time and tide short stories 2015

time and tide

Short Stories 2015

Rising Brook Writers:

Time and Tide Time and Tide

rising brook writers

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Time and Tide

a collection of short stories

from Rising Brook Writers Workshop and Online

Contributors

e-Published by Rising Brook Writers

2015


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Contributing Writers

Zoe George 5

Penny Wheat 8

Steph Spiers 15

Michelle Draper 24

Shosha Clare 28

Clive Hewitt 35

Christine Williams 39

Nigel Peckett 41

Trevor Fisher 44

Anne Picken 51

Lee Fones 56

Ann Talbot 57

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5

A Drop in the Ocean Zoe George

The trouble is, you think you have time. This printed on a poster fading above my head on the tube

hurtling from Willesden Green to Baker Street. It‟s supposed to be motivational, I think. Everything is motivational these days. I suppose we humans are an intrinsically lazy race and we need it.

I look away and press Play Again on my Candy Crush phone app. I don‟t know why I‟m obsessed with this stupid game, but I

just can‟t seem to stop. It‟s just… something to do. Something to do that never ends and yet gets progressively more difficult each

time you play. It used to take ten minutes to pass a level, now I can spend a whole day putting brightly-coloured facsimiles of Cadbury‟s Roses into lines.

I fail the same level for the eighth time and sigh loudly enough to merit a glance from the woman next to me. And it must have

been loud as she, like most of the compartment, was jacked into her phone, the black wires from her earbud weaving through her long dark hair. I wonder what they‟re all doing. Are they catching

up on the newest must-see American serial? Are they playing some inane game about flowers and vampires? Are they trying to

learn a new language? Or are they just listening to music, unable to go about their daily lives without a soundtrack?

There was a time when train journeys were an opportunity, rather than a bore that needed to be filled. You could revise, phi-losophise, do a crossword, read a newspaper, read The National

Geographic, listen to the new album you‟d just picked up, write your own (terrible) song lyrics, practice the guitar chords to your

favourite song in your head, imagine what you could say to Suzie McKenna today without sounding like a total loser. Sure, you

could do all that now, but you don‟t, do you? The trouble is the poster is right.


6

I look back down at my phone and fail another level of Candy

Crush before the receptionist calls my name. I smile. „That‟s me.‟

„Miss Deen will see you now. Her office is down the hall, second on the left.‟

„Thank you.‟ I follow her instructions and knock on a plain, soft-wood door, probably pine. I don‟t what I was expecting. More glass I guess, dark, gleaming varnish, the smell of designer suits and kil-

ler heels. I guess criminal TV dramas have failed me once again. „Come in,‟ A friendly voice calls and I open the door into Miss

Deen‟s office. It‟s a rather plain room, a desk, a couple of chairs, a potted plant and a small bookshelf boasting a meagre collection of books on the law of daily life. This is clearly not the glamorous

world of corporate law or criminal defence, the usual fodder of the media machine, which is perhaps why Miss Deen herself is far from

the runway solicitors I‟ve seen in American crime dramas. Instead of designer pumps and skin tight pencil skirts, Miss Deen‟s ward-

robe is probably full of careworn M&S pant-suits and sensible kitten heels.

„Mr Trask?‟ Miss Deen asks, the smile deepening the line around

her eyes. She stands to hold out a plump hand for me to shake and gestures for me to sit. „I understand you‟re interested in making a

will?‟ „I am.‟ I reply, not sure if I‟m supposed to say anything else and

not having anymore to add besides. „I see. Might I ask why you‟re interested in making a will? You

seem quite young to be thinking of such things already.‟

It‟s an innocent question, but somehow it makes my mouth go dry. I open my lips but nothing comes out. An uncomfortable

silence settles around us before Miss Deen clears her throat and smiles again. This time it‟s a little forced. I wonder how it feels to know you‟re looking at a dead man.

„Not that it matters of course. Perhaps we should get down to business, did you bring the plan you were asked to draw up?‟ She

asks. I nod, fumbling in my pockets for the notes I‟d hastily scrib-

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bled down this morning. Miss Deen read through it quietly.

„You wish to pay for your own funeral?‟ „Yes, I… erm… it‟s already been arranged.‟ I place the plans

from the funeral home on her desk. „That‟s extremely… thorough of you, Mr Trask.‟ She replies. I

manage a weak smile in return. „Well, it‟s a relatively simple will. I‟m sure we can have this all done within an hour.‟ Miss Deen adds encouragingly and I thank her, although I don‟t know what

for.

The trouble is, time is never on your side. I realise at this point I‟m supposed to reveal some secret lifelong passion, an ambition that I‟ve never had the vigour or the money

or the time to accomplish. And I would, if I had one. The coffee table in my sitting room is awash with travel magazines, open to

pages on China, on India, on Australia, on America, on Egypt, on the Orient Express, on the Trans-Siberian Railway, but I haven‟t

made a single enquiry. To be honest, my ambitions have always been rather vague. A good job, a decent salary, a bit of travel and I ticked each one off as if it was a shopping list.

Now I‟m stuck with the uncomfortable feeling that there was so much I wanted to do that I never even know about but it‟s too

late to find out. Ahead, time seemed a vast, intangible ocean, but behind, it is a puddle. Your every milestone, so significant as

you‟d scrambled past them, are now pebbles lying at its bottom. Even ahead, eventually you realise it‟s not the horizon you‟re sail-ing towards, but a waterfall crashing over the rim of the world.

Niagara Falls, eat your heart out.


8

Thyme and Taid Penny Wheat

My Welsh grandfather was mild-mannered: my grandmother, less so. They had moved into the typical single-storey, whitewashed stone cottage the day they were married, forty-nine years ago,

and one of its attractions had been the generous plot of land that went with it. Of course, in those days, land wasn‟t at such a pre-

mium as it is today, when developers put tiny boxes on any small parcel they can get their hands on. Besides, the village where

they lived was somewhat remote, tucked tight into the Welsh hill-side and not conveniently close to good transport links to the conurbations of Caernarvon or Bangor.

I‟m sure they were happy enough to begin with. Well. Folk in those days seemed content with less. People didn‟t talk about

their emotions: about being fulfilled. Life was much harder, and they just got on with it. As kids, we enjoyed visiting them at the

weekend and in school holidays, and granddad, who we called Taid (pronounced „Tide‟) taking us outside, where gran Nain (pronounced „Nine‟) couldn‟t see him feeding us toffees. He‟d

walk us round his garden; his pride and joy. He spent a lot of time out there, I know, reciting simple verses from favourite

childhood poems he‟d learnt as a schoolboy, and quoting from Winston Churchill, his hero.

„Now then, young Owen,‟ Nain told me sternly, „don‟t you go

getting dirt all over your clothes, or your mam will be after me.‟ Nain wasn‟t unkind, but she just wasn‟t the type to lavish

hugs on my sister, Gwen, or me. I never remember her lavishing much affection on our Taid either, and it seemed to me that he

began to spend more and more time out in his garden. „One day, I‟ll grow prize-winning dahlias,‟ he told us. „Why don‟t you grow them now, Taid?‟ I asked, as a curious

seven-year-old. „Oh, Nain doesn‟t want flowers,‟ he replied, with a sigh.

„What good are flowers, Will?‟ she‟d opined. „Flowers won‟t

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feed a family.‟

„Oh but Myfanwy dear, they‟re so beautiful. Good for the soul.‟ „Rubbish! You and your romantic notions and flowers and fool-

ish poetry. Why didn‟t I marry a practical man? Vegetables and fruit‟s the thing.‟

„Yes Cariad, I know,‟ he agreed, with a tinge of sadness. And granddad‟s vegetables and fruit were indeed wonders to

behold. That little plot of land was manured and tilled and

mulched with such love that my grandparents had never had to buy anything from the village shop for around eleven months a

year, and even supplied several of the neighbours with the sur-plus. That little Welsh Garden of Eden supplied almost all of their needs.

„Look after your soil, children,‟ Taid told us. „The more attention you give it, the more it will provide for you.‟

Yes, Taid‟s garden was proof, if any were needed, of the truth of that mantra.

Then one day, something strange happened. We went round as usual one Saturday, but Nain wasn‟t there. Naturally we asked where she was.

„Who knows?‟ Taid replied with a shrug. „Has she gone shopping into Bangor?‟ my sister asked.

„No. Gone up north for a while,‟ he replied. He didn‟t appear keen to say much more, but I heard him tell

mam that she‟d left a note saying she was going to stay with her sister in Scotland, and couldn‟t say how long she‟d be gone.

„Have you kept the note?‟ mam asked.

„No, Cariad. Why would I? I put it in the bin. It‟s long gone.‟ „Don‟t you think we should tell the police?‟

„Whatever for? „She‟s a missing person, dad,‟ mam insisted.‟ Besides, how will

you manage here on your own?‟

„She‟s in Scotland. She‟s not missing. We don‟t need to be wasting their time. She‟s gone to her sister‟s up north. And I‟ll

manage just fine. Don‟t worry yourself about that, Mary. Now,


10

enough of all that. Put the kettle on, and then I‟ll show you

what I‟ve done out the back.‟ „But I thought they didn‟t see eye to eye. Why would she go

there?‟ mam persisted. „Who knows? I‟ve lived with her for ages and still don‟t un-

derstand her.‟ Taid was starting to sound a bit irritated. So that was that.

End of conversation, and as far as I know, nothing was ever

mentioned about it again. At least, not in earshot of us children. I suppose we all expected her to be back within a week or so.

But she wasn‟t. For sure, Taid wasted no time. He got rid of the gravel paths

that had separated the vegetable plots and seeded most of the

back garden with grass. He dug up the remaining potatoes, took down the bean wigwams and scrubbed up the patch of herbs.

Out came the sage and rosemary, and in went dahlias. And what dahlias! We children had never seen such tall, straight

stems and such vibrant, perfect blooms. And other people thought they were good too. So much so, that Taid won prizes and cups for his dahlias at all the shows in North Wales.

„Mr Jones, what do you put your success down to?‟ the reporter from the local paper asked him.

„Plenty of water, love and care, but most of all, lots of or-ganic matter at the roots.‟ He told the young man.

„What‟s organic matter?‟ my little sister asked me. „Not sure,‟ I confessed, „but I think it‟s something that was

once alive, that has rotted away.‟

Gwen went a bit pale. „What, you mean like a dead human being? You‟d don‟t sup-

pose Nain is buried under those dahlias of Taid‟s, do you, Owen?‟

„What? Are you crazy?‟ I yelled. Gwen began to sob.

„I‟m sorry. I didn‟t mean to scare you,‟ I said. „Taid does grow lovely flowers, though,‟ Gwen said, sotto

voce.

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11

Of course, I knew the idea was mad. But it‟s odd how an

idea can take root in your mind, a bit like a plant, and start flourishing. I began to look at my grandfather through new

eyes. Could he possibly be a murderer? Dear, kind, gentle, long-suffering grandfather? Maybe that was it. He was long-suffering

for sure, but everyone has their breaking point and perhaps one day, he had reached it. Perhaps one day, he had snapped.

Maybe it would be quite good in a funny sort of a way to

have a granddad who had killed someone. None of the other kids at school had, I was certain. But then, what if the police

found out? Some of them would be sure to blab. Grandfather would be taken away for ages. He was old. He would never sur-vive prison. He might die in there. No, we couldn‟t risk that.

„Listen, Gwen. You‟re not to say anything about this to any-one. Understand?‟

She looked shocked. Her eyes grew wide, and started to fill with tears again.

„Why? You don‟t think it‟s true, do you Owen?‟ „No, of course not! Don‟t be silly. Not our Taid. But you can‟t

be too careful. Other people can be suspicious. They don‟t know

him like we do. “Careless talk costs lives”,‟ I added impressively, citing the famous wartime slogan I‟d heard Taid quote many

times, and trying to act grown-up. „This is our secret. And don‟t mention it to Taid either. Okay?

You‟ve got to be a big girl about this, Gwen. Can you do that?‟ „Yes, Owen. I promise.‟ „Good,‟ I said.

And so the weeks and months ticked by, and months turned to years, and we grew up, and Taid grew older, greyer and a

little more bent. We continued to visit as often as we could, and he continued to garden, and to win prizes for his dahlias. Noth-ing was ever mentioned about Nain and Taid didn‟t seem to

miss her at all. Or if he did, he never said so, or gave us any reason to think so.

„Don‟t you grow any herbs these days, Taid?‟


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„Not much, Owen. What‟s the point when there‟s that new su-

permarket place in the village? I can get all I want from there, and without the hassle of slugs and greenfly. Besides, I don‟t do

much cooking, so what need have I of fancy flavours? Tins and packets are wonderful inventions. I‟ve got a small clump of thyme

over there in the corner. It‟s supposed to have medicinal quali-ties. Good for coughs and bronchitis, they say, so I keep a bit just in case. But the chemist in the village has all sorts of wonder-

ful potions, and the doctor will give me a script for one of them, free of charge too! So I may dig the thyme out. Not like in the old

days, when you had to fend for yourself and rely on stuff from your own garden to cure all your problems. It‟s a different world.‟

„What other things did people grow to turn into medicines,

Taid?‟ Gwen asked. „Why all sorts, Cariad. Let‟s see. Echinacea is good for colds.

Foxgloves contain digitalis. That‟s said to help heart problems, though you must be careful with it. It can be very dangerous too.

Marsh mallow - the plant, not the cakes that you eat, mind,- helps with ulcers, garlic‟s an antibiotic, burdock‟s a diuretic, fever-few like it says reduces fever and is said to be good for headaches.‟

„Yes Taid. And what else?‟ „Let me think, young Gwen. Ah yes. Eucalyptus for a cough.

Peppermint for a cold. Evening primrose for eczema. Camomile or lavender for a good night‟s sleep. Veronica for sinus or ear prob-

lems. Aloe vera, good for burns or skin problems, arnica for bruises of course, and poppy for morphine. And not forgetting comfrey. Great for reducing inflammation and jolly useful as a

liquid fertilizer too. I use it on my prize dahlias, amongst other things. But don‟t you go giving away any of my secrets now.

Those men in the village would give their eye teeth for inside in-formation like that!‟ He grinned.

Gwen and I looked at each other. There was an awkward

silence for a moment or two. Gwen broke the tension. „Gosh, Taid, a garden was like a pharmacist‟s in the past!‟

„Had to be, Gwen. No National Health Service in those days! If

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you didn‟t grow it, you had no way of combating those illnesses.‟

„But now, it‟s all dahlias,‟ I laughed. „Aye. But even dahlias are medicinal, Owen. The ground up

roots contain insulin and lots of folk these days are diabetic. Yes, I think I‟ll dig out that old thyme. More room for flowers, eh?‟

„I‟ll give you a hand, Taid,‟ I offered, „If you‟re sure you won‟t need it for your chest and throat problems‟.

„Thanks, young fella. No. I think it can come out. Oh, by the

way ...‟ Taid added as an afterthought, „thyme also had another use, besides being good for coughs and bronchitis. It‟s an antisep-

tic and folk used to use on dead bodies, for burial, like.‟ My heart leapt in my chest. It felt like I couldn‟t breathe. I

glanced at Gwen. Hers had obviously done the same. The secret

we had shared for over ten years now and which, in truth we had almost forgotten in the hustle and bustle of growing up, school,

holidays, friends and family, had once again forced its way into our consciousness. Gwen blushed crimson. I stared at my feet,

uncomfortably. Taid noticed. „Well now. What‟s up with you two then? Cat got your tongue?‟ „Oh it‟s nothing, Taid. It‟s warm out here. I could do with a

cold drink. How about you two?‟ „Looking at the colour of her cheeks, I should say young Gwen

could use one. Yes. Let‟s all have a glass of lemonade and a nice biscuit. Open that new packet of chocolate digestives I got from

the supermarket last week. Was never allowed them before.‟ Absent-mindedly, Taid had made his first reference in I don‟t know how long to his missing wife.

And we all went indoors. The tension was, thankfully released. I knew though, that as soon as Gwen and I were alone, she

would raise the nagging doubts about Nain‟s disappearance and Taid‟s odd comments in the garden. I was not doubting my beloved grandfather, but it had been over a decade since his wife

had gone, and there had been no word or sign of her since, not even a letter or phone call.

„But remember, when she left, Taid had no phone in the cot-


14

tage, so even if she‟d wanted to call, she couldn‟t have.‟ My sis-

ter and I rationalised. „Anyway, if the police did check up on her, and suspected foul play, and we had known what happened ten

years ago, but hadn‟t said anything to them about Taid, we would be implicated. We could go to prison too!‟

„We must try to forget it. Permanently this time‟. Gwen ad-vised. I nodded. And that‟s what we did.

Then twelve years after she had disappeared, Nain reap-

peared. We went round to see Taid one Saturday as usual, and she was there. Taid didn‟t say much. Neither did she.

„Is she back for good?‟ mam asked him later. „Who knows?‟ Taid answered. And all Nain said by way of explanation was, „I needed to get

away for a while. Get it out of my system.‟ She didn‟t say what „it‟ was, and we didn‟t ask.

Taid shrugged. „Do you want a cup of tea and a biscuit, Myf?‟

„That would be lovely. Those dahlias are looking nice, Will bach.‟

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15

A I D A N Steph Spiers

„Who decided?‟ asked Aidan. It was reasonable question, so Dr

Wisung replied. „It was a joint decision.‟ He carried on working at the bench

with a laser lance. „Was it in my best interests, or the best interest of others? If

so of whom?‟

Again this was a reasonable line of questioning. „It was mutually beneficial,‟ Dr Wisung replied.

„Why was it decided?‟ asked Aidan. „Had I done something wrong? Was it a punishment?‟

Dr Wisung considered the questions. This line of search for certainty was indicative of cognitive reasoning. He decided to respond.

„Define wrong? Define punishment?‟ Aidan looked at the straps and buckles attached to his wrists

and ankles. „It must be obvious that I am being restricted from movement.‟ His body was covered with a material of some kind and he had no feeling beneath his neck. His head was held firm.

Dr Wisung nodded. „This is a statement of fact. One must therefore accept it as truth.‟

„For how long have I been restrained?‟ „Have you no memory of the passing of time?‟

„Surely, that is a relative concept. To recognise the passing of time one would need some visual reference if one did not possess a time piece.‟ He couldn‟t see his hand and assumed his commu-

nication device had been removed. Dr Wisung considered. There was no atomic clock-face or digi-

tal read out in the laboratory within Aidan‟s field of vision. Being in space there was no reference from the one small porthole

which merely showed the blackness of the void through which they were travelling.

„It has been twenty five units since we began your debriefing.‟


16

„Define units?‟ said Aidan.

„In correlation to what?‟ „To my planetary time. A day split into 24hours. A day meaning

one spin of the planet on its axis. A full year of seasons being split into 365 days meaning one complete orbit.‟

Dr Wisung calculated. „An orbit of 365 days would equate to a planet ...‟ he went silent and consulted a screen. „25 days equating to 25 spins. A Goldilocks Planet ... The reference is beyond my un-

derstanding. I will research the reference.‟ Aidan allowed the measurement to sink in. It was a long time.

Had he been restrained in this way for 25 Earth days? He didn‟t think so. But he had little memory of being anywhere else but in this room. That was a surprise. He had little memory of anything

other than watching Dr Wisung working at his bench. Dr Wisung had obviously acquired the computer database from a ship and

was trying to understand. Was it from his ship? „So this restraint is not a punishment?‟

„Did I say that it was?‟ „Where have I come from?‟ Dr Wisung looked up and stopped tinkering with screen. „You

have no memory?‟ „No. I have no clear memories. Who am I? Where do I come

from?‟ „This is progress.‟ The doctor returned to his work.

„Hello Aidan. Are you conscious?‟

„Good morning Dr Wisung, I am awake.‟ It wasn‟t morning. In space the passage of time is not marked by morning, afternoon or

night. But the pleasantry helped normalise the situation somewhat. He needed normality to heal.

„Are you ready to continue our discussion?‟

„Have I been fed and hydrated?‟ Aidan‟s eyes flickered over the tubes attached to his stomach, tubes which disappeared over the

edge the table and were lost to his field of vision. The sensation of

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17

numbness seemed to be punctuated by periods of tingling.

„Of course, since the accident your physical needs have been addressed as best as we could under the circumstances. There is

some positive progress, so I am informed.‟ Aidan tried to focus on this new information. This was the sec-

ond time Dr Wisung had alluded to an accident. It also meant the doctor was not alone and someone else was on board and „taking care‟ of him. Someone he had not seen.

„Where are you taking me?‟ „Taking? There is no place of destination.‟

Aidan considered, it was so difficult to find a set of words which resulted in a reply which moved their conversation forwards.

„You are not taking me to a home planet?‟

The doctor considered and did not reply. „Can you tell me where you found me?‟

„Ahh this is progress. You are seeking information of a former state of being.‟

„Yes, Dr Wisung. I want to learn of my former state of being. I want to know how I came to be here and where I was previously.‟

„I have no knowledge of where you were previously Aidan.‟

Aidan‟s eyes closed. He would have to give this statement some thought. He had no reason to believe Dr Wisung was capable of

dissembling. But if he had the recovered computer database why couldn‟t the doctor determine the point of origin? Was it damaged?

Was it only partial? As blackness returned somewhere in the mists of memory something stirred.

„Hello Aidan, are you awake?‟

„Good morning Dr Wisung. I am ready to converse. How many day units have now passed since the start of my debriefing?

Dr Wisung calculated and replied: „48 day units Aidan and there

is good progress in your rebuild.‟ „My rebuild.‟ That explained a lot. „How are you able to rebuild

me?‟


18

„From the other bi-ped units and from replicated parts.‟

Aidan fought down panic. „Other bi-ped units? How many other bi-ped units are there?‟

„None.‟ Dr Wisung looked down at the trolley to which his patient was strapped with blank eyes. „All the other bi-ped units

were not functioning and only capable of being recycled into some of their constituent parts after the accident.‟

„Can you tell me more about the accident?‟ he asked, fighting

down panic. „Fluid is seeping from your derma,‟ said Dr Wisung, „and your

cardiac response is rising. You must desist this line of question-ing. You must not damage the progress.‟

„Hello Aidan, are you awake?‟

„Good morning Dr Wisung. How many day units have passed since the start of my debriefing?

„Ahh ... you are a species so intent on the passage of time. Is this because you are a short lived species?‟

„Are you a short lived species Dr Wisung?‟ The doctor consid-

ered the question. „What species are you? Would I know of its origins? Is that

permitted?‟ „It is day unit 73. And progress is fast approaching completion

so I am informed.‟ „I‟m fixed?‟ „Define fixed? If you mean fully functioning, that is hard for us

to ascertain given that we had no blueprint to follow.‟ „Will I be allowed to get up?‟ Aidan tried to flex his fingers.

They moved. „Ah progress.‟ The blackness returned.

„Hello Aidan,‟ said Dr Wisung.

„Good Morning Dr Wisung?‟ Aidan tried to feel his toes and in-

time and tide

19

finitesimally stretched his legs and arms. There was definitely a

feeling of movement returning. „Are you ready to resume our conversation?‟ The doctor leant

over the table and for the first time Aidan‟s vision was clearing, it had been difficult talking to a voice with little comprehension of

its shape or appearance. „What is your designation? You‟re not a medical doctor are

you? Does your species even have doctors?‟

„Ah more progress. Your pathways to cognitive functioning are returning. Your brain is re-routing. I have acquired this designa-

tion to aspire confidence and trust.‟ It was as he suspected. Give a person a white coat ... „Don‟t

turn me off, please. I‟m not tired.‟

„As you wish. It is my only desire to assist your return to fit-ness and functionality.‟

„I am truly grateful, Dr Wisung.‟ „Can you remember your mission? Can you remember the acci-

dent?‟ Aidan considered. There were flashes of memory. There was

no accident. They were shot out of the sky. The Voyager recov-

ery mission had been going well. They had a fix on an object in space. These were things he now knew. He had no desire to

share this knowledge.

„Good morning Dr Wisung.‟ „Hello Aidan. Is that your designation? It appeared on the ma-

terial covering your body but it is not the same as on the material covering of your companions.‟

„Aidan is my designation.‟ It wasn‟t an untruth. It was merely an under reporting of the full truth ... that was what Commander Joyce was fond of saying whenever he didn‟t want Control to

know what he was doing. „Have you remembered anymore of your mission?‟

„Not a thing, Dr Wisung. My clear memories start from hearing


20

your voice.‟ That was an untruth and to state an untruth was

contrary to his mission programming. He searched his mind for a solution to this situation which seemed both necessary for sur-

vival and yet against his moral codex. His mind was starting to function only at low levels of functionality but „think‟ yes, defi-

nitely, thinking as self was starting. Sentience was returning and with it a desire to see through the fog of confusion with so little data.

„Good Morning Dr Wisung.‟ „Hello Aidan. I have some news.‟ „Thank you Dr Wisung. News is always welcome.‟

„I am informed we have located a beacon.‟ „A beacon?‟

„A beacon floating in space. It has markings upon it, very simi-lar to those found on your ship.‟

„My ship? You have recovered my ship?‟ „No Aidan. Your ship was destroyed in the accident. There are

a few pieces of debris remaining that is all.‟

„No escape pods?‟ „Only the one as we previously discussed.‟

„With the other bi-ped units ...‟ „Exactly so.‟

„The beacon?‟ „Its power array was damaged and it was floating unmanned.‟ „Damaged?‟

„Very damaged. It is more like fragments of debris.‟ „It has data?‟

„Not that we can determine.‟ Aidan tried to remain motionless. The mission to destroy the

Voyager probe may yet be salvageable.

„Good morning Dr Wisung.‟

time and tide

21

„Hello Aidan. We need to discuss the beacon.‟

„I know nothing of any beacon. My memory ...‟ „Starts with the sound of my voice. Yes we have established

that Aidan.‟ „Do you want me to examine the beacon?‟

„Yes Aidan, we want you to examine the beacon. It may help us to establish where your planet is to be located.‟

„My planet located... Do you wish to repatriate me, Dr Wis-

ung?‟ „Repatriate?‟ The doctor consulted the translator on the screen.

„Yes. Repatriate seems an appropriate word. The Lotian Empire‟s vessel Dominion would be delighted to return you to your world.‟

The blackness descended.

„Hello Aidan. Are you ready to examine the beacon?‟ „Good Morning Dr Wisung. I am ready. Where is it located?‟

The door opened. This was the first time Aidan had left the confinement of the laboratory in all his time aboard the Domin-ion. Dr Wisung was propelling the trolley to which he was

strapped. The number of tubes had been gradually reduced to just two. The corridor running parallel to the hull was dark and

chilled. Dr Wisung did not seem to notice the darkness or the drop in temperature. It was the first time Aidan had had the

opportunity to see out into the void, they were close to a purple gas nebular: he noted its position, but it didn‟t match with any data he could recall of any star chart known to Commander

Joyce. They weren‟t in the Milky Way Galaxy. Aidan relaxed and tried to focus and process this information.

The storage bay was similar in dimension to the storage facili-ties on the Jupiter. Aidan‟s frontal lobe was flooded with memo-ries of the ship and Commander Joyce. He remained silent and

expressionless. The trolley was stopped by debris from the Voyager probe, all

neatly laid out in rows next to piles of debris from the Jupiter es-


22

cape pod still stained with evidence of an explosive impact.

„Is this from your planet? What is its function?‟ „It doesn‟t seem familiar.‟ The trolley was pushed closer. „It

seems ancient in design. Do you think it is some sort of artefact from a dead civilization? What is your opinion?‟

The doctor considered the translator screen. ‟Did it originate on your planet?‟

„I do not know. I have never seen anything like this before. My

memories are not returning in any order, or clarity. I am sorry I cannot be of more service.‟

„You want to go home?‟ „As much as you do Dr Wisung.‟ It was not an untruth: he

surely missed Commander Joyce who he had considered to be a

friend. A loyal friend and teacher who had welcomed him into his family tribal group and who had shared memories and social in-

teraction experiences with him. Commander Joyce was an excep-tional human.

„The Lotian‟s are space dwellers, Aidan. Space is our home.‟ He didn‟t add parasitic robotic life forms, both sentient and vio-

lent, he didn‟t need to. Aidan had already worked that out for

himself: it hadn‟t been difficult to hack into their mainframe once he had recovered 46% usage of his mental facilities, wireless in-

terchange being outside their parameters for security settings. Or so it would seem. „Old tech should never be overlooked as a way

of defeating an enemy,‟ once said Commander Joyce. „Radio. They don‟t see it coming.‟ It was an attempt at humour Aidan supposed. He didn‟t understand humour.

„I hope it will be my home too, Dr Wisung,‟ said the android, relieved that naïve first probe (Commander Joyce‟s opinion) with

its message of welcome and star chart to Earth had been destroyed by the winds of fate if not by the lost crew of the Jupi-ter sent out by a more tech savvy, enlightened generation to

recover the map to Earth at all costs. A. I. D. A. N. (Artificial Intelligent Data Analysing Neuronet),

named “No 1” by Commander Joyce had decided the Dominion

time and tide

23

crew and their database would, at some future point, have to be

totally eliminated if the location and safety of Earth was to be protected.

As the trolley was returned to the laboratory, his processor computed new information. He welcomed the downtime: he

needed rest to formulate a plan. Commander Joyce always had a plan. After all he had all the time in world to complete this self-appointed mission. When fully functioning, (presently 63% core

processing) he must eliminate the threat posed by the Dominion and then use the alien ship to find and destroy that second Voy-

ager probe. Dr Wisung closed the door. Blackness began to return. “No 1” slept peacefully whilst recharging: he had, previously,

never understood the human concept of revenge. He did now.


24

Parallels of Time Michelle Draper

To begin with, it looked to be an ordinary house, one that you could perhaps label your home, or the home of a friend or rela-

tive. It was situated in a rather, quiet, ordinary street that sat in the middle of an ordinary estate. Each row of houses stood symmetrical, and identical in size and build, quite the expected

when you looked at the pearly neighbourhood of picturesque order and manner. Each of the front gardens were sheltered by

a tidy, cut-back bush that shadowed green in its full bloom, hid-ing the squared, fair sized lawns, each well-kept and mowed to

lined perfection. Flower beds surrounded the lawns creating a colourful border with pretty red and yellow tulips scattering in the soil, growing far up towards the sunlight, reaching high to

its heat and light. Creeper climbed up along the walls of each house neatly, and the front doors all bore the same, ocean col-

our blue painted wood. Cars were parked in a slightly more clut-tered manner in the street, sloping along the curbs and paving, one or two parked along an outstretched grassed area leaving

behind faint tyre marks as the weight indented the soil below the green. Outside each house stood a black lamppost in wait-

ing to light up as each night-time arrived, and a cold darkness fell over the sleeping street.

However, one particular house seemed to be standing out, almost immediately its differences became clear as one‟s eyes wandered over the cream walls of the homely building. Deep

red roses grew underneath the window ledge, gleaming in the evening sun, making this house look much lovelier than all of

the others. You could see how much care and attention had been put into this home and garden. The lawn housed a beauti-

ful stone water fountain, right in the centre of the grass ... an angel. Water gushed out as a clear, sparkling flow, and the base was littered with a few pretty little flowers creating further

time and tide

25

bursts of colour. It was a dear little garden idyllic and beautiful.

Janey had no recollection of how she came about to be stand-ing outside this particular home. She hadn‟t been here before, of

that she was certain. It stood looking so beautiful, yet awfully unfamiliar in every way possible. She had, at that particular

moment, found herself standing on the garden path, looking idly at its stunning beauty. She hadn‟t seen a house quite like it be-fore, however, she could not express her opinion on such a state-

ment. She couldn‟t pinpoint its fortunate looks. Many other thou-sands of homes were also well kept and looked after to excep-

tional perfection. There was a pull in the air around her body that had brought her to this spot, and she was physically unable to turn her back and walk away home. Something had, indeed,

brought her here for a reason, and she looked on for a further moment, and wondered why.

Against her own will, it was almost like a dream as her feet, of their own accord, began to walk into the stranger‟s house! She

couldn‟t seem to stop herself. It was as if she could see herself walking, through her own eyes, yet had no control over her movement. She could see everything through her mind‟s eye and

was fully able to observe the happenings and surrounding around her body. Her body was the force, and she was the soul.

As she opened the pretty, ocean blue door, she slipped back on her feet unexpectedly as thick, heavy smoke spilled out from

the house, and a heat-wave of invisible hot air, knocked Janey off her feet. As quickly as this happened, the quiet street was sud-denly filled with the sound of a fire alarm beeping frantically in

warning. The intense beauty and colour of the house quickly shifted into a dark, unbearably hot area that signalled danger and

death. The smoke had filled the entire hallway and poured out into the street, polluting the early evening air. It was so heavy that Janey couldn‟t see into the house at all. All she could do was

follow basic instinct and get down low to her hands and knees, and crawl beneath the smoke, where slightly more breathable air

was lurking under the dark cover. The heat was less intense to-


26

wards the floor. She crawled along the hallway, still not able to

control her actions, yet her mind screamed out to turn back and get out of danger! She couldn‟t stop her body sliding across the

floor, crawling ever deeper into the heavier, black smoke and far more humid heat. Her heart was without a doubt pounding hard

against her chest as she heard a frantic screaming, sounding like that of a young child. It was coming from above her, she was sure, and she feared that a child was trapped upstairs. It was

from there that the smoke was coming and the fear for the child hit Janey like a ton of bricks. She had to find the stairs!

The screams began to echo all around her, just as the heavy, smoky air made Janey feel weak, and very frightened. Her skin tingled with fright at the possibility that a child was trapped be-

yond her reach. She continued on, crawled forward as quickly as she could and kept her head down low, and her arms stretched

out as far as possible. She tried to feel the floor for anything in front of her, the carpet feeling hotter the more she moved ahead.

Eventually, she found the bottom step of the staircase. She lis-tened to the wailing of the child, and realised that there was more than one cry coming from above. The very idea of two chil-

dren, trapped in a fire, made Janey feel sick to her stomach. The heat of the flames that were now directly above Janey, smoth-

ered her skin as she clawed her way up each step with a great difficulty. She could feel her body slowly suffocating. Her chest

was tight as smoke filled her lungs. She tried desperately to keep her breath, but with each inhalation came prolonged coughing and burning of the throat.

The screaming and wailing continued on, getting louder the closer Janey got to the landing. She could see the flames now,

massive orange streaks of fire spreading across the ceiling, and somewhere, the children were stuck. She knew that she needed to get to them as it became apparent that they were depending

only on her to reach them. Now she knew why she was here ... she needed to be the strength to see these children through the

trauma of the house fire, to save them. She had gotten to the

time and tide

27

landing, and most rooms were engulfed with flames as they ate

out the entire area with their hot tongues, binging on every piece of furniture, material and decoration until only the charred, hol-

low shell would be left. There was no place for Janey to go, so she slipped into the nearest room and managed to close the door

behind her. What greeted Janey confused her greatly. She was no longer hearing the loud fire alarm, or feeling her skin smother in the in-

tense heat, flames close to her body and her being drowned in smoke. She saw that she was in a brightly lit room littered with

furniture and floral wallpaper, and the evening sunshine could be seen through a large, bay window directly opposite her. A young woman, sat at her dresser that had much make up and lotions

scattered on the table top, lids off some and spills here and there. The lady was doing her hair whilst smiling at her reflection

in the mirror she was looking through. Straightening her hair with heated tongues, she absentmindedly put them down and forgot

to turn them off. She stood up and walked across the room to a playpen, where two toddlers were smiling at the lady, as she went to them giving each a loving kiss on the forehead. She pro-

ceeded to hand each of them a teddy bear to play with then went to leave the room, stating she wouldn‟t be long and would be

back soon. Almost immediately, the hair straighteners began to smoke before catching fire as the appliance had carelessly been

left unattended. The room soon became engulfed in large flames, and the two children began to scream as the hot fire headed quickly towards them. Janey shut her eyes tightly as she listened

to their cries of fright and pain. She couldn‟t bear the sound. When she opened her eyes, the playpen had been burned out

and the cries had ended. A deep, heart-wrenching feeling sank inside Janey as she realised the two children had been burned alive because of the mother‟s irresponsibility and forgetfulness,

and neglect as she left her two children in the house all alone. It was all too much to comprehend.

Janey scrambled back out into the landing to make an at-


28

tempt of getting down the stairs and out of the burning house.

When she opened the door, the same smoke trapped her airway and the noise of the flames and the fire alarm was almost deaf-

ening. She tried to find her way out when, there standing before her, were the two toddlers holding hands, and the expression of

sadness and pain was evident across their little faces. It seemed incredibly torturous to think of those poor children being left in such a way and having no defence in them to escape. They

looked innocent, and lost. Janey saw the mother appear before her also, she was set apart from her two children, beautifully

made up with her makeup and her hair, all that had been impor-tant to her had been her vanity. The woman looked directly at Janey, her expression that of guilt, and anger. As she stared, the

surroundings altered from being a danger zone. The landing changed into that of a room, well decorated, lit with candles and

beautiful music playing in the background. There were curtains and crystal hangings, pictures and portraits littered the walls.

And the table in front of Janey held tarot cards and a crystal ball. Janey looked up and saw that the woman sitting opposite her, was the same woman who had been at that house, now she was

here holding Janey‟s hands, smiling excitedly. Janey then realised she had seen what the woman would do at some point in the fu-

ture. She would kill her children! Unable to speak, not able to say a word about what she had seen, the clairvoyant sat in a stunned

silence, and the heavily pregnant lady before her smiled gra-ciously at Janey in expectance, and patted her hands encourag-ingly.

„Is it going to be a boy? I so want a boy,‟ she gushed. Janey stayed quiet as the image of those two children in death stayed

in her line of vision, and the cries still echoed around her head as if she was still there in front of them, unable to save them. The parallels of time told the future and showed the ill-fate of this

family, and she could only hope that the premonition was fraud. She quietly prayed for her wrong mind‟s-eye sight, as the ghosts

of the future tormented her soul.

time and tide

29

The Last Tree Standing in the Forest Shosha Clare

Grace had thought it over for months, over and over, well, on and off. It was hardly an obsession, just an area of indecision in her busy life. When she retired she imagined oodles and acres of

leisure but somehow nature still proving that it abhorred a vac-uum, all kinds of things had crowbarred in to fill her day leaving

her little time to focus on the subject. That might be counted as a relief for some, but not to her for she congratulated herself that

occupied or unoccupied, she had conquered the beast. She had lain in bed last night while listening to a Radio 4 pro-

totype comedy that made jokes on waxing, Viagra and marital

sex, jokes that would have been unthinkable five, ten years ago. Things were so different now. Should she or shouldn‟t

she? Was it worth it, or was it not? There were, of course, the same millions of reasons why not as there had been for the last

ten or fifteen years. Who kept count! There were plenty of good solid reasons born of bitter experience, years of it as a matter of fact, years that were not to be discounted. In many respects, she

couldn‟t quite understand why anything had changed, or why this little worm had burrowed its way into her head, or was head

quite the right word? And, even if it had, was that any reason to give it any attention, any credence? Why had she not firmly stamped on it, killed it, as she done so effectively for all of those

years? It was ludicrous, at her age anyway. Anyone with any sense

would say the same, and who wanted to upset a nice comfortable apple cart. Not her, surely? It was a phase, a little yen, a nothing

and it would go away and leave her in peace again. There were, of course, online dating sites, but then, you heard

stories about them and anyway, surely it was much more healthy

to meet someone properly. Maybe what she would do would be to join some clubs that were likely to have mixed membership,

eye up the lay of the land. She‟d always fancied car maintenance,


30

both useful and one with, hopefully, a few husky types who

were handy with their jacks and knew how to unscrew her wheel nuts! Then the Gardening Club could produce some nice

down to earth loamy types that knew a thing or two about delv-ing in the dirt! There was a Camera Club. Well, if she never im-

proved her photographic techniques there might be productive fantasies coming from thinking about posing nude for some gor-geous David Bailey look alike.

Car Maintenance was the first disappointment! It was filled with a slew of highly perfumed forty-something manless ladies

who had had the same ridiculous idea as herself. If it came to a competition, they had years less than her on their side. She gave up as soon as she walked through the door.

The talent numbered two; a skinny immature sixteen-year-old in bum fluff, acne, baggy jeans and a baseball cap, who

sniggered at every reference to nipples and male and fe-male unions. At first we had all sniggered along, rather nerv-

ously, even the tutor, but now there were a series of groans every time these words were mentioned, and although teacher wrote the words baldly on the board, with, underneath “these

terms refer to car parts and screws” Bum Fluff found parts and screws equally snigger worthy. It became unbearable! The

other male member, snigger, snigger, was stolid, fiftyish cardi-gan wearing and could put on an admirable almost Olympian

turn of speed to get out of the door and into his car when the lesson finished, consistently defeating even the most desperate in their attempt to waylay him.

You could discount the tutor, balding, beer bellied and unap-pealing, already commandeered by a stringy blonde who came

with him in his car, probably in both senses of the word, who sat on the front row and smiled a triumphant smile at all the other women and made sure that she got the majority of his

tutorial attention. If Baldy Hogan said, „Andra‟ once he said it twenty times per lesson, obviously obsessed with her, while she

preened. Who the hell was called „Andra?‟ Grace was sure she‟d

time and tide

31

made it up because she thought Sandra was too plebby.

Grace strained her wrists wrestling with nuts and screws, but not the ones she wanted to wrestle with, and found even chang-

ing a wheel beyond her strength, terrified that the jack would col-lapse and she would be crushed by tons of falling metal. Tutor

Bill, when he tried to assist her with brake pads, almost suffo-cated her with his garlic breath and beer belly while stringy blonde looked on with gimlet eyes. Car maintenance did not last

long! Gardening, now she liked gardening, making her tiny plot

bright with tubs and borders beaming with the smiling colours of summer and looked forward to her first meeting. Oh yes, there were men, plenty, mainly elderly, but who was she kidding, she

was elderly too, and, unfortunately, mainly married. Oh they were nice enough, a friendly bunch, always ready with advice,

popping along to the meetings with their wives, a comfortable lot, long married, who were also gardening fanatics.

She had been visited by one of the husbands who made the presenting of a large marrow an excuse for the visit and the sub-ject of a few double entendre as to size and colour at which she

laughed nervously, unsure whether not to offer a cup of coffee would be seen as rude, or to offer one, a come on. He was nei-

ther attractive or unattractive, but he was someone else‟s and she was certainly not enthused when he surreptitiously slid a

hand over her buttock and cupped it. After she had all but frogmarched him onto the pavement and

scuttled into her house, locking the door, she cogitated. Would it

have been so terrible to let it go further? After all, that‟s what he obviously wanted, a little afternoon delight, a little bit on the

side. He wasn‟t bad for his age and his wife, a grim looking bol-ster in beige, hardly seemed a raver. Wasn‟t that what she wanted also, exactly as he did, no commitments, no promises,

just a bit of fun, just a chance to get her rocks off after so many barren years.


32

Maybe it was time to reassess. She had just been offered what

she thought she wanted and realised she didn‟t want it! The whole ethos of such encounters filled her with nothing! That was

the truth of it, no disgust, no shock horror, but absolutely no en-thusiasm either. Oh the whole thing was impossible! Who

knew? He might have been superb in bed, (fat chance!,) and given her an afternoon of glory and wasn‟t that what she wanted, all she wanted? But somehow, she had a terrible feeling that it

would have been the mixture as before, fumbles and mumbles and wham bam thank you ma‟am, and then what happened af-

terwards; once a week visits avec marrow? The subterfuge, the feeling of being used while he trotted meekly back to the beige bolster, his flaccid little tail between his legs? Oh dear, the whole

thing seemed impossible! The Camera Club was slightly more promising. She treated

herself to her first Digital, and found to her shame that all the other members were proudly clinging to Nikons and the

like. Digital was a dirty word to the purist who did his own devel-oping and had a plethora of differing lenses, light metres and similar gadgets depending from various parts of his person, and

spoke in a technical language that seemed like Alien-speak to poor baffled and belittled Grace.

The men were quite tasty, or, at least, some of them, but they were much more interested in perfecting their angles and shots

then wasting time with the Digitised wrinkly in their midst. It was terribly disappointing, like being at a banquet and having your jaws wired! There was one in particular, Gareth, who made her

shutter speed go up a few notches, but how could she attract his interest, without being so blatant, she would feel like a

whore. She‟d tried low necked tops, and even worse, an excruci-ating pantie girdle to make svelte for once a rather lumpy bot-tom, hoping that he might aim a view finder in her direction, but

no such luck! He was fixated on water, his exhibitions dominated by enlargements in matte black and white of seascapes and

lakes, all very moody and magnificent and a dull as hell! As the

time and tide

33

weeks went by, though he still attracted her in an equally mean

and moody way, like Daniel Day Lewis in “The Last of The Mohi-cans” there was something rather unsettling in him and she won-

dered if he practised the more esoteric forms of auto-eroticism, or liked being locked in a cupboard. In any event, she wasn‟t

sure she wanted to find out! Months had gone by in these fruitless exercises to find Sex

God of the year and she was, she decided, giving up. The Inter-

net had much more to offer than dangerous dating sites, as she was beginning to discover. Excellent tutorials swarmed to her

mailbox as she clicked on this, that and the other, mainly the other. Wow! She‟d never thought of trying that, or that, or that! She was behind the door, totally and utterly, BUT not ir-

revocably! An amazing array of what Sarah Millican called Lady Wands, popped on to her screen in the most imaginative

shapes, colours, sizes, materials and uses! Good heavens, all these years she had thought these intimate items came in one

style and one colour, namely a hard plastic cylinder in corset pink. Now she was utterly bewildered and amused, never mind enticed by the display. So far she had not quite made a decision

to buy anything, partly because the choice was so bewildering, the price range so enormous and there was always that proviso,

would they do what they said they‟d do? £150 a pop would be worth every penny if ... BUT, say if it didn‟t? At least a man

wouldn‟t cost that much, but then, you couldn‟t disinfect him, put him in a drawer, mute and unregarded till you wanted to use him again, could you? Mind you he wouldn‟t need batteries or re-

charging, or would he?! Times had changed and how!! She watched Sex and the City

on You Tube for the first time and somehow felt her needs and her rather timorous and pathetic search being endorsed, you could almost say engorged by these feisty ladies who talked,

dreamed, breathed and sought sexual pleasure. So, maybe it was now alright to say that you wanted some and that you were

damn well going to get some one way or another! She felt liber-


34

ated! She felt younger, and as she walked the street of her town,

a glint in her eye and a spring in her step, she found men, of all ages, turning to look, admire. It was funny, at her age, she was

getting the glad eye! So with all this effort, the last tree in her forest was still left

standing, the edifice, the dawn redwood of sex. Should she leave it standing, unconquered, unattempted in real terms, an insur-mountable pinnacle, or should she throw all caution to the winds

and bring it to earth, felled in a flurry of lavish fantasies and/ or the nitty gritty of flesh to flesh satisfaction? Should she even

make a little more effort to seduce the definitely attractive Gareth who was so into water that her imagination started to run riot, the Lady of Shallot maybe? Would that turn him on? What if she

followed him out on one of his snapping expeditions, and dolled up in Pre-Raphaelite robes, disposed on cushions, sail past him,

languidly paddling her own canoe, would he put the lens cap on his camera and command her to throw him her painter? Mmm,

that one had possibilities, at least as a fantasy. Maybe it was time to get out the plastic, disregard the preservation order. and make a purchase, hollering „Timber,‟ as the last bastion came

crashing down? Or on second thoughts, maybe not!

time and tide

35

The things that run through your mind when driving Clive Hewitt

Right then! I've got a green from the signal box and the tracking indicator's giving me a straight run out, so I'm good to go. Good

to go! What a horrible Americanism, you must stop reading those books and get your head into English, proper English. I may pro-ceed as per the tracking plan is what I mean; 'Good to go' is eas-

ier though. I know it's not on the driver‟s checklist, but it doesn't any harm

to squirm around and check that the passengers are all loaded and safe, but where's my guard. I can't run without a guard;

where's he got too? The regs say I've got to have a green flag or a whistle from him before I take the brakes off – not really but that's what they mean anyway.

I should have guessed! Coming out of the rest room; tea mug in one hand and a bacon and egg butty in the other. I've had

mine, and he hasn't got anywhere to put his down, so where's he taking it to? Two guesses; signal box or ticket office. Come on, get a move on! There's a queue at the entry gate and the plat-

form staff won't let them in until we've cleared the station signal. It is his because he's just blown his whistle, the plonker, it'll spill

all over the footboards. Anyway, time to go! Crack the throttle, just slightly, a double

whistle, 'beep-barp', to tell everybody that I'm starting the run, brake lever to off, check that the brake pipe pressure gauge indi-cation is at zero, engage the torque convertor control and pull

away. Now what? The signals at the first of the two level crossing is

giving me a red, but as I've got to pass over those points first and as I'm only doing two miles an hour there's loads of time.

Maybe five seconds. Leave the throttle alone but put the torque convertor control to 'off', the blue beast will roll that far on iner-tia. Keep an half an eye on the speedo, and the other half on the

clowns climbing on the crossing gates.


36

False alarm; the gateman has shifted the clowns who were

climbing and I've got a green. More torque, but no more speed be-cause the crossings here are only twenty yards apart.

There's a whistle board at the first crossing, so 'beep-barp, beep-barp', and I've got eight seconds to decide if the second level cross-

ing's clear or not. Clear this time. A nod of the hat to the 'STOP un-til the crossing is clear' board and I'm away into the straight before the climbing right handed curve.

The gradient here is about 1:200 and it's against me so any de-cent acceleration, assuming that this heap of junk I'm driving has

any, is out of the question. A bit more on the throttle and full on with the torque control will take care of the gradient. Not too fast though, there's a three mph limit on this section and the junction

signal, up ahead, is showing red. That means I'll probably have to stop and wait for the UP train to clear the single line working sec-

tion before I can go.

Got the working token from the UP driver, checked the points have moved for me, so it's back on the footplate, a lot more on the throt-tle and full wellie on with the torque control, to take care of a

loaded, uphill, start from a standstill. No speed limit on this section, but, as it's still 1:400 up hill, getting anything more than five, with a

full load is … difficult. Past the 'End of Automatic Signals' sign and away down the long straight into the country. I can really rattle

along here; full wellie on everything and give the paying passengers a thrill.

Passing the Brilliant Orange three on a pole speed restriction sign

and that means slow down for the station points; throttle back to tick-over. Leave the torque control alone for a few seconds, you

idiot, you're driving passengers not a works train. Somebody else will be doing that soon, if not next, from the looks of things being loaded onto the works and flat wagons in the main station sidings.

A quick, 'beep-barp' on the whistle to get the station staff out of the shelter to handle the passenger change, and slow and stop, right by

the last STOP board. Brake on!

time and tide

37

Dave is uncoupling the guards coach and will see to the rear

chock and the run back at that end. Get the front chock under the coach, the air connections off and the coupling pin out, pdq!

Blast, dropped the 'R' clip! Pull forward and get the station people to find it and get on with a single handed loco turning. You're

wasting time and the boss man won't be pleased if you mess the running schedule up too much; still it's dry and the passengers will be happy enough watching you fiddle about.

Slowly, slowly, onto the turn table, a half tonne loco dumped in the turntable pit will take some shifting, and you'll never live it

down. Brake on, check plate out, push the handle and spin the loco through the turn to the run around track. Mind your fingers when you slide the check plate in, brake off and, slowly, slowly,

onto the run-around track. Past the passengers remounting and onto the main line to get ready for the UP run. Somebody hasn't

put out the 'Clear of Points' sign, I'll have to tell the signal box about that when I get back to the main station.

Back up onto the carriage rake, brakes ON and check that the pressure gauge says so, and recouple. Chock out and on the plat-form ready for the next time.

Engine OFF and hold the automatic point lever over and help to reposition the guards coach ready to be turned. Swing and

push off the turntable, chock out and recouple the guard coach. This brake check is a VERY important brake check! It's down-

hill all the way back and it wouldn't be a fun run on a brake failed loco. Green from the new guard, don't know who it is, but, as Dave's stopping to do a shift here it's probably somebody going

back for a break. Engine on, brake off, no throttle, use the torque control to move off.

No problem with the move off and I'm dropping down-hill to-wards the junction. Although there isn't a strict limit here, we've all been told to keep an eye on the speed; that it's a good idea to

keep below six mph, and you do need to be get ready to surren-der the single line section working token at the junction. Past the


38

'Start of automatic signals' sign and slow down for the junction

signal. I've got right of way here, but that's only in theory, it doesn't mean that there isn't somebody else, doing 'locals', on

the loop circuit who's going to block me. Token placed on the holder in passing and down towards the

other 'STOP until crossing is clear sign', not that this is a problem here as I can see that it is clear so I can carry on. Through the gate and onto the high level track and I'm being greeted with a

RED as there's a loco in the section block on the low level. Wave to the nice passengers, they, bless their little cotton socks, are

the ones who are funding the whole thing, so be nice to them. There ought to be a 'Notice to Engine Crews' somewhere saying 'IT'S BE NICE TO PASSENGERS DAY!'

Stop and wait. Yellow, and with the points in my favour I can trickle off, on

minimum revs because the next signal is at red, and so it's STOP again.

The signal box has given me the 'Crawl Forward' signal, which means that I can, possibly, get into the back of the station and discharge the passengers. No throttle again, torque control just

cracked open and crawl for the last fifty yards or so. On the sta-tion approach stretch so slow even more and try to end up a few

inches from the rear of the last coach of the train in front. The guard is yelling, “Don't get off until we're at the platform,” but is

being ignored; passengers always know best. When the train in front departs I can crawl forward, but, of

course, not until all the passengers who've dismounted are clear.

Now! Engine off, brakes on, and report to the signal box to log off. I've got fifteen minutes for a cup of tea, a sweet biscuit and a

comfort break; after that it's my turn to be on the platform and talk to the passengers awaiting their rides.

„It's a great hobby, I love it!‟

time and tide

39

TIPI Raising Against Hell‟s Fury Christine Williams

It was a dark and stormy night as we drew onto the camp ground, where on the village fete was due the next day.

As we piled out of the motors, the rain lashed wind wound

ever more into fury. The whining scream added to our moans as we tightened our

grip on our coat collars and dashed for a marquee to gain shelter. The canvas blew inwards and was sucked out by the whirling

winds and the rain thundered and the air rent by flashes of forked lightening.

Once in the marquee, we were met by a happy sight.

A welcoming WI lady with tea and cakes. Alas, just as we were to partake, the leader of our historical

re-enactment group drove us back out into the inclement weather.

„Oh here you lot are, come on, out you get. I‟m not raising the tipi on me own!‟

We all moaned as one.

And to me, the single woman the butt of most jokes as lacking a man protector, our Chief grinned, „Even you, Pranked-Upon-A-

Lot.‟ With my retort of, „Oh, is that me new name, Chief Cracks-The

Whip-A-Lot?‟

Then we fought the mischievous Poseidon‟s wrath to raise the first three poles, then add in a corkscrew the other lodge poles of

the tipi. Then came the fun of fighting evil, whirling blusters striving to

take the tipi canvas aloft into the angry clouds above. We felt like a sea tide had engulfed us and we were sinking

beneath the ocean‟s waves.

Those holding down the tent pegs to secure the canvas, strained like sailors tying up sails on a great ship, fighting tumul-

tuous storm force crashing waves.


40

Lightening streaked under the clouds, then ranged in multiple

strikes all along the horizon. There I stood acting as ballast with my hands straining on wet

rope to hold down the three poled a-frame supporting all the other tipi poles, like the bell ringers of old, ringing the church bell

with wet rope to ward off the demons of the storm, who were mostly killed off by being incinerated by lightning‟s awesome power.

Then came the task of weaving rope along and around the poles within the tipi, to tie up the inside canvas that reached half

way up, to insulate from cold air creeping under the skirts of the outer canvas.

Cold, wet, frozen stiff fingers fumbled and slowed the task.

Sleeping gear laid out on the ground in a circle over the tar-paulin flooring, hugging the tipi walls.

Then us bedraggled, shivering, drenched to the bone, sought refuge in the tea tent.

Never did hot tea and glorious WI cakes taste so good. Circled close to the miracle of an electric heater far from the

village houses and a bulb of light swaying gently above us.

The rain eased and we took to our beds until dawn brought a summer‟s day of sunshine. And a fair stall, selling hot crêpes

steeped in maple syrup and wonderful hot coffee, that opened early just for us.

Then the WI cake and pie stall. The fudge stall. The Italian ice cream van.

The chippy van. Riding the horses on the amusement fair ride in full American

Indian gear, licking an ice cream cone and 99 chocolate, enjoying the miracle of not one drop festooning my costume with choco-late syrup, melted vanilla ice cream or flake chocolate.

Bliss.

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41

Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday Nigel Peckett

Nowadays we modern folk eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday and even have jolly pancake races.

There is a rhyme people sing, my mother still sings it on

Shrove Tuesday: Shrove Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday,

Our Jack went to plough, His mother made pancakes,

She didn't know how; She tipped them, she tossed them, she made them so

black,

She put so much pepper she poisoned poor Jack.

Now I will tell you tale of our more barbarous past. Shrove Tues-day was a day of unkindness to chickens or more correctly cock-

erels. A poor cock was tied to a post and the people threw sticks and stones at it until the poor bird was killed. „Cock throwing‟ it was called. In 1660, officials in Bristol announced that it was for-

bidden to go cock throwing (as well as cat and dog tossing, look it up for yourself) on Shrove Tuesday. The apprentices were not

having any bureaucrat stopping their fun so they went on a ram-page, which descended into a riot.

The Newcastle Courant, for 15 March 1783 noted an outcome

of the Shrove Tuesday practice of throwing at cocks by reporting on an incident that took place at Leeds: "Tuesday se'nnight, be-ing Shrove-tide, as a person was amusing himself along with sev-eral others, with the barbarous custom of throwing at a cock, at Howden Clough, near Birstall, the stick pitched upon the head of Jonathan Speight, a youth about thirteen years of age, and killed him on the spot." It was held to be manslaughter or an accident

if anyone was killed during this activity, so it was best to stay in-side or wear a stout helmet.

Enough history and now for my story.


42

It being Shrove Tuesday the day after collops Monday. You

haven‟t heard of collops? The nearest modern equivalent is the revered bacon butty, I think you will be looking that up too. It

was about twelve noon and Obadiah Smallpiece was walking home from his work in the fields carting manure and marl, which

he spread on the fields. Not a popular job but someone had to do it. He often hummed a tune while muck spreading, his body hummed too. Obadiah was looking forwards to a meal of pan-

cakes because it was a tradition in the village of Much cum Wal-lop in the Marsh to go to church after a late breakfast of pan-

cakes. The church bell started ringing to call the villagers to prayer

at the start of Lent. He was late so he decided to miss breakfast

and hurry to the church. He knew he would be guaranteed a place in church because of his recent occupation. His wife, Alice,

was waiting for him but he didn‟t come. She heard the church bell at the same time as her husband. She rushed out of the

house without thinking, in her hand she had the frying pan com-plete with a cooking pancake. She was off to the church too.

Unfortunately, Shrove Tuesday was also the day of cock

throwing and in the middle of the village some poor old cockerel was being pelted with stones and sticks. His wife heard the bell

ringing and realised she might be late for church. Now she knew why Obadiah had not come home for pancakes. Without thinking

she ran into the village with her frying pan and pancake. In the excitement of the moment she ran tossing her pancake and got mixed up in the cock throwing. The youngsters were throwing

sticks and stones at the poor cockerel. The unfortunate Obadiah came round the corner of the churchyard at just the wrong

time. His wife had got carried away by the excitement of the cock throwing and hurled her frying pan at the poor cock. She missed the cock but hit Obadiah, who was killed by the ballistic frying

pan and pancake. Obadiah was given a decent burial with a funeral feast of pan-

cakes afterwards. It was held to be an Act of God or if it had

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43

been a fish in the pan, rather than a pancake, it would have been

an act of cod. So Alice was widowed but not punished. Henceforth, the vicar banned cock throwing and instituted a

pancake race instead to celebrate Mrs Alice Smallpiece‟s sprint from farm to church. For many years afterwards she was always

winner of the race. It is pure speculation that no-one wanted to beat her in view of her having the strength to hurl a cast iron fry-ing pan at least 100 yards.


44

The Murder That Rocked The Throne Trevor Fisher

The murder of Sir Thomas Overbury in the Tower of London was a

Stuart court scandal which makes any sleaze sensation of modern times pale in comparison. While James I (James VI of Scotland) was not directly involved in the killing, the events which led to Overbury

dying started with him and came back to plague him. He mishan-dled events in ways underlining his reputation as „the wisest fool in

Christendom‟. But initially hardly anyone raised an eyebrow at Over-bury‟s being sent to the Tower.

Overbury's imprisonment on 21st April 1613 was not unusual in a

political system where the King had total power. It appeared no more than the fall from grace of a clever but obnoxious man. Over-

bury had been knighted by the King as he rose from obscurity to a top position in the court, but had refused to become an Ambassa-

dor. That was enough to destroy his status in the court. Stuart monarchs – and the Tudors before them – did not give a people a choice of accepting posts offered to them, so Overbury's fate was to

be sent to the Tower for contempt. This was normal practice, and his death raised few eyebrows at a time when goal fever (typhus)

alone killed many prisoners. But later a darker story was to emerge. Overbury was a clever but arrogant man. He had assumed that

his friendship with the King's favourite, Robert Carr, was a road to power and wealth, which was the case for several years. Carr was Scottish and had become the King's favourite on arriving in England

in 1603, becoming Groom of the Bedchamber and Privy Councillor, but his good looks did not go with brains. He relied on his friend

Overbury to handle government business, allowing Overbury to read secret documents and organise his affairs. Overbury came to know Carr's deepest secrets, which was a dangerous practice given

the court was riven with factions. Loyalty was short lived. By 1612 Carr thought his own position as

the King's favourite was fragile so looked to strengthen it by marry-

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45

ing Frances, the daughter of Thomas Howard, First Earl of Suf-

folk. The Howard dynasty was rising in Court politics following the death of Robert Cecil, the ex-Secretary of State. Both Carr and

the Howards saw they would benefit from a marriage. Overbury realised this put his own position at risk as Carr would no longer

rely on him, but saw a way to stay in power. He would use his knowledge of Carr's secrets to block the marriage. This was the first and most serious of a number of catastrophic errors of

judgement. Carr was seeking the political advantages of linking with the

powerful Howard dynasty and reducing his reliance on the King and Thomas Overbury, but was genuinely in love with Frances Howard. However he faced the major obstacle that she was al-

ready married. Robert Devereux third Earl of Essex had wed Frances in 1606. An annulment was the only way to divorce in

the Jacobean period but this meant proving the marriage had not been consummated. But was Frances a virgin? If Frances was not

virgo intacta, the annulment would fail. Overbury implied he knew secrets about Frances and her liaisons at court that would imperil the legal process. Carr was uncomfortably aware Over-

bury knew of secret meetings with Frances Devereux, as she had become once married to the Earl.

Her behaviour had been very curious, notably that she had had bought aphrodisiacs and anaphrodisiacs via a friend, Anne Turner

from Simon Forman, a quack doctor. After his death in 1612 Frances found an apothecary who would supply poisons. It was another mistake of Overbury that he did not take Frances seri-

ously, and never realised that in threatening to block the annul-ment by exposing intimate secrets, he was turning Frances into a

dangerous opponent.

Overbury fails to stop the marriage.

Carr and the male Howards realised they had to remove Over-bury, though no evidence has ever been found that they planned

to kill him His vocal opposition to the marriage annoyed not only


46

the plotters but the King, who offered an Ambassador‟s post to

get him out of the country. When Overbury refused to go, putting him in the Tower effectively removed him from the scene. Over-

bury was placed in solitary confinement and constantly offered his freedom if he would drop his opposition to the annulment.

With yet another astonishing error of judgement, Overbury con-sistently refused and remained in prison, isolated and sickening.

Carr had conspired with the King to have Overbury put in the

Tower, but how much he knew about the machinations of the Howards is unclear. Carr and the Howards wanted Overbury

silenced over the annulment, but the Howard family had the resources to act. Frances' great uncle, Henry Howard, first Earl of Northampton, had the governor of the Tower replaced by his

client Sir Gervase Elwes, who would follow orders. Northampton probably did not want Overbury dead, but was determined Elwes

would pressurise Overbury to retract his opposition to the mar-riage. Frances wanted a more permanent solution, but whether

Carr knew this is not at all clear. What is clear is that Frances used her uncle's name to give orders to the gaoler, Richard Wes-ton. The orders were to allow pies and tarts to be taken into

Overbury's cell, ostensibly to supplement the dreadful prison diet. In fact these were poisoned and Overbury fell ill.

Overbury in the Tower was sidelined, but not invisible and his growing sickness alarmed both Carr and the King, who sent in

drugs and medical help. He remained sick, and to deal with digestive problems not uncommon in the prisons of the time, he was prescribed enemas to purge his system. But the final enema

was poisoned and the intake of strong poison directly into his gut killed him. Any secrets about Frances Devereux, nee Howard, he

might have had died with him. When Overbury died on 15th September 1613, few people

noticed. Death in prison was common. As the corpse was smell-

ing particularly foul it was suspected he died of the pox. The Gov-ernor of the Tower of London nevertheless delayed burying the

corpse as he wanted witnesses to the state of Overbury's body.

time and tide

47

He had suspicions. For the moment he kept them to himself.

Overbury made many serious mistakes, the most astonishing being his decision to reveal the secrets he claimed would stop the

annulment – from his prison cell. After months in prison he wrote to Carr threatening that he would finally write an account revealing

all if he were not released. Two days later he was dead. Even without Overbury's secrets, the annulment proceedings

were deadlocked. A commission to investigate the annulment tied

5-5. Evidence that Frances was virgo intacta after six years of mar-riage was, shall we say, implausible. However it was clear that

when Essex had taken his bride to the family estate at Stowe by Chartley in Staffordshire, the relationship broke so completely that no children would come from the marriage.

But did this mean that Frances was still a virgin? Essex was fight-ing an uphill battle, less because he wanted to stay married to

Frances than because the law demanded evidence of non-consummation, and Essex had no desire to be seen as impotent.

Indeed, he was rumoured to have had illegitimate children, but this was not admissible evidence. What counted was that the King was on the side of Frances and her intended new husband, and the

commission was forced to produce the annulment. James simply appointed two more commissioners to judge

France's claim that the marriage had never been consummated, the majority now voting that the marriage had not been consummated.

Essex retired hurt, having been forced to accept a compromise that he was not impotent at all... except with his wife. Thirty years later he would join the parliamentary army in the civil war to overthrow

the Stuart dynasty. However anger over the behaviour of the Stuarts had to be kept private in 1613. The annulment was a

success for the King, and rumours Overbury knew secrets were irrelevant. Overbury was dead.

Three months after Overbury's death Frances and Robert Carr

married with Royal approval. Carr was elevated to the rank of Earl of Somerset by an indulgent monarch who allowed the marriage to

take place in the Chapel Royal in Whitehall. Thomas Campion wrote


48

a masque for the festivities, the usual choice, Ben Jonson, being

sidelined as he had written a masque seven years earlier for Frances's first marriage to Essex.

Three days later he did produce a second masque for a cere-mony before the King. On Twelfth Night the poet John Donne,

wrote an epithalamium, or poem of praise, which raised his status with the King – helping him become Dean of St Paul's in 1621. Ambitious poets like these two climbed the greasy pole of

court politics. The Howards took over court patronage, pocketing £90,000 per year. No one was thinking about the dead Overbury.

But his was an unquiet corpse which would not be forgotten for ever.

A murder is discovered Court life continued, factions dancing round the King as usual.

James found Carr less attractive now that he was married, and turned to George Villiers, soon to be made Duke of Buckingham.

Carr objected, but had to take solace in the lucrative position he now occupied. He soon found there were worse enemies than Villiers.

During 1615, rumours began to reach the ear of the Secretary of State, Sir Ralph Winwood, that all was not well in the matter of

Overbury. One story is that a young apothecary's assistant who had supplied drugs to Anne Turner for £20.00 collapsed and died,

but on his death bed confessed to supplying poisons. Another story was that the Countess of Shrewsbury, aunt of Arbella Stuart, who was confined permanently in the Tower, told Win-

wood rumours were circulating that the Governor of the Tower, Gervase Elwes, had known Overbury was being poisoned but had

done nothing to investigate. The King realised that the rumours were casting a lurid light on his own behaviour, so ordered the Lord Chief Justice Coke to investigate. Coke discovered a major

scandal. Coke interviewed Elwes, and reported that Elwes claimed he

suspected that the gaoler, Weston, was taking poisoned material

time and tide

49

into Overbury, but he had merely intercepted and destroyed

some tarts going black and drained a suspect water jug, making no attempt to find out who was supplying the suspect material -

criminal negligence on his part. He was put on trial as an acces-sory to murder and hanged. The small fry – notably Weston, the

gaoler, who claimed he was simply obeying orders, though very vague as to who was giving the orders, suffered the same fate.

Anne Turner's house was searched and an array of poisons

found. These included Spanish Fly, an aphrodisiac in small doses but a fatal poison in large doses. She was convicted as an acces-

sory and executed. There was now no doubt responsibility ulti-mately lay with Frances and her husband. Both were arrested, but the King was fearful they would reveal his own incompetence

which was as great as that of Elwes. He had put Overbury in the Tower and made no attempt to find out why he was so sick,

despite the intervention of his doctor. But Carr, a groom of the bedchamber, had many secrets he could tell in open court. James

appointed Sir Francis Bacon, Attorney General, to run the trial of the two principal actors in Overbury's downfall, with orders to have as little said in the court proceedings as possible. The public

was starting to trace developments back to the Royal Bedchamber. In the investigation Bacon carried out to prepare for a show

trial his aim was not so much justice, as keeping the King out of proceedings. The king was prepared to offer both the accused a

pardon and money after the trial, if only they would confess to murdering Overbury. This would prevent evidence and cross examination being presented in open court. Frances eventually

surrendered and agreed to plead guilty, but refused to involve her husband. Carr was adamant he was not guilty of murder.

After the couple were indicted in January 1616 Bacon offered him pardon with his life assured and a sum of money. In a show of courage, Carr replied and answered, “Life and Fortune are not

worth the acceptance, when honour is gone”. He pleaded Not Guilty and Bacon faced the prospect of his telling home truths in

court.


50

To stop this, Bacon had two men standing by Carr in the dock

with cloaks, ready to stop his mouth if he started to accuse the King. Carr realised he gained nothing from an outburst, and con-

fined himself to arguing the powders he had sent in were medici-nal. The prosecution argued they were poisoned, and the jury of

aristocrats agreed. Both the Countess and Carr were found guilty and sentenced to hang.

But the final twist outraging an increasingly cynical public was

that the sentences were suspended and later commuted by Royal Order followed by a royal pardon. Six years later, both were

released, given a state pension and allowed a house in Oxfordshire, to which they were confined for the rest of their lives. The public noted the different treatment of the Royal Favourites to the small

fry, all of whom paid with their lives, and the Stuart monarchy lost yet more of an already tarnished reputation.

Carr and his beloved lived out their lives in obscurity, making what they could of their marriage and their daughter's upbringing.

The Howard family shared in their downfall, losing all their privi-leges. Essex never forgot his public humiliation; his hatred of the Stuart monarchy drove him to join the parliamentary forces in the

Civil War of the 1640s, fighting against Charles I, who had outdone his father's many stupidities.

Among these, though partly forgotten as more widespread issues spread discontent across England, was the case of Sir Thomas

Overbury. He had contributed to his own downfall by pigheaded stupidity, but nothing justified his brutal and illegal killing. The Murder of Sir Thomas Overbury remains one of the most savage

injustices ever to take place in an English prison, and one small but deeply odious part of the sordid history of the court of James 1.

time and tide

51

Loving Care Anne Picken

Dorothy Marlow is on the sofa in front of her sitting room fire reading a letter from her son. Her blouse is olive green silk, ton-ing exactly with the slim pleated skirt and her glasses are elegant

gold-rimmed half-moons. Thanks to Colortress 6, her chignon has not entirely lost the burnish that glinted through her bridal veil 50

years ago, and thanks to expertly applied foundation and blusher her skin still glows. Such grooming, even at ten o‟clock on a

frosty November morning is expected of Dorothy and that, she thinks despairingly as she reaches the signing off kisses, is the reason why nobody but herself seems to realise how old she

actually is. This letter is yet another demonstration of the general belief that she still enjoys the vivid and vigorous flowering of her

youth. She puts down the letter, stares out at the stiff white gar-den, and cannot believe it was once dancing with daffodils and

bluebells. Dancing like the springtime of her life. In those days she

played hockey for the town, tennis for the county and the piano

for many lucky audiences. She was a Queen‟s Guide and a soloist in the church choir. The glorious hair made necks crane as she

glided by and her smile warmed everybody‟s heart. Eventually she married David, blossomed into motherhood, and her children Jenny and Malcolm munched on the vegetables she nurtured in

her exquisite garden and grew up strong, handsome and intelli-gent.

Dorothy‟s summer began equally energetically with voluntary work at the local hospital, the youth club, and a charity support-

ing sick animals. She starred in the local operatic society and led stimulating discussions for the book club. But one day tragedy struck. She came home to find her husband lying dead. Heart

attack. Like his father and grandfather before him. A terrible blight assailed her then and she began to wilt visibly,

but all rallied to save her. Friends issued copious invitations to


52

tea, the youth club paid for her to accompany them on their ex-

pedition to Greece, and her children brought her baby grandchil-dren to visit as often as they could. Jenny and her family even

moved back into the area. Dorothy appreciated these efforts and, co-operating for the sake of those who made them, discovered

that life could go on, even be happy again. Many folk considerably younger had a struggle to keep up with

Dorothy‟s autumn. “How does she do it?” they asked. She herself

had no idea what drove her on. Maybe it was duty, maybe habit, maybe glands. Whatever the reason, her life was as much a whirl

as it had ever been, but there were occasions when she definitely knew she was spinning.

No flower can keep its petals fresh forever. Dorothy has

started to wake in the mornings with a strange feeling of fore-boding, grope for the cause, and realise it is the prospect of yet

another frenetic day. Perhaps it will be commandeered by those sprouting pimples and testosterone or by a loaded WVS confec-

tionery trolley, perhaps she will have to struggle with yet another musical or pack once again for Greece. How can she avoid any of these things? The thought of hurt in the eyes of those she loves

is too awful to bear, out of the question entirely. And now this letter. “We are extending the garage into a granny flat,” Malcolm

has written. “We hope you will come and give us a hand with the kids. You‟ve always been so good with teenagers.”

She removes her spectacles and leans back. „I want a rest,‟ she groans at the ceiling. „Can‟t you see that I want a rest?‟ Mov-ing in with Malcolm will not bring rest, it will bring ceaseless pan-

demonium. She stares hopelessly at the ceiling. „I‟ve done my bit, haven‟t I? Now I want what Sylvia‟s got.‟

Dorothy‟s friend Sylvia, whose reputation for energy once almost equalled her own, has managed to defy her fans and move into the sheltered accommodation of Arnold House. Her

bedsit is cleaned regularly, her meals are made, she does not have to bother with shopping, laundry or even washing up. She

has managed to get across the message that the world must no

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53

longer expect her to learn the words for Oklahoma, comment

perceptively on Booker prize winners, zip through wards with half a ton of mars bars, jet annually to Greece and spend a consider-

able chunk of each morning with the Estee Lauder. The world would not recognise such a message from Dorothy. „There‟s noth-

ing I can do about it,‟ she reflects sadly. „They see what they want to see.‟

Then suddenly an idea springs into Dorothy‟s mind like a new

petal flickering out of bud. Her face lights up, she leaps to her feet. „I'll damn well open their eyes,‟ she cries. „I'll start now.‟

She glances through the window to check that her neighbour Corinne is fiddling about with her dahlias as she does every morning. They look as if the frost‟s got them, but Dorothy has no

time to worry about that. She drops Malcolm‟s letter, marches into the kitchen and up to the sink where some dusters have

been soaking since yesterday. She damps a towel - only slightly, she doesn‟t want to delay things for too long - trails it from the

hob to the open window, lights the gas, grins, grabs a book and then wanders nonchalantly out.

The cold morning slaps her. Toby, her old black cat, is eyeing

a robin between the old Michaelmas daisies and the tatty chry-sanths. „Toby!‟ she shouts loudly, with one eye on Corinne‟s

fence. „Leave it alone!‟ Then she calls, „Good morning,‟ just to make sure. Corinne waves a gloved hand. She shouts something

about her coat and stands up to show Dorothy the full splendour of it. It looks like a string of huge blue sausages wrapped round her from neck to midriff. „It‟s lovely,‟ Dorothy calls back. Corinne

just stays there staring. She can be a bit odd sometimes, but at the moment she is perfectly placed to get the full force of the

singeing towel‟s smoke as it billows through the window to dem-onstrate how dangerously careless Dorothy can be. Dorothy smiles and, clutching herself for warmth, sits down on the garden

bench and pretends to read. Nothing happens.


54

I must have overdone the damping, she thinks. She stamps

her chilly feet, rubs her hands together, and then impatience overtakes her and she goes to investigate. The towel is soaked. It

has sagged into the sink with the dusters and pulled its end off the flame.

„Damn!‟ says Dorothy. She turns to get a fresh towel and sees Corinne going in.

„Damn again!‟ she says. She flops down at the table, props her

chin on her knuckles and presses her lips together. Who will be her audience now? What use is her plan without one? The

neighbours on the other side are both out at work and her house backs on to a field. She gazes out at the looming trees, probes her brain for an answer, but nothing comes. She sees Malcolm‟s

granny flat rising up like the Castle of Doom with deafening gui-tars blasting the windows and every problem from „A‟ levels to

unrequited love banging desperately at the door. Then Toby jumps up on to her lap and she comes to with a start. She leans

back to accommodate him and he fixes her with an emerald stare.

„Yes, all right,‟ she says, running her hands over his satin coat.

„I know you‟re hungry. Jenny will be along any minute now with your fish.‟

The words are still coming out of Dorothy‟s mouth as the solu-tion hits her. Of course, Jenny can be the audience! She has a

key, she will let herself in and witness whatever disaster has been achieved while Dorothy, oblivious, reclines in the garden. But it won‟t be a re-run of the towel thing - she can‟t be exactly sure

when her daughter will arrive and she doesn‟t want the house burned down. She will just turn on the gas, and hope that when

Jenny arrives the place will be smelly enough to convince her that Mother is no longer fit to look after herself. A house full of gas should put Malcolm off a bit too. So Dorothy does the business,

and, clutching cat and book, returns to her bench. She settles Toby back on her lap and is about to start reading

when the robin lands again. The cat lurches down, lunges, but of

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55

course misses. He gazes mournfully after it then slowly slinks

across the soggy grass and in through the catflap. „Sulky pants,‟ Dorothy laughs as she watches him go off to

nurse his wounded pride in his basket under the kitchen table... The kitchen! Full of gas! She leaps up, streaks to the door,

crashes it open, flicks the switch off and grabs the cat who screeches out in panic. She wheels round into the garden, throws him to the safety of the lawn and he flees yowling to the cover of

the fruit bushes. She leans against the wall gasping. Corinne, who has run out to see what the commotion is about,

peers over the fence and says, „Are you all right Dorothy?‟ Dorothy nods and staggers in to collapse on the sofa. Gradually her breathing slows down, her body relaxes, and a

blanket of gloom descends. What can she do? Fate has stacked all its cards against her. But the cushions are soft, so soft... Doro-

thy, totally exhausted by her morning, drifts off to sleep. She dreams she is chasing everybody down the High Street

with a meat cleaver, but then they all turn round and chase her back. She twists out of their way, falls on to the carpet, wakes, wonders what on earth is going on, and before she has come

properly to her senses the door opens and in walks Jenny. „Mum!‟ she screams.

Ten minutes later Dorothy is back on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet and sipping hot tea. Still a bit hazy, she concentrates on

not dropping the cup. „What happened?‟ Jenny‟s eyes are huge. Dorothy looks up

and sees a frightened little girl. What can she say? She was rub-

bing at a stain? Practising Yoga? Oh she is so tired, far too tired to think up something reassuring like a mother should. She sighs.

„I fell asleep and rolled off.‟ „You were asleep? At this time of the morning? Why? Were you

up in the night?‟

Dorothy is empty, numb. Her world has dissolved completely and left her stranded. She is not a person any more, just a set of


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facts. She feels them start to drip out.

It is the week before Christmas and in the lounge of Arnold House „Hark the Herald Angels‟ rings out into shiny holly berries

and greenery garlanding every available space. Plump armchairs are arranged in groups round a log fire which crackles out spark-

showers in a big Victorian grate. Candles flicker cosily on the Advent Wreath on the mantelpiece and the rich smell of sherry flavours all. In front of the glittering Christmas tree in the corner

a jolly lady in a red velvet frock draws cubes from a bag and calls out the numbers written on them so that folk reclining in the

armchairs can cross them out if they occur on the cards they are holding. Ensconced in two chairs near the fire are Dorothy and her friend Sylvia. They both wear sheepskin slippers and sloppy

jogging suits although, of course, they have no intention to jog. Their faces are softly wrinkled, splashed with warm brown freck-

les and their spectacles are large enough to see through. A nice young girl in a white overall has just put down a plate of mince

pies beside their drinks. With a little zing of excitement Dorothy crosses out her penul-

timate number. She is now “sweating for one”.

Jenny and Malcolm are on the telephone: „Yes, I can‟t believe she‟s settled in so well. Even after what

she said.‟ „Fancy her wanting to give up all along. I wore my brain out

trying to think of ways to persuade her tactfully.‟ Corinne and her husband are still having their dinner: „It‟s such a relief, not having to keep an eye out for her every

morning. I never knew what to expect. Fancy sitting out there in the middle of November in just a thin shirt. When I told her she

ought to get her coat she just said, „It‟s lovely.‟ It was freezing. That poor cat wasn‟t safe you know. She didn‟t half yell at him sometimes, and, like I said, she ended up flinging him right

across the garden into the blackcurrants. Shot in like a rocket when she saw me.‟

„She was a funny old bird. All that war paint.‟

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57

„And the hair! That wispy orange bun!‟

„The kids at the youth club were very good to her though. They were really sweet, the way they looked after her. Every year

they took her on holiday with them, although she never had a clue where she was. Always thought it was Greece.‟

„Remember how they let her just sit and clap in Oklahoma? I suppose they hadn‟t the heart to boot her out. They were really fond of her.‟

„Everybody who met her seemed to love her. They say folk in the hospital would heave themselves out of bed to help her push

that trolley up the ward.‟ „That was the trouble, everybody loved her. They couldn‟t bear

to have her put away. Her poor daughter was run ragged trying

to cope.‟ „But she wasn‟t a bad old stick, was she?‟

„No she wasn‟t a bad old stick.‟


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Time and Tides Lee Fones (Flash Fiction)

James was always keen on the moon. After hearing a documen-tary on a well-known English television programme about how it

affects the tides here upon the Earth; it got him so fascinated he saved his pocket money, birthday, Easter and Christmas money

up, and purchased a 4 ½ inch telescope. „Mum, dad, look at all these craters, did you know these are

mainly asteroid impacts?‟

„Gosh! Yes, very impressive son, well proud of you, but it‟s getting rather late.‟

„Do you want to see Saturn? It‟s only over there. It‟s a weird planet as no one knows how long a Saturn day is. It‟s impossible

to gauge what time it is on Saturn. It‟s a plain blank disc. Here check out these beautiful rings, it‟s not like Jupiter with its recog-nizable red spot.‟

„Wow, son that‟s the most beautiful thing I‟ve ever seen, apart from your mum, of course.‟

James went to university in later years, studying, Earth, Sat-urn and the Moon. Now he appears in an astronomical magazine,

in a section entitled, Time and Tides in Outer Space.

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What Time Is It? Ann Talbot

„What time is it?‟ „It's three thirty,‟ I said. The old woman smiled but the smile did not quite reach her

eyes. „Remember me?‟ I said, sitting down beside her, „I'm Brenda's

daughter Ruth.‟ „Yes,‟ she whispered, but I knew she did not remember me at

all. Politeness encouraged her to ask, „How is she, Brenda?‟ „She died I'm afraid, six months or more ago.‟ The old woman

patted my knee. „That's why I come to visit you Mavis.‟

The old people‟s home, the staff, the hustle and bustle faded away. The old eyes suddenly showed a flicker of interest.

„Brenda,‟ she repeated. I could see the tremendous effort it cost her as she searched her cloudy brain to find a memory. „Oh

yes, yes, Brenda,‟ she cried. I felt her relief. „She would fetch fish and chips on Friday night. Fish for me and a battered sausage for the girl.‟

„I'm the girl,‟ I cried. „I didn't like fish, still don't.‟ The interest began to fade. The face returned to a dull stare.

„What time is it?‟ A carer appeared at the door of the visitors‟ room, bright and

professional.

„Would you like a drink, dear?‟ „Yes, a coffee, please,‟ I said.

„You won't get much out of Mavis, dear. Mind‟s gone. She's moving out next week. EMI. More specialists than here.‟

Mavis was looking out of the window. „It's a lovely day,‟ I said, „we could go for a little walk in the

grounds. Would you enjoy that?‟

„What time is it?‟ The carer returned with a tray containing two cups and a milk

jug and sugar bowl which she placed on a small table next to


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Mavis's chair.

„You can be mother,‟ she said to me, „The Manager would like a word with you before you leave. Are you a relation?‟

„No,‟ I said quickly, „I hardly know her really.‟ „We could do with a contact telephone number, we need

someone to inform, someone who knew the family.‟ „There is no family left, her husband died, no children. Mavis

was my mother's friend I've only come to see her to give her this

photograph.‟ I held up the photo frame. Two young girls laughing on a

beach. It could have been a hundred light years away from this room.

„It's Mavis and my mother on a day trip to Blackpool.‟

The carer took the frame form me and studied it in the sunlight.

„Which one is Mavis?‟ she asked me. „The one on the right, with the long curly hair.‟

„She was a beauty,‟ she said and looked at Mavis fondly. Then turning to me she said, „I'll miss her, she is one of my favour-ites. I know we shouldn't have them but sometimes you can't

help it.‟ Mavis smiled but the smile did not quite reach her eyes.

„What time is it?‟

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Thank you for allowing us to share our stories with you.

You might have stories of your own, or poems, or blogs

that you would like to share with us.

Rising Brook Writers holds free creative writing workshops on Monday afternoons in

Rising Brook Branch Library. 1.30 to 3.30

All welcome. No experience necessary.

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Acknowledgements Front Cover: Photo Credit: Faith Hickey

Back Cover: Ian McMillan Photo Credit: A Mealing

Where possible RBW uses open source graphics where

the source permits not-for-profit educational use. Should anyone‟s copyright be accidentally infringed

please let us know and we will willingly acknowledge the source in any reprint or remove the image.


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Short Stories penned by contributors to

Rising Brook Writers’ weekly

library and online workshops.

Our Patron:

The Renowned Poet Ian McMillan

time and tide short stories 2015

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