Issue 369 9th January 2015

2

Random words : more next week

Assignment : Resolutions for and against

Rising Brook/Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are under threat.

Here’s an easy resolution COME to a RBW WORKSHOP ...

Every Monday 1.30 start Rising Brook Library

Seeing a squirrel digging holes in the lawn doesn’t have the same human response as if a rat was

doing the same amount of destruction ...

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

4

Do Gardeners Ever Have A Day Off? 'Winterised' and frosty, pull scarf around your ears, the garden is all white now, no work for spade or shears. This January morning admire the trees and shrubs, think of warmer days, when you can fill your tubs. Snowdrops, crocus, daffodils, roses and sweet peas Imagine! Fragrance! Colour! Weeding on your knees! Go and have a coffee, inside to warm cold hands, have a little time away, from gardening demands.

Another year, another mix of spoken word and music, interviews and news from individual artists,

independent producers and publishers brought together in a live internet transmission: i.e. an-other monthly edition of re.Lit on www.radiowildfire.com ... and another load of yap and banter

between the tracks. And those tracks include original poetry, story, spoken word and song from H.C.Turk (USA),

Madison Shadwell (Canada), Project Lono (UK), Cynthia Morrison (USA), Ben Westwood (UK), Robbie MacInnes (UK), with more still to be added to the playlist. And there'll be a play from the Bunbury Banter Theatre Company, a trawl through the Radio

Wildfire archives ... The show is presented as always by poet and performer Dave Reeves.

Join us: Monday 5th January from 8.00 pm UK time at www.radiowildfire.com Radio Wildfire: Yappy New Hearre.Lit Live! is produced by Vaughn Reeves with backroom sup-port from Ali McK.

Why not send your own tracks to Radio Wildfire by going to the Submit’page of our website and uploading MP3s of your work. Spoken word and music, comedy, storytelling, poetry, song and aural art, they are all part of the eclectic mix we are looking for when we create Radio Wildfire Live!

WHAT IS RADIO WILDFIRE? Radio Wildfire is an independent online radio station which blends spoken word, poetry, perform-

ance literature, comedy, storytelling, short stories and more with a novel selection of word/music fusion and an eclectic mix of musical styles. www.radiowildfire.com broadcasts live 8.00-10.00pm (UK time) on the first Monday of every month.

Listen to Radio Wildfire at www.radiowildfire.com where The Loop plays 24 hours a day. Twitter @radiowildfire

The inbetweeners? ACW

The inbetweeners are in a cleft stick in the Shopmobility's excellent help to

us mobility-challenged. The insurers obviously are strict on weight restric-tions on hired out mobility scooters in Shopmobility. Only the big scooters can carry heavier and/or tall folk, and those you can only park outside the bank or shops and then expected to be able to walk all around the store, stand in the queue and at the counter. The Stafford post office now being upstairs in WH Smiths, means the big scooters do

not fit in the wheelchair lift, which is awkward enough as it is, even with a small scooter to open and pass through the door.

What happens to those whose foot hurts too much for all that? The weight restrictions on smaller scooters are below the average weight gain of the mobility challenged, bearing in mind

also height and big boned people. There are small scooters for heavier people, but not available to hire in the Shopmobility

shops. As so many people today have either never gained or lost disability benefit, buying a scooter, even on tick, is not feasi-

ble. Remembering you need a car to transport the scooter and the expense of a means of getting it in and out of the car such

as a hoist, which is very high. Buying a big mobility scooter that can bring you into town is also not feasible as the large ones

cost many thousands. For low waged and/or poor pensioners (these are people under the 20% lowest in-come that descends to even below 4% lowest income), getting into that kind of debt

means one of those loan shark moneylenders. Not a good idea. Although there are church credit unions, with ever greater cut backs in benefit (97% goes to those in work

and poor pensioners) your money could drastically reduce from one day to the next. So Catch 22.

Sainsbury’s in Stafford have their own mobility scooter with integral trolley for cus-tomers, and the staff are most helpful. The front desk is only a moment's walk from the disabled parking bay. But what about other stores like Wilkinsons and Boots, or shops in

the precinct. Or going in the market. I sat in the cafe, I thought of going to Boots to weigh myself, but after doing a bit

of parking up, walk to one place, return and go and park elsewhere and walk a bit, my foot hurt too much and my courage failed me. Getting close enough to Boots with a dis-abled parking space, is not feasible, without a fair walk on a foot that just hurts as soon

as you stand on it, never mind getting worse with each step. And then my back starts to go. And it is amazing how much your hand hurts after only a

short while of using a crutch, even with a good grip handle. Once I hired a wheelchair at an event, as my booked scooter had gone walkies. The

way people glare at you when you use a manual chair as a walker, when you have sat in it and get up out the chair to buy a cup of tea from a van, putting your bag on the seat. Nowadays I cannot use walkers as I am beyond them. So hiring a powered wheelchair

would elicit even more agro from the so-called sympathetic public. I believe all because of welfare reform, where the public are made to believe that

all the disabled are faking to get benefit, by millionaire politicians who are gaining an 11% pay rise this year, unlike all other public sector workers.

HOLLY BANK Sank in 1890, closed in fifty two,

Earthborn hell, hewn where no light shone.

Dust hated pit, air thick ‘n blue.

Do widows grieve Holly Bank is gone?

Far beneath fair Staff’s clay, red face.

Lurk yawning shafts which drop to gloom.

High above, the bracken covered Chase

Of the King’s gorse ‘n saffron broom.

The Chase’s timid Fallow frolic ‘n play

seek, on heath and ringed birch forest.

Concealing seams without God’s day.

unmerciful takers of our dearest.

Littleton, New Essington ‘n Holly Bank,

reapers of mere boys ‘n solid men.

Collieries, sweat hot, black and dank,

Echo our dead boys, every soul worth ten.

Steph Spiers 1994

Sea Fever By John Masefield I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking, I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. 1902 Salt-Water Ballads

John Edward Masefield, (1 June 1878 – 12 May 1967) was an re-nowned English poet and writer, and Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930 until his death in 1967. He is remembered as the author of the classic children's novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and poems, including "The Everlasting Mercy" and "Sea-Fever".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masefield

8

Gardening Tips Week Ending January 10th 2015.

Hello Everyone – A Happy New Year To You All.

While some of you are browsing through the TV papers to see if there is anything

worth watching, us gardeners can be reading the backs of our seed packets and mak-

ing a note of when it is the best time to sow them. If you really want to, you could

mark the calendar with what to sow and when, then when it is time, if you haven’t

got a greenhouse you can stand trays, or pots of seeds on the window ledges away

from direct sunlight. Ideally they should have a clear plastic top, or cover over them

to keep the moisture in. Then bring them into strong light when the seeds are

through to stop them getting leggy.

I have done well this Christmas as one of my sons found some late flowering,

English grown, Chrysanthemums and I always like to have a few vases of flowers

around the house. My sons know that I will not buy imported flowers while our own

nurseries are struggling. The first thing that Alan said when he saw them is, “That’s

a nice coloured flower. I wonder if we could get some cuttings off it?” Alan also

knows I like plastic flowers even less than imported real ones, but he has managed

to find some artificial ones made from linen and a mixture of materials, which do,

look very realistic, unlike, the old and simple plastic ones.

While the ground was so wet earlier in the month, Alan was restricted with

what he could do up at the allotments and as he will be too busy in the new-year, we

have been getting the Spring Cleaning done at home. I am afraid he does most of it

as I can’t do a lot now. I can iron the curtains and still do all the washing up, but I

am not so good on my feet these days and my poor eyesight doesn’t help either. I

know December is very early for Spring Cleaning, but he will be too busy on his Al-

lotments soon trying to catch up. He keeps going up to do what he can though, try-

ing to keep the weeds down that are still growing and to bring some vegetables back.

He still has Kale, Cabbage, Ruby Chard, Parsnips, Baby Turnips, Jerusalem Arti-

chokes and Sprouts, although the Sprouts have nearly all gone at the time of writing

this and it is not quite Christmas Day yet! We also have Beetroot stored in crates of

dry soil in the garage along with Onions and Butternut Squash in other crates and in

the freezer we have French Beans and Broad Beans, as well as dozens of tubs of fro-

zen fruit and tubs of dried Harricot Beans in the Kitchen cupboards.

One thing we haven’t got is Potatoes, but if you have, when you look through

your sacks of Potatoes - if you find any that are sprouting and you have any empty

compost bags, or strong black bags, why not put some soil in them and plant the po-

tatoes. Keep them frost-free and you will get some nice little new potatoes early on

in the season, but make sure there are drainage holes in the bags otherwise they will

get water logged.

If you grow your Onions from seed they need to go in at once if they are not

already growing and Shallots, for pickling, should already be settled and growing

now as well. Old time gardeners used to start their growing season by planting them

on Boxing Day.

Well that’s all for now. Frances Hartley

P.S. If you grow more vegetables, or plants than you want, someone else might be

glad of them, so don’t just throw the surplus away.

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In April 2015 RBW will be ten years old.

The group began in April 2005 when the Keele University Course

our writers were attending closed for the Summer. The initial plan was for

the library group to fill a gap between Easter and mid Sept ...

However, the group was so popular and expanded so quickly that soon

RBW became a registered charity and has been at the library ever since.

We ought to mark this landmark in some way, any suggestions?

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: ( CHANGES )

Story so far. Plotlines are developing ...

This is a listing of what we have so far ...

Place: 1897: The Grand Cosmopolitan Shipping Line Chain: The Nasturtium Hotel (GNH) in Trentby-on-Sea a place that has a similarity to Southampton, twinned with Murmansk and has a decided international flavour. Despite recent squabbles with Russia, France, South Africa and certain other countries all rich spending guests are welcomed

Time Span: Between the arrival and departure of the steamship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. About 3 weeks.

Hotel: The GNH is owned by The Cosmopolitan Shipping Line and is the usual Victorian Hotel. It has three classes of accommoda-

tion, that are roughly: Suites [1st floor] for those with money and the POSH nobs. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommodation [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70s) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20s) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil — affair with Manchini

Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel — gambling debts up to mischief

Antonio Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Marian & Cynthia Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge — Peter the porter

Nancy the Scullery maid, Betty the Chambermaid Guests:

Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley – a couple of old biddies with a chequered past who are enjoying themselves their Ward Dorothy ... much admired by the Maharajah and every other red-blooded male Major Martin – May be the ADC to the Prince of ??

The Russian Prince of ?? Referred to as Mr. Smith; even tho' everybody know who he is. Daphne Du Worrier - Writer Capt. Toby Fowlnett – Recently appointed skipper of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. He may be a little short on

experience as his last job was skipper of the IOW ferry. [Hey! How difficult can it be to find India or China?] St. John Smythe – Tea planter with holdings in Assam. The Maharajah of Loovinda and his wife and valet George (apologies to Shakespeare, you’ll see why immediately)

The Sheik of the province of Kebab. (It’s a farce!!) Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books Murray Durrisdane (currently a Boots)— (Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose — baddies with Estella Murray’s wife)

Russians? in room 212 Russian Agent Capt. Wild Will Body and his travelling Wild Rodeo Show, Missy Clementine Jane, Big chief Light–in-the-Sky and Texas Jim

McGraw the shootist (may be subject to change) Graf Hubrecht Walther Falscheim, the Graf von Jagerlagerberg involved with Ward Dorothy Kugyrand Rippling South African diamond dealer nasty piece of work

Princess Lotus Lily and her retinue including Fu Chan her major-domo — after a dragan boat and a female buddha

Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens',

Also staying the GNH some in suites some in the accommodation class. Miranda Barkley – maybe mistress of the Prince of ?? Dario Stanza – singer Vesta Currie – cross-dresser hot stuff on the stage - Miss Maple piano-playing-Temperance Sister

Cystic Peg – Medium / Seances Dan Fatso – Charlie Chaplin type ALSO listed:

Diamond dealer — Boniface Monkface Jade - A rare Jade Buddha with a Kali Stone is specifically noted. A golden laughing Buddha and lots more

NOTES: CHECK THE DATE! Q. Victoria is Empress. Osborne House IoW is her fav. des. res. 1. Gas lighting or oil lamps – no public electricity supply about for another couple of decades; unless the hotel has its own

generator, electrical lighting is out. 2. Horses and carriages in the streets, steam trains for long distances and on the dockside. Trams in some areas.

3. Limited number of phones, usually locally between ministries or business offices. Messengers or Royal Mail normally used. Telegrams are available.

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in

the 1890s with as diverse a mix of travellers about to de-part for the far east as it is possible to squeeze into the

plot. Obviously the action will take place in Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Murmansk, and

the establishment will be man-aged by Basil Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia. If you’ve ever watched a Carry On film you will have had all the training you’d need to join in.

The annual joint project ...

The joint comedy is good practice in group co-operation, character building, plotting, dialogue, storyline arc etc and

besides it’s hilarious to write an un-PC plot which pokes fun at everybody. Here outrageous stereotypes are encouraged!

What is more people actually read our free e-books ... Some brave souls even give us LIKES on Facebook

OPPORTUNITY: Take a room in the hotel ... Who is waiting to go to India? Why are they going? What are they running away from or towards?

The Parade ACW

ADC Major Leonard Martin knew he would be away again in India for a couple of years, before his Lieutenant Governor Sir Benjamin Smythe got the opportunity for home leave back in England.

He had heard from his sister, well on the shelf as an old maid unmarried at 30, of the ladies bicy-clist meet due in the Grand Nasturtium hotel.

He had also heard of their outlandish attire, showing shapely ankles and lower leg, albeit covered in pantaloons, knee socks, knickerbockers and woollen hose.

So he decided to go to the hotel foyer lounge, ensconce himself on a hotel armchair with a drink

from the bar and watch the freak show, so to speak, of these ladies in scandalous dress. At the appointed time, Major Martin was not disappointed in the variety of costume on view, as

the ladies walked through the foyer, to gasps from other guests, to their booked meeting room. Then came ladies wearing sashes emblazoned with the words ‘Votes For Women’, yet in modest

grey or black skirt and well buttoned to neck white blouses. Just as scandalous in their way.

Save one lady, who wore the ladies bicyclist knickerbockers and woollen hose and wore the Votes for Women sash.

Major Martin could not contain himself and spoke aloud, ‘Why Madam, your courage is doubly admirable, even if scandalous and too independent in thought.’

‘How dare you, Sir.’ ‘Oh my dear, may I introduce myself. I am Major Leonard Martin, an Aide de Camp, don’t you

know.’

‘I am Lady Amelia Carruthers, a senior Gale of the Florentine Nursing Sister. My service has been in several military officers’ hospitals and convalescent homes.’

‘A worthy duty my dear, but surely this behaviour threatens your reputation and standing on so-ciety?’

‘Reputation, my good man! Nothing of the sort. And my standing in society is from a long line of most senior army ranks, I’ll have you know.’

‘It is hardly likely that our class, my dear, never mind the common throng, will permit ladies the

effrontery of voting a man into parliament. Politics has always been a man’s game. Only Queens have ruled, my dear, and then only by dint of inherited royal male blood and ruling only when no

male heir to fulfil crown duties.’ ‘Well, you don’t know India, Major. The Sikhs gave equality in church and politics to women for

centuries. There was an ancient Greek society, Lycia and Lydia in Anatolia, Greece’s eastern king-

dom on what is now Turkey, where women had full equality, and could even rise to be generals and admirals. And the ancient Scythian women were warriors, the first riders of horses and became

women police officers in classical Athens. The Iroquois Confederacy in America, north of New York, have an all female married ladies of standing, electoral college that can decide upon sacking the

male tribal chieftain as a recall out of office.’ ‘I see you are a strident exponent of this new and dangerous socialist ideology, that threatens

our class, as it did so long ago in France. However much you may think you gain, the bourgeoisie

risen from the common throng will just return to the fold, trying to fit as close to our class as possi-ble. The nouveau riche will look upon equality as abhorrent, as they always have in our class. What-

ever women gain, will be lost again and again.’ ‘That still doesn’t mean women cannot strive for equality in deciding the people’s parliament, be-

ing as we live in the nation as well, instead of women today being mere chattels, not far off some bonded servitude.’

‘Men will not change, my dear. Petition all you want.’

‘Not all men are unconvinced a woman can logically debate. You enter into debate with a lady without expecting her to resort to mere intuition, but with rational thought. Like the ancient Greek

philosophers and mathematicians, Major.’ The Major gulped, ‘Madam, you take no prisoners in your battle stratagem, I see.’ ‘Do you, Sir?’

‘In such a fierce battle there seems little chance. You know, my dear, I like a lady with spunk. May you care to dine with me, for a supper at Le Chat Noir. It is the best Cordon Bleu French res-

taurant in Trentby. We can spar over the best meal and finest wine.’ ‘Yes, why not. You are a glutton for punishment, Sir.’

‘At 10 of the clock? Where should my carriage pick you up, my dear?’

‘Impertinence!’ ‘No, no my dear, I’ll not be present alone on my carriage, but be will be with my carriage driver and

footman to give all propriety.’ ‘Very well.’

Fellow Battle Veterans ACW

Lady Amelia Carruthers had never heard such language in all her born days, as that sneered at her for just handing out leaflets at the scenic stops along the lady bicyclists’ tour in Trentby and around

the nearby villages. Nor the total lack of respect shown to her as a woman from male total strangers, passing by. And what they whispered close to her shocked and utterly nauseated her.

She had twice the damning abuse, one for her attire and the scandal of riding astride a bicycle, and

second for wearing her ‘Votes for Women’ sash that incensed society and trade alike. Then came the calamitous moment when common men pushed the ladies off their bicycles and pelted them with rot-

ten fruit and vegetables, whilst saying the most foul, upsetting words. I can’t go home in this state, mused Amelia, I’ll have to send word I took ill and had to rest up in a

nearby hotel, and have my maid bring me a change of clothes and night clothes. At the hotel, Lady Amelia Carruthers found all the best rooms taken, so had to content herself with

one of the smallest good class bedrooms, with a bathroom only as big as the three quarters bath.

Amelia instructed her maid to drop a note off to Major Martin at what she noted was a fashionable address on his calling card, not so far from her parents’ townhouse.

The butler handed the note to Major Martin who read with dismay his plans gone awry for the fine dining planned that evening, but noted it was on notepaper from the Grand Nasturtium Hotel, not her

home address. ‘My man, is that nurse still tending to Lady Courtney at this hotel?’ Indicating the letter-headed

notepaper.

‘Yes, Sir.’ ‘Bring my carriage, I shall pay a visit to Sir St. John-Smythe and see if the nurse can tend to a fur-

ther patient.’ ‘As you wish, Sir.’ Major Martin had no difficulty in gaining permission from Sir St. John- Smythe, to add to the nurse’s

duties and a note was dispatched up from reception to Lady Amelia Carruthers. My dear Lady Carruthers. I am mortified to hear of your ill health. May a nurse’s services be of-

fered, shared with the esteemed Lady Courtney who also stays in the hotel, who is most eager to make your acquaintance and invites you to mid-morning tea on the morrow in the royal suite’s dining room, with her fiancé Sir John St. John-Smythe, who invites me, being the ADC to his brother, Lieu-tenant Governor Sir Benjamin Smythe in the province of India, the Punjab, My esteemed hope for a reply to the affirmative. ADC Major Leonard Martin.

Amelia read and re-read the note on hotel letterhead. Then looked at herself in the mirror in the bathroom, of her bruised, swollen cheekbone, and just the beginnings of a black eye and bruises to

both wrists, starting to swell. Amelia sent word to her maid to fetch a gown that included a hat with a dark lace veil and black

lace fingerless gloves. Her maid Maud Jennings arrived and with the nurse Daya Kaur set the hat at a jaunt tilt so the veil covered the bruised side of Lady Carruther’s face, yet left her lower face clear to

drink tea without needing to lift the veil. ‘Jennings, you make take a room upstairs. I’ll send for you in the morning.’ ‘Yes, my lady.’

Amelia dismissed Daya Kaur, ‘And you may return to your tending of Lady Courtney.’ ‘Yes Madam.’

The next morning Amelia’s bruises had swollen even more, but the gloves were loose enough to cope and the veil hid the frightful sight.

At the appointed time, Major Martin knocked on Amelia’s door and escorted her to the royal suite. Only the usual pleasantries were exchanged.

In the dining room Major Martin was aghast to see Lady Courtney’s bruised face and wrists and was

too late to mask his alarm on his face at the sight. Amelia laughed and air kissed Lady Courtney, then lifted her veil to show her battle scars.

‘Perhaps our next sojourn to teach about Votes for Women and Lady Bicycling may not be so event-ful Julia?’

‘Hopefully so, Amelia.’ ‘So my dear Julia, congratulations on your engagement and so very modern in its swiftness.’ ‘Yes Amelia, my mama has busied herself and organised a wedding at Trentby Cathedral, so we may

be wed before the steamer takes John back to his tea plantation, in the far north of India, but not so far as not to have you visit as often as you are able, Amelia.’

‘Yes papa will return to his army unit in the Punjab quite soon.’ Major Martin sat bolt upright, ‘My dear Lady Carruthers, are you the daughter of General Sir Ronald

Carruthers?’

‘Yes indeed Major. I’ve been away in Switzerland at finishing school and return to India with mama and papa soon.’

‘Oh Amelia, it would be so nice if you came on the same steamer and visited with us in Assam. I’m told we will ride elephants the last leg of the journey. And you absolutely must be my bridesmaid.

Would you?’ ‘Yes and yes.’ And the ladies air kissed again.

St. John-Smythe sighed at Major Martin, ‘I think my brother and I will take turns trying to beat you at chess for most of the sea voyage, do you not agree Leo?’

‘It seems likely John.’

The Apt Gift – another female Buddha ... ACW

At 10 o’clock in the royal suite was gathered for supper the parents of St John-Smythe and Lady Julia Courtney, St John-Smythe’s brother Lieutenant

Governor Sir Benjamin Smythe and his ADC Major Leonard Martin and Lady Amelia Carruthers as pro-spective Best Man to John and Bridesmaid to Julia.

The Cordon Bleu Chef from Le Chat Noir best French restaurant in Trentby was most pleased to

gain further business with the supper order that had been pre-paid only for two guests.

As the drinks were served before seating for sup-per, Major Martin formally bowed to Lady Car-ruthers, ‘May it be my pleasure to offer a small to-

ken of my high regard for you, Madam. The general has sent me word of his permission for me to court

you.’ Major Martin handed her a beribboned box. Upon

opening the box, Amelia found a small female Bud-dha. ‘Oh what a pretty oriental ornament, Major Mar-

tin.’ ‘My dear, it’s a statute of a female Buddha

named Tara, a goddess of compassion, shown by your kindness and courage of your convictions, Madam. The goddess plays pranks on those who do

not respect women.’ ‘You are indeed wise, Major Martin.’

Murray’s in the coal shed again:

‘Are you going to see her Murray?’ asked a little voice followed by an urgent hand tugging at his

sleeve. ‘You can’t hide in here. This is silly and you’re a grown-up!’

‘I’m not hiding. I’m thinking,’ said a voice thick with emotion from deep within the recesses of the coal shed. ‘Perhaps, she’s better off if I stay dead.’

Nancy’s cheeks flushed. ‘You know nothing Murray Durrisdane! What mother is better off believing her only son is dead? What nonsense. And I thought you were clever.’ She emphasised the point with the toe of her boot landing hard on his shin.

A former Army Colonel in the colonies, Murray had to laugh at the sheer effrontery of the little wench. He hadn’t been so well told off since Nanny Bathsheba caught him scrumping apples from

the Vicar’s orchard when he was nine-years-old. ‘Aye lassie, I know nothing. But I cannie turn up covered in rags and coal dust now can I? The shock might be too much for her.’

‘Silly man. As if she cares what you look like. You’re her son.’ Nancy’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘You’ave to stop her getting on that boat.’

Murray nodded, the lassie was right in that. He had to find away to come back from the dead be-

fore the packet steamer departed and to do so without Jamie Burke or Varanasi killing him. ‘I have to sell the Dragon Boat today,’ he mused, carrying the coal buckets out into the yard

where a biting wind off the shore was blowing towards the sewage works and clearing the air. Trail-ing behind and wiping her eyes on her pinny Nancy agreed. She’d never had more than a spare shil-ling saved in her entire life so the prospect of all those shillings was a dream she wanted to carry for

as long as possible before it went pop like so many of her dreams of home comforts.

Ye Olde Magick ACW

Cystic Peg could not believe her eyes as the crystal circle of quartz clear crystal, Rose Quartz, gold flecked blue Lapis Lazuli and moonstone was lit from the big clear quartz in the centre of the circle, re-

flecting the bright sun’s rays’ white light, in an explosion of rainbow hues. Chinese music wafted from nowhere and visions arose of a palace filled with oriental ornaments of

gold and jade, set on a high hill above terraced rice paddy fields. In the great court of the palace were empty round plinths in alcoves lining the walls, and one round

plinth in an alcove in the centre of the rectangle court’s top wall, with an empty circular marble plinth

in the room’s centre. The vision faded to darkness, then a short flash of a series of images of the hotel where many of the

performers at the Winter Gardens were staying, then a snapshot in luxury hotel rooms of serene smil-ing Buddha statues set on furniture, until one seen in a room that held a black walnut and brass corner cabinet.

Then a fade to a vision of the local café’s sign, Yellow Idol, and then its foyer holding a yellow jade Buddha.

She gave a startled cry, ‘What!’ As the room about her went from solid, to shimmering into layers of coloured light. She moved her

hand, that was also layers of colours, and her hand merged through furniture, themselves no longer solid but a series of coloured layers, that changed as colour met colour of her hand.

Inside a cupboard rarely used was a shape of another statue that a voice without a body told her

was a jade Dragon Boat depicted carrying the eight immortals, saints of ancient China born in the Tang dynasty, and she saw was the lucky Feng Shui number of eight granting good fortune, and the voice

seemed to come from one of the female immortals, carrying a basket of flowers that from Cystic Peg's memory was the immortal that brought luck to young women.

The visions faded and the room became solid as the light faded between and through the crystals. The last impression she had was of a dragon shaped boat in the hands of an exquistly beautiful Chi-nese woman with long painted nails.

The Busy Night ACW

Having sneaked in and gained a wax copy of either side of the master keys to the luxury rooms in the hotel, Petrie had, no questions asked, gained copies for a small consideration, for this prolific tea

leaf, loving nicking antiques and objects d’art in his long nefarious career learned through generations.

In the wee hours, Petrie’s silent tread went unheard, as did his soft turn of rooms’ locks. The round of drinks in The Crocodile Inn for Peter the Porter and George the Valet to the Maharajah had well paid

off. Rippling, the diamond dealer, had put the word out on the street of a no-questions-asked sourcing of

Buddha statuettes: it was a stroke of luck to find several all in one place for easier nicking than from an auction house or pawn shop. And a couple of men totting a steamer trunk out the servant’s back en-trance of a hotel and loading it onto a horse drawn cart, would not get a second glance.

The Awakening ACW

Cystic Peg went to sleep most pleased the crystals, the red jade Buddha statue and now the sighting of green jade dragon boat holding the eight immortals had drawn out of her the training about esoteric beliefs growing in England and ancient Buddhist teachings studied by philosophers in the colonies.

The red jade Buddha, crystals and light played on them made my theatre show more dramatic, she mused, as she dropped off to sleep, with the dragon boat weighing heavy on her mind. As she slipped

into the twilight world between sleep and awake, she recalled her old mum had liked to collect oriental bric-a-brac.

She then could see herself asleep below her from the ceiling. ‘Oh my, now astral out of body travel as well,’ she mused in a barely asleep napping. Then deep

slumber yet she was awake up in the ceiling seeing herself so far gone as to be uproariously snoring.

With the candles all snuffed out and the lantern wick turned down and blown out, the room should have been in total darkness, as the street gas lamps were out in the weak hours.

But an ethereal light glowed from the cupboard, illuminating the room in a dim light, which yet lit up the whole bedroom. In the astral plane was the weird intuition of reaching out to everywhere at once,

like a touch on water goes out peaks and troughs of a concentric circular wave in all directions. But something was disturbing the smoothness of the circle and a growing roar began to snarl from

the dragon boat, that began to look more and more as coming to life as a writhing enraged dragon.

Then she felt evil emotion that made her shudder and she swooped down to the safety of the tiger’s eye crystal, scooping it up into her astral hand.

‘The red jade Buddha, it’s gone,’ she cried to herself. She looked into the buffet to no avail. Her intuition then drew her into darkness, then realised she was in the hotel, drawn up the stairs to

the fancy posh floor, to see down from the ceiling a man nervously hiding in the shadows of the hall-

way, stood by an empty steamer trunk, with its lid propped open. Inside was her red jade Buddha poking out of a velveteen cloth and a statue that Cystic Peg recog-

nised as a female Buddha, Yeshe Tsogyal. Just then a man crept out of a room carrying yet another female Buddha, this one the Saviour-

Goddess Tara, and put that into the steamer trunk. This thief in the night crept from specific room to room, missing others, using his own key, fetching out a series of male Buddha statues, whilst the man by the steamer trunk wrapped them up in velveteen cushion throws, very Indian in design.

One Buddha held a Kali stone, she surmised, in its hollow centre, as well as the usual mantra scrolls to keep good fortune and health.

Until finally she was drawn into a suite where she had seen in her vision a corner cabinet, but this time it was missing and in the corner was a three legged occasional table holding what she knew was a

future Buddha, called a Maitreya, depicted as usual sat waiting on his throne for his forthcoming return once the Buddhist faithful had passed.

As the man left the room, to her astonishment the room lit up and the corner cabinet re-appeared in

the room in front of the small table that had held the Maitreya future Buddha. And out of the corner cabinet strode out men and a woman of Asian appearance, from a cabinet that

outside was barely enough height and depth to hold one man. She felt herself then drawn down the stairs to the back of the hotel, to an open door that was obviously, by its plain appearance, the servant’s entrance, to see the two men load the steamer trunk onto the back of a cart drawn by a draught horse.

Out in the yard in the shadows yet unseen by the men was a woman returning from the glory hole outhouse carrying a empty chamberpot. She stood rooted to the spot, muttering, ‘What’s George up to,

the rascal?’ Cystig Peg’s astral form floated through the dark skies of the town’s smokey air of night, following the

men on the horse drawn cart, who kept to back alleys, with the poor old mare’s hooves all tied up with

straw filled sacking, so her metal horse shoes did not ring out on the cobbled lanes. The cart drew up in the rubbish yard at the back of the Yellow Idol café.

As one man, the same as stood by the steamer trunk in the hotel, held the horse’s head, the other took a cutter that easily cut through glass, taking out a section of glass from a wrought iron lattice

work in the door’s window pane. It then took no time to turn the key inside the lock and gain entry. Very soon the man returned carrying something wrapped up in a tablecloth, that as he was putting

it into the steamer trunk, slid down and revealed the head and shoulders of a yellow jade Buddha, be-fore being hurriedly wrapped back up.

Off this pair of reprobates went on their busy nefarious way until they arrived at the back of a pawn shop where there were living quarters, of a bijou gallery kitchen, a small living room with an open grate fire, before which was an high winged armchair, a couple of cheap chairs by a table and single

fold-up army bed with straw tick mattress and folded up sheets, blankets and pillow in one pile at its head.

The Buddhas held in the steamer trunk were taken down into the basement, a dark cellar that held the coal hole at one end and the other an old chest into which the steamer trunk was placed, then cov-

ered over with firewood. There was a shudder then a rattling as coal and chest began to dance about as if being slid about by

a little earthquake, as felt above mine workings. A moan from unseen lips groaned from nowhere. ‘We

are cursed, doomed,’ wailed the accomplice. ‘Oh stop being so melodramatic, you’ve been Valet to that Indian Maharajah too long, George.’

But both men hurried away into the night.

Nancy, the go-between, sells the Dragon Boat Opening his bedroom door to let her in, the sweat on Monkface’s florid cheeks was already dripping

onto his collar, his pudgy hands were shaking as he took the wrapped statuette from Nancy. It was one o’clock in the morning and the girl was dead on her feet, but still she managed the threat: ‘He

says, he’s got a sgian dubh wi’ your name on it, if you try anything funny.’ ‘A what?’ asked the Chinese man with the long moustache who took the parcel to the table and

carefully unwrapped the object within under the patch of light thrown by the oil lamp.

‘A big knife Scottish men carry in their socks,’ Nancy gladly imparted. The Major Domo said nothing, he was too busy inspecting the Dragon Boat. It was perfect. He had

half-expected a cheaply made copy but no. This was without a doubt the missing imperial Dragon Boat. It was worth everything that was asked and one hundred times more besides.

He nodded acceptance and tucked the parcel inside the sleeves of his silken coat. Nancy waited

hand outstretched. Monkface couldn’t contain his excitement. The money danced before his eyes: he was rich ... riches

and joy ... wine, women and song awaited him ... well, wine and song anyway ... ‘Remember the knife,’ the girl said in a whisper.

The Chinese man passed a small bag to the dealer. Monkface felt faint as he tipped the contents onto a glass tray beneath the oil lamp. Thirteen cut diamonds sparkled as only diamonds can in the lamplight.

‘The smallest,’ said the Major Domo, indicating the dealer’s commission. ‘Twelve diamonds,’ said Monkface. ‘A fair price.’

‘Not so fast,’ said Nancy, she had remembered Murray’s lesson well. ‘Let me see ‘em all cut the glass.’

The Chinese man smiled. He liked this girl. She was no fool for one so young. He could see why the seller had trusted her with the transaction.

Latest Competitions: 2015 Camden/Lumen Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 14-Feb-15 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1680 New Magazines: Create http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=737 Latest News: “Dame” (New Year Honours) Carol Anne Duffy | 31-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1288

Dame Carol Ann Duffy, DBE, FRSL (born 23 December 1955) is a Scottish poet and playwright who also once lived in RISING BROOK Stafford and at-tended Stafford Girls High School. She is Professor of Contempo-rary Poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University, and was made poet laureate in May 2009. She is the first woman to hold the po-sition.

#Afterhours Blog 5 | 19-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=1287

The Scottish Poetry Library needs your help! | 17-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1286

Poet Susan Grindley has died | 16-Dec-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1285

WHAT IS A KALI STONE? More background research by ACW Ammonite fossils from the sacred Kali Gandaki River (sacred stones from Kali River) in Nepal are known as saligrams and be-

lieved by Hindus to be a manifestation of the Hindu god, Lord Vishnu, as saligram is one of the lesser known names of Vishnu. They are also revered by the Buddhists, as a symbol of the Tibetan Buddhist Dakini, a female embodiment of enlighten-ment, gained through intuition in a flash of inspiration and not some ossified intellectual discussion that is dry and cold.

The fossils are petrified shells, usually not more than 9 inches (23 cm) in size, but could be bigger, of these prehistoric sea creatures and date back to between 140 and 165 million years, that went extinct about the same time as the dinosaurs. Some stones from Kali river have been inherited for centuries and are highly prized potent spiritual blessings.

Pieces that display any golden colour within them are believed to bestow wealth and prosperity. The kings used to gift these stones to saints and highest caste Hindus, the Brahmins, who would gift them in turn to

high worthies in society. They were passed down generations and therefore were rare commodities, coming from such a re-mote valley in Nepal, up towards the Himalayas. Some Hindus believe that Buddha is the ninth incarnation of Lord Vishnu.

The saligrams are an object of worship to remember the legend that the Lord Vishnu gave a devotee the boon of giving birth to him into the mortal world as an incarnation of the Hindu god, Vishnu. Gautama Buddha was born in a village that was in India but now is in modern day Nepal. His mother was a princess and

his father the elected ruler of a kingdom of a tribal confederacy. During the birth celebrations, a seer predicted Buddha would either become a great king or a great holy man, as later did eight Brahmins who read the baby’s future.

Image of the fossilised ammonite: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Haeckel_Ammonitida.jpg

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