A MOUSE IN THE HAND

It was the school holidays, and I must have been seven or eight years old. There weren't any other kids out playing, so when the big girl next door, Diane, was asked to do a little shopping for her mother, I tagged along. It's a funny thing, memory. I remember holding Diane's hand and walking up the steep hill at the bottom of our avenue. Over the years there have been so many changes to the surrounding landscape. I have a very clear memory of it and it's one that has stayed with me all these years.

I stood outside a grocers' whilst Diane was being served. The shopfront was mostly glass with an old-fashioned wooden frame that was painted green (my favourite colour to this day). Along the bottom of the frame was a mouse hole, and I remember being rooted to the spot, staring at the hole, willing with all my might for the little mouse to come out for a look around, so I could scoop it up. It did - and I did. I was thrilled the little chap was cupped in my hands and I went inside to tell Diane the exciting news. The grocer instantly dampened my enthusiasm by suggesting that I should ‘throw it to the cat‘. I was horrified and I clutched my hands to my chest and burst into tears. Seeing the effect the suggestion had on me, he passed a brown paper bag over the counter and I popped the little creature inside and asked for a piece of cheese for him to nibble on whilst I took him home.

I wonder if my capturing the mouse was all a childhood dream. Anyway, I remember getting home safely and making it a comfy little nest on a bed of grass in a goldfish bowl hidden in the shed. I couldn't have mentioned it to my mam, who long ago had become exasperated at my bringing home grasshoppers, newts, minnows, tiddlers, crabs, wounded or baby birds and any dog or cat who looked lost and lonely. Every few minutes I'd pop into the shed to gaze lovingly at my dear little pet.

Later that day, Mam said she and my brother Pip would be going to visit Nana and was surprised to hear that I'd be staying at home, but keeping quiet because Dad was in bed, off nights. It was a warm and sunny afternoon and I thought my little mouse was looking a bit grubby and was in need of a bath. I went into the kitchen and took one of Mam's sandwich trays she used for making victoria sponges most weekends. I put warm water in it and placed it on the little wooden stool (I still keep it in the porch) on the grass outside the living room window. I remember feeling happy and content bathing my little mouse and drying him off in the hand towel before putting him back in the glass bowl.

I crept outside that night into the shed to say goodnight before I went upstairs to bed. I came downstairs the next morning and rushed out into the shed, still wearing my pyjamas. Oh no - my little mouse was cold and stiff. He'd died. I shouted at Jesus for letting my mouse die on me, picked him up and threw him across the garden fence, where he hit the neighbours' shed door and dropped onto the path. I instantly regretted tossing his little body away and went next door to retrieve him, and that was when Uncle Wilf came out to see what all the commotion was about. I didn't feel much better about it after the mouse's funeral. If any little creature I'd gathered to me had died I'd have given it a decent burial in amongst my dad's potato patch. There were always several miniature tombstones (used lollipop sticks) there. I'd say a small prayer for the departed and sing a hymn verse or two. In fact, with time Dad had to have a word about burying other kids' losses there, as with all the little bodies, there was barely enough room for his spuds.

Apparently, although Mam detested all creepy-crawlies, especially those with tails, she'd become concerned about my nights, disturbed by grieving over my sad loss. It must have been a week or so later when Mam came up to the bedroom my younger brother and I shared, and she came towards my divan. She didn't have to shake me awake as I'd heard Dad coming home from work, as he'd been unusually noisy. In fact, I thought I'd heard two deep voices apart from Mam's.

She'd said, ‘Put your dressing gown on, love. Be quiet or you'll wake Pip. Your dad's brought something home for you.' I felt a quiver of excitement as I came down the stairs, but no real anticipation. What a surprise. Dad was standing in the front room (or lounge, as Mam always called it) with his workmate beside him. He was grinning from ear to ear. His mate was holding a little oblong box of shiny wood that he passed on to Dad, who turned it around as he took it. The box had a glass window with a little door on the side. Apparently, on hearing the story of my little upset, he'd made the house from an old wireless. Then I saw her inside, a little white mouse. I squealed with delight and went towards her, whilst Mam immediately moved towards the open door, setting a pattern that lasted throughout Snowflake's lifetime - no contact.

Both Dad and I had such fun with our little mouse. Often I'd prepare a meal for her (soaked bread, the salty water replaced with warm milk) only to find he'd got there before me. I had to ask him to wait until I got home from school on the days he took her up to her bath for a swim in little more than an inch of water. Dad made her an exercise wheel out of cigarette cards: it was kept on the window sill for years, long after Snowflake was gone. I wish I'd kept it as a keepsake.

I‘d take Snowflake out to play at times. Rather than put her in a pocket, she would travel down the front of my vest, occasional tickling from her little feet would make me giggle. I'd also take her on visits to Nana, who wasn't averse to letting her sit in her hand, where she'd stroke her gently with just one finger. On the way down to my grandmother's, I'd give her a run along the top of a couple of garden walls. Her leads were snippets of embroidery silks. I wonder if Mam ever knew?

We kept Snowflake's house on top of a chest of drawers behind the kitchen door and when she grew tired of waiting for attention she'd open her little door and run around the top of the chest. The day came when Mam looked across the kitchen to see the tiny door ajar, but no mouse in sight. Rodent on the rampage. She left a note for Dad before leaving home:

‘Arthur, that mouse has escaped. I'm not coming back until you find it.'

When I got in from school I was sent back out on my bike (to Nana's) to let her know Snowflake had been found. Dad told me he was just about to give up the search and was leaning against the large heavy sideboard against the living room wall, when he heard a faint sound. Snowflake was squeezed behind it, trembling. She leapt into the palm of his hand. She never ventured beyond her territory again.

I knew the lifespan of a mouse would be short and I tried not to get too upset at her demise. Mam must've felt a smidgen of relief, although she did write Snowflake's epitaph in artistic writing that we placed in a bible.

A few years back I came across a box of books stored on the bottom of my old wardrobe. Amongst them was my childhood bible and on reading the epitaph, I smiled, recalling the pleasure and companionship that the little scrap of life brought into mine.

By Jen Bryan

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W SOMERSET MAUGHAM part 2

In 1945, World War II came to a victorious end for the Western Allies. But no sooner had the celebrations ceased than a new threat arose in the East. An iron curtain would drop over central Europe, dividing Germany into two equal parts and the Cold War with Stalin’s Russia would become much hotter, facing the prospect of a nuclear holocaust.

Meanwhile, for the British at least, the aftermath of the war held few terrors, for life in the late forties and early fifties offered many new opportunities; particularly for the pre-war generation which had narrowly avoided conscription into active service and had survived the Blitz. For these lucky people there would be no return to the stifling orthodoxy of the troubled thirties. Now was the time to party.

In post war London, six years of peace had brought prosperity to the more fashionable areas. Chelsea, of course was a very desirable address, and Fulham and the King’s Road were popular with the poorer members of the community. In Kensington, tiny mews dwellings had been constructed from stables which, in Victorian times, had been home to horses, and were now much sought after by sophisticates eager to be seen close to the centres of culture.

Coffee shops sprung up like mushrooms in the alleys and by-ways around Piccadilly and Oxford Street where young people could air their opinions and prejudices for ninepence. In Soho, the restaurants and wine bars were thriving and for adventurous customers there were risque floor shows as well. Further out from the centre at Notting Hill to the west and Islington in the east, old houses were being repaired and repainted white with primrose yellow front doors. A big clean up was taking place in London town.

In the West End, the theatre was undergoing a transformation with great new plays by Jean Anouilh and Tennessee Williams and others. A seemingly endless stream of American musicals, such as Oklahoma, Annie Get your Gun and An American in Paris was taking London by storm. At Covent Garden and the Saddler Wells Opera guest stars from the former enemy nations, Germany and Italy took centre stage while nascent jazz and pop clubs were doing very well in less glamorous surroundings. The cinema too, which had always enjoyed public support, reached new heights of popularity with a string of French, Italian and Spanish cinematic masterpieces as the brilliance and talent which had been locked up in Fascist Europe reached British screens.

Even ordinary folk who didn’t fancy overdosing on culture were swept along on a tidal wave of enthusiasm for the good things of life. The dance halls were crowded with older people, devotees of Victor Sylvester’s ballroom dancing while youngsters experimented with Bill Hayleys All American rock and roll; the pubs and clubs and prostitutes did a roaring trade as everybody tried to make whoopee. At last Londoners felt they could put their bad memories of the dark and cheerless war years behind them, or so they thought.

But all these promising signs of the good life yet to come were subordinated to the one great freedom which the young had already experienced, for postwar youth had no inhibitions: they took their release from the outdated sexual modes of their elders for granted. True, in the leafy suburbs the churches and the Salvation Army were fighting a rearguard action to preserve the spiritual rules and defend their Christian marriage laws, but it was a lost cause, the old moralities had gone for good. In swinging London, conformity no longer meant adherence to one person or one religion for all eternity. Instead the new ethic predicted a very different way of life with a continual change of partners on the merry-go-round of love.

Almost alone against this backdrop of perpetual motion, Mark Gainsford worked hard to maintain some sort of integrity, or at least inner stability.

It was not that Mark lacked opportunities to find a girl for he moved in social circles where liaisons were soon made and quickly broken, and some of the girls seemed to like him anyway. Probably, he thought because he made no demands on them nor they on him. Except for Valerie Kemp, of course; she required plenty of attention and he had to admit that he felt an unsettling frisson of excitement when in her company. In fact, he distinctly fancied her. But she was married to Robert, a junior school teacher who was a dull stick at the best of times. And marriage was an unpleasant word as far as Mark and his friends were concerned. Still, when Valerie turned those large brown soulful eyes upon them, and moved close to Mark, he felt uneasy and his knees began to buckle. Then Robert barged in and was quite cool to Mark for a month or two. Then Mark’s best friend Philip Varley thought it was a great joke chucking Mark out like that. ’Didn’t think Bobby had it in him, old boy’, Philip told Mark. ‘You’ll have to be more careful next time.’

’There won’t be a next time,’, Mark snapped back. It was alright for Philip to laugh, but then Philip didn’t take anything seriously.

Why should he? Tall, good looking, intelligent when he wanted to be and never short of cash or girls. It was all too easy for Philip, ex-public school and BA (Oxford) failed. Now he was studying architecture and had just taken a job with a firm of Sloane Street decorators. He also painted a little. Living in Chelsea, he said, he could hardly do otherwise. About the only thing that he and Mark had in common was music, preferably Dixieland jazz and they both belonged to a club in the King’s Road called Kit Marlowe’s, and that was where they had first met each other.

Every year Marlowe’s closed at the end of June for running repairs and a repaint and reopened on the first Saturday in August. Marlowe’s was pretty big. There was a platform at the far end of the hall where the band played, and a large space in front for dancing, but most people preferred to sit at the tables drinking and listening. Halfway up the front and side walls was a gallery and people could buy their drinks at the bar and take them upstairs.

The reopening was always a special event and Marlowe’s usually managed to get a top band like Freddie Randall or Humphrey Lyttleton; but this year there had been a jazz convention somewhere in Europe and they had to make do with a local group; and to cap it all, they were in a heatwave. Still, all the usual people who couldn’t afford to spend the summer in St Tropez would be at Marlowe’s, and so would Mark and Philip. They knew that the local jazz group were pretty good and Dick Stavely would be playing clarinet. Dick was an old friend of Mark’s from their school days.

It remained very hot on that first Saturday evening, and even after a couple of large gin and tonics with ice at The Lord Nelson en-route, Mark and Philip were only making slow progress up the King’s Road. By the time they reached Marlowe’s it was already crowded. Dick Staveley met them at the door.

’All alone, boys?’

‘Give us a chance,’ said Philip. ‘It’s early yet.’

‘Are you playing, Dick?’ asked Mark.

‘Later. There’s no hurry.’

Dick played tenor sax as well as clarinet and the boys in the band thought he was good enough to turn pro, but Dick was not so sure. He had been brought up on classical music and he still hankered after it a little. And it was a damn sight more secure than one night stands in Chelsea.

They moved into the hall. Near them a small group had gathered and were listening to an old Bix Biederbecke classic, Davenport Blues. Dick’s wife Molly was with them. She looked over to the three men and waved. Philip was talking to Dick and making comparisons between swing and jazz.

‘It’s easy to tell the difference,’ he said. ’Swing is all written down big band music, whereas jazz is improvised; it’s got texture.’

‘Hell, you make jazz sound like a suit of clothes,’ said Dick.

‘Sure, why not? You must know the real Tuxedo Junction before Glenn Miller got hold of it?’

‘Could play it in my sleep,’ said Dick. ‘Hey Mark, you’re looking smart tonight. Have you got any ideas?’

‘Not a clue. Anyway I get my tuxedos from Moss Bros. I don’t think they know much about jazz.’ They laughed and Molly came over. She was smoking through a long cigarette holder.

‘Am I missing something?’

‘Not much,’ said Dick. ‘Philip was just trying to be profound.’

‘I was being misunderstood.’

‘You always are, darling.’

Molly winked at Mark. He said nothing but went on looking at her. It was funny how she had got hooked up with a serious chap like Dick Staveley. Philip reckoned she must have faked a pregnancy and blackmailed Dick into marrying her, otherwise there was no logical explanation.

Dick went over to the platform and took up his position in the band and Mark and Philip managed to lose Molly in the process. Later, they went to the bar and took their drinks upstairs. The heat was terrific in the gallery. People brought up drinks and stood them on the floor because upstairs there were no tables. Down below, someone upset a tray of glasses. A cheer went up from a group in a far corner and there was beer swimming everywhere. Then Dick played a good solo and they quietened down.

After a while, Molly reappeared in the gallery and Philip found an old easy chair. Molly sat on his lap and Mark sat on an arm. Most of the ceiling lights were out of the chair by now, but a dozen wall lights were still glowing and a red spotlight cast an eerie glow over the band. A few couples were dancing, but most people didn’t seem to have the energy. They lounged about on the floor or at the tables, tapping out the rhythm with their fingers or feet. Dick came upstairs at the interval. He was sweating badly and his shirt was stained at the armpits. He had Steve Allen with him. Steve played double bass.

‘Your old man’s blowing well,‘ he told Molly.

‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘You see,’ said Dick. ‘No encouragement.’

Philip took out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Who’s for a weed?’ Nobody could find a match. While Steve was trying to make his lighter work, Mickey Page and Cassie arrived. Cassie was Valerie Kemp’s younger sister and almost as pretty. Her hair was swept back off her neck and it looked flame red in the light. Then Hencher appeared. Nobody knew why Hencher came to Marlowe’s because he didn’t dance or sleep with women very often and he hated jazz. But the others tolerated him because he shared a flat with Mark and was a big man, useful in a fight. Also, although he smoked little black cigarillos which smelt like a dung heap on fire, he could be relied upon for matches.

Dick and Steve went back to the band and the music started up again. The trombone player put down his instrument, sang Blues in the Night, and made a hash of it. Hencher stood around making sarcastic remarks; after a while he got tired of it and went downstairs into the garden. Then Molly and Philip disappeared as well and Carrie came up to Mark who had managed to keep his place on the easy chair.

‘We’re going to Val’s place now, would you like to come?’ she asked him.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you must, mustn’t he, Mickey?’

‘Anything you say,’ replied Mickey.

They made their way downstairs and waved to Dick on the stairs. As they reached the doors, someone called. It was Philip and he still had his arm around Molly. They were drinking from tankards and Molly was looking pretty tight.

‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ repeated Philip.

‘We’re going to Valerie’s place and we’re going now.’ said Molly.

Mark nodded and went out into the street. It made him sick to see Philip flirting with Molly. Across the road people were coming out of the Chelsea Palace. Some were holding hands and singing and making quite a scene. Further down, a bunch of youths in Edwardian clothes were joking with some girls. The girls wore tight, black shiny skirts and looked very young. Now and then a laugh rang out, vulgar and belligerent, but pathetic as well. Mark stood and watched them and wished he had met Cassie before Mickey Page. She came out wearing a white silk scarf over her head.

‘It’s starting to rain,’ said Mark. ‘Can you believe it?’ As if in answer a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky followed by a vicious clap of thunder.

‘If we’re going, we’d better go now,’ continued Mark. ‘Where’s Mickey?’

‘Talking to Molly, I think?’ Cassie noticed a flicker of disgust cross Mark’s face.

‘She’s not coming, is she?‘

‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’

Mickey came up in a hurry.

‘Come on. Let’s get the car before we all drown.’

Mickey had left his MG coupe in a sidestreet with a brick under the front wheel because his handbrake didn’t work and the wheel brakes were unreliable. That was typical of Mickey Page; he took chances and got away with them. He was born lucky.

They drove off back past the Chelsea Palace, down the King’s Road and past Moletta’s Restaurant on the corner. At Earl’s Court it started to rain heavily and Mickey stopped to put up the hood but it still leaked a bit and Cassie, sitting in the back seat, was getting wet.

‘Never mind,’ said Mickey. ’We’ll soon be there.’

Mark thought about the brakes and hoped they would survive the journey. At last they arrived at the Kemp’s place in a cloud of spray. It was a big old house near the Fulham Road and Valerie was waiting for them in the porch. As soon as she saw them she came running out, not caring about the rain.

Mark wound down the passenger seat window because his door didn’t seem to open. The next thing he knew he was engaged in a damp embrace with Valerie. ‘We’re having a party,’ she said. ‘It will be just like old times.’

Eventually they all got into the house and went upstairs as quietly as possible - because old Mrs Kemp had a granny flat on the ground floor. They found Robert Kemp in the upstairs lounge reading the Evening News.

‘Look, Robbie dear,‘ said Valerie excitedly. ’Look who’s here.’

Robert got up and shook hands with Mark and Mickey. It was strange that he didn’t seem to bear any resentment towards Mark.

‘Wasn’t it sweet of Mark to come?’ purred Valerie. ‘It’s been such a long time.’

There had been a good reason for that, thought Mark. Valerie looked at Robert with those big, brown eyes. He did whatever she wanted.

‘We’re going to have a party,’ she said.

‘Good idea,’ said Robert, and Cassie smiled. The sisters didn’t look at all alike, thought Mark. Valerie turned to Mick. ’Be a dear and go and fetch the others,’ she said.

Mickey looked across to Mark but he had picked up a newspaper and pretended not to hear.

‘OK,’ said Mickey.

‘Do you mind ever so much?’ said Valerie.

‘Guess not,’ he said.

No one refused Valerie. No-one that is, except Mark.

Mark went over to the door. ‘It was nice seeing you Mickey.’

‘Don’t be long,’ shouted Valerie.

They heard him go down the stairs and open the front door. Then they heard the roar of the engine die away in the distance.

It was well past midnight before he got back with the others. Molly was quite drunk. Dick, Steve and Philip brought half a dozen giant bottles of beer and Hencher brought himself. He said he didn’t like parties, but he still managed to gatecrash them just the same. Steve Allen had a girl with him that nobody else had seen before. And Mickey had brought them all in his MG.

Steve had brought his guitar with him and they stood around drinking and singing. Hencher said Steve was pretty good and thought he should give up double bass and make a career out of busking. Soon afterwards, Molly said she felt bad and went into a bedroom to lie down.

The girl who nobody knew went with her and when she came back she said that Molly had been sick. Hencher put down his glass and started to sing, ’Who’s sorry now?’ in that awful guttural voice of his, and Dick got angry. But Hencher just sat with that hard smile on his face, which made people want to hit him.

Robert poured another round of drinks and the incident was smoothed over. Steve’s girl said she had a flat at Shepherd’s Bush, which was pretty soundproof and how would they all like to go there? Steve and Mick were all for it and so was Dick. When they left it was gone two o’clock and Cassie was with them. Molly reappeared looking like something out of a horror movie.

‘Where is everybody?‘ she croaked.

‘Gone west,’ said Philip. ‘How about a drink?’

She waved him away. ’Filthy stuff. I’ll never touch another drop.’

Philip laughed and poured himself a beer. Robert looked very angry. He had a habit of playing with a pencil when he was annoyed. He held it now between thumb and finger and tried to break it. Hencher sat and looked at him with barely disguised contempt.

‘I need air,’ Molly was saying. ‘Beautiful, fresh Putney air!”

‘Hank, will you get a cab, dear?’ said Valerie.

‘No I don’t think so, I need air aswell.’

Molly put her coat upon her shoulders and lit a cigarette in her long holder.

‘It was a wonderful party, darling.’

‘What did you see of it?‘ said Philip.

‘Oh, shut up. What’s the time?‘

‘Past your bedtime,‘ said Hencher.

‘Come on Philip. Walk me home, poppet.’

‘My God, you’re not serious? It‘s raining.’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Hencher. ‘It’s stopped.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Valerie.

‘Must go darling,’ said Molly. ‘Love to mamma.’

Molly pulled on Philip’s arm and they went out. Philip was protesting, but he had his arm around her again. Valerie went to the top of the stairs and asked him not to make a noise as old Mrs Kemp was asleep below. Molly said something and giggled and then it was quiet again. Robert looked furious about the whole thing.

‘That bloody Stavely woman,’ he said.

‘Don’t be cross, darling,’ said Valerie.

‘I don’t want her here again.’

‘Alright, we won’t ask her next time.’

‘That won’t stop her,’ said Hencher which was a bit of a cheek coming from him.

‘We’d better be going too,’ said Mark. ’Are you coming, Dave?’

Hencher heaved himself out of the chair he had been keeping warm for the last couple of hours.

‘Come again,’ said Robert, magnanimously. ‘Both of you.’

It was much cooler outside after the rain. It looked as if the heatwave was over. Valerie shivered a little as she saw them to the gate. Hencher went out first.

‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,’ he said.

They watched his tall, slightly stooping figure march off down the road.

‘Why does he have to behave so beastly?’ asked Valerie.

Mark shrugged.

‘He’s alright. Anyway, thanks for the party, it was wonderful.’

He made a move to go, but she had him by the arm.

‘Is that all?’ she said.

‘What else is there?’

‘You never used to leave me like that.’

Richard switched off the light in the front room, but Mark could still see Valerie by the light of a street lamp. And he could sense her.

‘Let’s forget it,’ he said.

‘No, dear. Let’s remember.‘

She reached up and kissed him full on the mouth. He could feel her firm breasts against his chest, warm and insistent - and he was shaking again. There seemed to be nothing between them at all - her flesh against his flesh, her body entwined around him, gripping his thighs. And he wanted her, a married woman that he didn’t love.

Just then, the porch light came on and he felt exposed. Was Robert watching them from the darkness of his bedroom and had he been watching them all the time? He was creepy enough to do that. Mark stood back a little and gently disengaged her arms.

‘I’m sorry, Val. I really must go now.’

She didn’t answer. He noticed that her lips were set in a sullen line and she no longer looked pretty. Robert would catch it this morning. He was glad he was not in Robert’s place. He opened the gate.

‘See you soon,’ he said casually and walked down the road towards the taxi ranks. When he looked back she was still standing by the gate.

By Ronald Shephard

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EARLY DAYS (1927- 1938)

I don’t subscribe to the theory of early childhood recall by adults. I have such memories, but only those instilled into me, I’m sure, by my mother’s insistent repetitions of them.

Memories of a child, barely able to walk, climbing a ladder to a housetop to regain a ball taken unwittingly and giving the holder of it the fright of his life when her head appeared at the top of the ladder. A childish treble requested the ball’s return. Memories of covering myself in tar when the builders arrived next door, of their futile efforts to remove it when placing me under the cold water tap. Of their mistaken identity when they warned, ‘Sonny, your mum’s not going to be happy with you.’ Memories of playing in the sandpit in the corner of the infants’ classroom at close of day as I’d not sit still long enough to join the rest of the class sitting idyllically in their chairs, eyes shut and hands clasped as closing prayers were said.

Memories of being sent upstairs one lunchtime for being cheeky and toying with death by leaning out of the bathroom window while mother remained in blissful ignorance until warned by a neighbour. All these I feel, aren’t of my recall; neither is the story of me going to New Brighton with my cousins. New Brighton is on the Wirral side of the Mersey, facing Liverpool, and this was the first choice for a day out in the days between wars, being just a ferry ride away. There was a little boat taking people on trips on the Mersey. Having been told not to go near, I ran down the wooden boarding stage and jumped - most dramatic. I was hauled out of the river, soaking wet, to be returned to my mother who promptly gave me a good spanking - much to the horror of onlookers, and I suppose me. She later admitted when recounting the tale that she was furious at me because, on top of disobeying her, I’d no change of clothes and she was inwardly wondering what she would do. My cousin Elsie and I shared clothes to go home - I wonder who wore the knickers?

But I do have glimpses from those early days of the sun shining into a school corridor onto coats and outdoor shoes awaiting their owners; of sitting alone in a silent classroom, empty save for the teacher at her desk - punishment for a long forgotten misdemeanor.

Junior school memories take a sharper cutting edge. I attended a church school and we had Ascension Day holiday - but only after a service in the adjoining church that was followed in turn by an oral scripture test conducted by the vicar. He began with the infants, ending with the ‘top class.‘ The older one became, the longer the period of time which had to be wiled away until the vicar appeared in the doorway. One thing I still possess from my church school days is the ability to recite by heart the evening collect which we recited at the end of each day.

At one stage in my junior school days there developed a craze for a game of tag involving chasing children handcuffed together. It was banned by the headmistress - but who got caught in the act? Yes, yours truly. In my school the cane had no sex discrimination. I can personally vouch for the head’s efficiency in the wielding of it.

Another time I was happily ensconced with a friend in the back double seat in the corner of a classroom where we were receiving instruction in how to knit two plain, two purl. This involved placing the wool in front of the needle before doing two purl. We spent a blissful afternoon completely disregarding instructions. Alas, nemesis struck. The headmistress shared the room. Her desk overlooked that of the teacher (how I felt, in later years, for the staff destined to work under her eagle eye - or were they glad of her quelling influence on the pupils?). She heard us being reprimanded when we presented our truly atrocious pieces of supposed knitting and once again I went home with very sore hands.

The school was housed in the original early nineteenth century building with high windows allowing sunlight to stream in, but no eyes to gaze out onto the world outside. Chalky dust formed patterns within the sunlight’s dancing rays. Only the sky and the branches of an old tree could be seen by pupils glancing upwards. But my appreciation of the ever-changing beauty of the sky began in school. Its eternal vista of moving shapes and colour - only a glance upwards. Likewise, the changing seasons were recorded by the branches of the great tree, green-leaved in high summer, bending leafless against the winter winds, green-budded in spring and a glorious tapestry of red and gold in autumn.

The school had an enviable record of scholarships to the two local grammar schools. It was a two-form entry school, the second class being also rans . I inhabited the form throughout the school. At the end of the penultimate year I came top of the class. I should have moved upwards, but alas, the second pupil’s mother was a close friend of the headmistress and so I remained where I was. My mother protested only to be placated with the promise to move me at Christmas ... but promises can be easily broken. I became aware that the scholarship class was doing different maths to me; another protest, another broken promise to give me extra maths.

Against the headmistress’s strongest wishes I sat the scholarship and entered the magic portals of the scholarship class. On the great day, I well remember - indeed I’ll never forget - looking at a square with measurements on two sides with the instruction to give the area of the square. Never having been taught other than the four rules, I added the two numbers together. I didn’t pass a full scholarship, but on the strength of my English I passed a ‘half scholarship’. This allowed children to pay for a grammar school place as a ‘fee payer’ (if their parents could afford £1.50 per term) and involved attending an interview at the school in competition with other applicants. My parents decided to allow me to try. As I sat outside the interview room the then head boy (trying to be helpful) said, ’They will ask you what your favourite subject is. Say ‘Arithmetic’. I duly complied with his advice in spite of the fact that my favourite subject was English and to this day I can remember the look that passed between the head and the senior mistress. Many years later I told all to the senior mistress and we shared laughter, tinged on my part with relief that the school decided to risk taking me on. She admitted that the strong liking for arithmetic from the most unlikely candidates that year had them all puzzled.

It was about this time that I visited Liverpool and my parents left me behind with three cousins, taking one home. As Donald the eldest was older than I, he was allowed to take us to New Brighton (the scene of my earlier ducking). I had the food in my knapsack. We lost each other but I wasn’t worried and I did meet up once with Donald. Evening came and with all the food eaten I made my way to the pier, having eaten my fill. I had my ferry ticket and one penny for the tram which I spent on a chewing-gum machine which didn’t work (a just punishment, as I was not allowed it at home), and I landed broke at Liverpool’s pier head. I tried in vain to walk home; I found myself back at the pier head and asked an old gentleman if he could lend me a penny for the tram. I entered a silent house. Donald called down, ‘Is that you, June?’ At my affirmation, he said, ‘You’re for it.’ My aunt had gone to Aunt Hilda’s (my goddmother who was a hairdresser and who possessed that rarity - a phone) to phone the police. I don’t think my aunt really liked me after that escapade - looking back, I can hardly blame her.

We used to come to Liverpool after 1935 in our Morris Eight and we crossed the Mersey via the tunnel (opened by King George VI and Queen Mary). I always called it my ‘Mickey Mouse‘ tunnel because the original lights’ shape reminded me of his eyes. My godmother was a hairdresser in her own house. How I admired the machine which the ladies used to sit under to have their hair permed and I longed for the day when I’d have a perm - but by then the machine had been consigned to history and cold ‘home perms’ were all the rage.

Although born in May I was christened June because my mother - just before my birth - heard a lady, whose baby had a dirty nose, address the child as May - so I became June.

In 1938 my parents took me with them to Switzerland to celebrate my eleventh birthday (or so I was told). I have in my bedroom the snapshot of my parents laughing, standing at the side of the cross-channel ferry en-route for France and the train to Switzerland. I can remember how excited I felt looking out of the train window as we approached the foothills of the Alps. We stayed in Lucerne and many years later when I heard of the fire burning its famous bridge, I recalled our walks across it. One night we had a thunderstorm. I happily watched the quite dramatic sheets of lightning, trusting in my father’s assurance that lightning in Switzerland didn’t hurt anyone.

One day on our perambulations we met an Englishwoman who was married to a Swiss hairdresser. She told us she hadn’t realised what she was giving up when she left England. She refused to live with her mother-in-law and had devised a compact living area behind the shop which she showed us - a marvel of ingenuity, but very cramped. I often wonder how she fared during the war.

One day while on a boat sailing on Lake Lucerne I did something untoward and mother used a phrase she had somehow picked up - ‘Oh, you little German Jew.’ We got some queer looks. She used it just as she used the phrase, ‘Go to Bootle‘ in a semi-comic vein. At school, my friends were most amused when I said, ‘Go to Bootle’ one day, and then announced that I’d be going there in the holidays. My mother grew up in Bootle and I had cousins there.

Back to Switzerland. We went by train to the summit of Mount Pilatus - so-called because of its lake across which Pontius Pilate is said to walk, forever washing his hands. We visited the lovely little Memorial Chapel for Queen Astrid of the Belgians, facing the spot where she died in a car driven by her husband.

I was the only guest in the hotel allowed in the kitchens. On my birthday the chef presented me with a free piece of his gorgeous cherry cake. One day we witnessed a village wedding and saw the travelling Post Office in operation. I was photographed with two of the guests, wearing Swiss costume.

Just before the end of my junior school days, I was not allowed, for some long-forgotten reason, to attend a special school event. I elaborated on the injustice of it at home to such good avail that mother took me to the cinema instead to see Deanna Durbin in Three Smart Girls. A letter went home during my last morning. I drew a veil over lunchtime.

I hated the head that last afternoon. Years later, I visited her in retirement and she said those classic words, ‘I always knew you’d do well.’ She was an autocrat, yet one day, when taking a music lesson as thunder threatened, she said that anyone who was afraid could stand by her at the piano. I was the sole person to take up her offer, but I remember the comforting feeling it gave me to stand close to her while the stormclouds gathered, thunder rolled, lightning flashed and lashing rain drummed on the windows, almost drowning out her playing - but play she did - and I felt safe from the storm’s fury.

By June Birch

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KARIN’S DAY AT THE FARM

It had been one of those long, hot summers where the heat of the day led to humid nights. Karin opened her bedroom windows wide and pulled back the pink curtains. They hung down motionless. Tossing all her covers to one side, she reached for the glass of orange on the small table next to the bed. Karin sipped a few mouthfuls then put it back, thinking at the same time she should try getting some sort of sleep.

Tomorrow was going to be another day on the farm with her mum and two sisters. Placing her head on her pillows, Karin remembered how earlier that evening she had gone to the off-license, buying bottles of lemonade and Coke, plus a half a dozen bags of plain crisps. When she had got back her mother was making their lunches for the next day. Cheese and spam were the fillings they had on special occasions. Karin’s dad would bring home ham for them. Not forgetting her mother’s home-made rock cakes. That was Karin’s private joke, she always looked forward to her mother’s baking days. Licking the mixing bowl clean was fun and also eating the cakes soon after they’d baked while still slightly warm on the cooling tray. Soon Karin was fast asleep with a very contented smile on her face.

The sun was up long before the family. After breakfast, collecting all their belongings, they made tracks towards the pickup point. There were two farms surrounding the town. One was called Eastwick where Karin’s family had harvested strawberries and new potatoes earlier that year. The other was Soper’s, there they picked runner-beans and peas which were sent off to market. Today was Karin’s last day on the farm, so she decided to make the most of it. Soon the tractor with its trailer pulled up. Everyone was chatting and got on board. Off it went, down and around the country lanes towards the open fields.

Once at the farm, Karin helped her sisters off the trailer. Followed by her mum who had all the bags. Walking up the fields, which stretched for miles, everyone found a row of vines where many peas grew. A farm worker supplied numerous sacks to everyone and the picking started. Each sack had to be filled to the top and it was one shilling for each sack picked. Karin watched her mum then joined in, stripping each vine and throwing them behind. Her sisters ran off to play with the other children.

After a few hours, Karin began to feel tired and suggested to her mum that what they needed was a short break, so she poured her mum a cup of tea from the flask. Calling her sisters to join them, she settled each one down with a bag of plain crisps and they all sat down in the field amongst the vines. The work was very physical and Karin’s mum was six months pregnant with another child. Karin worried about her and helped her as much as possible. Soon the break was over and they both continued picking again, and the girls continued to play.

As the day went grey and heavy clouds built up, the heat became unbearable. Suddenly a loud crashing sound was heard, rumbling across the sky.

Within seconds it was followed by flashes of lightning zig-zagging down across the distant fields. Large spots of rain started to fall as if the heavens had opened up. It grew darker and the rain began to bounce off the ground, getting heavier. Karin could hardly see in front of her. A voice shouted out loudly, ‘Run to the barn.‘ Karin grabbed her sisters, while her mum packed their belongings, and they all made a mad dash to the farm next to the field.

Once inside the barn, Karin saw lots of haystacks piled high. She dragged one out alongside the rest of the other workers. Everyone gazed out of the open barn doors, hoping the summer storm would pass. Her mum proceeded to hand out the remaining food and drink to the girls. Suddenly Karin heard music and as she looked towards where it was coming from, she noticed a teenage boy and girl dancing. On the haystack next to them was a small red radio with a handle on top to carry it. The girl was twirling around back and forth, her skirt swaying to the rhythm of the music. It revealed layers of a flared petticoat The young boy caught her hand and led her in the other direction as they were dancing to and fro. Both wore white t-shirts with the name ‘Elvis‘ across the front. The young lad’s long legs were in tight fitting blue jeans with black suede shoes, leading every move. That day Karin had her very first lesson in dancing rock and roll. It looked fun to her as everyone joined in.

Later that afternoon the summer storm passed over. Everyone went back to the field where their sacks of peas lay. The foreman came round and paid each worker accordingly. Karin’s mum received fifteen shillings. Along came the tractor with its trailer onto the field, and everyone slowly climbed aboard. There was no chatting this time, because they were all very tired. In no time they reached the pickup point. The casual labourers got down and went their separate ways. Karin, with her family, headed back home exhausted. It had been a very long day.

By Maxine Henderson

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THROUGH THE EYES OF A MUSICAL BOX

Was that the bell over the shop door rattling against the frame? Mr Gibson was early today, possibly anticipating a surge of customers, eager to browse around his antiques. I was one of them - a musical box, with pictures painted around my sides and a teddy bear on a rocking horse, serving as a crown. When my handle was turned, I played a sweet little tune, which would grace any nursery.

Why did no-one buy me? Could anyone see me? I sat on a Sheraton sofa table looking out at the vast world in front of me. People of different skins, colours and shapes often stopped to gaze into the shop, some of whom came inside, but I was always ignored.

Voices and a heavy tread sounded nearby. What was happening? The Regency armchair was lifted out, followed by a mirrored-back Victorian cabinet. Next, the beautiful rosewood marquetry cylinder bureau. It must be my turn now. Sure enough, gentle loving hands cradled me and I felt warm and excited. I was placed next to a Royal Doulton vase, engraved with Chinese slaves. At least I was in different surroundings and I’d now see a wide range of exquisite pieces. Just then a white-haired lady accompanied by a young girl entered the shop.

‘Can I buy something please, Grandma?‘ wailed the child as she steered herself in my direction.

‘Good morning, Mrs Lund,’ said the shop owner, as he was about to dust the table I was resting on.

The woman went across to the window and began examining the Sheraton piece. I felt my handle being turned and music filled the shop.

‘Stop it, Katy.’ cried a voice. ’Leave things alone.‘

A stillness filled the shop as the child did as she was told. ‘I’ll have that sofa table, please, Mr Gibson. And could you deliver it tomorrow?’

‘Certainly, Mrs Lund,‘ came back the reply.

Katy ran towards her grandmother, begging her to come and see me. Again my handle was turned, I was picked up and examined and told how unusual I was. ‘Will you buy it for me, please? It will look nice on my window sill,’ exclaimed Katy.

Oh, if only I could go and live in a nice warm house where I’d be cared for and wound up constantly. The old lady said her granddaughter could have me as a special present and I knew that I’d never again have a dull and dusty existence in the old antiques shop.

By Sylvia Varley

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THE MIRACLE

The hapless creature cowered and trembled on hearing the ramshackle gate crunch open. It hung precariously on rusty hinges at the end of a rutted path.

‘If this is owt t’ go by there’s probably summat in what thaz bin towd,’ Constable John Pickup surmised as he accompanied RSPCA inspector Colin Ross, towards the tumbledown structure the occupant’s master referred to as ‘t’ stable’.

To their left was a small pond where frogs spawned beneath weeds and surface moss. The lush green grass the path had divided, was long gone. Tufts of sparsely spread growth sprouted here and there. ‘Grazing,’ her master called it.

As the two men neared her prison, the emaciated wretch within, whose patches of hairy skin haphazardly covered a protruding ribcage slowly moved a head (too heavy for the neck to support) from side to side, but the effort to shake her tatty mane in agitation was too much.

Fear-filled eyes reflected the hopelessness of her situation. But something was different. She became instinctively aware of approaching footsteps falling lightly, nor were they accompanied by strings of oaths.

There was a pause before the door quietly opened. Gasps of horror followed a period of shocked silence, which Constable Pickup broke.

‘This lot beggars belief.’

He scrutinised every inch of the foul-smelling place. The rotting piles of wood in stale mounds of stinking dung and urine accumulated on the straw-strewn floor.

A weak snort was attempted by the occupant, inflaming the men’s sense of outrage with anger they silently fought to control, in order to calm and reassure this pitiful victim of abuse and neglect.

Colin spoke words she had heard before but no blows punctuated them, as was her master’s way.

When Constable Pickup returned from the pond with a helmet full of water, he moved slowly forward holding the unusual container at arms’ length and gently coaxed, ‘Come on lass, sup this.’

Scenting water, thirst overcame fear as she abandoned caution. While she drank, Colin removed his jacket and draped it across her back, stroking her neck, he told her, ‘Well done, Lassie. Good girl.’

‘Every drop gone,’ John Pickup told Colin as he wiped inside the improvised pail with his handkerchief.

‘We can’t leave her here, that’s for sure,’ Colin said, making a halter from a soft piece of rope he’d collected from the van. She allowed them to lead her out into the fresh air.

Constable Pickup left Colin where Lassie was feeding from a grassy bank whilst awaiting transport.

‘Thanks for your help, John. We’ll keep you informed.’

‘I’ll be in touch, anyhow.’

‘Here they come,’ the receptionist called as she saw the transporter turn into the car park. Chief vet Alexander MacPherson watched closely as Colin led the new patient down the ramp.

‘This is inexcusable. The police are in the know, I take it?’

‘Yes they are,’ Colin replied. ‘We’ve called her Lassie. It seemed suitable, we thought.’

‘Aye well then - come on Lassie, let's see what we can do for you.’

Gentle grooming and treatment gradually restored light to Lassie’s eyes. Her rate of recovery surprised Colin. It was hard to believe this was the donkey he and Constable Pickup had rescued less than a month ago.

Colin drove Lassie to The Haven where she convalesced for several months. He made several visits to follow her progress. Later he learned of Lassie’s other visitors, who had applied to adopt her.

Colin sanctioned the move after visiting Lassie’s home to be. There was a paddock and good stabling, also another donkey - Joe.

‘He can be Lassie’s friend,’ their little girl told Colin, and that’s how it was, eventually.

Colin was invited to visit whenever he liked. He told them that Lassie’s former owner had been heavily fined and banned from keeping livestock.

A few months elapsed before Colin’s next visit to see Lassie. Young Trisha saw his approach and ran out to greet him.

‘Uncle Colin, Uncle Colin, come and see.’

The January day was cold and she led him to the stable which had been Lassie’s home for almost two years.

‘See, Lassie’s a mum now - his name's Noel. He was born at Christmas.’

‘Well, I’ll be blowed - a miracle.’

Colin’s thoughts returned to a tumbledown shed and the pitiful creature he and Constable Pickup had rescued.

Trisha asked, ‘What do you think about that?’

Colin replied, ‘I think that if Lassie can believe in miracles, she’ll know this is heaven.’

By Ivy Squires

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THE RUBBLE PEOPLE OF HOXTON

The Rubble People of Hoxton evolved out of decay. The first Rubble was sighted in a broken tile, seen through a grid covering a shop-front and later to be found in Rubblestun.

Their dwelling house, built of brick, was known by the sign of the Cherry Tree. It remained derelict, but a passer-by is able to look through a hoarding towards the house which is interspersed with grilles and is occasionally met by a flurry of dust on a windless day. Vegetation is growing upwards to the height of the grilles and beyond it and moves to a gentle breeze which is beckoning one to enter.

The spirit of the Rubblers lived in every broken brick or fallen stone in Rubblestun and a community had grown up out of the derelict site now worthy to be called home.

The dwelling house had been erected on fenland and suffered from constant flooding, and two hundred flat bricks away, the noisesome waters of Walbrook River sung out. A distant hum to the occupants in and around Cherry Tree House, but rather comforting.

Through broken panes the remains of once sparkling glass chandeliers moved in time to the wind outside. Salmon-pink paintwork, colour-enriched with fawn, white and gold, faded daily, and beyond the cracked panes and peeling plaster, guttering hung on precariously, partly concealed by cobwebs and grime.

Rubblers sent their messages to each other in dust particles carried by birds, and their affable greetings on the backs of insects travelling along pipes half-hidden by a gritty sod. All relatives and friends, especially those who found it difficult to travel the rough terrain, were sent sincere thoughts and well wishes constantly.

The pathways were rearranged frequently as the dust piled up and the rubble was pushed around by artistic spring waters, creating new paths and pipeways for the birds and insects to carry their greetings. They sometimes created new ones as shortcuts saved them time when delivering the post. Maps were made and updated constantly in line with moving winds and waters and decorated by Carta-Rubblers, who were very proud of their cartography skills.

The Rubblers emerged rarely but, on occasions, were spotted through the hoardings by passers-by peering over piles of fallen brick or climbing over pillars now blocking entrances to the dwelling house. They wandered down deal-panelled corridors feasted on by munch-mites which caused dust to fall to the ground. Shifting rubble changed pathways regularly, as did the shuffling Rubblers and their flying and crawling messengers scurried about in their haste to deliver greetings.

The New Rubblers (younger members of the Tun) lived furthest away from the house, leaving more protection from winds to the Decayed-Rubblers (so called due to their years) and they constructed wind breaks for themselves. Sometimes Journey-Rubblers joined them for one night or two to exchange stories and to talk about the Portagalles ambassador, who apparently lived in the dwelling house quite a few hundred years ago ‘in great fear of his life.‘ Stories were changed to suit the mood of the audience and sometimes the ambassador had lost limbs or even his mind before his final demise. Journey-Musicians played sticks and hob-grates accompanied by marble rolls and whistling pipes while the Caterer-Rubblers chopped and prepared dishes of edible shrubbery such as marshmallows and marigolds for guests and Rubblers alike to feast on. Visitors, messengers and Rubblers, all ate until the wind dropped and sleep overtook them. They drank from natural springs and some of them added dandelion flowers to the water; the leaves were rather bitter and were left well alone.

Rubblestun was well established, but one fateful morning it woke to loud noises like thunder; large craters were appearing everywhere and falling plaster and brick created choking dust over the Tun. The hoarding, the Rubblers’ boundary to the dwelling house was lifted up and rumblings were heard and cries of panic and fear competed to be heard over Rubblestun. This was the day Rubblestun would be flattened to make way for redevelopment.

It was rumoured that the young or fit Rubblers escaped. This could have been the truth, as a story was being told about a Portugalles ambassador in ‘greate feare of his liffe’ along the Walbrook riverbank, not six hundred flat-bricks away, soon after Rubblestun’s sudden death.

The Rubblers of Hoxton do live on then in every broken brick or fallen stone. Listen carefully for them and try not to tread on them as they are no higher than a daffodil.

By Theresa Watson

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GINGER TILLY’S SPIDERS

It was springtime at 21 Holly Grove, the home of Tilly the cat. She was fast asleep on the kitchen windowsill, laying on her back with all four paws in the air. The warm spring sunshine came streaming in through the window, straight onto Tilly’s rather fat tummy. As she lay there, all warm and cosy, dreaming about the lovely, delicious things she could eat for breakfast, a great big, black hairy spider landed right on the end of Tilly’s nose. Tilly’s eyes shot wide open and she found herself staring eyeball to eyeball with it. Its long legs tickling her whiskers as it stood, looking back at her.

‘Morning,’ said the spider. ‘So sorry to drop in on you like this.’

Tilly scowled at the spider. She was cross, having been woken so suddenly from her lovely dream.

’Nice spiders ask before they plonk themselves on cats’ noses,’ said Tilly.

‘But I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to land on your nose. I didn’t do it on purpose,’ replied the spider.

‘Mmm,‘ said Tilly. ’Alright, you’re forgiven. How did you come to land on my nose then?’

‘Well,‘ said the spider. ’I was spring cleaning my web when I tripped over a dandelion seed. That, I’m afraid, made me tumble right out of my web and land on your nose.’

Tilly’s nose began to itch and her eyes were beginning to cross. ‘Please, would you mind getting off my nose now? I‘m afraid I’m about to sneeze.’

’Aatchoo. Aatchoo,’ sneezed Tilly. ‘Aatchoo.’

She sniffed and rubbed her eyes with her paws. ’I do wish spiders wouldn’t land on my nose and ears.‘

‘On your ears?’ asked the spider.

‘Yes, on my ears,’ scowled Tilly and she started to tell him the story about last spring.

‘I was asleep when I was woken up by something tickling my ears.’

‘Tickling your ears?’ repeated the spider. ‘What was it?’

‘What was it? said Tilly. ‘Why, it was a spider just like you. He was making a web between my ears.’

‘Between your ears?’ said the spider. ’Whoever heard of a spider making its web between cats’ ears?’.

‘Well, this one did,’ replied Tilly, rather crossly. ‘And he was very rude. When I asked him very politely what he was doing he said he was very busy looking for something and hadn’t the time to stop and talk to strangers and would I go away.’

‘So what did you do then? Did you try shaking your head to get him off?‘

‘No,’ said Tilly. ‘That might have hurt the spider. I went to the blackberry bush outside the kitchen door.‘

‘Why did you do that?‘ asked the spider.

‘Because my friend Susie spider lives there and I wondered if she may be able to help me to get rid of him. Susie seems to know most of the spiders around here’.

Susie was busy spring cleaning when I called good morning to her.

‘Morning Tilly,’ said Susie. ’How are you today? You do look pretty in your spring hat. It looks just like a spider’s web.’

‘It is a spider’s web,‘ replied Tilly. ’And I can’t get rid of it.’

Susie spider looked closely at the web then smiled.

‘I know who that web belongs to, Tilly. It’s Uncle Sid. Whatever is he doing making webs between a cat’s ears?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Tilly. ‘I was asleep at the time. I woke up with something tickling my ears.’

‘Come close to the blackberry bush, Tilly and I’ll climb on your head. Then I’ll go and see Uncle Sid,‘ said Susie. She walked across Tilly’s head and tapped on Uncle Sid’s web.

‘Who’s that?’ said a voice, rather crossly.

‘It’s me, Uncle Sid, your niece, Susie spider.‘

Uncle Sid peered out of his web and stared.

‘I can’t see you properly. Are you sure you’re Susie?‘

‘Of course it’s me, Uncle. Where are your glasses? Please put them on.’

‘I can’t,’ said Uncle Sid, rather sulkily. ‘I can’t find them. I took them off to wash my face, I couldn’t see and fell over something and that was that. I’m as blind as a bat without them.’

Susie then explained to Uncle Sid what she thought must have happened.

‘When you tripped you fell out of your web and you landed on my friend Tilly’s head. Then you made a web between her ears.‘

‘Don’t be silly, Susie,‘ said Uncle Sid. ‘Spiders don’t make webs on cats’ ears.’

‘Oh yes, they do,‘ said Tilly. ‘You made them on mine and you were very rude when I asked you why you were doing so.‘

‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ said Uncle Sid. ‘I was so upset because I couldn’t find my glasses.’

‘I’m sure Tilly will forgive you now she knows what happened, ‘ said Susie.

Tilly forgave Uncle Sid and said she would take him and Susie back to the kitchen windowsill so they could climb up the window and back into Uncle Sid’s web in the corner.

‘Gosh, thanks for telling me your story, Tilly. I’ll try not to drop in on you without letting you know first next time. Now I must go. I too have spring cleaning to do. Goodbye Tilly.’

And away he scampered across the windowsill and up the side of the window’s home.

Tilly watched for a while before curling up into a ball and falling fast asleep, hoping that no more spiders would come along today.

By June Patterson

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THE DISCIPLE

The doctor finished drying his hands and turned slowly to face his patient. The words that he was about to utter he had said on numerous occasions before, but they were never any easier.

‘I’m afraid Mr Auckland, that I have some very bad news.’

Mr Auckland’s eyes widened and he gave a sickly nervous half grin, half grimace.

‘What do you mean doctor?’ he stuttered, barely able to speak at all.

‘It’s your heart old lad, through years of neglect and alcohol abuse you’re soon to pay for such a lifestyle.’

There was now an uneasy silence between them as each stared towards the floor. Eventually, Mr Auckland summoned up enough courage to ask the question that he would rather not hear the answer to.

‘How long have I got?’ The doctor paced towards his window unable to look at Mr Auckland squarely in the face.

‘Six months. A year at the most.’

The condemned man arose shakily from his chair, and without another word closed the door behind him. Even before he had reached the outer doors of the surgery the doctor’s buzzer was sounding for his next patient.

‘Hmph. Didn’t take him long to forget me,’ thought Mr Auckland. Slowly he lurched along the street aided by his silver topped walking cane which he often used to wave at any poor creature that came to close. His mind was now as hazy as a smoke filled bar room as he pondered on why this was happening to one such as him. He was a very rich man who could, if he so wished, buy up half of the town that he was soon to vacate. Throughout his lifetime he had amassed huge wealth by being ruthless and cunning towards less fortunate beings than himself.

‘To hell with doctors and hospitals, I intend to carry on just as I always have,’ he muttered. His eyes were yellow and encompassed by angry red rings. Stubble grew where once he was clean shaven and spittal hung from his lower sagging lip. He entered a backstreet public house and shuffled up to the bar.

‘Brandy. And make it a large one,’ he demanded.

The landlord served his rude customer and slapped his change upon the counter whilst sporting a curled upper lip that Elvis himself would have been proud of.

‘More,’ demanded Mr Auckland as he scrunched up a fifty pond note and rolled it along the counter. ‘Give me the whole damn bottle.’

The landlord took the money and thrust the bottle forward. No change was offered.

The sad stooping figure of Mr Auckland made his shaky way to a table that was situated in the darkest recess of the bar. He was going to drink himself into oblivion, alone with only his bottle and self pity as companions. After drinking most of the bottle’s contents he became aware of someone standing close by. Through his blurred vision he could just make out the vision of a tall, thin figure.

‘May I join you?’ the stranger asked.

‘It’s a free country, do as you damn well like,’ retorted Mr Auckland. The stranger sat opposite and sighed heavily.

‘Something seems to be troubling you, is there anything that I might do to help?’

‘I fear that you’re a little late to do anything that could be remotely classed as help in my case,’ grumbled Mr Auckland. His abrupt manner was beginning to mellow somewhat as the brandy took a firmer hold.

‘You know, a problem shared is a problem halved,’ said the persistent stranger.

‘Do you know me?’ slurred Mr Auckland.

‘I feel as if I have known you for a lifetime,’ stressed the stranger.

‘Well, if that’s the case then I’m afraid your long lifetime’s knowing is about to come to an end.’ The brandy bottle was tipped once more and Mr Auckland took a greedy swallow.

‘Would you care to tell me what’s up with you?’ asked the stranger in a manner that somehow demanded an answer.

‘I guess it’s not going to make any difference anyway, not now it isn’t.’ Mr Auckland took one more swallow and coughed. ‘I’m dying stranger. Now do you think that your knowing of my impending demise will help me in any way?’

The stranger nodded as he observed the sad drunk as he tried to pour more drink into a glass that wouldn’t keep still.

‘I can’t stop you from dying it’s true, but I do know a way to bring you back to life for short periods of time.’

Mr Auckland stopped trying to pour and began to listen to what the stranger had to say,

‘You, Mr Auckland, are a very rich man, also a very ruthless one who it may be said, lets nothing or no-one stand in your way.’

‘That’s very true stranger, I have never nor will I ever let anyone better me, ever,’ interrupted the drunken man.

‘Don’t interrupt me again or I may not be able to help you, understand?’

Mr Auckland nodded in compliance.

‘Right, then listen very carefully and be sure that you understand what I’m telling you. I can bring you back to life because I have the power to do so. Unfortunately, it’s only a limited power that will last for seven days at a time.’ The stranger shifted in his chair so the light was behind him and Mr Auckland couldn’t make out his facial features.

‘This may sound a little strange to you, but if you’d allow me to take off your thumbs, I can achieve everlasting life of sorts for you.’ Seeing that Mr Auckland was aghast at such a suggestion, he quickly reassured him. ‘Of course, your thumbs would be returned to you within twenty four hours. Also I can assure you that there would be no pain or after affects.

Even though he was appaled at such barbarity, Mr Auckland was also very curious as to wether there was any truth in what the stranger had said.

‘I’d feel no pain you say?’

The stranger shook his head. ‘None sir.’

There ensued a slight silent pause.

‘Just where and when would you want to perform this miracle?’

‘Tonight, at your home,’ said the stranger softly, as he gave a wicked grin.

‘What would you want in return?’ said Mr Auckland as he tugged on his lower sagging lip.

‘Would you be willing to give me some of your wealth?’ reiterated the stranger with all the cunning of a fox.

‘If what you say is true I will give you anything, anything at all. Just as long as I can be who I have become.’

‘Do you solemnly promise this to be so?’ said the stranger. After a few moments of deep thought he gave a trembling answer.

‘Yes. I do so promise.’

‘Then let us go at once to your house so that you may keep your date with infinity.’

Within a short period of time Mr Auckland was seated in his favourite chair in the well appointed living room of his large town house. A blazing fire was surrounded by a white marble fireplace, its ample shelf held aloft by two finely carved caryatids. Dark mahogany furniture polished to a glass like finish reflected the dancing flames from the fire. Oil paintings adorned the walls and the faces in them stared down stony like in the eerie light. The stranger meanwhile, took a bottle from beneath his long, flowing coat and placed it on the small round table next to Mr Auckland.

‘By the time that you’ve drunk this you will feel no pain,’ whispered the stranger.

‘By the time that I drink this second bottle I could be dead.’

‘You’re going to die soon anyway, so what have you got to lose Mr Auckland?’

‘You could be spinning me a load of lies just to get your hands on my money,’ he replied.

‘If you think that then you may keep your money, but there will be another forfeit to pay. I’ll tell you this after I’ve given you your thumbs back.’

With trembling hands, Mr Auckland drank from the neck of the bottle. Almost at once, all feeling left his body and he stopped shaking. He was left numb and his eyes stared without focus. The stranger seized one of Mr Auckland’s hands and dug his long grubby nails into his flesh.

‘Can you feel that?’ he gloated. There was no reply and so the same action was repeated on his other hand. Within seconds the thumbs were taken and placed triumphantly into a waiting paper bag. Mr Auckland’s hands were bandaged and the stranger waited for the effects of the drink to wear off. Time passed slowly but it meant little to the stranger until eventually Mr Auckland’s eyes began to focus once more.

‘Can you feel any pain?’ the stranger asked once more. Holding up his two bandaged hands for inspection, he shook his head.

‘I feel no pain, but what about my thumbs?’

‘I have them, and as promised you shall have them back tomorrow.’

Whether it was the drink taking his senses he was unsure, but he could have sworn that the stranger floated across the living room floor.

‘I shall return at midnight tomorrow,’ echoed the stranger’s voice. And in an instant, he was gone.

The next evening Mr Auckland was still in a drunken stupor. Empty bottles lay around his chair. The grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the hour as the door quietly opened. With a strange following odour the stranger seemed to float across to the drunken householder without a sound.

‘I told you that I’d return at midnight,’ he said with an excited grin.

Through half opened eyes, Mr Auckland could now see the stranger’s features more clearly than at any other time previously. Glinting eyes that were as red as any blood, and beneath a smiling mouth that contained pointed teeth and a breath that denied belief.

‘What about my thumbs?’ asked Mr Auckland as he held his bandaged hands aloft.

‘Here you are, just as promised. Well, almost as promised,’ laughed the stranger. From his pocket he took the paper bag from the previous evening and shook it from it a small cube like object. It landed on the table next to the trembling Mr Auckland.

‘What the hell is this?’ he whimpered.

‘it’s a dice,’ said the stranger. ‘Or should I say, it’s a dice made from your thumbs. I did promise you that you’d have them back, it just slipped my mind to tell you in what form they would be returned. You wanted to come back to life and this was the only way in which this could be achieved.’ The stranger began to laugh maniacally.

‘But how can this possibly bring me back?’ sobbed Mr Auckland.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forwards until their faces were only inches apart.

‘When you die, which i feel will be sooner rather than later, your means of a swift return will depend upon this dice. Whoever ends up with it must throw three sixes in quick succession. Only after the third six will you live again.’ As an afterthought, the stranger raised his bony finger.

‘Oh, I almost forgot, the forfeit that you owe me, do you remember?’

‘Yes, I do, and I won’t welch on it.’

‘That being the case sir, I will hold you to your word. Your forfeit when you return is that you must kill a priest.’

‘No. No. No. I could never do such a thing in all my life.’

‘Ah, but your life now belongs to me and you will have no choice but to do whatever I say,’ laughed the stranger.

Mr Auckland stared with bulging eyes at the dice, as the stranger floated towards the door dragging what appeared to be a pointed tail behind him.

‘How could I have been so stupid to imagine that there would be no price to pay? thought the new wreck of a being. All at once, a sudden brainwave came upon him and his sobering mind felt more at ease. He would simply destroy the dice and in doing so would never be called upon to kill a priest. Picking up the dice he tossed it onto the fire, all the while thinking that the flames would destroy it. The dice seemed to have a life of its own as it jumped out of the fire and landed on the carpet with the six uppermost. In his anger Mr Auckland took hold of a large brass poker and struck the dice. It flew across the room, struck the grandfather clock and bounced back onto the carpet. The six dots were once again uppermost.

Mr Auckland was beside himself with fear as he slumped back into his chair, staring all the while at the lothsome cube. Throughout the long quiet hours of the night he pondered on how he might destroy it. His tiring mind could think of no satisfactory solution. As the rays of morning light began to filter through the cracks in his curtains, he became almost resigned to his ultimate fate. Until that is, he began to pray. At first he prayed for his own wretched soul, but soon progressed to pray for any unsuspecting priest that might come his way in the next life.

‘That’s the answer,’ he shouted out loud. ‘If I go to the church to pray I feel sure that it will put an end to this nightmare.’

He had not seen the inside of a church for many years. Once that his now over active mind kept repeating that this was his only way out, he resolved to put this oversight to rights. Kneeling in front of the altar he bowed his head low in silent prayer. There was no one else present and soon his gentle sobbing was echoing around the cavernous church. The vestry door opened and a curious priest crept in to investigate the sad sound.

‘Can I help you my son?’ he said with compassion.

‘I don’t know if you can father, for I fear that the devil himself has put a grave curse on me.’

‘Hush now my son and tell me of this curse and you will soon see that there is no fear in God’s house.’ Mr Auckland told the priest everything that had taken place and left no detail out.

‘If you can help me father I will leave all my wealth to the church.’

‘We do not help people for profit my son, but if you felt it in your heart to make a donation towards our restoration, then that would be acceptable. Now, if you’ve a mind to bring me this dice I feel sure that I can find a solution to your problem.’

The dice was duly delivered along with a large cheque to serve towards restoring certain parts of the church.

‘Thank you my son for your kind devotion. It will help to restore our badly damaged stained glass windows. As to your little problem, just you leave that to me, as I believe I have the answer.’

Mr Auckland thanked the priest and after saying a prayer of thanks, left the church. Several weeks later his health took a turn for the worse and he was admitted to the local hospital. Having no relatives or friends, his only visitor was the priest. Slowly he began to fade, but not before the priest had brought him some welcome news.

‘My son,’ whispered the priest softly. ‘The money that you donated to the church has enabled us to complete ahead of time on one of the stained glass windows. It’s a tableau of Adam being tempted in the garden of Eden. The artisan who has made the tableau has also encorporated the dice into the apple that Eve is offering to Adam. It will remain suspended in the house of God where no-one will be able to reach it.

Mr Auckland smiled as he made a feeble gesture of thanks, the last movement that he would ever make. The priest administered the last rites and closed the half open eyes of the deceased. At the reception desk the priest told the doctor of the peaceful end to Mr Auckland. Meanwhile, behind the masking curtains to the dead man’s bed stood a tall, thin shadow.

‘Thought that you could outwit me did you,’ he hissed. ‘Well, I’m afraid that I’m going to disappoint you. Did it slip your stupid mind that I took two of your thumbs?’ Triumphantly he stood over the deceased and placed a second cube into his cold hand.

Later that day, a hospital porter arrived home to be met by his small son.

‘Here son, this is for you.’

‘What is it dad?’ he said curiously.

‘It’s a dice that I found at work today. I don’t think that the previous owner has any use for it now.’ The child rolled the dice, it landed six up. He rolled it again with the same outcome.

‘That’s amazing son. See if you can do it again.’

Beneath a sheet in the mortuary two eyes sprang open.

By Richard J Johnston

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