Mike Watson's stories

[John Dean]

Mike Watson has been writing for many years. His articles have been published in fishing, gardening and wine magazines. One of his short stories was broadcast on local radio and he has had poems published in anthologies.

In September 2006, he was a prize winner in the Orange Short Story competition and shortlisted in the Stories For Children category. His winning short story, “Putting Down Roots”, was published in an anthology called “Flights Of Fancy”. He has also enjoyed success in a number of other competitions, including first places.

Durham County Life magazine published a feature about the River Tees, written by Mike, in their Spring 2007 edition. He also worked for an information website, writing articles about angling for beginners

[John Dean]

Charlie Scarborough Sees The Light
It was a couple of minutes out of the last station before the terminal when it happened to Charlie Scarborough. He got all lit up, literally, like a phosphor flare at a firework party.
Charlie Scarborough was fifty-six and at six foot three he once cut an impressive figure. However nowadays, due to the constant drip feed of alcohol, it was his stomach that was the most outstanding feature. Unless, of course, you got up all close and personal with Charlie, which happened rarely to him these days, and then the body odour would hit you ….if the dead crab smell of halitosis didn’t rock you first.
Life to Charlie was, like a thorn impaled deeply into your back, painful, out of reach and a source of constant irritation.
Since leaving school, he’d performed the same routine in the same office and sat at the same desk next to the heater. Everybody called him Mr. Scarborough and they all agreed his name fitted him perfectly.
“He’s just like the place,” they giggled, “scruffy and full of smells.”

Twenty years ago his wife left him, took her share of the divorce settlement, and went to live with a window cleaner in Scunthorpe. Charlie also made his own life changing decision and moved to a flat near the railway station, convenient for the 7.48 commuter train into the city.
And here he sat, in his usual place, by the window. The carriage was almost full but the seat next to Charlie and the one facing him had not been taken. Diagonally opposite sat a lady, her eyes concealed by dark glasses that extended above her eyebrows. With her head held erect, she slowly reached a hand downwards and patted her dog that lay at her feet like a hairy roll of carpet, and thought to herself, with some embarrassment, perhaps it ought to have another wash and shampoo.
“Nice dog,” remarked Charlie stretching across and stroking its muzzle, whereupon the animal shifted its position to the other side of the woman ’s legs. “Used to have a pet dog when I was a young lad. Daftest dog there was. Always chasing things ….rabbits…leaves…..shadows. One day it chased this bird over a wall….only it wasn’t a wall. Turned out to be a bridge. Whap! Landed on a sandbank next to the river. Broke a leg and ….”

“Yes,” said the woman and, turning her head slightly to face the direction of Charlie’s voice, continued, “That really is most interesting. However, I’m afraid Molly here is rather more essential than a pet.”

Charlie heard the condescending tone in the words.
“Of course,” apologised Charlie. “I didn’t mean….I wasn’t trying to suggest that Holly there was only….”

“Molly. She’s called Molly.
Charlie felt the anger beginning to build, an expanding heat in his chest, like a blossoming rose, bright and spiked. These days, well, these past few years he gripped the hand of impatience too tightly and was yanked into situations where he easily lost his temper. He turned away from the woman, rested his elbow on the sill and looked out of the window. It was a cold morning in autumn with thin grey clouds and a milky sun low on the horizon. From a meadow, a flock of brown birds burst skywards, wheeled, gained height, and flew northwards until they were distant freckles.
Charlie opened his briefcase and took out an audit report. He hefted it in his left hand, flicked the pages with his thumb, and then tossed it onto the vacant seat next to him. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and relaxed into the gentle rocking motion of the carriage while his tongue busily tried to evacuate a strand of bacon lodged between his back molars.
Charlie jerked with alarm as the train suddenly entered a tunnel and the carriage was filled with an echoing whooshing roar that popped his ears. Moments later, the noise had stopped. Charlie opened his eyes; they were now passing an extensive woodland of conifers. From the windows at the other side of the carriage, light flashed, like a lengthy semaphore signal, as trees momentarily blocked the rays of sunbeams and created a flickering strobe effect.
Every flash of light appeared to slap the vacant seat facing Charlie. Flash…slap. Flash…slap. Flash. Flash. Slap. Slap. Charlie watched as each flash of light built upon the previous flash developing a layer of light that widened and thickened and deepened until eventually the woodland was passed and the strobe light effect ceased but the seat facing Charlie was now occupied by a patch of dazzling brightness like a cushion of white fire. He felt the heat emanating from the light. His eyes instinctively narrowed to avoid the intense glare.
Charlie felt the radiance opposite him beginning to exert an hypnotic effect and with a struggle he forced his attention away and focused on the lady with dark glasses. She sat upright, behaving as casually as before her hand slowly stroking Molly the dog which continued to lay, completely unperturbed, at her feet. Across the carriage, a man with a silver earring ate a sandwich while reading a newspaper and bits of cheese and crumbs fell to the floor where a child played with a toy car. In the other seats, two teenage girls pressed their heads together and giggled. Each of them having daring adolescent thoughts about the longhaired student in denim standing in the aisle and reaching up to his holdall on the overhead luggage rack.
“Hello Charlie.”

The voice was a level above a whisper. It sounded friendly, affectionate and soft with warmth. The voice was coming from the patch of light on the seat. Charlie looked back and saw that the previous brilliance had dimmed and had become duller like a dawn of grey cloud.
“Only you Charlie. Not the lady with the dark glasses. Not the man with the silver earring or the boy. Not even the dog. Only you Charlie ….just you.”

He sat opened mouthed. The piece of bacon had become dislodged. He worked it to the front of his tongue and spat it out.
“There, you see Charlie. A little problem out of the way. Everything can be that easy …..if you want it to be.”

The patch of light in front of him on the seat pulsated like a slow breathing chest. Charlie wanted to speak ….to demand to know what was going on….he wanted to wake up, after all, this could not really be happening. And yet, he didn ’t feel frightened or in the least bit threatened. The initial unease he had experienced was starting to dissipate and it occurred to Charlie that hearing a voice speak to him from a seat in a railway carriage was not unusual at all but instead more of an encounter with a close friend.
“That’s right Charlie.” The voice was re-assuring, honey smooth and gentle. “You’re not afraid….how could you be afraid of part of yourself.”

The rhythmic knocking sound of the carriage had disappeared. The noise of passengers talking, coughing and moving had all been silenced and the voice from the seat was all that Charlie heard.
“I’m your brightness Charlie…the shine that used to be in you. Do you remember?”

He couldn’t answer. He was unable to reply. Numbness had filled his body like an invading paralysis and he was insentient.
The light on the chair pulsated and on the window next to Charlie an image began to form. He saw a boy of about eight years old and the boy was wearing jeans, bright blue jeans and he was climbing a steep hill strewn with sharp rocks and grey boulders of limestone. Momentarily, the boy paused to catch his breath and then continued climbing upwards, higher and higher, until he reached the peak of the hill. And there he stood tall, his cheeks flushed, his eyes brimming with pride and his child ’s mind filled with the belief that if he wanted to, he could safely leap from this ridge, glide across the valley and watch his shadow circle the lowland meadows like a dark searchlight.
“You believed you could fly Charlie.”

Yes, he remembered climbing that hill. Determination and resolution drove him upwards to reach the summit. And he remembered how sweat ran between his shoulder blades and his legs trembled with fatigue. And then, finally at the top, he waved, full of ecstatic jubilation to his parents far below. His
mother had been using binoculars and Charlie recalled how the reflection from them had caused his mother ’s eyes to be a distant pair of stars.
But, thought Charlie that was many years ago. A time of running and jumping and playing and fighting and laughing and crying …..only childhood memories of being a boy
“Not just a boy Charlie. You were a person. A person who could make people happy. A person who had lots of friends. A person who people wanted to spend time with ….to share their lives with. Do you remember Charlie when you spoke …people listened…..and where you went…people followed….just like….just like when you were sixteen with the Midnight Banko Riders.”

The Midnight Banko Riders….Charlie hadn’t heard those words for more than forty years. Words that had been hidden and lay forgotten under countless layers of events and beneath a myriad of experiences that is called the passage of life. But now, with a sensation of tingling warmth stampeding through his veins, Charlie clearly and vividly remembered.
Each day for a week it had snowed with heavy lumpy flakes the size of chestnut blossom. And each night for a week the temperature had plummeted, crusting the snow and transforming the sledging banks into frozen slopes of shining steel.
“You and the boys from the Denes were the masters of the sledging runs.”

Charlie slowly nodded his head and we called ourselves the Banko Riders after the make of sledge we used. They were light and manoeuvrable and I think they were designed and built in Norway or was it Sweden? Anyway, a Banko was the sledge you had to have.
The glowing light on the seat opposite Charlie continued to slowly and regularly pulsate and the voice Charlie heard was melting butter.
“And you carved your initials on the wooden slats. And for hours you rubbed candle wax onto the runners. And you waited until the evening passed and youngsters with parents had retired to their homes and it was midnight.
Charlie smiled as he immediately identified the scene being played out on the carriage window. He saw Havelock ’s field at the edge of town. A long, descending slope of pewter coloured ice cast in hard ripples, like sand at low tide. In the dome of the night sky was a yawning moon and gathered at the ridge of the slope was a mob of silhouettes. Charlie felt his eyes sting as he recognised each one of those dark figures and a soft whisper slipped from his dry mouth.
“The Midnight Banko Riders.”

As if by command, the dark figures dispersed and ran. Each one held a sledge to their chest and each one caught their breath in excitement as they dived forward and landed on their Banko with a muffled thud and began the long thrilling journey down the slope to a small copse of trees hundreds of yards away at the bottom.
“Do you know, we just couldn’t steer. The ice was hard, compacted like concrete. We couldn’t dig our feet into the surface to move left or right. We shouted and screamed and held on for dear life. ”

“That’s right Charlie….for dear life….flying through the night with your friends.”

When the final silhouette merged into the shadows of the trees at the bottom of the slope the images on the carriage window faded and Charlie saw his reflection staring back. Loose skin, the colour and shape of mussel shells, bulged beneath his eyes and his nose was webbed with red threads of broken veins. His mouth was down turned and he had the confused look of a man who was lost. Charlie pushed the grey strands of hair from his forehead and then gradually traced the contours of his cheeks, which were coarse with stubble.
He turned and faced the seat opposite, which was still lucent with slowly pulsating light. In the adjoining place, the lady with the dark glasses rested her head against the back of the seat and there was a look of contentment on her face as her fingers reached down and idly scratched the scruff of hair on Molly ’s neck.
Across the aisle, the man with the newspaper had finished his sandwich and had struck up an animated conversation with the two teenage girls who were pink with giggling. And then Charlie watched the young boy on the floor as he played with his toy car. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, he pushed and pulled the toy car making engine noises as he did so and then very carefully he guided it around the legs of the seat. Eventually, he left the car parked beneath the seat and sat back on his haunches his small lips pursed in concentration.
That’s a garage, thought Charlie, and the car belongs to a secret agent who has just returned from rescuing a world famous film star kidnapped by aliens who can change shape and hide anywhere and …..
“That’s right Charlie, you still remember the games that children play. Look at them Charlie …..their lives are bright….just like yours used to be. They’re all holding on to dear life…..but it’s not too late Charlie….not too late. Just because you’re getting older….it doesn’t mean you have to hide your brightness.”

The light on the seat pulsated, like a flickering candle flame, and then began to rapidly stretch and grow until the entire seat disappeared behind a throbbing brilliance. Charlie sat transfixed and felt his face starting to scorch as the heat intensified and, just before it seemed his skin would melt, he heard four words that would remain branded on his memory forever,
“Let’s fly again Charlie.”

Suddenly, there was a metal screeching noise that came from beneath the carriage as the brakes were engaged. The entire train shuddered and Charlie was flung forward onto the seat opposite and then he lit up like a phosphor flare at a firework party. At the same time, there were cries of alarm from the other passengers as the lighting system failed and the carriage was plunged into the semi-darkness of an autumn morning. Moments later the lighting was restored and, accompanied by a few ironic cheers; the train gradually regained its momentum and continued on its journey.
It took several seconds before Charlie managed to open his eyes for they felt as if they had been stitched shut by thin fibres. His throat was sore and whisky hot and he could smell a distinct aroma of after burn as if scores of matches had been lit and extinguished all around him. His skin was pink and moist and Charlie had the sensation of just stepping out from a warm bath. His skeleton was more erect as if each bone had been polished, honed, oiled and overhauled into perfect working order. A hand touched his knee making him jump.
“Oh, I am sorry,” apologised the lady with dark glasses, “I was trying to find Molly.”

Charlie attempted to reply but needed to cough in order to clear his throat,
“There’s nothing to apologise for,” he said and when he spoke each word sounded crisp and fresh and full of light. And then Charlie stood up to his full six foot three height and inadvertently knocked his head against the overhead luggage rack. He laughed and rubbed his head.
“Now let me see, where could you be Molly.” And he stroked his smooth cheeks and chin in an exaggerated pose of bewilderment.
“Aha!”

“Have you found her?”

“Yes I have.”

Charlie knelt down, noticing how easy it was to perform such a manoeuvre, and peered under the seat. And there cowering in the darkness and whimpering in some distress was Molly.
“I think she must have a bit of a shock, probably with the train juddering like that, ” said Charlie. “But don’t worry, I’ll soon coax her out. Come on Molly. There’s a good girl. Out you come.”

“Oh, please do take care,” urged the lady with the dark glasses, “Molly is a very nervous dog and she doesn’t take to strangers at all. And she can give a nasty nip.”

Hardly had she finished speaking when Molly emerged from under the seat, her tail wagging furiously in overtime and her long tongue threatening to lick the skin from Charlie ’s face. He, in turn, rubbed her ears and stroked her muzzle.
“What a lovely dog you are Molly. Yes you are….you’re a lovely dog.”

He sat down on the seat next to the lady and immediately Molly leapt up onto his lap panting and yapping with enormous delight. The lady was giggling with relief that Molly was safe and had indeed apparently made a new friend.
“It sounds like Molly has taken to you Mr…..?”

Charlie turned towards her,
“Scarborough……My name’s Charlie Scarborough.”

And he eased back into his seat and continued to stroke and make a fuss of Molly.
The lady, in turn, leaned towards Charlie,
“What a delightful name. And I’ll let you into a little secret.” She paused and then delicately removed her large dark glasses and with her brown eyes, like paths into deep forests, she faced Charlie, smiled and gently whispered,
“Scarborough is my favourite place. It’s full of life and it’s so…..so…”

“So bright?” asked Charlie. And he was filled with that feeling again……that familiar exciting feeling from his toes to his ears…..that familiar exciting overwhelming feeling that he…..Charlie Scarborough…..was once more about to fly

[John Dean]

Where The Wind Sleeps On Calm Nights
.
Jack was twelve years old and had red hair and freckles. Every summer he stayed at a farm belonging to Auntie and Uncle.
His bedroom at the farm wasn’t very big and, in fact, every year the room seemed to shrink. And on this particular summer, when Jack was twelve, it seemed even smaller.
Beneath the bed was a wooden crate full of old comics, “Victor,” “Eagle”, “Wizard”, “Boys Own”. They smelled of cheese rind. Some were creased. Others had corners bent over and on page 14 of “The Hotspur” the eye of a robber had been blackened with a blunt pencil. Jack didn’t know for sure but he guessed the comics once belonged to Ralph, his cousin, who had left the farm years ago to live in London.
The last time Jack had seen Ralph was about four years ago. It was on the track that leads to the farm and Jack had been squatting near an ants ’ nest. A ground beetle was drowning beneath an overwhelming tide of black ants and Jack was trying to rescue it with a grass stem. Being so engrossed Jack didn ’t notice a car pull up next to him until a man wound down the window.
“The streets of London are like that,” Ralph said nodding at the ants that were now exploring Jack’s shoes and invading the lace holes. Jack jumped and began to stamp his feet.
“I don’t think I’d like London.”

“No maybe not. But I bet you like chocolate.” Ralph reached into the glove compartment and produced a Mars Bar. “Here Jack….catch.” And then he drove off trailing a grey parachute of dust behind the car.
Jack opened the bedroom window and gazed out at the gently sloping hill behind the farm. As usual, there were the sheep. With their heads and feet hidden by tall grass they looked like boulders of limestone.
And at the end of the overgrown path, near the top of the hill, was the old farmhouse. It looked like a crumpled hat. The roof sagged, the walls slumped and guttering seemed to drip from the eaves.
Jack noticed that jackdaws had, again, chosen to nest in the crumbling stonework of the chimneystack. As he watched, they began clacking furiously and suddenly, as if their feet were on fire, they alighted from the chimneystack and began circling the old building. Jack scanned the surrounding skies for hawks but saw nothing.
The birds returned to the nest but, before they could settle, a wisp of smoke spiralled from the chimney like a twist of ascending grey wool. The jackdaws clacked and flew off in a flurry of wing, feather and indignation. As suddenly as the smoke had appeared ….it abruptly vanished.
Could there be somebody in the old farmhouse? Jack focused on the chimney, willing for more smoke to appear. He scanned the rest of the building for movement, silhouettes, shadows ….anything. From this distance, the boarded up door and windows seemed secure. Maybe after all, the place was empty ….a shell of a building barely clinging onto the side of the hill. Smoke then? Or just rising dust and powder from crumbling masonry dislodged by roosting birds?
The kitchen was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread. Auntie wiped her floury hands on her apron.
“You were a long time unpacking.”

“I was looking through the window.”

“And what did you see through the window?”

“The hill and….”

“Oh, it hasn’t moved then? Not been eaten by sheep perhaps?”

Auntie laughed. Jack grinned.
“No, it’s still there. Mind you, the sheep do look bigger.”

Jack laughed. Auntie giggled.
She stacked three large bowls on the kitchen table that was marked with deep, blackened grooves like ancient wounds. Jack set the places and then sat on his seat facing the window above the sink.
The door opened and into the kitchen came the sounds and smells of the farmyard….and Uncle. Ignoring everybody, he sat down, took a roll from the breadboard and tore it to small pieces as if to feed ducks. As soon as Auntie had finished ladling soup into the bowl, he scooped up the pieces of bread and scattered them onto the steaming liquid. In seven slurps the bowl was empty. Uncle leaned back, plucked a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it with a match, inhaled deeply, belched loudly and declared,
“Ahhh!”

“Manners,” said Auntie.
“Sorry,” said Uncle….and removed his hat.
“That’s better,” she said.
Jack giggled. Auntie laughed. Uncle smoked.
“You know the old farmhouse on the hill,” said Jack, “ does anyone live there?”

Uncle closed his eyes and shook his head. Auntie soaked up the remaining soup with a piece of bread, held it between her fingers for a moment and then popped it into her mouth.
“Nobody lives there,” she craned her head round to face the direction of the hill as if she could see the old farmhouse through stone walls, “ a rabbit house maybe….or a place where the wind sleeps on calm nights.”

Auntie smiled. Jack stared. Uncle nodded and then went back to work outside leaving behind a swirl of blue smoke and sawdust of breadcrumbs on the table.
Auntie collected the empty bowls and the spoons.
“No,” she said, “the old farmhouse has been empty for years. Just a mess of stones. Dangerous too. Every spring when the snow ’s gone it looks smaller than before. Many a time I’ve heard a bang in the night and thought, there goes another piece of that house falling off and tumbling down the hill. You know Jack ….it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if some morning there was a knocking at the door and there was a whole pile of stones ….standing on the step….just come a visiting.
She turned on the tap. A jet of water gushed into the sink sending up a spray that sparkled like a fountain of diamonds in the sunlight that beamed through the window.
The path up to the old farmhouse was narrow and in some places it was completely hidden by bushes and shrubs. The day was warm and Jack was sweating. There were briar scratches on his arms and burrs, like hairy warts, stuck to his jeans.
The sound of a shotgun blast made Jack stop. He turned and looked down the hill. In a field, a gang of seasonal workers were helping Uncle; they were raking hay into piles ready to be heaped onto a trailer. Even from this distance, Jack could see the workers were sunburned after helping at many farms in the area. Most had long hair, which in some cases was tied into ponytails, and quite a few had beards. Once they ’d finished here they’d drift off elsewhere to help with fruit picking or haymaking or whatever the farmers needed doing.
At the edge of the field was Judd. Judd was from the village. A veteran soldier and, with his shotgun ready, he patrolled back and forth ready to take a pot shot at any creature spooked into the open by the harvesting. Usually he returned to the village with a string of rabbits, rats and an assortment of game birds and he always cracked the same joke.
“Make a nice stew this lot will,” and then he’d nod his head to the travelling workers, “ might get one of them hippies one day….mind, you… take a lot of plucking!”

The shotgun blasted again followed by an angry indignant shout from one of the workers. Jack smiled and wondered if Judd had bagged his first hippy.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack stood outside the old farmhouse. Tiles were missing; planks of rough wood had been hammered across the door and the windows. The stonework was crumbling and there were gaps in areas of the walls …. gaps large enough to squeeze through.
Now that he’d arrived, Jack wasn’t sure whether he wanted to explore the inside of the building. It had seemed a good idea back at the farm. Solve the mystery of the smoke. Discover the identity of the occupant. It would be an adventure just like those comic stories.
Down below, the workers were still busy collecting and storing the hay. Jack watched as Judd levelled the shotgun against his shoulder and saw a puff of smoke issue from the barrels followed immediately by a double retort. And up above, the sky was a wide dome and clouds scrolled eastwards.
A quick look inside and then I’ll go fishing.
He placed a hand at each side of one of the largest gaps. The stone felt cold to his touch. Carefully, he stepped his left leg through and then, leaving the bright sunshine behind, he entered the twilight world of the old farmhouse.
There was a smell of wet soil. The air felt damp and chilly. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. Jack was in an empty room that he surmised must have been kitchen and living room. To his right, in the corner was a flight of stone steps leading to rooms above. Turning towards the fireplace Jack gasped, as a dark silhouette suddenly appeared directly in front about two steps away. Instinctively, Jack recoiled backwards and when the figure in front of him did the same, Jack breathed a sigh of relief realising that what he saw was his own image reflected in a dusty mirror above the mantelpiece.
Just an old farmhouse. A haunt for mice and rabbits and spiders in cracks and jackdaws on chimneys. Auntie was right …. nobody lives here….it’s only a place where the wind sleeps on calm nights. But when his eyes dropped to the hearth doubt poked him in the chest with a sudden thump. There in the grate, was a small pile of grey ash and next to the ash was a collection of empty cans ….charred and dented.
Closer to the beck crept Jack and peering over the bank he spotted the trout. Jack had tried to catch the fish before and was convinced it was the biggest in the beck. Nearly fourteen inches long. Its body was sleek and flecked with dark spots. Its mouth gaped white and its tail moved in rhythm to the beat of the current. Jack flicked the worm to the trout and gripped the rod ready to strike. But as usual the trout imperiously ignored the bait and after Jack had tried twice more the trout, bored with this game, flexed its body and disappeared in a cloud of silt.
Jack got to his feet, reeled in the line and walked through the pasture. Across the beck, about two fields away, he spotted the gang of workers. They climbed the fence to join the track that led away from the farm. Their work for Uncle was completed and now they would travel elsewhere.
Jack had decided it was the workers who were responsible for the smoke coming from the old farmhouse. It made sense. Why bother returning to the village every night and paying for accommodation when there was a convenient and free squat close by.
In the days that followed, Jack helped Uncle around the farm. There were fences to repair, eggs to collect, cows to lead from the pastures, moles to be trapped. And in the kitchen garden, the gooseberries were shiny and swollen ready to be picked and wined for winter ’s drinking.
As he helped, Jack occasionally peered up to the old farmhouse. The only evidence of life were the jackdaws on the chimneys and the sheep roaming the slopes of the hill. He had been right ….no more workers….no more smoke.
Three days later, Jack was sitting on a cushion of grass watching a small red float bob on the surface of the beck. The late afternoon sun had tempted the midge to swarm just above the surface of the water and in a beech tree a pair blackbirds squabbled.
The sun touched the fringe of the western moors as Jack waited patiently for the trout to snatch the bait. Silhouettes of trees darkened and a bat darted about, trawling the air for insects. Two more hours fishing and then suppertime. Jack tracked the journey of the bat until it vanished in the direction of the old farmhouse. Jack ’s heart jumped and he gasped. The jackdaws were agitated. They were hopping madly on the rim of the chimney pot. A thin spiral of smoke drifted up into the evening sky. Somebody had returned to the old farmhouse and Jack was determined to discover just exactly who that person was.
As he climbed the hill, Jack stopped and looked at the ruin. The birds were now roosting on the chimney and there was no smoke. Perhaps the person had left. Maybe the fire had gone out but the person was still there ….sheltering till dawn. There was no hesitation in Jack’s mind only a curiosity to reveal the identity of the visitor to the old farmhouse.
Crouching next to the gap in the wall, he heard no sound coming from inside. Tentatively he called,
“Hello!” No reply. He called again, “hello”. Jack felt foolish shouting into a hole. He waited a moment and then yelled,
“Anybody there?” Behind him a sheep raised its head and stared with dumb marble eyes before wandering off down the slope. Jack squeezed through the gap. As before, the room smelled earthy and chilly but now there was a distinct aroma of wood smoke. To his right was the flight of steps and in front was the fireplace with the mirror above the mantelpiece. In the hearth were two extra cans, both scorched and dented. And then …. Jack noticed footprints on the floor….they weren’t his. There were palm prints on the wall….they weren’t his. And when Jack raised his face to the mirror he saw two eyes….and they weren’t his.
“Hello Jack,” said a soft voice, “I bet you still like chocolate.”



They dislodged a couple of stones from the wall and used them for seats. Soon the fire was burning well and the jackdaws were clacking.
Jack regarded the figure opposite. His hair was long and tied back in a ponytail. A beard covered his chin and he wore a blue woollen jacket over a plaid shirt. His jeans were dirty and dried mud was compacted into the treads of his boots. Orange light flickered on his forehead.
“No,” he stared wistfully into the flames, “ tried to make a go of it. Wasn’t for me though.” He paused and rubbed his hands, “exciting at first. London. The big city. And all those people Jack. It was….” He looked up and met Jack’s gaze.
“Do you remember that day on the farm track?”

Jack wore a puzzled frown.
“You were trying to rescue a beetle or something from some ants.”

Jack smiled and nodded.
“Well, it was a bit like that for me in London. The noise….the movement….the hurrying. Do you know Jack….I felt trapped. Five years in the big city. And each year was longer than the one before. ”

“So you decided to leave?”

“Been on the road for five months now. Walking….hitching rides. Odd jobs in towns. Met up with a group of others and sort of tagged along. But when I phoned Mam I kept up the pretence. Made believe I was still in London. ”

“Why did you do that?”

Ralph didn’t reply straight away. He swallowed. Maybe it was the heat from the fire that reddened his cheeks.
“I….I didn’t want to let them down. Didn’t want to hurt them.”

“But you couldn’t keep it a secret forever Ralph. They were bound to find out sooner or later.”

Ralph grinned and let out a loud, long sigh,
“Yes and I wish it could have been later but Judd recognised me the first day we helped getting the hay in. ”

“You were one of the hippies?”

“Hippies!” Ralph slapped both knees and laughed. “They’re not hippies.”

“That’s what Judd calls them.”

“Well, that’s Judd for you. Anyway, he recognised me straight away. Must be his shooters eyes. Told me the hair and beard didn ’t fool him….nor the company I kept. But he also told me how much Mam and Dad missed me. So, I ’ve decided to stay.”

“What….you mean here?”

“Well actually Jack….I was thinking somewhere a bit more comfortable.”



All night the wind roared through the rafters of the farm. But by dawn the storm had vanished and replaced by the aroma of sizzling bacon. Auntie cracked another egg into the pan.
“Some gale last night. I don’t think I slept a wink. He did.” She tilted at Uncle. “Snored all the way through it. Come to think of it maybe it wasn’t a storm….just him snoring.”

Auntie grinned. Jack laughed. Uncle smiled and smoked a cigarette. She served out the food.
“Is it still there?”

“What’s that Auntie?”

“The ruin on the hill. Wouldn’t surprise me if it hadn’t tumbled all the way down to the bottom. Every last….”

A knocking on the kitchen door interrupted her. She stood up and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Now, who on earth could that be….this time in the morning?”

“Probably the old ruin come a knocking,” said Jack.
Auntie laughed. Jack grinned. Uncle smiled and crushed the cigarette between his fingers.
She opened the door and Jack and Uncle heard her gasp. She stepped back into the kitchen leading Ralph by the arm. The only sound before Ralph spoke was the muffled tick of the clock.
“Hello. I’ve come home. Come to help on the farm Dad….there’s probably a lot of damage after the storm. Mam, I noticed some sloes just ready for picking. And Jack, there ’s a huge trout waiting to be caught in the beck. So I’ll stay….if that’s alright with everyone.”

Uncle whooped. Auntie blubbered. And Jack….And Jack had the best holiday ever!

[John Dean]

Four Boys

Jake and Steve stood on the old stone bridge. Far below them, the river was in summer mood. With wide lazy swirls and chuckling rapids it slowly meandered to its sea bound destination.
And, just beneath the surface of the water were trout; their broad tail fins paddling the gentle current.
But it was towards the island in the river where Jake and Steve looked. The small island dominated by a tall ash tree that grew at its centre. Elsewhere, bushes and shrubs tangled for space to survive and at the northern end, facing the bridge, was a narrow spit of bleached shingle.
They knew every inch of the island. They knew the best place to fish and the best place to hide. Their initials were carved on the ash tree and they ’d built stone circles for bonfires. For many seasons the small island had been their territory ….their kingdom. But one day forty years ago, when they had just turned fifteen, they crossed to the island for the final time.
Through the country lanes they raced….the four of them. Jake, Steve, Tweedy and Smudge. Each had a fishing rod tied to the crossbar of their bike. Each had a haversack slung across their shoulders and all of them …had the glorious shine of the first day of the long summer holiday beaming from their faces.
Jake stopped at the top of the hill…. Steve was four yards behind him.
“Look at those two down there! Just look at them. Oi…Tweedy …Smudge….what’s keeping you?”

Waiting for others was not in Jake’s nature and, taking his feet off the pedals, he stuck out his legs and freewheeled down the last hill to the bridge over the river …..with Steve still four yards behind.
“Wow! Do you see that one Jake? It’s a bloody monster.”

Jake leaned further over the parapet and spotted the large brown trout lying in a deep pool under the arch of the bridge. Its grey white mouth gaped and closed ….gaped and closed. In a flash, the fish swerved left, twisted sideways, then its jaws snapped, like a mouse trap, and a minnow vanished.
“My monster,” said Jake, “ I’m catching it.” There was an unmistakable note of threat in his voice that warned….keep your hooks out of my fish….or else!
Tweedy and Smudge leaned their bikes against the stonework of the bridge. Both were red faced. Tweedy ’s ginger hair stood on end as if in shock and something green was trying to escape from Smudge ’s nose.
Tweedy pointed to the river,
“Look at those. Bloody hell, what a size. Christ…look at that bugger!”

“What is it? What can you see?” asked Smudge busy examining what was stuck to the sleeve of his shirt.
“It’s a body Smudge.”

“Yeah Smudge, a body. Woman I think. What do you think Tweedy…woman?”

“Definitely….big tits…bet she got washed down from that nuddy farm.”

Eagerly, Smudge elbowed his way between them.
“I don’t see any woman. Where was she?”

“ Too late Smudge….fish have eaten her.”

“Yeah Smudge,” said Jake walking back to his bike, “ You know what that means don’t you…” He paused for effect. “ Fish and tits.”

Steve and Tweedy burst out laughing and then quickly caught up with Jake who by now had set off down a narrow sandy track to the riverbank.
Smudge had a final scan of the water and then, realising it had all been a joke, shouted after the other three.
“Hey, I knew you were having me on. You don’t think I believed you, do you.”

He jumped on his bike and pedalled after his friends.
Friends, that’s what they were, ever since primary school, from the first wet Monday morning in September when Mrs. Rice, their teacher, had asked the class to stand up, one at a time, and in a big voice tell everybody who they were. Jake Longstaff ….Stephen Martins….Geoff Harris, who later that week became known as Tweedy and Stuart Smith who, during an art lesson using charcoal, thereafter became known as Smudge. Mrs. Rice had been less than pleased with the Hitler style moustache he ’d drawn under his nose but she eventually saw the funny side when, in his attempt to “shave off” the moustache by rubbing, had only succeeded in creating a dark shadow all over his face.
“Why Stuart,” laughed Mrs. Rice, unable to contain herself, “you’re just one big smudge!”

They dropped their bikes down onto the grassy bank next to the river and untied their fishing rods from the crossbars.
“Platoon…..Attention!” yelled Jake.
“Yes Sir!” chorused the other three.”

“Single File!”

“Yes Sir!”

“Follow Me!”

“Yes Sir!”

With Jake leading the way, they stepped into the shallow rapids that splashed no more than shin high. Each had a brown army surplus haversack slung across their shoulder and each held, with hands stretched above their heads, a fishing rod. Heroic soldiers braving the dangerous shark infested swamp to do battle with the mighty Japanese army on Blood Island.
On the shingle beach at the northern end of the island they stood. Facing them was the old stone bridge with high vaulted arches and darting back and forth from nests built inside those arches were swifts. They screamed and zipped and with mouths opened wide they trawled the air for insects. The main current of the river flowed through a side arch next to the grassy bank where they ’d left their bikes while beneath the other three larger arches the water slowly eddied to form deep pools covered with floating blossoms of light brown foam. And in those pools the monsters lurked …those fish of dreams and catches of exaggeration.
Jake, Steve and Smudge tackled up quickly, threading line, nipping shot, tying and baiting hooks and by the time Tweedy returned from the bushes all three of them were sitting transfixed by floats bobbing in the water thirty feet away.
“That’s better,” said Tweedy, wiping his hands on his trousers, “now for business.”

“I thought you’d already done that in the bushes,” muttered Jake.
“Yes and which bush was it,” asked Steve, “ just so as we know.”

“Oh, you’ll know alright,” laughed Tweedy. He’d tackled up and wrapped a huge lobworm around a hook. “You’ll know when you find it.” He swung his rod expertly and the float cut a graceful arc through the air and then landed with a gentle plop next to the other three floats. He grinned with a smile that almost cracked his face in half, “what a cast eh? Let the master show you. Just watch and learn…watch and learn.”

All four of them crouched on the shingle beach staring at little green and red floats bobbing up and down in the shadow of the arches. Swifts screamed. The occasional vehicle crossed the bridge. In the distance a steam train powered south on the Edinburgh-London mainline and the sweet scent of mallow thickened in the heat of the climbing sun.
“Yes!” shouted Tweedy. He jumped up, at the same time, snatched his rod and flicked it like a whip behind his left shoulder.
“Gotcha!” he yelled in triumph. “Gotcha!”

Jake shook his head, “I don’t believe it. This happens every time. He starts last but catches first.
“Talent Jake….sheer talent.”

His rod bent and the nylon fishing line, taught as a violin string, throbbed with the shake and pull of a fish desperately striving for freedom. Slowly Tweedy turned the handle of the reel and the fish came closer and closer to the shingle beach. Smudge shielded his eyes from the sun and in the water spotted a long thin creature twisting and curling in the shallows.
“Bloody hell,” he gasped, “Tweedy’s caught a bloody snake.”

Steve followed the direction of Smudge’s finger,
“You daft bugger Smudge…it’s an eel. Hey Jake , Tweedy’s caught an eel.”

They gathered together and watched as Tweedy continued turning the handle of the reel until eventually the eel, wrist thick and branch long slid out of the water next to the boys ’ feet. Bending down, Tweedy grabbed the fish behind its head and held it aloft; a silver skinned trophy, vibrant and sleek that twisted and curled like an ever changing autograph.
Cautiously, Smudge took a step closer.
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked and there was a mixture of excitement and fear in his voice. The eel thrashed its tail and power surged through the tunnel of its body. Smudge hoped the Tweedy ’s grip on the creature was secure.
“Well,” replied Tweedy, trying to appear nonchalant yet at the same time wishing the fish would stop wriggling so violently.
“Could always eat it, I suppose.”

“Eat it!” Smudge screwed up his face in disgust as he suddenly had an image of the eel sliding down his throat like a dirty tongue.
“That’s right Smudge…. eat it,” said Jake and from a leather sheath attached to his belt he drew out a long knife and,slowly rotating it in his hand,he continued quietly,
“But first….first you have to kill it.”

Smudge opened his mouth but no words came out.
“Not easy to kill though,” said Steve who was now standing at Jake’s shoulder. “In fact, some say it’s impossible.”

Jake slowly nodded in agreement but Tweedy caught the quick wink he made.
“Yeah Smudge, Jake and Steve are right. I remember last year at Gulley Pond I caught this whacking great eel ….big as a log…took it home and got a hammer…and bang..bang..bang. I nailed it right through the head to the yard door. And then I got a knife …a sharp one ….one of those you use for cutting lino. I slit that eel from the top of its head and …” With his free hand, Tweedy traced a line downwards in front of Smudge’s face. “And all the way down to the tip of its tail. Skinned it. Chopped it into little bits and put it into a frying pan. And do you know what Smudge? ”

Unblinking, Smudge moved his head, fractionally, left and right.
“Well,” continued Tweedy, “each little piece of eel wriggled and squirmed in the pan like a bunch of worms. Couldn ’t kill it….wouldn’t die…no matter what I did to it….it was…you know….immoral.”

“Immortal,” corrected Steve, scratching his nose to conceal a grin, “I think you mean immortal.”

“Yeah,” said Tweedy, “that as well.”

Jake took the eel and crouched down clamping it between his palm and the stones. Its tail whipped from side to side ….its head was motionless….nostrils dilating and closing. The yellow marbles of its eyes seemed to stare at the water four inches away ….so tantalisingly close but unreachable. Jake lowered the knife until it rested on the skin behind the head.
“If you cut the head off,” he said, “ the body will swim back into the water….watch.”

But Smudge didn’t want to watch….couldn’t watch. He snapped his eyes shut and covered them with his hands. A few moments later, he heard the stones scrape as Jake got to his feet.
“There done it…and I’ve kept the head in my hand. Look.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

Smudge felt his arm being gripped and, when he opened his eyes, Jake’s hand was held out and there nestling in his palm was a grey stone.
The swifts screamed through the air, the branches of the ash tree nudged in the breeze, and Smudge walked away and sat by himself at the far end of the shingle beach. After a few moments, Jake called across,
“I’m sorry Smudge. I didn’t kill the eel! I wouldn’t do that.” He noticed the back of Smudge’s head nod twice and then he repeated, this time more softly,
“I’m sorry.” And he hurled the grey stone…hurled it as far away as he could.
For more than half an hour, nothing was spoken between them each absorbed with catching fish. Small dace, fat chub, roach, gudgeon and a multitude of minnows all were caught and all returned.
It was Tweedy who spotted it first; sailing through the central arch of the bridge was a loose raft of driftwood …twigs…branches and leaves. Its shape altered as bits of debris lost purchase and rejoined elsewhere and the entire mass was undulating in the current as if it were breathing. Caught up in the eddy next to the stonework of the arch, it drifted towards their floats.
“It’s going to snag our floats,” yelled Tweedy. He leapt to his feet and rapidly turned the handle of his reel. Steve and Smudge followed Tweedy ’s lead and began to save their line.
“What brought that lot down?” Asked Smudge. Steve shook his head slowly. He looked thoughtful.
“Dunno….could be something happening higher up the valley…hey look.”

More twigs and branches were emerging from the bridge but this time, mixed in with them, the boys could see plastic bags, paper, cardboard, there was even a grey tennis ball and in the middle, revolving slowly like a stunted periscope, was a green wine bottle.
Tweedy ran his fingers through his ginger hair and scrutinised the flow of water next to the island. He narrowed his eyes in a puzzled expression,
“Its dirty….look….the rivers turning brown.”

Jake snatched up his rod and pulled hard.
“Tweedy’s right….it’s changing colour and I’ve just realised why…it’s ….oh shit! My lines caught.”

Then suddenly, Jake’s rod bent forward…immediately kicked back and again curved towards the water. His line straightened …became taught and finally jerked as an enormous trout exploded from the dark pool and with a powerful twist of its tail soared into the air dragging Jakes float upwards. All four of them knew in that instant, Jake had hooked the monster that hunted in the dark regions of the pool beneath the bridge.
The trout plunged back into the river and once more Jake’s rod bent into an “n” shaped curve, line stripped from the reel and across the surface of the water the small red float darted to the left, abruptly submerged and then reappeared and raced to the right.
“You’ve got it Jake…you’ve got it,” yelled Steve, “ don’t let it snap you.”

“No danger of that. This trout is mine….” He gripped the rod tightly. “And he’s not getting away.”

Tweedy assembled his landing net and ran to join them. But it was something else that was intriguing Smudge ….as he took a small step up the shingle beach he noticed that the water followed. He looked about him ….something had changed but at first couldn’t work out what it was. Something was different….he felt a sudden thump in his chest as he realised what was happening. The shingle beach on which they were standing was getting smaller.
“Oh hell…helly shit!” He ran to the others. “Jake…Steve…Tweedy…the rivers rising! We gotta go now,” he repeated more forcibly, “we gotta go now.”

With one glance at the rapidly disappearing beach, Tweedy realised what was happening and he began to gather his gear together.
“Come on Jake….Smudge is right…the river’s starting to flood…leave the fish..and let’s go.”

Jake shook his head and stared straight ahead towards the dark pool. Steve pointed, “the fish is going for that pile of wood.” The float was streaking across the pool and heading straight for the base of the arch where it became embedded amongst the growing mess of debris that was collecting there.
“The bugger snagged me but its still on …..I can feel it pulling. One way or another I’m going to have that fish!”

He stepped from the shingle beach and began wading through the water turning the handle of the reel and retrieving the nylon line that the fish had stripped off. For a moment, Steve paused and then with a resolute look of determination followed Jake into the river.
“Jake… Steve… don’t be daft. We’ve got to get off this island. Come on,” urged Tweedy, “snap the line… just let it go!”

“Yeah, come on please,” pleaded Smudge, who by now had his bag slung over his shoulder and was anxiously hopping from one foot to the other on the final small stretch of beach that remained above water.
Further into the pool went Jake and Steve, side by side, but now progressing more slowly through the water that was already reaching their waists.
Tweedy splashed across to Smudge, grabbed his arm and dragged him to the ash tree.
“We’re too late Smudge. Look at the current there…we’ll never make it.”

The shallow rapids, they had crossed earlier that day, had been erased by the stampeding river and the rising water was now lapping against the wheels of their bikes left on the bank.
Tweedy held the trunk of the ash tree with both hands and there was no give when he tried to move it …. solid and high. He glanced back over his shoulder to the river and with no further hesitation began hauling himself up the tree, cautiously seeking hand and foot holds as he scrambled higher and higher. Eventually, he reached branches about twelve feet from the very top that would no longer support his weight and there he waited for Smudge who had now begun his ascent. By the time they were together, water was running over the island …searching routes and exploring paths through the bushes and shrubs. From the drowning vegetation, a large brown rat emerged, sniffed the air and tried to escape by climbing higher into a bush but lost its footing, fell into the water, and was swept away …its slender pink tail, like a plucked bone, waggled twice before disappearing completely.
Jake and Steve had almost reached the mess of debris that was now beginning to rotate and swirl next to the stonework of the bridge. Their progress was laborious and they could both feel in the water, which was now chest high, the increasingly menacing and intimidating strength of the current.
Steve, his face drained of blood, heard his teeth chattering and, try as he may, he could not control this involuntary movement which made him embarrassed when he spoke.
“Nearly…nearly there Jake.”

“A few more steps and we’ll climb out. There’s a ledge….we’ll climb onto that….and then I’ll get my fish.”

Steve looked at the narrow ledge on the brickwork less than a foot above the water and probably only five inches wide. It was made of concrete or cement and parts of it had crumbled away. He managed to control his mouth long enough to force a smile of satisfaction ….shoulder to shoulder they stood….catching together a fish of dreams.
“Yes,” he whispered, “let’s get your fish.”

On both banks, crowds of people had gathered trying to make sense of the drama unfolding before them; many calling and shouting and urging the two boys trapped on the tree to climb higher. Others were running along the bank desperately searching for material to stage a rescue and a lone man, knee deep in water, was being restrained from trying to swim out.
There were many more people on the bridge, leaning precariously over the side, yelling instructions and words of encouragement to the two boys clinging with fingers to the narrow ledge, which was now level with the water.
From the blue ceiling of the sky, the afternoon sun continued to blaze down and to and fro flittered the swifts from their nests beneath the arches of the old bridge.
Suddenly, loud piercing screams rang out from the crowd rapidly followed by a wail of despair as a mighty wave of brown water burst through each archway. Unstoppable and relentless, this surging wall of water snatched away the raft of debris and seemed to devour it.
The crowds on the bridge screamed again as they felt the structure beneath their feet beginning to tremble in the increasing strength of the river ’s flow. Pushing and falling….running and crawling…they scattered to the safety of the banks.
The bridge held firm but the island was unable to withstand the devastating onslaught. It was over run in seconds …swept aside and destroyed. The only evidence that it ever existed was the very top of the ash tree shuddering like a tattered banner of truce.
Jake and Steve stood side by side on the old stone bridge and far below them the river was in summer mood. But their gaze was directed at the island ….the small island with the single ash tree at its centre and the shingle beach at the northern end …..the beach where Tweedy and Smudge sat fishing. Jake and Steve called out to them and waved and, shading his eyes, Smudge looked up, nudged Tweedy and they both returned the wave.
Just four boys together…..for boys who had been friends for ever.

[John Dean]

Putting Down Roots
I love my garden. There are lawns, trees, ponds, flowers, vegetables and a path that meanders to a shed. Every year there are beautiful flowers, plump vegetables and juicy fruit. I ’ve got green fingers it’s true….but what nobody knows, not even my wife, is that I’ve also got green arms and legs….and toes that have stretched and grown long and thin and white….just like roots.
It was Spring when my body began to change. I’d sown the first rows of broad beans and after repeatedly washing my hands I couldn ’t remove the green stain that covered the tip of each finger. Even using a scrubbing brush made no difference; it was as if I ’d been fingerprinted on a pad of indelible green ink.
At first I thought the marks may have been caused by a chemical or dye from the broad bean seeds but after a week I changed my mind. The “green” had spread on both hands and now covered each finger down to my knuckles. It looked like I was wearing weird mittens and it was no longer a stain or a patina of green but instead the colour had deepened so much I could literally feel it under my skin.
I was neither alarmed of frightened in fact quite the opposite because, as I flexed and stretched my fingers, the pain of arthritis I had learned to live with since I ’d retired had gone. And I don’t just mean diminished or subsided or temporarily numbed….it had utterly and completely vanished. The relief I felt was as if splinters of wood had been deftly and expertly removed from every finger joint.
By the beginning of April netting was in place to protect the broad bean shoots from wood pigeon attack, peacock butterflies had emerged from hibernation, trees were coming into leaf and the “green” had travelled further. As well as my hands, both arms up to my shoulders were the colour of daffodil stems. And there was a fresh suppleness in my wrists and elbows that, for the first time in many years, made lifting, pushing and pulling an effortless, joyous and painless activity.
Around the house I had taken to wearing gloves and long sleeved shirts and at bedtime I put my pyjamas on in the bathroom.
“I hope you don’t me saying this Mike,” began my wife one morning at breakfast, “but you’ve become a bit….well….a bit messy.”

I was about to reply but before I could draw breath she continued,
“No. Messy is the wrong word.” She spread marmalade thinly across the lightly toasted whole wheat bread and then, as if suddenly finding the solution to a mental crossword, she announced,
“Slovenly….that’s it….you’ve become a bit slovenly.”

Compared to my wife, who is always exact, tidy, well presented and conscious of her appearance, I am I suppose slightly ….well, slightly casual. But slovenly! I put down my coffee mug and responded,
“Slovenly? What do you mean slovenly?”

She quartered her toast with surgical precision, took a sip of tea from her cup, dabbed her lips with a serviette and replied ’

“I accept your explanation about having to wear gloves because of an allergy. Goodness knows though why you haven ’t seen Dr. O’Brian. It’s been well over a month now.”

She took another sip of tea.
“But it’s not just the gloves it’s….it’s the beard and….” There was a tone of exasperation creeping into her voice. She waved a hand in the air as if batting away a persistent midge,
“and the hair. It’s so….well, so slovenly!” She posted the final quarter of toast into her mouth and began to chew.
I hadn’t shaved or had a haircut since the day the “green” had first appeared on my fingers and in that time, my beard had grown vigorously covering my cheeks, chin and throat and it was the same shiny light brown as my mop of hair. Gone was the ever present and embarrassing bald patch and gone was every thread of grey. As the “green” was making its journey….and that’s how I regarded it….as a “journey”….I was slowly changing as well and I was enjoying sharing the ride. I felt better ….I felt fitter….healthier….I felt rejuvenated. Where would the journey end? I had no answer and I was seeking no answer. There was such calmness and serenity in my mind, there was no room left for anxiety or apprehension. And, I had also developed a youthful stubborn streak that arrogantly declared ….if I don’t want to shave….I won’t! And if I want to grow my hair long….I will!
“Annie,” I smiled, “the allergy is just a minor skin complaint and as for seeing Dr. O’Brian….why waste his time? I feel fine, no, not fine, I feel great. I feel better than I have done in years. Besides …,” I reached across the table and touched her hand, “….you didn’t complain last night.”

A blush bloomed on her cheeks and she giggled.
“No, because in the dark I couldn’t see how slovenly you are!”

During the first few days of May the swifts arrived from Africa returning to their nests beneath our eaves. Fruit bushes sparked with blossoms of pink and cream. The scent from the flowerbeds was perfume sweet and in the pond the smiles on the goldfish widened as they enjoyed their daily swim-by-take-away of young comma shaped tadpoles.
And my toes had begun to grow.
May is a busy time. The garden is large. The days are longer and I was spending all my time outside. Sometimes I would dig, sometimes sow, sometimes prune, sometimes mow and sometimes I would simply sit on the decking outside my shed and dream into the sun .
Annie was perfectly content to spend her time in the house while I “pottered about” in the garden. She enjoyed the flowers I brought and the fresh fruit and vegetables. She made delicious pies and crumbles with apples or blackberries, rhubarb or plums. And the wines she produced using a wide variety of ingredients ranging from pea pods to quince were guaranteed to either quench your thirst, demand a refill or occasionally convince you all your teeth had gone soft! This arrangement suited her. It suited me.
The canvas chair creaked as I sat down and unscrewed a flask of coffee. In the warmth of the sun I could smell the preservative oil on the decking beneath my feet and the creosote on the planking of the shed. I was hot from preparing the ground for a bed of climbing French beans and my t-shirt had dark patches of sweat. Looking at my bare arms I noticed that, as usual, being exposed to the sun since breakfast the colour of my skin had darkened and intensified to the green hue of laurel leaves.
I wore a pair old walking boots for gardening and the leather was scuffed and cracked and the treads had long since been worn smooth from miles of hiking but they were as comfortable as slippers.
Normally I would wear those boots from dawn to dusk and they’d be like a second skin on my feet but on that Thursday afternoon in May they suddenly began to tighten, particularly at the toe end. Wriggling my toes didn ’t help so I quickly undid the laces, pulled off the boots and knocked them upside down against the decking. I expected to see small stones or earth tumble out to provide an explanation for the discomfort but nothing appeared. So I pushed my fingers inside each boot again thinking to find something lodged inside but they were empty. It was then I noticed my socks. They were stretching and elongating. They were writhing and straining.
Could it be, I thought, that some creatures had found their way into my socks? Caterpillars? Worms? Beetles? Centipedes? The image of mini-beasts exploring my feet and entwining their cool scaly bodies between my toes had me yanking off my socks and flinging them in disgust to one side.
It was my toes that were twisting! It was my toes that were entwining! It was my toes that were slowly and inexorably growing longer! And, like the antennae of snails, each toe was exploring and sensing its immediate environment.
After five minutes the toes became still. The canvas chair creaked as I leaned forward to examine my feet. My toes varied in length, some were about ten centimetres while others had stretched to about sixteen centimetres. Cautiously I reached down and touched the little toe on my left foot, although having more than quadrupled in length it was now a misnomer to call it “little”. I felt the pressure of my finger on it and when I stroked the skin my stomach filled with a tickling sensation.
With both hands I bunched my toes in fist tight grips and then coiled them like thin snakes around my fingers and eventually bent them backwards until they touched my ankles. Every toe tapered to a point and every toe at its end had a meagre shadow instead of a nail. All the toes had the texture, colour and shape of dandelion roots but were as pliable and malleable as strips of dough.
That night in bed I took off my gloves as usual but kept my socks on to ensure the elastic bands securing my toes to the balls of my feet didn ’t slip off.
The first crop of broad beans was harvested in July and every afternoon, drinking and dancing, a confetti of butterflies enjoyed a party at the buddleia.
As a compromise to my wife’s wishes, my hair was combed and tied back into a ponytail and I trimmed my beard on a regular basis. She didn ’t accuse me anymore of being “slovenly”. She now labelled me “Bohemian” although I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, I did become excited by her mischievous grin when she said it.
One evening I inadvertently overheard part of a telephone conversation between Annie and her sister Susan. Living at opposite ends of the country they make frequent calls to each other but my attention was drawn to this particular conversation because much giggling and chuckling punctuated it. I heard my name mentioned a couple of times then caught the phrase, “…. it’s like his sap is rising….” followed directly by more emphatic girlish tittering.
Never before had I felt fitter, stronger and more agile. I had lost over a stone, reduced my waist measurement by over an inch and was standing straighter and taller. As a necessity, I had discarded the old walking boots for a large pair of Wellingtons to accommodate my feet. My toes had eventually stopped growing, however, they were now split and divided.
It had been a slow but gradual process during the last few weeks. Many side shoots had sprouted from my long tapering toes and, from those shoots, numerous smaller and thinner strands fanned out like white hairs.
Above the ground, the fibrous growth at the end of each foot had a random and haphazard pattern ….a floppy chaos of loose ends. But when they penetrated the earth, each shoot, strand, thread and fibre had an individual purpose and direction. I felt them burrowing and invading the loam, exploring and investigating and analysing. I sensed them relentlessly seeking purchase and anchorage until they inevitably secured their grip on the dark realm that surrounded them.
No longer did I seek relaxation in the canvas chair on the decking next to the shed but instead, with my arms by my side, legs together and feet firmly rooted to the ground I pointed my face to the skies and swayed like an exotic dancer in harmony to the rhythm of nature.
Having no immediate neighbours and secure in the knowledge that I couldn’t be seen from the house, or that Annie wouldn’t venture into the garden unless it was absolutely essential, I began to spend more and more time, dressed only in shorts, putting down roots in the soil.
My chest and back were tanned and my hands, arms and legs down to my ankles were the colour of cucumber skin. I didn ’t feel the chill of a north-easterly breeze or the intensity of a mid summer sun. A sudden shower could wet my hair and beard and saturate my shorts but rain simply slipped from the rest of my body like pearl drops down a window.
And when I stood in the soil, my eyes closed and swaying side to side and back and forth, I experienced a contentment and peace that was unique to my life. And I felt such a closeness to the garden that I realised the feeling extended further than love ….it was a belonging.
As July turned to August, fledgling swifts skated on the sky strengthening their wings for the imminent arduous flight to Africa. Red and black currants dotted the bushes and the brambles were ripe. For me, it now felt natural to stand in the soil and there was a growing stubborn reluctance at the end of each day to extricate my root toes and fold them back into the artificial environment of Wellingtons.
That summer the garden was fat. It was swollen with life. It was plump with vitality. The lawn was lush and springy and in the borders the flowers were tall and strong and petal bright. Small frogs crouched on lily pads and the goldfish splashed in the shower of the waterfall. Never before had there been such an abundant harvest of carrots, spinach, potatoes, peas, beans and onions. And the branches of the fruit trees strained to support their yield of apples, plums and pears.
It was a season of glorious days and soft warm nights, of dew sparkled mornings and evenings melodious with bird song. A perfect time when you hoped everything would stay the same ….wished that all would remain constant.
But….October came. The swifts had already started their long journey south, bats were seeking dark corners for hibernation and ….my hair was falling out.
The changes to my body were rapid and dramatic. During the final week of September I had spent every day deep inside the rows of runner beans swaying in chorus to their tangling of stems, rustling of leaves and chaffing of pods. Seven days later the bald patch had returned to the crown of my head like an ugly scabrous infection and my beard was grey.
Normally, thirty minutes was all I ever needed to mow the lawn but it now took two hours. The cutter was boulder heavy, my back felt split, arm muscles burned, arthritis had returned with a vengeance to my joints and exhaustion covered me like a cloak of lead.
By the end of October standing up straight was painful. I walked with a slight stoop and, as well as socks, I wore gloves in bed.
“That was Susan on the phone,” said Annie as she walked into the kitchen. “She’s at her wits end worrying about her operation next week.”

“Go and stay a few days,” I suggested. Annie looked at me and the concern on her face was all too obvious.
“I wish you’d go and see Dr. O’Brian.”

“I’m fine.” But I knew I didn’t sound convincing.
“Mike you’re not fine. You’ve lost weight. You complain you’re always cold. You look tired and worn out.”

“Thanks Annie.” I gave a feeble laugh but quickly turned my head to hide the fact another tooth had fallen out. “I’ve just been working too hard in the garden that’s all. Go to Susan’s. You know how she appreciates her big sister being there.”

Annie began to fill the dishwasher but then she spun round quickly,
“I’ll go on one condition. You make an appointment with the doctor.” Her raised eyebrows emphasised her insistence,
“Mike?”

“Okay. I’ll phone this afternoon.”

She smiled, nodded once in affirmation of victory and then returned to stacking the dishwasher.
I had no intention of seeing a doctor. And I had no intention of any doctor seeing me with my hair falling out in clumps, arms and legs the colour and texture of old sprouts and bundles of toes tied under my feet like striated hooves. No doctor could offer diagnosis, nor suggest remedy or prescription ….or even guarantee a recovery in the future. Thing was….neither could I! I felt tired. I felt weak. I felt hollow and limp. I wanted to sag and close my eyes. In the ground, with my toes rooted steadfastly, I did feel slightly better ….less lethargic and less delicate but nevertheless still weary and eager for sleep.
At four o’clock Annie kissed me for the last time. I watched her taxi turn the corner then I closed the door and made my way to the garden.
Close to the shed, near an ancient apple tree, I had prepared an area of soil about a metre square. I had removed stones and pulled out itinerant and invasive weeds such as ground elder and couch grass. A liberal layer of compost had been spread and then I ’d forked and raked the whole area until the loam was fine and crumbled and rich and ready.
In the twilight of that October evening I stripped off my clothes and stepped onto my patch of earth. Immediately, I experienced the familiar tingle as my roots spread avidly sideways and downways and everyways searching out nutrients and purchase in the fecund environment which was their dark home. I closed my eyes and relaxed …. serene…. calm.
The wheel of life….it slowly and surely turns. Somewhere in a nearby copse a tawny owl screeched and beneath a rising moon a small brown mouse nervously twitched its whiskers.
The wheel of life….it slowly and surely turns. And I am part of its eternal movement.

[John Dean]

Grandpa Sam Martin was such a super hero to his neighbours that they called him “Shed Man”…

Shed Man
Every morning he walked to the shed, opened a trapdoor in the ceiling, and climbed out onto the roof. His orange cardigan, knitted by his wife, had two large letters sewn on the front …..S….M. He was Sam Martin, known by some as Grandpa Sam and others as….Shed Man!
From the roof he could see the neighbouring gardens and property; the yards and lawns and trees and bushes and ponds. Pets playing with balls, washing on lines, backdoors and babies in prams. All this and much more Shed Man could see and all his friends and neighbours up and down the street could see Shed Man. They waved to him and he waved back.
The extraordinary and wonderful adventures of Shed Man started almost two years ago. In fact it was a month after he ’d retired. Of course, back then he was only known as Grandpa Sam.
It was a Thursday morning and Mrs. Billings, who lived next door and was married to a merchant seaman, was leaning on the fence talking to Grandpa Sam ’s wife. She was grumbling about her tits.
“Bloody nuisance,” she wailed, “these tits I’ve got! They’re out of control!”

In the shed, Grandpa Sam put away his tool and, with growing interest, tuned into the conversation taking place outside.
“Bloody tits,” she went on and bent towards Grandpa Sam’s wife and whispered loudly, “I’d like to get rid of them!”

She nodded her head vigorously five or six times while swiftly repeating,
“Hmmm….yes I would….I would ….oh yes….hmmm….I would.”

“But aren’t they protected?” inquired Grandpa Sam’s wife.
Inside the shed, Grandpa Sam peeled his nose from the window and felt a hot flush surge over him. He opened the door to cool down. The two women at the fence swivelled their heads to his direction.
“Oh there you are Sam. Mrs. Billings has been telling me about her tits.”

Gingerly, Grandpa Sam stepped forward unable to unclasp his gaze from Mrs. Billings ’ ample bosom.
“Perhaps you could help,” said Mrs. Billings. “Your wife tells me you’re awfully good with your hands!”

Grandpa Sam then did three things very quickly….gulped….blushed….and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. It took a monumental effort to put a brake on his rapidly accelerating imagination and, to correct his balance, he leaned against the doorframe .
“Well….I….”stuttered Grandpa Sam. “ I don’t know….really I don’t”

“Now Sam, don’t be shy. Stop hiding your light under a bucket.”

“Busby,” corrected Mrs. Billings.
“Yes, busby. That’s right.”

“Tell you what,” suggested Mrs. Billings, still resting her upper body on the fence, “ why don’t you pop round and I’ll show you the problem.”

She smiled and Grandpa Sam noticed, smudged across her dentures, bright red lipstick looking like freshly spilled blood.
It was ninety minutes before Grandpa Sam returned from Mrs. Billings’ house. His eyes sparkled, a wry smile played on his lips and his whole body emanated an aura of delight and wonder as if he had recently returned from an experience of epiphany.
He sat at the kitchen table and stared at an invisible spot a hundred yards away. He swallowed, in one gulp, the mug of tea Grandma Martin had placed in his hands.
“Problem solved?” she asked.
There was no reply. Grandpa Sam continued to stare while his fingers roamed the undulating contours of the mug. Standing in front of her husband she asked again. The response was the same. There was none. It took a gentle poke in the chest to bring Grandpa Sam ’s attention back to the present time and place.
“Hmm?” he said, unsure why his wife’s face was a centimetre from his.
“I said, did you help Mrs. Billings with her tits?”

“Oh yes, “ replied Grandpa Sam and quickly retreated to the sink to wash his mug. “I cut a piece of wood to stand on her milk bottles.”

“And was she pleased?”

Gazing through the window, he wistfully answered,
“Oh, yes.”

“Well done Sam. You really are good with your hands.”

Where upon, the mug slipped from his grasp and smashed in the sink.
It didn’t take long for Mrs. Billing to spread the news around the neighbourhood about Grandpa Sam.
Two days later a nervous Miss Tweedy tapped on the front door. She was a spinster from no.34, an incorrigible romantic and avid reader of Mills and Boon. She explained to Grandma Martin her Tuesday afternoons were spent at the sewing club held in the annex of the Methodist church. Oh yes, Grandma Martin had replied. She knew of it but admitted she hadn ’t the patience to be a member of a stitch and bitch club. Miss Tweedy giggled and covered her cotton thin lips with a pale hand. Her regular partner, she continued, was Mrs. Billings from no. 43 and Mrs. Billings had told her, in glowing terms, all about Grandpa Sam ….the care he’d taken….how considerate….and how patient….and how accommodating.
And taking such a deep breath that her knees slapped together like wet fish, Miss Tweedy wondered if Grandpa Sam could pop round and put right a little problem she had.
Blooming with unsuppressed pride, Grandma Martin declared her husband would only be too pleased to “pop round” and “do what he could.”

Miss Tweedy veritably shivered with anticipation of Grandpa Sam’s impending visit and her coat hanger shoulders twitched uncontrollably inside the cream coloured polyester cardigan she ’d bought from House of Fraser.
Without being asked, she explained that a blockage was the problem. Probably needs a thorough plunging decreed Grandma Martin and assured Miss Tweedy that Grandpa Sam would come equipped with his long pole!
“You look exhausted,” observed Grandma Martin when later that evening her husband returned from Miss Tweedy ’s.
“Well, hadn’t been used for a long time. And you just can’t rush these jobs.”

“Quite right Sam.”

“And you have to be gentle with delicate equipment….take your time.”

“Bit of coaxing?” hinted Grandma Martin.
“Exactly. It was tight at first but a bit of lubricant in all the right places works wonders. ”

“Did you use your pole?”

“Yes….but in the end decided to replace the entire u-tube under the sink.”

“Miss Tweedy pleased?”

Grandpa Sam relaxed back in his chair.
“Relieved, I should say,” he paused for a moment as if trying to find a more appropriate word, and repeated, “yes, relieved.”

And then Grandpa Sam rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them at the wrists….a sure sign of a job well done.
In bus queues and shop queues, at Bridge clubs and W.I.s, from M and S to B.H.S. and on doorsteps and mobiles, word of Grandpa Sam spread. Discreet, clean, flexible were some words used and “spring chicken” and “bigger than you’d imagine” were others. For those who weren’t close neighbours he was referred to as “the man with the shed” and it was only a matter of time before that reference was shortened to “Shed Man”.
The widow Webster at no.15 spoke of him in reverential terms, as did Polly Sykes at no. 7, whose husband was in Durham Jail after he ’d been apprehended with a disposable camera and a drill in the women’s changing rooms in Debenhams.
And Miss Gray, of no26 and who worked in the reference section of the town library, enthused to her colleagues that she was “delighted” and “thrilled” that Grandpa Sam had serviced her appliance in the kitchen during the morning and in the afternoon tackled her sticking drawers in the bedroom.
Grandpa Sam was willing and able and undertook every task with enthusiasm, appreciating that job satisfaction was reward enough.
It was the McKay sisters at no.33 who suggested he stood on the roof. (Grandpa Sam regularly pruned their eleagnus and agapanthus) It would make sense, they said, if he stood on the roof then he could be seen. People would know if he was available. The lady who lived at no. 14, and whose husband had run off with a jockey from Scunthorpe, agreed. And said it was rather like the standard being hoisted at Buckingham Palace to signify a royal presence. Her neighbour at no.12 and whose husband had moved out to join a gay pride group in Cockburn Sodham was not quite convinced about the royal comparison saying it did Grandpa Sam an injustice but nevertheless thought the idea of standing on the shed roof splendid ….simply splendid.
And so, every morning, Grandpa Sam walked to the shed opened a trapdoor in the ceiling and stood on the roof. For months the arrangement worked without a hitch. A shout or “you hoo” from those close by, or a wave or a fluttering piece of material from those further a field would be sufficient to attract Grandpa Sam ’s attention and off he would go to his next assignment. Everybody was happy. Everybody was satisfied.
However, like all good things….there’s a thorn on a rose….a fly in the cream….toothache at Christmas. And there’s Sidney Slimewart!
He was the thorn….the fly….the toothache….the itch on your back you can’t reach. And he was the Health and Safety Inspector based at the Town Hall.
Sidney Slimewart was tall and thin. His shoulder blades protruded through his jacket like newel posts. His shoes were sleek, polished and black ….and so was his hair.
For two hours last April, Sidney Slimewart had presided over a meeting. A piece of marmalade, like a glistening boil, was stuck to his forehead. Nobody told him. Nobody laughed. His office smelled of warm socks, damp armpits and dead geraniums. Everybody in the Town Hall knew Sidney Slimewart ….but they made sure he didn’t know them!
One Friday afternoon he went to the coffee machine in the corridor. Three typists already there let him use it first. Like a crow hunched over a carcass, Sidney Slimewart bent forwards, inserted a coin, selected his choice and heard the plastic cup “thlop” on the perforated tray and watched it shudder as it filled up with decafe.The typists nodded at his back. Down the left shoulder of his jacket was a splash of bird dirt. A streak of dirty cream peppered with freckles of black. They didn ’t tell him. They didn’t laugh. They folded their arms and continued the conversation they’d been having before the arrival of Adolf, as he was commonly referred to by the girls in the typing pool because of his demeanour, manner and of course his initials.
“Auntie was ever so pleased. She’d been waiting for days. But he came twice on Wednesday. She was ever so thrilled. ”

“Is he expensive?”

“No, well, that’s the thing.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He doesn’t charge.”

“Doesn’t charge? What! You mean he’s free?”

“Hmm, well that’s what Auntie says.”

“He must have an ever so long waiting list.”

“Well no. That’s the other thing. He doesn’t have a waiting list. He just stands on the shed roof and if anybody needs him they just shout or wave. It ’s ever so simple really.”

The thin eyebrows on Sidney Slimewart’s face became active like black ants on the move. He spun round so quickly that the three typists jumped back in surprise.
“Shed you say! Stands on a shed roof!”

His words were bullet fast. He leaned over them and his tuna soaked breath made their eyes water.
“Stands on a roof! A shed roof!”

His decafe had turned cold by the time the three typists were allowed to scurry away but Sidney Slimewart had all the details and information he needed to pay a visit on this ….this….Shed Man.
Grandma Martin heard a persistent, determined knocking on the front door that brought to mind the hammering of nails into a coffin lid. At first glance, she was convinced an undertaker had come to call. A tall, thin man confronted her. He was dressed in a suit that was shiny and black as his hair and shoes. Under his arm was wedged a briefcase with the letters S.S. embossed on the flap above the clasp. Grandma Martin noticed the zipper on his trousers was undone but didn ’t like to mention it.
“I’m from the Town Hall.”

Never before having such an important visitor standing on her front step, Grandma Martin quickly fluffed up her hair, stood to one side and almost curtsied.
“Oh, please come in….do.”

As Sidney Slimewart eased past her, she sniffed a fetid aroma that reminded her the cat litter under the stairs needed changing.
He perched on the edge of the sofa and from his briefcase produced a file and tapped it twice with his middle finger. Raising his eyes to Grandma Martin, he spoke in the manner of a person delivering cataclysmic news.
“My official visit,” he stressed the word “official”, “concerns a Samuel Martin. We’ve received information, which frankly is quite disturbing. I am here in my official capacity, ” again he stressed the same word then paused, sat upright and continued, “in my official capacity as Health and Safety Inspector to speak to a Samuel Martin. Is he here? ”

It took Grandma Martin a few moments to realise it was her husband to whom the visitor was referring. He ’s not been called Samuel Martin since, well since he’d been christened at St Aidan’s and that was a long time ago when the world was black and white. She was confused. She was worried. What had grandpa done? Why, he never left the house except to help the neighbours. She ’d had porridge for breakfast, a pair of tights were soaking in the sink and later that morning she was going to Tesco for a piece of haddock. And now, here was a gentleman from the Town Hall, no less, on official business, an inspector wanting to speak to her husband. Oh dear she thought and sat down before her trembling legs gave way.
Sidney Slimewart asked again and this time his words sounded as if they were coated with hard metal.
“Is he here?”

“Yes….”blurted Grandma Martin. “Well, no….he’s ….he’s….”

Sidney Slimwart leaned forward
“Yes?”

“He’s in the garden,” Grandma Martin burst out.
“Ahh haa!”

“Down at his shed.”

“Ahh haa!”

Sidney Slimewart rose to his feet.
“Garden this way is it?”

And he strode past a tearful Grandma Martin, through the kitchen and into the garden where immediately he spied Grandpa Sam standing proudly on top of the shed; his orange cardigan radiant in the morning sunshine.
Sidney Slimewart narrowed his eyes and his mouth twisted into a thin, tight, pale scar.
“Shed Man I presume,” he whispered and he squeezed his right hand into a fist, “gotcha!” He marched down the path but was halted by a piercing shriek of “co-eee!” from the window of no. 19 where Mrs. Needham was trying to attract Grandpa Sam’s attention by waving a piece of flimsy, white material.
“Could you spare a few minutes,” she hollered and with her glasses reflecting in the sunlight like an urgent semaphore she continued, “ I’ve got something stuck in the bathroom. Geoff’s still at the hospital with his toe and I need a pair of strong hands!”

“Say no more, dear lady,” shouted Grandpa Sam. “ I’ll fetch my equipment.” And then with a theatrical flourish announced,
“Shed Man’s on his way!”

However, all his enthusiasm wilted and shrivelled when he abruptly bumped into a tall, dark figure standing on the path. Behind a rolling bank of cloud, the sun became obscured and Grandpa Sam felt decidedly chilly when he heard the words descend on him.
“You and I….Mr. Samuel Martin….need to have a little chat.”

And chat they did have, albeit one sided and it turned out to be longer than a little.
The Health and Safety Inspector from the Town Hall officially warned Samuel Martin that he was in severe breach of regulations which had been implemented following lengthy and thorough discussions through committee procedures in accordance with directives and guidelines forwarded by central government to ensure that the health and safety of each and every resident of the borough was safeguarded and protected against any contravention of and breach of health and safety guidelines as formulated and instigated by elected councillors, committees and sub-committees of this borough.
Glassy eyed Grandma Martin slowly stirred her tea and the intermittent tinkling of metal against bone china was perfect accompaniment to Grandpa Sam ’s ponderous open-mouthed chomping of a plain digestive.
Sidney Slimewart continued in a similar autocratic manner for a further forty-five minutes. He informed Samuel Martin he had no licence or permit necessary to undertake maintenance and repair work. He had no qualifications ….no insurance….no P45….no V.A.T. He was vulnerable to claims for negligence and indeed expensive claims of compensation.
As for standing on a shed….he was labelled irresponsible….foolhardy….juvenile and accused of encouraging reckless behaviour and being a thoroughly bad example to younger people. Suppose he fell? Emergency services would be utilised ….doctors’ and nurses’ precious time would be diverted….hospital bed taken up….depriving others of their entitlement.
The clasp of the briefcase snapped shut. Sidney Slimewart rose to his feet.
“We are agreed then….this nonsense will stop. I’ll see my own way out.”

Apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the room was quiet and it was five minutes before Grandma Martin spoke,
“Well,” she said feeling somewhat shell-shocked from the bombardment of words from their visitor. Grandpa Sam was slumped on the sofa staring into space.
“What were those things he was on about?”

“What things?”

“You know….asbos.”

“Asbos? Oh,” said Grandma Martin, “Asbos are people. They live in Australia.” She shook her head. “ No, I must admit, I didn’t understand that bit either.”

A week later Sidney Slimewart found a memo on his desk. It was from the Chief Executive Officer of the Town Hall. There were just three words ….MY OFFICE NOW!
“Shut the door Slimewart. You’ve two minutes to tell me about Samuel Martin.”

“Samuel Martin? What do you mean? Is there a problem?”

“Oh yes, Slimewart. There IS a problem. And you’ve got ninety seconds left!”

It was Sidney Slimewart’s first visit to the Chief Executive Officer’s room. It had panoramic views of the town, a thick shag carpet and a huge mahogany table with an intercom that happened to be switched on so that in the adjoining room the C.E.O. ’s secretary could hear every word.
Cynthia Crystal painted her fingernails with a bright red colour called Mexican Sunset, which she ’d bought half price at Superdrug, and listened intently as Adolf stuttered and stammered and told her boss, Mr.Needham about Samuel Martin, a shed, and a lady waving a flimsy piece of white material from an upstairs window.
While Cynthia blow dried her nails My Needham jumped to his feet and stalked aggressively back and forth across the shag pile.
“I’ve had letters of complaint about you! Which does not surprise me one bit. You’re an objectionable person Slimewart. You bully the people in your department. You ’re not a leader….you’re an intimidator….you enjoy breaking people. I work with you Slimewart and, God knows, I’ve tried to fine your redeeming qualities but it’s like honest politicians….they don’t exist. And….and….” He reached behind the mahogany desk and produced a large canvas bag full of letters and held it up like a headless plucked bird.
“And these….these are all letters and messages of support for Samuel Martin. They all speak of him in glowing terms….all the help he gives….his consideration….quite a few mention him always being there when needed….One person suggested Samuel Martin should be nominated for an O.B.E. Another called him a saint for all the succour he provided. This man, according to these letters, could walk on water ….never mind stand on a shed roof. And I’ll tell you something else Slimewart. My wife….yes my wife Mrs.Needham….actually told me that when I was at the hospital with my toe that Samuel Martin….and here I quote…. “performed an unforgettable service.”

“Hmm,” sighed Miss Cynthia Crystal next door in her small office and made a note of Grandpa Sam ’s address.
“And yes Slimewart,” Mr Neeham’s voice boomed through the intercom, “ there is a problem. Everybody on that street from number one to number sixty eight ….and that’s the entire street Slimewart. Everybody is standing on their shed roof like a bunch of ….bunch of….those bloody things on David Attenborough’s programmes….” He waved his arms around in utter frustration.
“Meercats sir,” came a distant voice through the intercom.
“Thank you Crystal…..” realising the machine had been switched on all the time Mr.Needham immediately stretched across his desk and pressed the “off” button. He faced Sidney Slimewart and with a glare that could scorch paint and snarled,
“Now….sort….it!” But before Sidney Slimewart had time to even turn the door handle another blast hit him,
“And get rid of that bloody price tag hanging from the back of your jacket!”

After Adolf scampered past her desk, Cynthia Crystal had sufficient time to let the girls in the typing pool know exactly what had happened. They were ready and waiting they replied.
Five floors down Sidney Slimewart left the elevator. He felt sick and his legs were shaking. He took the usual route to his office by way of the typists ’ pool and a most extraordinary sight greeted him. All the girls from Angela to Maggie and from Nancy to Zelda had removed their shoes and were standing on the top of their desks laughing and giggling. And they simply explained their behaviour to Adolf by saying they ’d seen a rat!
In the kitchen, Grandma Martin dips a garibaldi into a cup of tea. She smiles. On the radio, Woman ’s Hour has almost finished and then she’ll pop to the market for her weekly visit to that nice man who makes cushion covers. Such delicate hands, she muses, and strong too.
Wearing his orange cardigan, Grandpa Sam is on the shed roof. He’s wondering who will call to him first today. The sun shines and on a chimney a sparrow is dusting off its feathers. A window opens at no.29. Pierre, the sun tanned music teacher, leans out. He winks at Grandpa Sam and asks if he ’s any good at rubbing down a French horn. No, replies Grandpa Sam, nor blowing one either. He grins. Cheeky sod. He shakes his head. I ’m working harder now than I did before I retired. Maybe I need an apprentice. An extra pair of hands. No, maybe not. Still, it ’s nice to be appreciated. Nice to be known as well….by so many different people. Known….ha! Officially as Samuel Martin and, of course, Grandpa Sam and Shed Man. But….best of all he thinks….it’s nice to be known as….from the roof he looks all about himself….as….well….as a stand up sort of guy! He folds his arms across his orange cardigan and nods. Yes.

[John Dean]

Nonch “You think your teachers were weird, well, wait till you read about “Flash” Gordon.”


Nonch
The Kinks were at number one. They dressed in black. Annie was my girlfriend. She dressed in black but had a better arse than any of the Kinks. I was fifteen and me and my mates were “nonch”.
“Nonch” was our word. It was short for “nonchalant”. Smudge had heard the word in a song by The Searchers. Smudge liked words. He looked it up in the dictionary.
Monday. Waiting to go into Biology. Smudge came walking down the corridor. “Walking” is wrong. He came swaggering down the corridor. I like words as well. He was chewing. He didn ’t join the queue but instead leaned against the wall and casually folded his arms.
He chewed. He arched his left eyebrow. He focused on a distant vision only he could see.
“What you doing Smudge?”

He didn’t answer so Tweedy and me went over and asked him again.
“I’m being nonchalant.”

Tweedy and me looked at each other.
“You what?”

“Nonchalant.”

“Nonchalant?”

“Yeah. Nonchalant.”

“Tell you something,” said Tweedy, “ Bug Atkins catches you chewing…. you won’t be nonchalant much longer.”

Smudge opened his mouth. We looked inside.
“I’m not chewing anything. I’m being nonchalant.”

“There you go again. What’s this “nonchalant” crap?”

“It’s a word from a Searcher’s song. I looked it up. It means you’re not bothered. Couldn’t care. You’re cool.” Smudge was on a roll now.
“Woolies window….yeah? That Kinks’ poster?”

We nodded.
“They’re standing sideways….yeah? Like they couldn’t give a toss. Well….that’s nonchalant.” He raised his eyebrows. “Okay? Get it now?
Tweedy and me smiled. “Yeah,” we said, “nonchalant.”

We leaned against the wall…. chewed our tongues. We were the Kinks….well….until Bug Atkins came storming around the corner.
“Get off that wall,” he screamed, “get into the classroom. Sit down! Shut up!”

Bug Atkins had toothache. He always had toothache. And forth-five boys sat silently at desks and watched as he leaned back, gaped his mouth and dropped whiskey from a pipette onto his yellow, rotten molars.
Pretty soon, the word “nonch” circulated school. By Friday groups of lads gathered in the playground. They leaned against walls. They leaned against bike sheds and bins. They chewed their ghost gum and they were the Kinks. Yeah, you really got me!
It was the following Monday, however, when we discovered what being “nonch” and “cool” was all about.
Assembly in the hall. Seven hundred boys standing in crooked lines. Teachers sitting on the stage. And there was Mr.Gordon. New teacher. Tall, thin, wearing a black suit. His thick bushy hair was combed back to reveal a white face and a mouth like an underline. While we sang “Jerusalem”, Mr. Gordon sat impassively with an expression of somebody facing a plain wall in another room.
After the hymn Nobby Barton, head teacher, announced,
“Bow your heads boys. Our Father….”

And a grumbling, mumbling ascended to the rafters.
“Look at him.”

“Who?”

“That new bloke.”

We glanced up. Mr. Gordon hadn’t moved.
“Is he dead?”

“Could be.”

“Nah, he’s just being “nonch”.”

“Nonch? You reckon?”

“I wonder how long he can keep still.”

“Forever and ever. Amen. Smith, Watson and Harris we shall meet in my study. We shall discuss what you were discussing. And then you shall reacquaint yourselves with Bambi. ”

While the other lads filed out to their lessons, we followed Nobby to his room and after a brief discussion shook hands again with Bambi ….his “dear” bamboo cane!
Last lesson was Geography and Tweedy, Smudge and me got a chance to get a good look at the new teacher Mr. Gordon.
He was standing at the door, which was unusual. Normally we waited at least five minutes before a teacher arrived. And when they did show up, you could smell the last drag of the fag or, in the case of Bug Atkins, the peaty aroma of single malt. But Mr. Gordon ….he was there. Quickly, he regarded the line of boys and then went into the classroom. He wrote his name on the board ….F. Gordon.
“Flash Gordon,” whispered Big Al, the smallest boy in the class.
“No,” said Mr.Gordon without turning around, “my name is not Flash. But your name is Alan. Is it not Turner?”

Big Al reddened. Smudge faced me and mouthed, “ how did he know that?”

I shrugged and took out my Geography book.
“Page forty-three,” said Mr. Gordon and his voice had all the quality of a ruler….straight, wooden and measured.
We all opened our books at the correct page; all that is except Bones Skelton whose top speed was crawl and couldn ’t count double figures.
“Page forty-three Skelton,” said Mr. Gordon without raising his eyes. “Help him Watson.”

I leaned across and found the page for Bones. Smudge looked at me. I looked at Smudge. We both looked at Tweedy and then we all looked at Mr.Gordon and thought,
“Yeah….this guy’s “nonch””.
The next morning the three of us were in the playground….striking a pose. Eyebrows arched. Chewing “gum”.
With ankles crossed and hands grasped together against my crotch, I leaned against the bike shed. Smudge ’s foot was on an empty milk crate and his forearms were folded across his raised knee. Tweedy had his thumbs hooked into his trouser pockets and was contemplating the mystery of distance. We reckoned we were three pop stars ….three idols….three icons. Suddenly we were four!
“Why you standing like that? Somebody farted?”

It was Sammy Jenkins known by all as Scalp because he always looked like Apaches had just attacked him. His head was shaved and he wore a permanent expression of pain as if arrows were embedded in his back.
“No Scalp. Nobody’s farted.”

“Anyway, what do you want?”

“And stop picking your nose!”

“That’s what he said!”

“Who said?”

“He said. That’s what I’ve come to tell you!”

“What are you talking about, Scalp?”

“That new bloke. What’s ‘is name….Flash.”

“What about him?”

“Said I needed pit props.”

“Pit props?”

“Yeah. Said if I keep mining my nose I’d need pit props.”

Tweedy, Smudge and me burst out laughing.
“That’s what they did!”

“Who did?”

“They did. The whole class. They laughed.”

“What did Flash do?”

“Nothing. Never laughed. Never even turned round. Kept writing on the board.”

“Well if he was writing on the board Scalp….how did he know you were picking your nose?”

Another arrow thudded into his back. Scalp winced and threw wide his arms.
“I dunno. He’s just weird!”

All the school was soon talking about Flash.
He caught three first year boys stealing chalk. It was all the rage to dip one end in red paint and pretend it was a fag. At a distance, especially on cold frosty days, I must admit it looked realistic. A joke about a donkey and two clothes pegs, hastily scribbled on a piece of paper never got further than the sender.
“Old joke,” said Flash “Return it to your pocket. And Mathews….”

“Yes sir?”

“Stop doing that under the table.”

Okay, so the boys he’d caught weren’t doing crimes of the century. I mean, they weren’t in the same league as, let’s say, when Bri Jeavons climbed the clock tower, stuck a chair on the spire, and then broke into the Catholic school and crapped on the head teacher ’s desk. Yeah,…. that was something.
But….but the thing about Flash was….he knew what was going on and he wasn’t even looking! He just knew! Thing was….how did he know? I mean….that donkey joke scribbled on a piece of paper. He couldn’t guess that! And Mathews fiddling under the desk….well, okay, I suppose he could have worked that one out.
But what about last Wednesday afternoon when he crossed a crowded playground. How did he know to duck a second before that football was due to smack him on the back of his head? And the way he kept on walking, without glancing back, and said,
“Watson….when you kick…. keep your head down and the ball will stay down.”

Ha! Thing was….he didn’t know I was aiming for his head. Ha!…or did he?
The back of Annie’s ear smelled of soap. She giggled, playfully slapped my thigh, and whispered,
“Stop it!”

Which meant….I had permission to carry on. The back of the cinema smelled of smoke. A man behind me coughed, poked me in the back, and whispered,
“Stop it!”

Which meant….it was time to leave.
“You look like Moses.”

“Hmm?”

“Moses in that film.”

I frowned. I had no idea what Annie was talking about.
“You’ve coffee froth all over your mouth. Looks like you’ve got a beard.”

She leaned across the table and dabbed my face with a handkerchief.
“There. That’s better. You’re clean shaven again.”

Friday nights were great. No school for two days. Annie. Cinema. Coffee bar. Saturday. Lie in. Play football. Watch football. And Annie. All day and all of the night. Yeah, Friday nights were great!
“I like the bit at the sea. Remember? You think he’s trapped. You think….what’s he going to do?”

Her eyes sparkled as she relived the film.
“And he stood there and raised his arms. Couldn’t believe it….the way the sea rolled back. And a path straight through the middle! And he took all those people across the bottom of the sea! ”

Annie sipped her coffee.
“Why are you laughing?”

“You need shave.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve grown a beard…. like Moses.”

I wiped the froth from her lips.
“There. That’s better,” I said, “your clean shaven again!”

She gave me a sharp kick on the shin.
“I enjoy watching weird things like that.” She paused. “Probably why I like you Mike!”

I felt a warm rush to my cheeks and quickly changed the subject.
“Huh! You think that’s weird….well,….”

And for the next ten minutes I told her all about the strange goings on at school with Flash Gordon.
On Monday a challenge was issued. Who could be the first to solve the mystery of Flash Gordon ’s “weird power”?
People had different theories. Some lads reckoned he used reflections on the windows. But even with the blinds down Flash caught Tweedy drooling over a magazine concealed behind a geography book. The magazine was confiscated. Tweedy wasn ’t bothered. It wasn’t his anyway. He’d pinched it at lunchtime from Scalp’s haversack while it was being used as a goalpost. Scalp wasn’t bothered either….he didn’t know it had been pinched!
Mirrors were another idea. Flash had rigged up the classroom with mirrors.
“ Mirrors! Do you think he’d go to the trouble of hiding mirrors just to catch people out? That’s a bloody stupid idea.”

We all fell about laughing. But, to make sure, me and Smudge checked. Of course, there were no mirrors or even hidden cameras as somebody else had suggested. So, how did Flash manage to see what was going on behind his back?
When I told Annie, last Friday in the coffee bar, she laughed and said,
“Maybe he’s got eyes in the back of his head!”

Hmm. Yeah. As likely as mirrors and hidden cameras!
“The field trip will take place a week on Thursday.” Flash’s voice had all the excitement of somebody reading telephone numbers. He swept his long bushy hair back over his head and then wrote the date on the board.
“Harris.” He spoke without turning around.
“ Sir?”

“Your book is upside down Harris.”

Hidden by the book, Tweedy had been flicking through a pack of playing cards his brother had brought back from Paris and had fallen in love with the ten of clubs. She had the biggest knockers Tweedy had ever seen!
“And Harris….put those cards away. We are studying coastal erosion not French landscapes.”

Tweedy mouthed,
“How does he do it?”

And all I could do was shrug.
It was less than an hour’s drive and the journey was spent in complete silence. The reason? Bug Atkins and his perpetual toothache!
“No singing,” he screamed. His face was like marble….hard and cold. Touching the back molars with his tongue caused him to wince and he barked out,
“And no talking!”

He returned to his seat next to Flash at the front of the coach, tilted his head back, and took a long swallow from his hip flask. At the back of the coach Tweedy produced a wallet full of nude photographs and passed them around. No singing ….no talking….yeah,….but plenty of dreaming and wishing!
The driver parked on the sea front next to a low wall. The tide was coming in and, on the cliffs, gulls were squabbling over nesting sites. Flash climbed onto the wall, pushed back his hair, and spoke in a voice as distant and boring as the horizon behind him.
“We shall follow the path to the top of the cliff and then proceed along the designated track to the next bay. Do not wander away from the path and ….”

“Do you hear what Mr. Gordon is saying boys?” yelled Bug who now stood next to Flash on the wall. “Are you listening Harris and Smith? Stick to the path! And for God’s sake Jenkins!”

“Yes sir?”

“Stop picking your nose lad!”

Everybody burst out laughing.
“Shaddup!” bellowed Bug. “And follow me!”

He lead the way across the car park, taking a quick swig from his hip flask and then joined the steep path that twisted up the cliff. By the time we ’d all reached the top it was obvious who the dedicated smokers were by the volume of hawking and gobbing. Flash gathered us together.
“Notice the bay. The town has developed along side the estuary. The cliffs on either side form a natural harbour. We shall continue. We shall proceed in single file and ….”

“And I’ll go first,” declared Bug. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glassy like pebbles under water. Off he went, striding unsteadily forward.
“He’s pissed,” whispered Tweedy, “bloody pissed. Look…. he’s staggering. One wrong step and he’ll be over the edge. Yaaaahhh! Bang! A squashed Bug!”

Six places in front was Flash and without breaking step he said,
“Harris….keep your thoughts to yourself.”

Tweedy shut up but began to mimic the way Bug was walking. He started lurching from side to side and then pretended to lose his footing and staggered towards the edge of the cliff.
“Steady Tweedy,” I warned. “Stop mucking about. You’ll go over!”

But he paid no attention and continued to act like a drunk. Suddenly, he stumbled to his knees. He thrust his hands out to break his fall but when they struck the edge of the cliff it started to crumble. Frantically, Tweedy desperately tried to grasp any thing that would prevent him from sliding over the edge.
“Tweedy!” I screamed and jumped forward.
“Harris!” yelled Flash.
The next few seconds were a blur and out of focus. I had a frightening sensation of seeing the earth disappearing and an image of the sea and rocks hurtling up to meet me. Then ….black and quiet….as if the world had closed its eyes and was holding its breath. Gradually, sounds began to filter back ….a heart beat….a folding wave….the scream of a gull….and finally my name being whispered…slowly becoming louder….as if it were walking towards me….right up to my ear.
“Watson! Watson!”

My eyes sprang open and stared into the face of Flash Gordon. I wanted to speak but was unable to form any words. However, he knew what my question was.
“You fell. You landed on a ledge.” Turning my head, I could see the incoming tide spilling over the rocks about fifty feet below. “The ledge broke your fall and….” His voice sounded different. It sounded normal….human….as if he were carefully considering and selecting the most appropriate words. “and…. I think your ankle is broken.” To verify his point, a knife of pain stabbed me in the leg.
“You did a brave thing Watson.” I had no idea what he was talking about. He continued.
“I saw Harris beginning to slide off the cliff. I couldn’t get there in time. But you did. You pushed him back. The edge crumbled away and took you with it. ”

There was a shout. High above us, quite a crowd had gathered but they were all being mashalled to safety by Bug Atkins.
“We can’t go down,” said Flash. “So, we’re going up.”

The pain in my leg was burning. I couldn’t possibly climb.
“I don’t think I could sir!”

He turned carefully on the narrow ledge and crouched.
“Put your arms around my shoulders. Climb onto my back. Your ankle will hurt….but we can’t stay here.”

Physically, Flash was hardly bigger than me and I doubt he was any stronger but the tone in his command made anything seem possible. With his help, I heaved myself onto his back like a haversack. He stood and began the ascent to the top.
He never faltered. He never paused. I clung on and let him do all the work. And while I rocked back and forth against his shoulders, I realised what “ nonch” was all about. It wasn’t about posing or pretending to be something you’re not. Like me and Tweedy and Smudge thinking we were famous pop star because we imitated somebody else. While Bug Atkins blustered and bawled at the top of the cliff, Flash knew what needed doing ….and, well, just got on with it….he was his own person. Yeah…. that was “nonch”.
And there was something else I realised. As I leaned my head against Mr. Gordon’s neck, his long hair swayed back and forth like seaweed in a swelling tide. It was about Annie. Her arse was better than any of the Kinks. The back of her ear smelled of sweet soap and oh …. about Flash Gordon and the secret of his weird power.
As he carried me to safety that Thursday afternoon all those years ago….I saw them….two…pale….shiny marbles concealed by his long hair. Annie had been right…. He did have eyes in the back of his head!