by the Church to argue against the canonization of the proposed

candidate.

pine v

(intransitive) To long, to yearn so much that it causes suffering.

impeccably adv

In an perfect or flawless manner.

CLIVE‟s three free e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Issue 235

Page 4

Steph‟s FREE poetry e-chapbook is now published on www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

The chapbook is illustrated by some of her original artwork.

She is a member of Stafford Art Group and has exhibited some pieces locally.

Prologue – In the beginning . . . Making Over Michael (SMS)

‘Through caverns measureless to man,’ from somewhere near came the sound of his voice.

The familiar resonance flowing over her as a warm glow, as her senses drifted, backwards and

forwards, in and out of consciousness. An echo of that frisson of excitement being near him

always caused, warmed her senses. A crescendo, a flood of affection washed over her. A surge

of emotion emanating from the closeness and warmth given off by his chest, his arms, his

thighs snuggled next to hers revived her ailing spirit. Yet the ever-present, palpable, sexual-

tension of their all consuming desire had now waned to a profound contentment lying buried

deep inside.

Oh be still my heart: a flickered thought. Ecce Cor Meum. Behold my heart. It was true.

Here was her heart, her whole desire, her whole existence safe and at peace, she relaxed into

the circle of their love surrounded by his arms. The edge of her tongue dampened cracked lips,

Caroline‟s eye-lids fluttered. Comforted by the spoken words: she wasn‟t dreaming. A peaceful

harmony descended over them both, bluish lips smiled thinly in recognition. Michael was here:

she could leave this mortal life, this Pleasure Dome, any time she wanted to.

In truth she remained only by sheer act of will: all her inner strength used up in waiting for

him to arrive. Through the fog of jumbled dreams the spoken words began to clear, as that

deep-brown velvety voice softly intoned their message of comfort and love only inches from her

ear. It was Coleridge he was lilting.

Her favourite.

It would be, wouldn‟t it? The father of her child, Michael, he, he alone would know at the

very last breath she would want to hear Coleridge. Sharing their passion: part of their secret

life. Secrets and confidences: only she knew the intensity he concealed, the depth of his intel-

lect kept well hidden away from that all intrusive public-eye of the camera lens.

The glitterati come and go, talking of Bobby Da Ni-rro, disconcerting how snatches of

songs kept popping into her thoughts when she was trying so desperately to focus on staying

within the confines of the tiny world of that one special voice.

The irony amused her. In the 80s when they‟d first met all those years of just saying NO to

narcotics, and now here she was feeling little pain, free wheeling into the all consuming void on

the crest of a high, compliments of an NHS drip.

‘In a vision once I saw.’

Caroline‟s tired eyes tried to focus, but, soon gave up the struggle: it was too hard a task.

Her hand lay on his chest, although she didn‟t recall moving it there. He had opened the but-

tons of his shirt and tucked the cold fingers safe inside holding them against his flesh, where

his breaking heart fluttered like a caged wing beating beneath the coldness of the bloodless

palm.

The brushed-cotton fabric felt warm against her cheek where, propped against the pillow

stack, Michael had climbed onto the high-bed and snuggled her limp body up close against

him, spreading her hair over his shoulder as he had done so many times before, during their

long years of growing-up together.

Ah yes... tingling with the taste of a distant pang of want, in shades of vermillion, Caroline‟s

mind flickered like the stills of a silent movie to recall the first time she‟d ever laid eyes on him, a

wild-eyed, dishevelled youth doing his best to play the hard-man. T-shirt thrown over the handle of

a spade, muscles rippling across his back glistening with sweat. The leader of the work gang toil-

ing under the watchful, resentful gaze of his older brother: Collum.

Collum McGann! She shouldn‟t have . . . she so wished she hadn‟t. . . but they had all been

so young . . . and life was so easy then . . . Regret flickered behind closed lids, but, now was not a

time to be wasted on omission and past ill judgement. Why now dwell on old wounds by stirring

old memories? These last few precious seconds slowed the speed of their eternal progress to a

t i c k and a t o c k in rhythm with the slowing beat of her dying heart.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley . . She‟d been playing that when . . . a vivid rec-

ollection of that first stolen time they‟d lain together that Christmas night rolled over her.

Caroline sighed. A resonance of their intense passion washed over and crashed against her

shore. Etched into her soul the memory of their bonding enhanced and re-lived once more, as

breathing in deeply, she savoured the warm-earthy aroma of Michael‟s toil-hardened body for the

last time. Reacting to the subtle change of breathing he gently nestled her lifeless-shell closer:

protecting, keeping her motionless body secure in the crook of his arm.

‘And on a dulcimer she played.’

It seemed so long ago now. A life-time.

Could have played it better, she murmured, but strangely the sound didn‟t have strength to

carry beyond thought. The power of speech had left her. Ironic, now at the last, she couldn‟t say

the one thing she had always wanted to say and yet had never quite been able. Their past littered

with so many unresolved „issues‟.

‘And close your eyes with mortal dread.’ The voice was quavering. She caught the tremor,

felt it deep inside his chest wall.

He knew.

She knew all his „tells‟, the way his mouth softened at the corners when she spoke, how the

tone of his voice lowered when they talked, the way those dark, darting eyes followed her every

movement round the room. How they sparkled in the half-light of a summer morning when they

first awoke: it pained her that she couldn‟t see them now. No matter how hard she tried to see

the light on his face for just one more time to carry with her, to be sustained on the journey by

that one perfect memory, but no matter how hard she tried, her lids were refusing to open.

It would be soon now.

Yet, she felt no fear at this parting.

Michael was with her. How could she fear, as his strength sustained her to ease this final

passing? Would he recognise Tamara as his own? Would he forget her? Was theirs a timeless

love? Too hard . . . questions, questions. She had lost feeling in her legs: it had turned so cold.

The impression of being in the room was becoming really faded at the edges now and still. Still:

stillness settled upon her like a heavy weight. Time to let go. No need to tell him anything else

was there?

He‟d know.

The peripheries of the anti-room closed in around them as the world retreated. The drone of

the traffic flashing by on the ring-road ceased its clamour. The wall clock silenced its ticking as

Michael‟s tear-filled voice breathed the words that for years she had longed to hear into her hair,

‘For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.’

At ten past four the nurse came to take the half-hour readings and found the couple, locked

in that last embrace. The bearded Irishman still silently mouthing word-perfect Coleridge to that

pale, lifeless cheek as the dying rays of a low winter sun filtered into the side-ward through the

slats of the Venetian blinds casting thin lines of shadow across the bed.

Closing the door quietly the young woman straightened the belt of her crisp uniform as she

caught sight of the junior registrar approaching.

„She‟s gone?‟ he asked, „our celebrity guest.‟

Blinking away an unprofessional tear the student nurse nodded, and picking up a pair of

rubber gloves from a box on the nursing station counter said: „And the Priest from St. Anne‟s has

been – the mother‟s rang again but I didn‟t say,‟ she paused, „not yet. And the reporters . . .

bloody reporters . . .‟

The junior registrar had run the media gauntlet on his way in, he knew all about the „public

interest‟ aspect this case was attracting, but it was still the tragic end to a young life and worthy

Issue 235

Page 6

of respect, he interrupted: „Is he with her?‟

„Oh yes. Never missed . . . been here for hours.‟

The Ward Sister joined them and together the three professionals drew near to the circular

window in the door of Room 16 – God‟s waiting room.

„Look at them. Daft beggars. What a waste. All those years. The most tempestuous rela-

tionship since Taylor and Burton so it said on the news. Their every fight splashed across day-

time TV and just look at them now. Darby and Joan.‟

The older woman suppressed the catch in her throat, not professional was it? But, how

could anyone not be caught up in the grief at such a vibrant young woman‟s passing so much

before her time?

„Never, understood it,‟ said the young registrar who‟d read modern classics in Mumbai in

now what seemed like another lifetime. „How could two lovers not be able to talk to each other?

Couldn‟t get it together could they? Couldn‟t sort their life out.‟

The student nodded: „Couldn‟t communicate: Ross and thingy . . . in Friends all over again.‟

„Life imitating art?‟ he whispered.

„Oh he told her he loved her right enough,‟ said the sister pushing a strand of iron-grey hair

away from a tightly drawn mouth. „He just used an indirect route – he showed how much he

loved her in everything he ever built.‟

„Didn‟t he ever tell her then – you know, the three little words?‟ asked the young nurse,

aware something momentous had happened and desperate to be included in this adult conver-

sation.

The doctor smiled looking down for the first time into upturned sky-blue eyes.

„If he didn‟t say them, everyone else knew he did. It can‟t be easy having your every inti-

mate moment the subject of national debate.‟ Could he cope with fame? It was the first time he

had pondered the question. „I‟m glad I‟m not a celebrity – even a minor one – I couldn‟t take the

pressure.‟

„What‟s he going to do without her?‟ asked the nurse. „Will he ever be able to love again?

Will this break him?‟

With that the sister eased open the door to intrude upon the bereft man‟s last moments of

privacy.

„Time heals,‟ whispered the doctor into the girl‟s ear. „Life goes on, the wheel turns.‟

The sister, a widow who had seen too much of loss, was not so sure he was right, but held

her peace.

At the sound of their entry the TV hard-man enfolded the corpse of his beloved ever tighter

to his chest, its radiance already fading into porcelain translucence. As the blinds swished

closed Michael whispered almost inaudibly: ‘All thoughts, all passions, all delights.’

Author‟s note ... Unfortunately, despite rave peer reviews, as this novel of Michael‟s eventual

„makeover‟ used words of more than two syllables, had more than four characters and dared to

be funny in places, it landed soundlessly on the slush pile ... such a shame ...

Hopefully, the bulletin will be back to it‟s

normal publication day next week

Sorry for any inconvenience caused.

Wednesday evening after 1945h. CMH

Thomas was the lonely occupant of the theatre bar, the show starring, if that was

the right term, which he doubted, Danny La Do had started fifteen minutes ago.

Jean was in the box office cashing up for the night whilst he was waiting, waiting,

waiting for Jean Grabble, the star of his life to appear. He didn't mind waiting, he

would, he thought, wait forever for her.

'Another drink, squire? Just while you're waiting for whoever it is you're waiting

for?' The barman, obviously a staff member, asked him.

'Yes, a bitter lemon, please.' Tom was out to impress and having his breath

smelling of something alcoholic wasn't on the cards.

The barman was, obviously, not impressed by his heroic attitude.

Suddenly the door swung open and the light of his life, surrounded by a

glowing nimbus of pearly light, filled his sight. She was here! The most perfect

woman in the world, the one he was going to marry, and marry very soon. The

mother of his children and the supporter of his dreams.

Through the haze he did note that it was different Jean. The Jean he'd

met earlier wore red jeans, safety boots, and a blouse over a tee shirt. This Jean

wore a tailored business suit that outlined her absolute perfection.

'Hi Tom, I saw you come in earlier, but you know how it is in that kiosk.

Too small and rushed off your feet most of the time. Get me a drink will you? A

glass of lemonade would be nice.' Thomas floated across to the bar and back with

the glass.

Jean took a deep drink. 'That's better,' she said. 'Now Thomas what about

you? What do you do, what family have you, what plans do you have? I need to

know all about you.'

Thomas smiled as he replied. 'Mum, Dad, Babs and Meg my sisters. Gran-

dad and Grans on both sides, and a raft of relatives. You'll have to meet them all

sometime soon. I'm the junior in the family firm and will probably stay there for

some time, maybe for ever, I don't know.' He slid off his chair and onto his knees, 'I

love you, will you marry me? Today, tomorrow, sometime soon?'

Jean's face became thoughtful. 'Not today or tomorrow, Thomas, but you

may have a chance on the sometime soon; I think. That all depends on how well

we suit each other.' She smiled and, as she spoke, Thomas felt shivers run up his

back, he'd never felt like this before. 'We've an hour to talk before the interval and

after that; if your very nice to me, you can take me out for a meal.'

They chatted, Thomas didn't know, or care, about what, until the interval

bell rang. The sound changed Jean from the flirtatious girl he was getting to know

to a business person. He was even more impressed, here was someone who had

more than one facet to their life and could switch between them. He could never,

really, stop being a lawyer but maybe it was something he could learn. He could try

anyway. Sighing he sat back and watched the 'other' Jean Grabble at work.

After the interval Jean took him back-stage to meet the cast.

Danny La Do was in the wings doing a lightening change into his

“Cleopatra Costume”, 'Can't talk now, darling,' he said, in his high pitched voice,

'this is a very quick change. Is my hat on straight, dear.' The “Egyptian” head piece

had a very OTT scarab hanging down into the centre of his forehead.

'Nice jewellery there; where did you get it from?' Jean asked Danny.

'Oh, that's from one of the charity shops, Jean darling. The cat one I

think. Cost me a whole pound as well, mind you I don't think it really suits me

though, do you dear? Not quite 'me' really; if you know what I mean! If you want

it, sweetheart, you can have it when I come off stage.'

Standing up and giving 'her' make-up a last look, 'Cleopatra' went

through the scenery flats, paused, and, right on cue, swept into the next act.

Wednesday Evening

British Museum Egyptian Section

„Do you know our Ethel?‟ said team leader, Mrs

Grimshaw stuffing her mop into the bucket with a

jaunty plop. Ethel Scatterthwaite took her ears

out and strains of Leonard Cohen wafted across

the deserted antechamber and bounced off the

nearby sarcophagus. Her nose wrinkled in antici-

pation, given the odd wine gum and Mrs G was a

bit of a raggy trousered philosopher in Ethel‟s

humble opinion.

„Look here, this wasn‟t there last week, was

it?‟

Ethel shuffled over to the open sarcophagus

in the glass case. The team leader was right.

There was something different about the half-wrapped Bluddschott mummy. An in-

definable something, but definitely a something. Was he smiling?

„And, that‟s not all,‟ said Mrs G scratching her spare tyre with a handy feather

duster handle, „look at his nibs. Tell me that‟s in the same place? Look at the dust!‟

Ethel obliged and inspected the plinth of the associated deity. The statue of

Anubis, the dog faced god, was definitely in a slightly different place than the previ-

ous week as the disturbed dust ring clearly indicated and as it weighed over half a

ton it wasn‟t as if some kid had leant on it.

„It is a bit weird,‟ agreed Ethel, although she‟d always thought the Egyptian

rooms were on the spooky side, always wondered if hundreds of eyes followed them

round the room, she was especially careful not to skimp on the corners in here.

„What is he anyway? What did he do?‟

Mrs G beamed her knowledgeable beam. She hadn‟t wasted the thirty years

she‟d been washing these hallowed floors. „Anubis is associated with mummifica-

tion and the afterlife: he weighs the heart of the deceased.‟

„Is that why he‟s next to the Bluddschott mummy?‟

„Ahh ... well ... this one, this Anubis statue, was actually dug up with the

mummy in the case. He was guarding this actual mummy in the royal tomb.‟

„Royal? I didn‟t think this one was royalty?‟ said Ethel swinging a mop towards

the glass case dismissively.‟

„Worse,‟ said Mrs G, her attention suddenly taken up by the glitter of a dropped

fifty pence piece, „he was a temple builder and high priest to the goddess Dumilla.‟

„Dumilla the goddess of reincarnation and rebirth,‟ said Ethel wandering after

Mrs G as a shaft of sunlight fell on Anubis and for a second the eyes blazed.

Wiki image

Wheelie Bin Blues

The wheelies came in two by two,

Hoorah Hoorah

the green one and the brown one too,

Hoorah Hoorah

now there’s one with a caddy blue,

to add to the hullabaloo.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in three by three,

Hoorah Hoorah

but a change of day adds misery,

Hoorah Hoorah

to the colour blind it’s a mystery

adding richness to social history.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in four by four,

Hoorah Hoorah

standing in line outside the door.

Hoorah Hoorah

Be careful not to break the law

don’t leave any scraps upon the floor.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in five by five,

Hoorah Hoorah

rotting garbage heaves maggot alive,

Hoorah Hoorah

seagulls circle and swiftly dive,

on old spud peelings see them thrive.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in six by six,

Hoorah Hoorah

packets of Cornflakes and Weetabix,

Hoorah Hoorah

folded and emptied by forty licks,

crushed down smartly with a pile of

bricks.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in seven by seven,

Hoorah Hoorah

lined up all the way to the gates of

heaven.

Hoorah Hoorah

From cold Aberdeen to sunny Devon

they’re collected by hero, beefy

Kevin.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in eight by eight,

Hoorah Hoorah

be out by 7.00am or you’ll be too

late,

Hoorah Hoorah

be careful don’t confuse the date,

if you mix up the colours you’ll be in

a state.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies marched in by the nine,

Hoorah Hoorah

collected in ones, or two at a time. Hoorah Hoorah

Brown and Blue together in a line,

but mucky old Green has to bide its

time.

And they all go to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies trooped in ten by ten,

Hoorah Hoorah

We’re all truly sick of them by then.

Hoorah Hoorah

Let’s take all useless poli-tic-ian,

and dump them in a wheelie bin,

and send them all to St Albans Road

for to ease the Council Tax strain.

2011

(This ditty penned by Steph was published in full

in the Stafford Post when the blue and brown bins

were first issued. Helped by a G&T it has also been

sung tunelessly in various locations and found its

way into a couple of anthologies. St Albans Rd is

the local refuse recycling centre.)

Issue 235

Page 8

On this land we love the best

We are watched from way up high, on how we treat our land,

This land that we are caring for, for generations stand,

To stand just where our fathers stood, see it through their eyes,

And how the fields and lanes have looked, neath the clear blue skies.

The misty foggy mornings, dew drops on all the leaves,

The sunrise on the meadows, the bird song in the trees,

Long shadows in the evening, as the sun sets in the west,

Trees and bushes in full bloom, on this land we love the best.

Countryman (Owd Fred)

Random words: PMW

Kara gazed wistfully out of the window to the lake beyond.

“What are you looking at?” Mavis asked.

“Those swans over there,” she replied. “Did you know that swans are monoga-

mous?”

“Really?” said Mavis.

“Yes. They mate for life, unlike all the lousy men I‟ve ever dated, who think they are

God‟s gift to womankind.”

“I suppose that‟s the trouble with working in the media. You‟re mixing with celebri-

ties with big egos,” her friend added.

“I guess. But I always wanted to be a TV weather girl because of my interest in na-

ture.”

“Maybe you could think about changing your image then, to attract a different sort of

man.”

“Perhaps… but this look is who I am,” Kara opined.

“I know,” Mavis responded, “but navy-blue leather trousers and a crop top with a

diagonal print may just be giving out the wrong signals to the opposite sex. Why not

tone it down abit?”

Workers’ Playtime Project

RBW are delighted to announce the free e-book of this project has

been uploaded on to the RBW main website,

Issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

profile page and our Facebook

page

Control/CLICK the picture

The project‟s book is crammed

with colour pictures and

recorded memories.

The actual manuscript is

currently with the printer

and will be released shortly.

Copies of the book will be do-

nated to local libraries and to

all the participating groups.

The main website also contains

MP3 tracks of the memories

for those who prefer to listen to

accounts of oral

social history.

Very shortly the distribution

round of workshops will begin when those taking part will see their

memories in print for the first time and be able to hear the memories of

people from other groups taking part. A Power Point Presentation has

also been prepared for their enjoyment.

Issue 235

Page 10

The rowing boat

She knew something was amiss as soon

as she saw it bobbing on the edge of the

tide. The rowing boat was empty, it‟s oars

missing. Neville would never have de-

serted the boat, never left it bobbing un-

tied. It was after all his lifeline to sanity.

All alone on that island with nothing but

thousands of gannets for company would

drive a less sensible man barmy.

But there was of Neville no sign at

all. No footprints in the sand. All that re-

mained was the white painted boat spin-

ning sideways, this way and that as the

tide turned.

Tucking her jeans into wellingtons, Miss Dannilow strode out into the foam,

leaving Jess the spaniel complaining on the damp shingle. The mooring rope was

trailing. No life jacket, nothing of the ornithologist‟s equipment remained in the

water-logged interior. A layer of seawater sloshed around the sodden boards in the

bottom of the boat but of Neville Greatholder OBE there was no sign.

Pulling against the tidal surge Miss Dannilow struggled to beach the aban-

doned vessel. A man walking his dog attempted to help but being old and frail was

of little use, but he used his phone to call the coastguard which was, she agreed,

the best thing to do. She was worn out by the time the familiar figure of Alistair Cor-

coran the local bobby for St Alba district came striding across the sand and took

charge of the sodden sand embedded rope which had scoured her fingers and

made them bleed.

„It‟s the Nancy Leigh,‟ she said her voice whipped away on the wind.

„No Neville?‟ asked Alistair his eyes scanning the horizon.

She shook her head, staring out towards the bird sanctuary on Monkfish Is-

land, so near and yet suddenly so far away out across the bay.

„Why ever would he have set out in such a blow?‟ she said.

Neither man replied. Corcoran secured the boat to the sea wall and turning his

back started reporting into his radio. It was the turned back that made Miss Dan-

nilow realise it was likely her dear friend had drowned somewhere out in the bay be-

tween Monkfish jetty and this inhospitable shore.

Random words

Mrs Wells thought it most unfair that the grand piano was inaccessible for the man

with the tiny hammers. How could he tune the blessed thing, if he couldn‟t get to it?

The study was a disgrace. Ethel had stacked every surface with trays of rocket

salad, beetroot and shallot seeds. Classic obsessive behaviour she said mounting

the stairs. A total waste of the money spent in hiring the piano tuner. Given half a

chance she could happily disembowel her sister-in-law, instead of which she smiled

politely paid the man for his trouble and painted a smile on trembling lips as she

locked the scissors in the cabinet drawer just in case she was tempted later on.

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NB RBW does not endorse third party competitions or websites.

STAFFORD ART GROUP

SUMMER EXHIBITION

8th MAY to 26th MAY

ANCIENT HIGH HOUSE

Also

ODDFELLOWS HALL

OPEN EXHIBITION

Friday 18th and

Saturday 19th May

Prize winners - portraits

landscapes — watercolours —

oils — acrylics.

Something for all tastes

and pockets.

Refreshments with home made cakes available.

Issue 235

Page 12

Captain Edward John Smith, RD, RNR

(27 January 1850 – 15 April 1912) was an English naval reserve

officer and ship's captain. He was the officer in command of

RMS Titanic and died when the ship went down in 1912.

Edward John Smith was born in Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent, England to Edward Smith, a potter,

and Catherine Hancock, née Marsh, who were married on 2 August 1841 in Shelton. His parents

owned a tiny front room shop. Smith attended the Etruria British School. At age 13 he went to Liv-

erpool to go to sea. He took up an apprenticeship on the Senator Weber owned by A Gibson & Co.

of Liverpool.

Coincidentally, in Spring 2012 the end-of-terrace property in which Smith was allegedly born in

Wells Street, Hanley was put on the market at such a time as coincided with the Titanic disaster

anniversary and was (according to an article in the Evening Sentinel) expected to achieve around

£80,000. The documentation shows the modest Wells Street terrace house was at one time op-

erated as a front room shop and a plaque to mark the connection with Smith has been erected.

On 12th July 1887 Smith married Sarah Eleanor Pennington. Their daughter, Helen Melville

Smith, was born in Waterloo, Liverpool in April 1898. The family later lived in a Southampton villa.

Smith joined the White Star Line in March 1880 as the Fourth Officer of SS Celtic. He served

aboard liners to Australia and New York. In 1887, he received his first White Star command, the

Republic. In 1888, Smith earned his Extra Master's Certificate and joined the Royal Naval Re-

serve ("RNR"), qualifying as a full Lieutenant. This meant that in wartime he could be called upon

to serve in the Royal Navy. Later, he became a commander in the Royal Naval Reserve, and

Smith's ship had the distinction of being able to wear the Blue Ensign of the RNR; British mer-

chant vessels generally wore the Red Ensign (the Red Duster).

Smith was Majestic's captain for nine years. When the Boer War started in 1899, Majestic trans-

ported troops to Cape Colony. Smith made two trips to South Africa, both without incident, and for

his service King Edward VII awarded him the Transport Medal, "South Africa" clasp. Smith was

regarded as a "safe captain". Smith gained a reputation amongst passengers and crew for flam-

boyance as he rose in seniority. He was nicknamed the "Millionaires' Captain" because English

aristocracy often requested his being in command.

From 1904, Smith commanded the White Star Line's newest ships on their maiden voyages. In

1904, he was given command of the then-largest ship in the world, the Baltic. Her maiden voyage

from Liverpool to New York, sailing 29th June 1904, went without incident. After three years with

Baltic, Smith was given command of the Adriatic. The maiden voyage went without incident. Dur-

ing this time Smith received the Royal Naval Reserve's long service decoration, and a promotion

to Commander. By virtue of his receiving the long service decoration, he would now be referred to

as "Captain Edward John Smith, RD, RNR", with RD standing for "Reserve Decoration."

As an experienced captain, Smith took first command of the lead ship in a new class of ocean

liners, the Olympic – the largest vessel in the world. The maiden voyage from Liverpool to New

York was successfully concluded on 21 June 1911, but as the ship was docking in New York har-

bour, there was an incident. Docking at Pier 59 under the command of Captain Smith with the

assistance of a harbour pilot, Olympic was being assisted by twelve tugs when one got caught in

the backwash of Olympic, spun around, collided with the bigger ship, and for a moment was

trapped under Olympic's stern, finally managing to work free and limp to the docks.

Issue 235

Page 13

On 20 September 1911 Olympic's first major mishap occurred during a collision with a British war-

ship, HMS Hawke, in which the warship lost her prow. Although the collision left two of Olympic's

compartments filled and one of her propeller shafts twisted, she was able to limp back to South-

ampton. At the resultant inquiry, the Royal Navy blamed Olympic for the incident, alleging that her

massive size generated a suction that pulled Hawke into her side. On the bridge during this inci-

dent was Captain Smith. The Hawke incident was a financial disaster for White Star, and the out-of-

service time for the big liner made matters worse. Olympic returned to Belfast and, to speed up the

repairs, Harland and Wolff was forced to delay Titanic's completion, in order to use one of her pro-

peller shafts for Olympic. Back at sea in February 1912, Olympic lost a propeller blade and once

again returned to Belfast for emergency repairs. To get her back to service immediately, Harland

and Wolff again had to pull resources from Titanic, delaying the maiden voyage from March to April.

Despite these incidents, Smith was appointed command of the newest liner in the Olympic class

when the RMS Titanic left Southampton for her maiden voyage. Although some sources state that

he had decided to retire after completing Titanic's maiden voyage, an article in the Halifax Morning

Chronicle on 9 April 1912 stated that Smith would remain in charge of Titanic "until the Company

(White Star Line) completed a larger steamer."

On 10 April 1912, Smith, wearing a bowler hat and a long overcoat, took a taxi from his home to

Southampton docks. He came aboard Titanic at seven o‟clock to prepare for the Board of Trade

muster at 8:00am. He immediately went to his cabin to get the sailing report from Chief Officer

Henry Wilde. After departure at 12:00pm, the huge amount of water

displaced by Titanic as she passed caused the laid-up New York to

break from her moorings and swing towards Titanic. Quick action from

Smith helped to avert a premature end to the maiden voyage.

At 11:40pm on 14 April 1912, Titanic struck an iceberg in the North

Atlantic. The ship sank two hours and forty minutes later.

1,500 people, including Smith were lost.

His body was never recovered.

It is not known how Smith died on that night. Some authors claim that Smith was on the bridge at

2:13 am, seven minutes before the final sinking and went down with the ship. Some sources state

Smith quietly wandered off to the ship's wheelhouse, while others say he was actively present in

the radio room. Junior Marconi Officer Harold Bride reported seeing Smith dive into the sea from

the open bridge minutes before the end of the ship. One story states he carried a child to the over-

turned Collapsible B and swam off to freeze in the water, but that story is generally considered fic-

tional. Equally apocryphal is the alleged last statement to the crew, "Be British."

The plaque below memorial statue Lichfield: "Commander Edward John Smith, RD, RNR.

Born January 27 1850, Died April 15 1912, Bequeathing to his countrymen the

memory and example of a great heart, a brave life and a heroic death. Be British."

The statue of Captain Smith was unveiled on 29 July 1914 in Lichfield by his daughter. The sculp-

tor was Lady Kathleen Scott (b. 1870, d. 1947) widow of Captain Robert Falcon Scott, "Scott of the

Antarctic." A commemorative plaque on Hanley Town Hall to Capt Smith‟s memory was later re-

moved to Etruria Middle School.

Source material: Wikipedia / Evening Sentinel / various Titanic accounts and websites.

The Convergence of the Twain Thomas Hardy (1912)

(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")

In a solitude of the sea

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

Steel chambers, late the pyres

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?". . .

Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing,

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

Prepared a sinister mate

For her -- so gaily great --

A Shape of Ice, for the time fat and dissociate.

And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alien they seemed to be:

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history.

Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one August event,

Till the Spinner of the Years

Said "Now!" And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

Issue 235

Page 14

THE POETRY SLOT

Issue 235

Page 15

Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)

A moment’s indulgence Rabindranath Tagore I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Acknowledged as one of the greatest writers in modern Indian

literature, Tagore was a Bengali poet, novelist and teacher, who

won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913.

Tagore was awarded a knighthood in 1915, which he surrendered

in 1919 as a protest against the Massacre of Amritsar, where

British troops killed 400 Indian demonstrators.

Rabindranath Tagore was born in Calcutta in a wealthy Brahman

family. He attended the Bengal Academy where he studied Ben-

gali history and culture, and University College, London, where

he studied law but left after a year. Tagore did not like the Brit-

ish weather. In England Tagore started to compose the poem

Bhagna Hridaj (a broken heart).

In 1883 Tagore married Mrinalini Devi Raichaudhuri, they had two sons and three daughters. He moved

to East Bengal in 1890. His first collection of poems, was published when he was 17. In East Bengal

(now Bangladesh) he was interested in local legends and folklore and wrote 7 volumes of poetry between

1893 and 1900, including Sonar Tari (The Golden Boat), 1894 and Khanika, 1900. He was called 'The

Bengali Shelley', he wrote in the common language of the people rather than the formal language.

His written works fill 26 volumes. At the age of 70 Tagore took up painting. He was also a composer,

settings hundreds of poems to music. Tagore's Sonar Bangla Our Golden Bengal became the national

anthem of Bangladesh. He was an early advocate of Independence and it is claimed his influence over

Gandhi and his followers was substantial.

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