In our own words by Workers' Educational Association

IN OUR OWN WORDS

Lowedges Writing Group

First published in 2009 by Lowedges Writing Group ÂŠ Lowedges Writing Group 2009

ISBN 978-0-900-82388-6

Printed in the UK by B&B Press (Parkgate), Rotherham Designed by David Pittaway, Workersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Educational Association - Yorkshire & Humber Region 0114 242 3609

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior permission of Lowedges Writing Group.

I remember my first session with the Lowedges Writing Group, almost exactly three years ago. I asked everyone to write about an outstanding moment in their lives - whatever sprang to mind, whether from childhood, last week or any time in between. The results were dramatic, causing laughter, tears and much discussion. There have been many writing sessions since then, which the group has entered into with determination, imagination and a willingness to share stories and support each other. ‘In Our Own Words’ reflects both the diversity of the challenges undertaken and the diverse ideas and life experiences of each member of the group. Given one starting point, image or premise, everyone has a different story to tell. It’s been a long journey, with the demands of redrafting, editing and fundraising accelerating at every deadline; but there was never any doubt that it would be worth it. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of seeing your work in print and knowing that other people are going to read it. So here it is, a collection of short stories, prose and poems as varied as the writers themselves. It’s over to you, the reader, now. I hope you find ‘In Our Own Words’ an enjoyable, moving and thought-provoking read. Sue Shaw, September 2009

Acknowledgements A big 'thank you' to our tutor, Sue Shaw, for her support and encouragement all along; for guidance in trying to secure funding and for all the painstaking work of editing and preparing the work for publication. We also wish to thank Lowedges Community and Safety Forum staff, Roisin, Gill and Nancy for always being available and willing to help in practical matters. Our thanks too to David Pittaway (WEA), for preparing the book for printing; to Ian Francis for his willingness to help; Tommy Lau, Greenhill Library, for the use of premises for the launch and his help in facilitating the occasion and to ‘Off The Shelf’ for including us in the event and helping to promote the book. Special thanks also to Win Francis, for her energy, determination and commitment to making ‘In Our Own Words’ happen. This publication was made possible by grants from Lowedges Tenants’ and Residents’ Association, South Yorkshire Community Foundation, Yorkshire Building Society, The Follett Trust and Sheffield Retired Justices’ Association, for which we are very grateful.

Contents

page

London or Lowedges?

Win Francis

The Family Tree

Betty Chambers

Coming Home

Sue Sullivan

Catastrophic Eclipse of the Sun

Barbara Thackeray

Memories Keep the Past Alive

Susan Roberts

Dorothy’s Dilemma

Angela Robinson

Penny

Heather Norton

Another Day in the Rose Garden,

Jackie Burrows

Zeca’s Revenge

Jean Allen

The Old Treadle Machine

Catherine Hart

Taurus – “you are inclined to jump to conclusions”

Win Francis

The Messenger

Heather Norton

My Musical Box

Barbara Thackeray

Moving On

Angela Robinson

The Four Dresses

Susan Roberts

Music

Betty Hancock

The Baby Chair

Jackie Burrows

The Contest

Win Francis

Jack

Sue Sullivan

Our Daughter, The Bride

Heather Norton

Don’t Swear On Sunday

Susan Roberts

The Woods

Betty Chambers

Totally Nuts Squirrels

Jackie Burrows

The Evil Weeds

Angela Robinson

Police Beat Another G20 Protestor

Catherine Hart

Race is on to Save the World

Barbara Thackeray

Police Gun Sent to Grandmother

Sue Sullivan

Brazilian Man Denies Ordering Death of a Nun, 73

Jean Allen

Making The Headlines

Seasonally Adjusted Bonfire Night

Sue Sullivan

All Hallows Eve

Angela Robinson

Autumn Haiku

Christmas Cake Day

Janet Stearns

Christmas Presents

Jean Allen

Christmas Dinner

Sue Sullivan

Winter

Janet Stearns

Through My Window

Barbara Thackeray

Winter and Spring Haiku

The Beach

Jean Allen

Endless Summers

Catherine Hart

Summer Haiku

Poems The Spider and the Buffalo

Jean Allen

Pride

Janet Stearns

The Kid

Catherine Hart

A Stolen Life

Win Francis

Our Gang

Win Francis

The One That Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Get Away

Susan Roberts

June 1750

Betty Chambers

May 11th 1755

Janet Stearns

July 1943

Barbara Thackeray

100

Summer 1943

Betty Chambers

101

April 1955

Jackie Burrows

102

July 29th 1961

Angela Robinson

103

January 1964

Heather Norton

104

August 1972

Jackie Burrows

105

Secret Diaries

Biographies

106

London or Lowedges? I imagine most Londoners think they live at the centre of the universe. The Great Metropolis - the commercial, cultural and cosmopolitan capital; the sprawling multicultural hub of the country, with its exclusive department stores, theatres and museums. The throbbing, heaving mass of humanity speaking different languages and wearing different clothes. The big red buses vying with the cabs, which dart like black beetles among the melee. The tube snaking its fast and furious way underground carrying the workers and shoppers on their incessant journeys. The splendour of the sweeping Mall and the Royal Palaces. The ancient Tower, which has seen so much history with its sleek black ravens and its red-coated Beefeaters. The wide curving river carving the city in two; the various bridges spanning winding grey waters. But give me Yorkshire! Give me Sheffield! Give me Lowedges the greenest suburb of the biggest little village in England. The friendliest edge of the friendliest city. Neighbours and strangers pass the time of day and ask "are you alright, love?" People are there for you if you need a helping hand. They'll help you up but they won't be put down. They'll fight for their rights - and sometimes theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll fight each other! There's room to breath here, where the trees are like lungs that freshen the air. On cold winter days when the wind whips along Greenhill Parkway, it can freeze the very marrow of your bones; but on a balmy summer day, when the sun rises high over the golf course, it warms the cockles of your heart. The park can be full of summer fun and games or a silent place of solitude; both providing food for the soul. For all its changes over the years, some things remain the same â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the earthy grittiness, the sparky humour and the sheer determination that make Lowedges what it is. London is a great place to visit, but Lowedges is home. Win Francis 1

The Family Tree My ancestors come from the wild Scottish moorlands, where they stand proudly among the boulders and purple heather. I stand just as proudly, at the top of a small rockery that, too, has a few patches of heather, with a broom of bright yellow in springtime, when I am showing white blossom. I am at my most colourful in autumn, when I produce bright orange-red berries before my leaves turn a brilliant scarlet, contrasting sharply with the clear blue skies of that season, or standing out cheerfully when it is misty. I was planted on a memorable date, Coronation Day 1953, as a slender sapling. My man had worked hard to make a garden to his new house, that had been just rough fields, but now I preside over growing lawns, hedges and flower beds. Then came a day when a pram, with a tiny baby asleep in it, was put underneath me. I watched that baby grow as I was growing, but she was able to start to move and stagger up and down the garden path. Two years later, another baby in a pram was placed under my now more leafy shade. I used to rustle my branches to soothe that one, because he never slept. Four years after, yet another baby came along, but now the older two could rock the pram. As I grew taller, so did the children. They played every day with their friends in my garden, on the swing, with a ball, skipping, chasing, and making tents with a clothes horse and old blankets. One night, there was a terrible storm. It blew all night long, my roots were trembling in the force of it and the lawn was undulating like a rough sea, waving up and down. A chimney pot, from a house in the opposite garden, hurtled past me. Slates, bricks and broken glass were being tossed all around. In the morning, my family came out and hugged my trunk and the children cried “The rowan tree’s still standing.” As the children grew up, they didn’t play near me any more. Gradually they moved away, only returning for visits. I missed their happy chatter, but they did come back for special occasions. There was great excitement when the garden was prepared for a party in honour of Prince Charles’ wedding to Lady Diana. Fairy

lights were draped round my branches. Some of the family and all the neighbours gathered for the whole day, food and drink abounded. I waved my branches noisily, to add to the happy chatter and laughter. The party went on until the sun went down. There have been many parties in my garden since thenbarbecues too. It made me chuckle when they spent hours trying to light the barbecue then, when it was going nicely, down would come the rain and they’d all have to dash inside. There were sad times and tears, too, as one by one their old folk, who used to love to wander around my garden, came no more and returned to the earth from which they came. The children themselves are grown-ups now, with partners and children of their own. They all live many miles from here, they can’t come very often, but when they do, what a time we all have. Games on their own, the make believe houses, playing just as I remember their parents doing so long ago - one tumbling out of the apple tree, tearing her new jacket just as her mother had done. Last year, on a beautiful sunny day in June, my man held a party for his special birthday. Family, friends and neighbours all turned up. Long tables laden with food and drink were arranged on the lawn. Fairy lights, balloons and streamers, festooned everywhere. I had a loudspeaker wedged in my branches, for music to be heard all day and evening. I’ve never made so much noise. It’s quiet now. Only the two of them and me. My top branch is bare, just like his and I’ve lost a lot of twigs. But he’s put a climbing plant to grow up my trunk and in the autumn I shall still produce bright berries before my leaves turn red. They’ve put a nest box high up in my branches and now it’s occupied by some very busy blue-tits. But while ever they live here, so will I; because I am the family tree. Betty Chambers

Coming Home Autumn came early that year, the year I became a man. It had been on the cards for weeks. I’d lie in the creaky old wooden bed with the scratchy horsehair mattress that I shared with my 2 younger brothers, and listen to Mam and Dad talking downstairs. “It’s hard graft Nell, I don’t think he’s strong enough,” Dad began in his slow, patient way. “Speak to Jenks tomorrow,” Mam replied sharply. “But, Nell,” he tried to protest. “Thomas, we’ve five mouths to feed and no doubt there’ll be another on the way after you’ve been at the ale bench at Harvest Supper.” Mam again. One morning, after just such a conversation, Dad awakened me while it was still dark. Together we trudged our way to the farm where he laboured, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. Over and over he told me to look out for myself and keep away from the blades, once turning me roughly to face him and asking, “Do you hear me, boy?” Farmer Jenks silently looked me over from head to foot, removed his unlit pipe from his mouth and said, “Well, Thomas, he’s a little ‘un, but we’ll see how he goes. Mind you keep an eye on him though, I don’t want anything holding the harvest up. The weather’s turning, and I need the crop in and at market afore it gets bad.” All morning, I followed my dad and the other men up and down the field, the only sounds were the swishing of scythes, the low grunts of the oxen and the occasional curse by way of encouragement from Jenks. I gathered up armfuls of wheat for Old Ted to tie up and toss on to the cart, which the oxen pulled and he drove, being too aged and slow to keep up with cutting. In the heat of noon we sat in the shade cast by the beasts to eat our packing up. Mam had wrapped mine in a piece of clean sacking the night before - a heel of coarse brown bread that she’d made herself, a hunk of drying cheese and a raw onion. Same as my dad, same as most of the other men. I was so hungry it was like a feast to me and I gobbled it down. My eyes still stung with the dust from the 4

wheat and my hands were cut and bleeding from the sharp stems. Old Ted gave me a swig from the flagon of ale he had on the cart, it tasted sweet yet bitter and made me cough and splutter, but it gave me the energy I needed to go on. For in the afternoon, we had it all to do again. Up and down, down and up, swish, swish, the work becoming ever harder as the day wore on, but there was to be no resting for any of us. It was dusk when Farmer Jenks said we could go home. Every bone and muscle in my body was sore and aching and I was so utterly exhausted I could scarce put one foot in front of the other. Dad lifted me on to the back of the cart next to the farm dog. His fur was so soft and comforting after all the hurt I’d suffered and smelled sweetly of new mown summer grass from where he’d lain watching us toil all day. I was asleep in an instant my heavy arms and head resting on his back. I woke as we pulled in to the farmyard and the dog, knowing he was home, jumped down. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I gazed at the scene before me. Jenks was leading the two spare oxen, and my dad, still in his shirtsleeves, was talking to him. Seeing I was awake the farmer tossed me a penny he’d been turning over in his hand and said “You’ll do young ‘un”. Dad lifted me down and we made our weary way home, his hand again resting on my shoulder. “Don’t tell your Mam about the penny; keep it to spend at the Michaelmass fair. She’ll have all your wages soon enough,” he told me. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. The year was 1859 and I was twelve. So there it was, my life as a man all mapped out before me. Hard labour for twelve hours a day, six days a week in the good times and, in the lean ones, the ever-present threat of the workhouse. Young as I was, the thought filled me with dismay and a sense of hollowness. We gathered in that first harvest in good time. It was a fine one and Jenks made pots of money, so my dad said. He must have done because he ordered one of the new threshing machines to help with the next one. It was a huge green monster, belching smoke and steam and creating a noise so loud you could feel the vibrations in your chest. Dad was none too keen, not many were, fearing they 5

would soon be without work because of it. Old Ted said it was the devil’s work and he wouldn’t be shown how to drive it. So he and Farmer Jenks parted company, just like that, no paying off, just one week’s wages and Old Ted was gone. Sometime later we heard he went to live with his daughter for a while before ending his days in shame in the workhouse. I was put to work feeding the thing with coal to keep the fire going and the steam coming, and woe betide me whenever it ceased working. Jenks would cuff me round the ear and dispatch me into the town to fetch Mr Ransome and his men to fix it. I’d watch them working, asking questions all the while, for this great giant, with its belts and wheels, pistons, dirt and smells fascinated me and I wanted to know all I could about it. I knew this was the future and, more importantly, my escape from a life of drudgery. It pleased Jenks that I showed such interest and seemed to have a natural affinity with each piece of modern new machinery that arrived on his land. While he let the men go one by one, he kept me on. I was grateful and asked no more in wages, for I knew there wouldn’t be any more for me. From the men at Ransome’s I learned to keep the machines running at their peak and to mend them when they broke down. Being slight and small of stature I could squeeze where the other men couldn’t, and one day Mr Ransome himself invited me to work for him at his factory in Ipswich. Fired by this magnificent offer and the pressing need to escape my increasingly overcrowded little home, I left Jenks’s employ the day I turned eighteen. It was to be the last time I saw my family, though I had news occasionally from the travelling salesmen. They said my father talked of me with pride, but my mother never spoke my name again. My hard work, industry and ability with his steam and traction engines impressed Ransome’s chief engineer. Having only daughters of his own he was keen to pass on his knowledge; he schooled me and taught me everything he knew. Under his guidance and patronage I moved from using and fixing machines to designing and building them. And me, a simple farm lad who, at the outset could barely write his name. The hours were long, whenever I wasn’t working I was at my books, absorbing all I could and taking great pleasure in it all. Sometimes I’d accompany the Chief when he attended fairs and

exhibitions as far away as London. We’d talk long into the night about making improvements to our engines. Our relationship grew and, from master and apprentice, we became friends and almost equals. So, naturally, when he sought to set up on his own, seeing the opportunities the ever-expanding railways presented, he took me with him. As a result I was often invited to his home to plan, draw and model our latest project, though I have to admit my attention wasn’t always fully on the subject when his eldest daughter Elizabeth was in attendance. Elizabeth’s father did nothing to discourage my deepening feelings for his daughter, nor our blossoming romance and, on the day he signed the contract with Birmingham Railways, I asked him for her hand. He shook mine warmly and said I’d made him a very happy man. I sent word to my family of my impending marriage, but heard nothing in return. In truth it was no surprise, for I’d come so far while they clung desperately to their own familiar world. Together, working side by side, my father-in-law and I, true equals now, expanded our business steadily, while my wife and I increased our family with equal success. One of the happiest days of his life, he told me, was the one on which our twin sons were born. One of the saddest of mine was the day the old man passed over. I continued at my endeavours, with his spirit ever present at my elbow, and was delighted, though not surprised, when both my sons started to show the same fascination with machines that I’d had as a boy. I would take them with me whenever, and wherever, I could; despite Elizabeth’s protestations about the oil and grease, which ruined their clothes. I could afford to buy them new ones of the finest quality, which I did frequently. Their early passion was the pedal cycle; I almost burst with fatherly pride when they paraded their first creation, the Safety Bicycle, at the tender age of 15. It was to be the first in a long line of modern innovations. Their grandfather watching over them, as I’m sure he was, would have been beside himself with joy at their achievements. We celebrate 30 years of happy marriage on the morrow. It’s time for me to hand over to the next generation and let my brilliant sons develop their newest motorcar. To mark my retirement my dearest Elizabeth has commissioned a painting to hang above the 7

fireplace in my study. It’s of a scene I’ve often described to her. A farmhand in shirt sleeves and flat cap – my father – is talking to a farmer in an old fashioned blue suit and white hat. The farmer is driving two golden oxen forward. A black collie dog has just jumped from a hay cart and regards them steadily, bathed in the gentle light of an early autumn evening, reminiscent of the day I became a man. Sue Sullivan

Catastrophic Eclipse of the Sun As soon as she opened her eyes, Amy checked the clock on her bedside table and realised she had overslept. She never used the alarm, but always woke up for work in good time. It seemed darker than usual, so maybe that was the reason she had slept on. It was late spring and, at this time of the year, the sun usually streamed through her bedroom window; but not so this morning. Amy had to get to work within the hour, which would be nothing short of a miracle. Hurriedly she got out of bed and drew back the curtains. There is something strange here, she thought, but could not decide what it might be. The sun was rising, but clearly not in the east. It was most confusing. Amy had watched the sun rise so many times through this very window, but now it would only be visible from the other side of her house. No time to worry about that now; she had to get herself ready for work. After taking a shower, she made a quick decision as to what she should wear, there was no time to chop and change, as she did most mornings. She chose a jacket and skirt with a neat blouse to match, a little make up, quickly applied, and almost gave up on her hair. Why do things always go wrong when you are in a hurry? She asked herself. Downstairs, Amy could see it was actually getting darker rather than lighter. She was filled with a strange sense of foreboding, until she looked outside. The moon was slowly covering the sun; she had forgotten there was to be a total eclipse this morning. She felt quite excited, having always had a great interest in the solar system. Opening a drawer, she searched out a pair of protective glasses and watched as the moon gradually moved across the sun. Eventually it was almost completely covered, leaving only the outside edge, the corona, which the moon was not large enough to conceal. Daylight faded, darkness fell and the sky turned a deep blue. Stars, which we normally see only at night, were shining brightly in the sky. Amy told herself that it would all be over in a few minutes. The moon would pass on and the sun gradually reveal itself. She waited patiently, but although many minutes had passed, nothing was happening. Why, she wondered, didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the moon move on and create 9

daylight again? She switched on the television, just as the newsreader was telling everyone not to panic. The sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s axis was stuck and the moon could not move on, therefore darkness continued. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Carry on as normal; transport is available and everywhere will be artificially lit up,â&#x20AC;? the newsreader advised. Amy left her house and made her way to the bus terminus. She did not feel terribly afraid, but many of the people she met on the way certainly were. Everyone looked rather eerie, as they were all a bluish grey colour, which made her wonder whether that was a reflection from the deep blue sky above. On gazing upwards, Amy began to feel uneasy. There seemed to be chaos up there. Nine planets, including the Earth, normally revolved around the sun. Jupiter, the largest planet, now seemed to be rolling around in the sky, as if it had nowhere to go. Saturn, the planet easily recognised from the rings surrounding it, was following suit. Comets with tails a mile long rushed through space. Everyone tried to carry on as usual. Amy was glad when the day was over and, as soon as she arrived home, she closed the curtains, pretending everything was back to normal. She spent most of the evening watching the television to keep up to date with what was happening above. Deciding to have an early night she retired, having no wish to look outside. She slept fairly well, for it had been an exhausting day. The following morning, waking at her usual time, Amy hesitantly drew back the curtains and prepared herself for the worst. She was amazed. The sun was rising in the east and the moon was nowhere in sight. Although relieved, she was also oddly disappointed. Had the other planets resumed their orbit around the sun? Maybe the news on the television would provide some answers. Barbara Thackeray

Memories Keep the Past Alive We all collect special memories during our lifetime and, if we sit and reflect upon them for a few minutes, we can smile and feel happy; just as we did when they first occurred. It was March 22nd 1962. A friend of mine had organised a blind date for me to go with her and her boyfriend to the fair at the Midland train station. First, we all met up at the Disc Jockey Café on London Road. I was nervous, but excited at the prospect of going out with a boy for the first time. At nearly sixteen, everything was new to me. I smile when I think what I must have looked like, with my bouffant hairstyle, pencil skirt so tight I could hardly walk, a cardigan put on back to front so the buttons fastened down my spine and pop-apart beads. My three inch stilettos were so narrow at the front, I thought I had broken my toes. Stockings had seams in those days, which I was forever trying to keep straight in the middle of my legs. I put a record on the juke box. My preference was the theme tune from Dr. Kildare – how sad was that? At fifteen, I didn’t care. Then my date arrived and, after the introductions, I couldn’t help noticing his attire. He was wearing a black suit with drainpipe trousers, winkle-picker shoes (God, how they must have hurt!) and a very thin black tie. He had the curliest hair I’d ever seen and everyone called him ‘Curly.’ It was all very formal at first, then we started talking about the record I’d just put on. Well, I didn’t care. I had a crush on Richard Chamberlain. After drinking our Cokes, we eventually made our way to the fair. I went a little dizzy on the waltzer, crashed a few times on the dodgems and my rifle shooting could have been better. ‘Curly’ was much more accurate. He won a cuddly toy and gave it to me. How romantic was that? I had my first game of Bingo, with bottle tops for counters, and I won. I picked a gent’s watch as my prize and, much to the annoyance of my friend, gave it to my date. What did I want dinner plates or tea cups for? “But you might not see him again after tonight,” my friend pointed out. “Time will tell,” I joked. Five years later, on March 25th 1967, we were married. Susan Roberts 11

Dorothy’s Dilemma Dorothy finished her usual two slices of toast and her cup of tea, crossed over to the sink and, looking out of the window, saw that it was drizzling with rain. She sighed. The weather these days couldn’t be relied upon at all. Still, she would have to go into town today as she’d nearly run out of filing paper. She’d been keeping files ever since she could remember. There was a file for everything and anything, much to the amusement of her entire family. Dorothy always said it was a continuation of her job working for, as she put it, Her Majesty the Queen, as head filing clerk in the town hall. The bus was late again and when it did arrive it was full. Much to Dorothy’s annoyance no one gave up their seat, giving her another thing to grumble about - the disrespect of young people these days. Parents didn’t teach their children manners anymore or chastise them for showing off and screaming; not if that little boy in the pushchair was anything to go by. Once in town, Dorothy made her way to the stationer’s for her paper. It was rather heavy but she would manage to carry it home somehow. As she made her way to the zebra crossing, she noticed a group of youths in hooded jackets outside a run down building on the opposite side of the road. She didn’t like the idea of having to pass them. Most of them were thugs and smoked goodness knows what and, worse still, were probably taking drugs of some sort. The lights changed to green and Dorothy set off across the road. She’d just reached the opposite side when her foot slipped on the wet pavement and she fell with a thud. The youths saw what had happened and two of them rushed to Dorothy’s aid. “GO AWAY you thugs leave me alone,” she shouted, “I know your sort, taking advantage of defenceless people while you’re doped up on alcohol or drugs.” She started trying to lift herself up. “Now hang on a minute love, we’re not thugs and we’re not druggies, we just want to help you up,” one of the youths said. “Have you hurt yourself? Do you need an ambulance?” “NO I DO NOT NEED AN AMBULANCE THANKYOU VERY MUCH, I’m quite alright, or I will be when I get myself up off this 12

pavement,” Dorothy answered testily. “Josh come over here and give us a hand to help this lady up.” “Ok, Ben,” Josh replied, although, personally, he thought Dorothy deserved to be left alone. With a heave, the two lads brought Dorothy to her feet and, though she wasn’t hurt, she knew she was shaking with a mixture of emotions; shock from the fall, embarrassment and the proximity of a gang of young men. Ben steered Dorothy towards a door in the run down building she’d seen from across the road. “Josh, pick up the lady’s bag and bring it in mate.” “Will do,” Josh replied. “This bag weighs a ton, what you got in it, the Crown Jewels?” “Certainly not young man, if you must know it’s the paper for my filing though I don’t know what it’s got to do with you,” Dorothy answered sharply. Ben led her through the entrance hall and sat her down on a chair. “Right love, lets get you a nice cup of tea,” he grinned at Dorothy. While Ben was putting the kettle on, Dorothy had a chance to look around. What she saw surprised her. At the far end of the room there were rows of punch bags hanging from the ceiling and a few boys were intent on pounding them, heads down in concentration. The place wasn’t too tidy. The only sign of an office was a desk covered in scattered papers, a battered old table and two boys enjoying a game of pool. “Here’s your tea love, nice and strong with two sugars, good for shock,” said Ben, as he passed Dorothy the mug of tea. She was horrified. Tea in a mug, she never had a mug, she always had a china cup and saucer; but she sipped the tea gratefully. “What is this place?” Dorothy asked. “It’s our little project,” said Ben. “You see, lots of kids round here are bored and they start messing around and causing trouble. They

can come here with their mates and punch out their aggression. Upstairs, we’ve installed some computers, not new of course, but they work okay and the kids can come and look for jobs on the internet, or write up their C.V.s. You’ll have noticed we all wear these hoodies, it’s our uniform if you like; shows we’re proud of what we’re trying to do here.” Dorothy was amazed “You seem to be doing a good job here, but the place is so untidy and with all those papers scattered around it looks rather disgusting,” she said, never one to hold back. “Yeah I know,” Ben said. “It’s the one thing we can’t get our heads around. None of us are very good at that kind of thing, but you’re right, it does need sorting”. He looked at Dorothy. “Hang on a minute you do a lot of filing don’t you?” “Yes I’ve got files for everything at home and they’re always kept up to date.” “I don’t suppose you fancy having a go at sorting all these out do you?” Ben asked. Dorothy was dumbfounded, what on earth could she say? The lad was right, but could she really be associated with these youths, what would her family and friends think? But the pull of the mound of paper was too strong to resist. “I could come in tomorrow morning and make a start,” she offered, but once it’s all filed away I’ll expect you to keep it tidy. “It’s a deal,” Ben agreed. “By the way you know I’m Ben, but what do we call you?” “Mrs. Grant,” Dorothy replied. “Ok Mrs. Grant it is,” Ben grinned at her. “You know I’ve been thinking, would you consider coming here one morning a week to keep our paperwork up to date?” “I suppose I could think about it and let you know tomorrow,” Dorothy replied.

As she made her way out of the building, Dorothy wondered if she had bumped her head when she fell. Whatever was she thinking? Still, all that lovely paper did need sorting into nice neat files. And that was her idea of a job made in heaven. Angela Robinson

Penny Penny is sixteen inches tall and of medium build. She has golden brown, curly hair and very blue eyes, which close when she lies down. Unfortunately, her eyelashes are missing. She is made from – to be perfectly honest I’m not sure whether it’s plastic or rubber. Her features are moulded onto her face and are very lifelike. Her arms and legs are moveable and even her hands and feet are realistic. You can see her nails, and even her knuckles, on each finger and toe. The outfit Penny is wearing at present is one I knitted for her myself. It consists of jade green trousers, red jacket with a grumpy looking snowman on the back; green scarf and a hat worked in stripes of green, red and white. Mum and Dad gave Penny to me one Christmas when I was about six. It’s the childhood memories she evokes that make her so special and explain why I decided to keep her. Mum used to make a lot of my clothes and whenever I had a new outfit, Penny would have a matching one. I enjoyed washing these small outfits. Looking back, I often wonder what the neighbours thought seeing doll’s clothes flapping gaily on the washing line. Sadly, all of Penny’s outfits, along with a lot more of my possessions, went up in flames. Pickford’s Chester warehouse, where I had stored my things from home when Mum died, was destroyed by arsonists. Penny sometimes came to Infants’ School with me. My friend Pamela took her doll as well, but one day it lost an eye, so her mum decided she would take the doll home. Pamela then became very insistent that my mum should take Penny home too, in case her eyes fell out. I stood my ground and told Pamela that Penny’s eyes only fell out if they got water in them and I wasn’t going to let that happen. I used to put Penny to bed every night. When my bedtime came, I would lay Penny down on Dad’s easy chair and cover her with dollsized blankets so she could go to sleep. I would tell my parents quite firmly NOT to move Penny, but to leave her on the chair until morning.

Of course, when I got up, Penny plus blankets had been moved onto the dining table so Dad could sit down; annoying at the time but I can see the funny side of it now. I’m very glad I kept Penny, she sits on my sofa bed and I say goodnight to her every night. Maybe, at fifty four, I could be considered too old for dolls, but I don’t think so. I’m still just a big kid at heart. Heather Norton

Another Day in the Rose Garden “Well, here we are, another day,” said Rosie to her friend Scarlet. “I’m glad it’s not raining today. Hopefully we’ll have some sunshine,” Scarlet replied. “I’m so fed up with getting drenched in all the rain this week. Slugs and snails come out in force when it’s wet. I hate them.” There were children on the other side of the hedge, shouting and laughing in the park. “Listen,” said Rosie, “isn’t it lovely hearing the children playing on the swings and slides?” “Yes,” said Scarlet, “and listen to the birds in the trees.” Suddenly there was a clomp, clomp, clomp on the path. Two elderly gentlemen were walking through. Rosie and Scarlet shuddered. It looked, by the state of their boots, as though the men had been gardening. Resting quietly and admiring the view, Rosie and Scarlet looked up and saw a party of school children coming into the rose garden to have their lunch. They were about seven years old. “Isn’t that nice,” said Scarlet, “we can eavesdrop on their conversations, can’t we?” “That should be interesting,” said Rosie. A boy and girl were talking about their packed lunches. “What’s in your sandwiches?” Asked the little girl. “Tuna,” the boy replied, “what about you?” “Potted meat. It’s yuk. I told my mum I don’t like it, but she says she used to have it when she was young and her mum aswell.” Two more children were talking about ‘play stations’ and other gadgets. After about half an hour it was time for them all to go. “Up to the animal farm I should think,” said Rosie.

Next, two young mums came in with babies in prams and two toddlers walking hand in hand, plus a dog. “Oh, don’t they look sweet,” smiled Scarlet, just as a lady took their photo. A woman with a twin buggy came out of the café and one of the two mums began talking to her. “Is it one of each?” She asked. “Yes, a boy and a girl. Eleven weeks old now. They’re still very small, but lovely all the same.” By this time, everyone was beginning to go home. “Peace at last,” said Scarlet. Rosie nodded in agreement. They were both feeling tired, but looking forward to tomorrow; so they closed their petals and went to sleep. Sweet dreams. Jackie Burrows

Zeca's Revenge With a gentle bump, the canoe glided to a halt on the beach. Snapping turtle quickly buried himself in the sand. Monkey chattered an agitated warning through the tree tops. Snake slithered under a carpet of fallen leaves. Noiselessly, alligator slid into the river. With a few quick hops, deer became invisible in the leafy shadows. The ground trembled as wild boar made his escape, crashing through the undergrowth. Dappled sunlight camouflaged panther snoring high on a branch, confident he could overcome any enemy. Zeca was the worst hunter in the village, the laughingstock of everyone, even the animals and, once again, it seemed they had outwitted him. Shadows lengthened on the forest floor. Evening came. Zeca trudged back to the canoe empty handed and turned to give the forest one final glare of animosity. That was when he spotted the very old sloth. Everyone knows that even the worst of hunters can catch a sloth. Triumphantly, Zeca returned home and that night there was meat enough for the whole village. However, the sloth was so old and the meat so tough that many broke their teeth trying to chew it. The complaining lasted well into the night but Zeca just smiled and quietly ate another banana. That would be the last time the village depended on him for fresh meat. Jean Allen

The Old Treadle Machine In the corner near my dining area door is an old sewing machine. With its carved out top and cast iron legs, this heirloom is a nightmare to dust, to the extent I have almost stopped bothering. You would probably recognise the legs; many decommissioned machines ended up supporting pub table tops, and many stubbed toes know about it. I have never used it to sew on, preferring the little electrical gadget I got in Argos, but I could never part with it. The old treadle machine is the only tangible link to my maternal line. It belonged to my mother, her mother before her and her mother before that. My grandmother had eight sisters, so for my mother, Betty, to inherit it was very special. I have no memories of my grandmother or great-grandmother, a long line of short lived women stretches ominously ahead of me. But I often wonder about all the clothes that must have been made on that machine. With eleven children making it to adulthood, my IrishCatholic great-grandmother had work on her hands and the make-it-yourself ethos never left the family. My mum must have owned utilitarian outfits run up by her decidedly frugal mother. I too suffered the indignity of homemade skirts and blouses. At the time I was horrified, but now when I look back, I realise how much love must have gone into every stitch. Of course by the time my mum was sewing, electric machines were everywhere and she had a really fancy thing that sewed different embroidery stitches. I wish she were still here, so I could ask her about my grandmother and the outfits she wore. I feel that half of my family is a mystery to me. One of my first memories is of being on a carnival float with Mum. She had been taking an evening course in machine embroidery and the college put together a float: â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Skills and Crafts Way Back When.â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Mum made us red velveteen skirts with embroidery all around

the bottom in different colours, little white blouses and mopped caps made from a shiny blue-green material with white lace around the edge. She sat at the old treadle machine, putting together bits of fabric and I, four years old, sat next to her. I had a little red hand-cranked machine that did straight lines and zig-zags; unlike the machine I use now, it was really easy to thread. I don’t remember anything else about the float, but I remember we won and were invited to the main carnival in Wigan. All the villages in the area had a winner put forward and I thought it had everything to do with me. I couldn’t understand why we didn’t win the Wigan award as well. I blamed the fact my material had caught and Mum had to help me. When we moved to Sheffield, the old treadle machine lived in my bedroom. It was the only room with enough space. For the most part I tried to hide it away - it didn’t fit in with rock posters or my gothic sensibilities. It was only when Mum passed away that I began to realise what an important link it was to my family. I still have the red velveteen skirt, the hem was dropped and waist band extended to accommodate dressing up games for years later. Much to his embarrassment, it became my brother’s skirt when I was too big for it. I’m sure there must be photographs somewhere, but he may have burnt them all. When I moved to my new home, my dad asked if I wanted the treadle machine. I was horrified at the prospect of losing it. So now it sits, waiting quietly to be pressed into service again, and gathers dust in nooks and crannies that are a pain to clean. Catherine Hart

Taurus – “you are inclined to jump to conclusions.” George sat back on his heels and sighed contentedly. “I reckon I'll pull it off this year,” he thought, “I've never seen them look quite this good.” He pushed himself up from the ground and stretched. His sixty two years were beginning to tell. How long could he keep this pace up? He walked across his allotment to the greenhouse, waving to Harry, his next door neighbour, as he went to sit down on his bench. Only a couple more days to go before the competition at the village hall on Saturday. George’s produce was looking excellent; as good as he had ever seen it. He entered every year and had often been in the top three in various categories, but had never pulled off a first. This year he was entering onions, a marrow, vine tomatoes and a pumpkin, as well as some lovely, pure white, incurving chrysanthemums. They were a joy to behold and were now carefully bagged to prevent the petals from opening. George made a pot of tea on his little stove and sat and savoured it till his grandaughter Lindy came from school. She came most afternoons as the show got closer and was almost as keen on gardening as George. She took great pride in caring for the pumpkin, which she almost regarded as her own entry. Lindy came down the path and plonked herself down beside her grandad. He poured her a cup of tea from the old brown teapot, a ritual they both looked forward to. “Things still looking good, Grandad?” She asked. “Fine love. I think we might make it this year. If we do get a first, I think I'll retire from showing,” he replied. “You say that every year,” smiled Lindy. “I'll just have a check around.” She examined each entry critically, removing imaginary specks of dust from the pumpkin with a soft brush and tucking another handful of straw around its base. When they were both satisfied they set off home for tea, parting at her garden gate. George continued to his house at the bottom of the road.

The next day, he went straight from his part time job to the allotment for a final check before the big day. He walked up the central path towards his prize specimens to be met by a row of ragged stalks, where his beautiful chrysanths had been. He stared in horror, not believing his eyes. Who could have done this dreadful thing? Who could have been so despicable and who was aware that he intended to show them? And then he knew. Harry next door had envied his blooms. His own entries paled into insignificance compared to George's. It must be him. They had been friendly rivals at the show for years, but this was carrying things too far. In his impetuous fashion, George stomped round to Harry's allotment to find him in his greenhouse. “What sort of friend are you to pull a stunt like that?” He stormed. “What are you on about George?” Asked Harry. “You know! My chrysanths. What have you done with them?” He demanded. “I haven't touched your flowers. You know I wouldn't.” “It must have been you!” blazed George, “You knew they were bound to beat yours, and you couldn't bear for me to get a first, could you?” “That's ridiculous! I'd already decided not to enter mine as yours are so much better. How could I possibly hope to get away with it? Besides, I'd never stoop so low.” But George was not be talked out of it and stormed off back to his allotment, yelling “Don't ever speak to me again!” When Lindy arrived from school she was heartbroken for her grandad, but consoled him with the fact that he was sure to win with one of his other entries. She also said she couldn't believe that Harry could do something so spiteful to his old pal. “Maybe someone passing by took a fancy to them and helped themselves,” she suggested, but George was certain he was right, so she dropped the subject.

The Saturday of the show dawned and George and Lindy arrived at the village hall with his entries. George made sure his table was as far away from Harry's as possible, but did get Lindy to see if he had any chrysanths on show. There were none to be seen. It took some time to set the produce up to their satisfaction. While they were busy they were joined at their table by a man and a young boy. Lindy looked up and saw them. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Grandad, this is Tim. His mum's recovering from a serious operation, so he's staying with his aunt and uncle. He usually goes to a special school, but till his mum gets better he’s coming to our school. We sit together in class.” “Hello,” said Tim, giving George a wide smile. “I'm Ben Roberts, Tim's uncle,” explained the man, “I've brought him along to apologise to you. Apparently Lindy told him all about your beautiful flowers and where your allotment is. I'm afraid Tim decided to pick some to take to his mum in hospital. It took until this morning to find out where he got them from. So we came as soon as we could.” Ben produced the fine blooms from behind his back and handed them to George, who accepted them with tears in his eyes. Checking they were in good shape, he laid them carefully on the table. He shook Ben's hand and thanked him profusely and Lindy gave Tim a big hug, receiving a sloppy kiss in return. “Hope you win, Lindy,” he grinned. At this point the judges were examining George's entries, speaking quietly to each other and making notes. When they moved on, George took the opportunity to walk over to Harry's table and explained what had happened. “I'm so sorry for suspecting you,” he said. “That'll teach me to jump to conclusions in future. Will you let me buy you a pint while we wait for the judges’ decision?” Shaking hands, they strolled to the beer tent to drink each other's health; until they heard the announcements begin. “In the floral section, for incurving chrysanthemums, the third prize goes to Albert Martin for his lovely sunshine yellow. The second prize goes to George Burton for his superb pure white. We would like

to mention that he would have shared first place if they had been better displayed, but that honour goes to Jane Brown for her magnificent bronze; a most unusual colour.” There was much applause as the contestants collected their trophies. George's onions also came second, his vine tomatoes third. His marrow was pipped into third place by Harry's huge specimen, but it was Lindy's pumpkin that brought the surprise. It took first prize and a judge's commendation. George let her collect the trophy. She beamed with pride as she shook hands with the judges and carried the shield back to George. “Well, Grandad, you'll have to enter again next year, you didn't get a first!” “What's this then young lady?” He laughed as he hugged her. “Your help was invaluable, so we'll call this trophy yours! And after the show you can give the chrysanths to Tim for his mum.” Win Francis

The Messenger Standing alone on the windswept cliff top, Carol shivered as she stared absently out to sea. It was choppy today, with waves racing onto the beach and pounding against the cliffs. The last time she was here had been in the summer – a gloriously warm, balmy day, with the sea as calm as a millpond. Carol hadn’t been alone on her last visit to Westcliffe-on Sea. No, Brian had been with her. It had been a carefree romantic day and, just as the sun had started to set, Brian had gone down on one knee and produced a ring. “Carol, darling please, will you……?” Of course, her answer had been yes. Carol looked at the ring again, as she had done so many times since last summer. Only now, Brian wasn’t with her. He was dead, killed by a roadside bomb, along with the rest of his platoon out in Afghanistan. Carol shivered again. Once her future had stretched out so brightly – as Brian’s fiancée, his wife, then with them both as parents to the three, maybe four, children they had hoped to have. The cliff top suddenly seemed very desolate. The raucous cries of the gulls wheeling overhead were no longer friendly. Now they sounded as haunting as the cries of a lost soul. Carol remembered the advice her mother had given her on the day of Brian’s funeral. “Try to move on, pet. I know it’s hard for you. But, Brian wouldn’t want you to go under.” That was easier said than done, when her future now seemed as bleak and joyless as a dream without hope. Carol sighed. Perhaps it was time to move on. She could start by having a meal, or even just a hot drink, at the Fishermans’ Plaice. Leaving the cliff top, Carol followed the coastal path down to the town, which was as familiar to her as the back of her own hand. As she walked she realised that one of the seagulls – a pure white one - was flying nearer and nearer, almost as if it was following her. The gull’s clamorous cries seemed to be telling her to stop, to wait. As she watched, it circled even closer. Then, as bold as brass,

flew down and landed right at her feet. In spite of herself, Carol smiled. Then she noticed that the bird had something in its beak – a rolled up piece of paper, which it dropped onto her shoe. A prickle of unease ran through Carol as she picked up the paper and unrolled it. Then, as she read what was written on it, a ray of hope broke through the clouds of her grief. To Carol – my own sweet Caroline – Remember me – but don’t mourn. May God bless your future. Ever yours, Brian xx Heather Norton

My Musical Box It has been stored on a shelf in my wardrobe for a considerable number of years. It is a musical jewellery box, measuring some four to six inches. It is quite heavy, being made of gold coloured metal. Inside, there is a lined well, made to hold small items of jewellery. The lid has a blue border and is adorned with figures of what I believe are oriental gods. It plays the delightful tune of ‘Concerto for Two’. The music box was sent to me from South Korea, more than fifty years ago, by my youngest brother Chris. He was serving there with the army peace-keeping force, after the war between North and South Korea. It was given to him by members of a South Korean family, anxious to show their appreciation of the protection from the communist North Koreans, which had been provided by the armed forces. They had apparently told him to send it to his ‘woman’, but he was a young single soldier and so, being his sister, I was his next choice. I remember now, how overwhelmed I was when I received it. Musical boxes had always fascinated me, and this was my very own. Chris and I corresponded frequently and in his letters he told me of the hard life the villagers lived, in their rugged, mountainous country. However it was their way of life and they accepted it as such. They had taken the British soldiers to heart and showed their appreciation in any way they could. The army, meanwhile, was involved in clearing some of the huge forests to prepare the land for growing crops, mostly rice, barley and wheat; thereby helping the villagers to be self supporting. My brother also told me of the wild animals there, mostly tigers, leopards and bears, which they rarely saw, as the animals kept to the forests. South Korea has, even to this day, to be aware of any invasion by China, Japan and particularly North Korea, but it has moved on, maybe thanks to the British Armed Forces.

As I look at my musical box, I see how worn it is. The lid is loose and the mechanism struggles to play its tune. To make matters worse, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve just dropped it and a foot has broken off. Now that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve brought it out from its resting place, I think of my brother Chris, no longer with us; the young boy soldier on his way to duty in a land we had always thought of as unapproachable. The place on the other side of the world where my musical box came from. Barbara Thackeray

Moving On The sky is grey and stormy. There’s a smell of damp grass and the dank odour of the river we are following. We need to find somewhere to rest. Father is riding Gus, as he can’t walk too far without getting out of breath. Mother strides alongside with our belongings in a sack on her back. I can see she is getting tired and must stop before dark. We left our last home this morning, with just a few belongings and our trusty old dapple grey horse. We would never have left him behind. Father had worked as a field hand and we lived in a tied cottage. When he became ill we found ourselves with nowhere to live. Mother has a sister across country and she says it is the only place we can go. At last we decide to stop, but I’m too restless to be still and start picking wild flowers; then I spot a farmhouse ahead on the other side of the river. Perhaps the farmer’s wife will take them in exchange for a night in their barn, or some food? We ate the last of the stale bread and cheese for dinner. The smell of it was rank but we were all so hungry. Mother is sitting under an old gnarled tree that looks as if it’s been there for thousands of years and in this half light it looks quite eerie. I have almost finished gathering the flowers, so I join Mother and Father and tell them my idea. They look so tired and ready for rest. We just need to go a little further and cross the bridge over the river that will lead us to the farmhouse. I hope the farmer’s wife will be a kindly lady who will give us shelter and a little food, then we can continue our journey refreshed until we have to seek some other place to sleep. Fortunately, she proves to be a generous soul; accepting the flowers with good grace and allowing us to shelter overnight in the

barn. It is cold and draughty but much better than sleeping outdoors. Fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s health would not stand another night out in the open. We feed Gus with some hay and water and settle ourselves down. Father is awake all night coughing, which disturbs Mother and I. He looks a little better in the morning and we are greeted by the farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wife, who brings us hot tea and a slice of bread and fat, which we eat with gusto. I thank her gratefully as she gives me a cloth containing bread, cheese and a thick slice of ham, together with a large flagon of water. She wishes us well and we set off once more. We pass through one village and soon reach the outskirts of the next, then stop for a much needed rest and a bite to eat. While we are resting, having filled our stomachs with the wonderful bread, ham and cheese, I hear the clip clop of a horse and the rumble of wheels on the track alongside the verge. An old man driving a cart with two horses comes into view, looking as if they too are ready for a rest. The old man stops and asks where we are bound. I tell him we are heading for a village miles away, where Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sister lives and hope to find work there. He takes off his cap, scratches his head and says we will be lucky to get much work in that part of the country, but he knows of a woman in the next village who needs a companion and a housekeeper. If we follow him, he will show us the house. Mother rides on the wagon and I walk alongside Father, who is riding Gus. We pass through the village and then turn up a rough cart track, which leads to a solitary house in the middle of a large garden. The old man takes me to the back of the house and introduces me to the cook, who says she will tell her employer that I am looking for a position for myself and my Mother. The lady of the house is middle aged, but looks older and tells us that, after losing her husband, she has become very lonely and needs someone both for company and also to keep the house in order. We have a lengthy chat, during which I explain our

circumstances. Mrs. Maynard, as we discover the lady is called, explains the work that Mother and I will be expected to do. I am to keep her company and read to her on occasions and make sure her linens and clothes are well laundered, mended and pressed. Mother will oversee the housework, the lunch and dinner menus and keep everything neat, clean and tidy. Father, when he has gained more strength, will potter usefully about the garden and tend to the horses in the stables. There will also be room for Gus! I go back outside to talk to Mother and Father, who are rather hesitant, until I explain that it will be in our best interest to at least give it a try. We will have food, shelter and a home in the servantsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; quarters at the top of the house. Mother looks at Father and he nods in agreement; so we are at this moment settling into our new home. I hope we will be happy, at least until we find it is time to move on to another village and another chapter in our lives. Angela Robinson

The Four Dresses One day last summer, my husband and I decided to have a trip to Bakewell. After looking round the shops and eating a fish and chip lunch, we had a steady walk up by the side of the church. It was quite steep but we managed it. We came across an old building which, as we could see, had been renovated. We were curious, so went to investigate. We walked to the front entrance. Just inside was a man sitting behind a glass partition. "Do come in and take a look around our Old House Museum," he invited. He went on to explain that the building used to be an old monastery, which had fallen into disrepair. After the renovation was finished, it was turned into a museum. My husband paid the entrance fee of ÂŁ5 each, which I thought was rather a lot, but once inside we explored every room. First, the kitchen, then a room full of cutting equipment; scissors, knives, even old lawn mowers. I wasn't interested in that room but my husband enjoyed it. When we had visited all the downstairs rooms, we were eager to see upstairs. The staircase we had to climb was very rickety and creaky. It didn't feel at all safe. My husband chose a room with lots of weapons and I left him among the swords, guns and crossbows. I soon discovered another room and what I saw there took my breath away. There were four mannequins wearing beautiful dresses from different eras. From what I could make out, they were all wedding dresses. In glass cabinets around the room were displayed tiny satin shoes and different kinds of bonnets. I hadn't noticed her before, but my attention was drawn to a lady who was dusting one of the cabinets. She was in her late sixties, grey hair tied in a bun at the back and she was wearing a dress apron. "Sorry to disturb you," I apologised. "You are not disturbing me," came the reply, "I saw you looking at those dresses. They are beautiful aren't they?" "Yes," I replied, "I was just wondering what ever happened to the women who wore them and how did their special dresses finish up here. I find it all very intriguing." 34

The lady walked towards me. "Maybe I can tell you a little about their history?" I nodded encouragingly. "The lilac silk chiffon Napoleonic dress was a princess line style. It was very beautiful, a little revealing, but that was the fashion in 1808. The girl who wore this dress was Marie, born in 1781, the daughter of a rich wine merchant. She met and married a sea captain when she was twenty seven. Sadly, her husband was killed in a battle at sea. Later, she married an English man and came to live in London. The dress was donated three years ago by a descendant. The purple wool Victorian dress tells a sad story. Louisa, born in 1850, was eighteen when she married her sweetheart, Thomas. She had long, red hair and a beautiful complexion. She hadn't been feeling well for days before her wedding. Her mother decided it was nerves and, on the wedding morning, she gave her daughter a tot of brandy. The wedding went ahead. After the ceremony, Louisa's condition worsened. She became feverish and had a headache. The doctor advised rest for a couple of hours but, unfortunately, she deteriorated and died later that same evening. The doctor's diagnosis was pneumonia. Her mother could never part with the wedding dress and later it was donated to us by a family member. The Edwardian dress was worn by Emma, a seamstress who worked in a fashionable Sheffield boutique in 1910. Sometimes she had to help young ladies into their ball gowns or wedding dresses. It was a job she really loved. One day she was asked to stay behind after closing time to finish a wedding dress that was to be collected the next day. She didn't mind, as it wouldn't take long. When the dress was finished, she stood back to admire its crinoline skirt falling in tiers, little pink flowers embroidered on the material and a bonnet to match. She couldn't resist the temptation to try it on. She could never afford a dress like this. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she saw that she looked wonderful and began to dance and swirl around the room. After a few minutes, Emma stopped abruptly. She could smell burning and see black smoke coming up from the basement. She was terrified and knew she had to get out. No time to change, she ran out 35

of a side door all the way to her flat. It was dark. No one saw her. She waited nervously for a knock on the door, but nobody came. She was unable to sleep all that night. The next morning, around eight o' clock, she made her way to the boutique. The street was full of fire engines, police and anxious staff. Asking a policeman what had happened, she was told that the shop had burned down and everything had been destroyed. Every single dress had gone. Luckily, nobody was inside. Emma knew she had to keep the dress hidden. No one must know. Months later, she moved to Bakewell, to work in a small dress shop. When she married, she wore the beautiful dress; much to the envy of all her friends. If only they knew the story! It was donated to the museum by her granddaughter." The fourth dress was my favourite. I couldn't help running my fingers down its beaded front. It was pure white silk with covered buttons at the back. "You like that one don't you," said the lady in the apron. "Yes, I think it's gorgeous. Do tell me the story behind it." "Well," she began, "the girl who wore this dress was Lillian, born in 1919. In 1940 she met a handsome American pilot called George. They married seven months after they met. Friends and family offered clothing coupons to buy silk for the dress, others gave food coupons to help purchase ingredients for a wedding cake. There was rationing in 1940 due to the war and so everything was in short supply. Ten months after Lillian married George, she gave birth to a little girl. They named her Janet. Tragically, in 1943, George was killed when his plane was shot down over Germany. Lillian never remarried and brought Janet up on her own. Years later, when Janet married, she wore her mother's wedding dress. A few alterations and she looked marvellous." She broke off as my husband appeared in the doorway. "Are you ready to go?" He asked. "If so, I'll see you downstairs." I turned to thank the lady for all the information about the dresses. "You're welcome," she replied, smiling.

After walking down those rickety stairs again, I joined my husband. Passing the man behind the glass partition, I told him how much we had enjoyed the museum and how helpful and informative their lady cleaner had been about the wedding dresses. "She liked the white silk one best, as I did," I commented. "We don't have a cleaner. My wife Janet and I do the tidying and cleaning after we close each night. The white silk dress belonged to Janet's Mum. Janet wore it for our wedding." Michael, my husband, took hold of my arm. "You've gone as white as a sheet. Let's go and have a nice cup of tea. You look as though you've just seen a ghost!" Susan Roberts

Music Andrea Bocelli is rather sombre to start, then a beautiful deep voice emerges. I believe he is blind, but sounds cheerful in his singing. I can't understand the language; it is rhythmical and loud, but quite soothing. This is a very melodious song. The next CD is called ‘Love and Tenderness’ and is rather noisy, but quite acceptable at first. After a while, however, I have to turn it off, as it’s really not very good. I choose something else - the lovely Vera Lynn singing ‘Goodnight Sweetheart.’ Being a sentimentalist, this appeals to me. A male voice comes on next, not too keen, but I’ll listen for a little longer. The song is good, ‘Love Letters,’ which is very tuneful and makes me want to dance. The next CD is Irish songs, which are very cheerful and also make me want to dance! This music reminds me of when my younger daughter was about five and wore her Irish kilt to dance the Irish Fling at school. I have a CD by Glen Miller, who was popular during the war. Unfortunately, he was reported missing during a flight. The music is very energetic, but not much singing yet. I don't think I like it - boring and monotonous. The next CD is lovely and called ‘Bless This House’. The lyrics are delightful, the male singer has a melodious voice and the words are very pleasing. One piece is spoken by a man with a clear, rich voice. He tells the story of a soldier who looks as though he is playing cards in church. He is not. The Ace represents God and the two reminds him of the Bible - the old and new testament. He goes on to number ten, each number depicting something in the Bible. His pack of cards serves him as a Bible Almanac. The next musical episode consists of Anne Shelton. She is a superb singer and stays in my memory. ‘The Last Time I Saw Paris’ is a particular favourite; ‘Fools Rush In’ is delightful, with well written, melodic tunes. ‘Lily of the Lamplight’ was a war time classic and still sounds tuneful. ‘I'll Be Seeing You’ and ‘Coming In On a Wing and a Prayer’ - now there's a rousing march reminiscent of war time.

The Perry Como CD is musical and interesting. Bing Crosby is nostalgic and reminds one of his popular era. Cole Porter is pleasing and ‘Forces Sweetheart’ featuring Vera Lynn is always singable. But I think that ‘Climb Up On My Knee, Sonny Boy,’ sung by Al Jolson, is my favourite. This makes me want to join in. The melody and singing are soothing. When I hear this song, I remember how fond I am of singing and dancing. Betty Hancock

The Baby Chair In my little bedroom I have a baby chair. It must be a hundred years old. I think it belonged to my grandparents. It was painted yellow when I was little; now it’s white and needs painting again. My mum and her sisters and brother used it, as did my own brother and I. It was passed down to my daughter Lindsey and then Lisa, but my son Jonathan had a modern high chair. My dad made a special tray for it, so Lindsey could eat her meals while she was a baby, as Lisa did too. This was later removed, so that the girls could use the chair to play with. Now there are three large teddies in the bedroom and they take turns to sit in the old baby chair. I’m hoping my great-grandson will use it when he’s a little older. I’ll never part with the baby chair and I hope my family doesn’t either. I dare say it could tell some stories. One night, I woke up and thought I could hear noises coming from the little bedroom; but I was too sleepy to get up and find out why. Next morning, I discovered that the three teddies had changed places and my other toys were on the floor. I picked them up and put them back in their usual places. The following night I was woken up again. I crawled out of bed and popped my head around the door. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The bears were having a tea party with some of the soft toys - they were drinking orange juice and nibbling biscuits! I decided to stay and see what happened next. The toys made a circle and began playing Ring-a-Roses. They all fell down and couldn’t stop laughing. I went back to bed with a smile on my face. In the morning, I looked in the little bedroom once again. Everything was quiet and there was nothing out pf place. The biggest teddy bear was back in the old baby chair and, as I turned to go, I could swear he winked at me. Jackie Burrows

The Contest He cast his line in a wide, curving arc over the river and the bait sank into the swift flowing depths midstream. The early sun reflected from the water and he pulled the peak of his corduroy cap lower over his eyes. He stood motionless, the clear, sparkling water rippling and gurgling around his green waders. Except for the sound of the river and the fluting call of birds in the nearby trees, there was a stillness and quiet that fitted his mood. The last vestiges of morning mist had evaporated in the warm sun and he could feel its rays through his jacket. A dragonfly zigzagged over the water, its wings shimmering with iridescent rainbow colours. Landing on a reed, it was joined by another, and together they set off in a dizzy dance, dipping and diving downstream. A dipper flew over the water and landed on a stone near the shore, its black and white coat as trim and neat as an evening suit. It dived into the shallows, strong wings beating against the flow, returning to the stone to consume its breakfast. Again and again it came back to the riverbed, until, finally satisfied, it flew off upstream. The man remained impassive, occasionally reeling in his line and re-casting, but always aware of the wildlife around him. A water vole emerged from its hole in the opposite bank and swam leisurely into the main stream. Its nose broke the surface now and then, followed by a pair of beady eyes and twitching ears. It climbed on to a heap of gravel washed up during the river's spate and pulled a piece of green reed from the bank. Holding it between both paws, it began chewing from end to end until it was finished. The vole then washed its face and cleaned its whiskers, before setting off on further travels. A young woman came striding along the river bank, her collie dog bounding at her heels. A momentary frown darkened the man's expression, but the dog was off chasing imaginary rabbits and the woman was intent on her walk. As soon as they were gone peace returned to the river. The angler reeled in his line again. Re-baiting the hook, he sent it spinning over the sunlit water to a spot in a patch of shade. Almost immediately he felt a tug on the line and took a firmer hold. The line

began to unreel as the fish became aware of its plight. The man reeled in, but the fish was strong. He caught sight of the trout's speckled back and angry eye and his heart leapt at the prospect of this battle of wills. The fish lashed and bucked, tugging on the line with all its might, but the man was equally determined, and the struggle continued. The line slowly shortened as the fish began to tire, but the man was also reaching the end of his tether. His fingers ached as he clung to the rod, hauling in the line inch by inch. The fish, exhausted as it was, did not intend to give up easily. It continued to leap and arch in the water, in a desperate struggle for freedom. Eventually the man's superior strength prevailed. He hauled the fish from the water. The sun sparkled on its rich brown back and its eye seemed to acknowledge the victor. It lay exhausted in the man's hands as he gently extracted the hook from its mouth. The two protagonists were as one, until the man, smiling ruefully, eased the trout back into the water. He could swear the fish saluted him with its tail, as it swam off downstream. Win Francis

Jack It was one of those grey-as-granite autumnal days, the sort that never gets properly light and chills you to the bone. Jack knew he couldn’t spend another night sleeping rough, cold, hungry and thirsty or it might be the end of him. His eyes slid over to the cottage, it was the last in the village as you left, or the first as you arrived. He’d been watching it, or more precisely the woman who lived there, closely for several days from his vantage point on the green. He liked the bohemian way she dressed, long flowing skirts, gaudy blouses and multi coloured scarves wound through her tumbling red curls. But most of all he liked the fact that there had been no sign of any man, day or night. From the way she held his gaze when she came out to feed the birds in the neat garden he sensed she was lonely. If he played his cards right she’d be his for the taking. And nobody could deny Jack was handsome, shiny black hair and plenty of it, the touches of silver here and there only served to make him appear more distinguished. His eyes were as green as emeralds and he used them to full effect, covert glances had melted many a female heart. Why, when he’d been at the factory those girls had virtually fought over his attentions and he’d never been short of a meal or warmth. But the factory had closed, forcing both the girls and Jack to move on. As if on cue the purple front door opened and the object of his desire sailed majestically into view. He lowered his eyes and regarded coldly the one hitch in his well-formed plan. Following at the heels of the woman was a Welsh collie dog. He’d met the breed when he was at the farm and knew, to his cost, they could be fiercely territorial and protective of their owners. However, he’d become skilled at handling them and was confident he could quickly and easily deal with this obviously pampered pet. After smiling at him for a long moment the woman and her dog strode briskly away in the direction of the village. Jack watched them until they rounded the bend and disappeared from sight, then he sat back down on his bench to ponder the next move.

Later, peering through the now constant drizzle, he watched as they returned. The woman was struggling with heavy shopping bags and he knew there would never be a better time to seize his opportunity. Rising somewhat stiffly, he stretched and sauntered nonchalantly across the road, arriving at the cottage gate at exactly the same moment as its occupants. By standing there looking suitably pathetic, he contrived to elicit an invitation for some food and drink indoors. Inside, the cottage was warm and welcoming. While his meal was being prepared, Jack took in every aspect of his surroundings. He noted with satisfaction the eclectic grouping of modern and antique furniture, each piece expensive and well polished. There was money here and Jack intended to take complete advantage of the fact. As if that wasn’t enough Mary, as she introduced herself, proved to be an excellent cook. She took great pleasure in watching him munch his way through a third helping of lightly poached salmon in a rich creamy sauce, while she savoured a second large glass of wine. After the meal they adjourned to the cosy sitting room, where a real log fire burned, its dancing flames creating a romantic golden glow. Mary indicated that Jack should seat himself on the squashy floral settee and rest. The dog, despite admonishment, jumped up alongside and observed him with a malevolent stare. Gathering his entire cunning, Jack half rose once or twice, before exaggerating a limp and making perfunctory attempts to leave. Mary begged him to stay, saying it was a wild, storm lashed night outside. The dog, more perceptive of this intimidating visitor’s motives towards his mistress, growled menacingly until he was ejected from the room. Mary sat down beside Jack and smiled invitingly, her polished scarlet nails brushing lightly through his hair. He moved ever closer, until her soft-as-silk curls, brushed his face. Her fragrant, angels’ breath perfume pervaded his nostrils, sending a thrill through his entire body. In a sudden twist of fate Jack began to feel he was falling helplessly and dangerously under Mary’s spell and he wanted to be with her forever. Her touch was exciting, intoxicating and commanding as she moved towards that first haunting kiss.

The spell was broken when, out in the hall, the dog set up a sudden and frenetic barking. Jack heard the sound of a key turning noisily in a lock and then raucous shouting. “Hi love I’m home,” yelled a man, the rest of his greeting dying on his lips as his eyes met those of the stranger in his wife’s arms. Silence oppressive as a vacuum seemed to close in around them all. The husband tired from his journey, but commanding in his business suit, stood framed by the doorway; briefcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers wedged under his arm. Mary pulled sharply away from Jack, but remained as tranquil as a priest at prayer while her husband gave full vent to his anger. His tirade of invective washed over her, wave after wave. Jack, shocked, intimidated even, made no move to intervene, thinking discretion to definitely be the better part of valour in the present situation. Mary, after all, did seem quite accustomed to it. “Have you lost your mind woman?” The husband demanded. “I’m working myself to the bone, spending all week on the road trying to earn us a decent standard of living and here’s you opening the door to any waif and stray and letting them take advantage of you. And I bet he’s had my dinner,” he added petulantly, anger blazing in his eyes. He started towards Jack, making it clear he should leave now or be thrown bodily out. But Mary seized Jack and clutched him to her, challenging her husband. “Surely, even you wouldn’t turn an elderly arthritic cat out on a night this?” Sue Sullivan

Our Daughter, The Bride It really was a red-letter day in our lives - one that I shall never forget. Lisa, the daughter Daniel and I thought we couldn’t have, was getting married. Born after many years of childlessness, fertility tests and bitter disappointments every month, Lisa had been – and still is – our pride and joy. This was a day for looking forward, but, in the stillness of the small country church, I allowed myself a few moments to reflect upon the past twenty three years of Lisa’s life. I remembered her first steps – her first words – her smile, which endeared her to so many people. Even her awkward, ungainly moments filled our lives with laughter. I pictured her falling off her bike, taking the skin off her nose and spilling her Ribena on the hearthrug, leaving an indelible plum coloured stain on the milk-white wool. The organist, who had been playing quietly, paused. I was aware of movement at the back of the church before the familiar strains of The Bridal March heralded the arrival of Lisa and Daniel. In spite of my promise not to cry, my eyes filled. Glancing across at John, our future son-in-law, I noticed he, too, was quietly wiping away a tear. We grinned at each other, before turning to watch Daniel and Lisa walk slowly up the aisle. Daniel, as always, looked distinguished, but it was Lisa who took my breath away. Tall and slender she was, her long ivory coloured dress making her look younger, but at the same time very dignified. Her waist length hair, the colour of melted toffee, was swept up under her short veil. Again, my eyes filled; she wasn’t our little girl anymore. There was a look of intense pride on Daniel’s face, but I could tell he was feeling shaky too. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of God.” The ceremony passed in a blur. All too soon Miss Lisa Wildman became Mrs Lisa Fielding and we made our way outside for the photographs. “Bride and her parents first, please.”

Tim, the photographer, couldn’t have chosen a better spot than that particular corner of the churchyard. We stood among a carpet of bluebells, while the spring sunshine filtered through the leaves of the beech trees, touching them with emerald. “Mummy – Dadda.” Lisa, in her emotion reverted to her baby names for us, as she held out her hands to Daniel and myself. “I love John so much it hurts – but please don’t think you’re losing me. I’ll always be your little girl and you’ll always be Mummy and Dadda. Thanks for everything”.

Heather Norton

Don't Swear On Sunday I was waiting at the bus stop outside Tesco one beautiful, warm, sunny morning. It was so quiet. I was visiting my sister in Lowedges for Sunday lunch. The peacefulness ended abruptly when a young man, who was standing in front of me, suddenly started shouting and swearing. He was apparently angry because he had been waiting a long time for the number seventy six bus. He stood in the middle of the road shouting his head off. "Where's that bloody bus? We spend most of our lives waiting around for bloody buses. Where the hell is it?" "Excuse me," I said, "would you mind not swearing. The bus won't come any quicker with you going off like that." "I'll do what I dam well like. Mind your own business," he said. "I'll ask you again. Please stop swearing. It's Sunday, the Sabbath day." "I don't care if it's Christmas Day. I only want the bloody bus to come.â&#x20AC;? Just then, an older man who had been standing behind me spoke up. "Don't speak to the lady like that. Have you no respect? You're nothing but a yobbo." "Who are you calling a yobbo?" The lad looked even angrier now. "A stint in the army would do you good," the man said. The lad walked towards the man with a stupid grin on his face. "I bet you were in the army and no doubt in the war." "Yes, I was in the war, fighting for king and country so that people like you could have a better life. A bit of discipline wouldn't hurt you." Before the lad had time to answer back a seventy six bus came round Woodseats Road. When it arrived at our stop, the poor bus driver received a right earful. Unfortunately, the older man wanted the same bus. I felt sorry for him. Quietness returned to the bus stop.

Peace at last! What a horrible lad. All that swearing. It really wasn't necessary. Just then I felt a slight tug on my arm. Turning, I saw a lady, perhaps in her eighties. She was well dressed and softly spoken. I asked her if she wanted the seventy six bus, informing her it had just gone. I assured her a fifty three was due any time. "No," she replied, she didn't need a bus, she felt embarrassed because she was lost. She had forgotten where she lived. Most of her life had been spent in Hillsborough but, when her husband died, her daughter wanted her to move closer to her in Lowedges. She had lived in her new flat for two weeks. "Don't worry," I said, "we'll find it." Then I thought, we must be quick. I didn't want to miss my bus. "Which side of the road do you think your flat might be on?" I asked. "I think it's over the road. I remember crossing at the lights." "Then that's where we start." Walking very slowly, we crossed the road and walked until we came to The Dale. "That's it," she said, pointing down the road. "That's where I live." It was Dalewood Residential Home. As we approached, a lady came rushing towards us. "There you are Mrs. Johnson, we've been looking everywhere for you." "Sorry if I've been a nuisance, but with it being such a lovely warm day, I wanted to go for a walk and get some fresh air." "Your daughter will take care of you when she comes later on, I'm sure. She'll take you out if you want to go." The carer took hold of the old ladyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arm and thanked me for my trouble. At that point, rushing to catch my bus, I quickly departed. I walked briskly to the corner and, to my horror, the fifty three bus was just leaving the bus stop. "No," I screamed. "Bloody hell!" Susan Roberts 49

The Woods The half term autumn holiday was warm and sunny. Tom, aged just ten, and his two school friends Phil and Nick, finally had permission from their parents to go to the local woods, after careful warnings about when they were to return. Their homes were at the edge of a housing estate near to the woods. “Take Bruce with you,” Tom’s mum called out unnecessarily, as the black German Shepherd was already waiting, eager to go. “Don’t let him off the lead too soon,” she added. The trees in the woods were turning glorious shades of gold, yellow, red and russet. Some were already losing their leaves, rendering the tall dark conifers a complete contrast. The boys started scrabbling about, looking for conkers and acorns, but had little luck finding any sizeable ones, though they enjoyed scuffling their feet in the fallen heaps. Bored now, they decided to make up a Robin Hood game. “I’ll be Robin,” ordered Tom. “Phil, you’re Little John ‘cause you’re the tallest and fattest of us. You’re getting quite obese too,” he added smartly, having just learnt the word recently. “Nick, you be Will Scarlett, as you’ve got that red jacket on.” The three friends made a bit of a game around the largest oak tree, till suddenly a voice behind them shouted “And I’ll be the sheriff”. Coming towards them was a large, middle-aged man, accompanied by a younger, shorter fellow. The large man was thick-set, with a threatening look on his face. He had a jackdaw perched on his shoulder, giving him the air of Long John Silver. “Clear off lads”, he shouted menacingly. “My mate and me have got work to do for the Forestry Commission. Off you go, play somewhere else before Jacky comes and pecks your eyes out. Take that dog with you or I’ll boot it out of the way.” The trio, not wanting a confrontation and becoming scared of the man’s attitude, scampered off with Bruce. Muttering darkly, they hastily moved on through the woods and began their game again, but 50

their hearts weren’t in it. After a while they returned warily to the large oak tree. The two men had vanished. Bruce started sniffing around. “Don’t touch those”, shouted Tom, seeing the dog digging under some brightly coloured fungi. “They’re toadstools. They’ll be poisonous. What else have you got then, eh?” The dog obediently dropped a small canvas bag at his owner’s feet. Tom unzipped it and discovered a small box inside. He opened up the lid and gasped. Gleaming against the velvet lining was a gorgeous, glittering necklace. “That must be what those blokes were after. They probably nicked it from one of the posh houses near our estate and hid it down here. Now they’re trying to find it”. Just as Tom was holding the necklace aloft, there was a loud squawk. The jackdaw flew down, snatched the shimmering piece in his beak and made off with it. Bruce followed in hot pursuit, barking furiously. Phil and Nick looked to Tom for instructions, but for once he had absolutely no idea what to do next. Betty Chambers

TOTALLY NUTS SQUIRRELS By Jackie Burrows It was a lovely sunny day, so Helen decided to do some gardening. Squirrels had been playing out there all week. After a couple of hours she had a break and was relaxing in a hammock when she heard strange noises. Looking down the garden, she saw six squirrels practising martial arts. Two of them had black belts on and the others’ were brown. They appeared to be enjoying what they were doing. After a while the squirrels saw Helen watching them and scurried away. Later that day Helen went to the shops and a neighbour told her that squirrels were on the rampage in the sweet shop. She went to take a look and there they were – creating a stir with their martial arts display. Helen couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She thought she’d been dreaming that morning, but now she knew she wasn’t. All of a sudden, Helen turned round and saw one of the squirrels perform a karate chop on the shopkeeper and knock him to the ground. The squirrels then escaped with lots of wholenut chocolate bars. The local press heard about this story and went to the sweet shop straight away. A journalist interviewed the shopkeeper about the incident. “To be honest with you,” he said, “I thought I was going totally nuts.”

THE EVIL WEEDS By Angela Robinson Buttercup opened her silken petals, stretched her roots and looked up at the glorious sunshine. She was the first to wake up that morning, the others were still sleeping. Her family was large, their roots spreading over quite a large area of the garden. The gardener was always trying to get rid of them, but the more he tried the more they grew and spread. Dandelion was Buttercup’s neighbour, with golden hair and big strong roots that reached way way underground. His family was huge, from Grandpa with his lovely white hair so wispy that a puff of wind could likely blow it away, to all his brothers and cousins. Some were still little shoots, the others ranged from teenagers like Dandy, to full blown oldies like Grandpa. Dandelion and Buttercup were both friendly with Daisy, a sweet young thing with white spiky hair around a sunny little face. When these three were together they created mayhem for the poor gardener. They spread their roots as far as they could then tangled them together, laughing and jeering when the gardener tried to get rid of them. “Ha ha you can’t get rid of us,” they’d taunt. If the gardener used weed killer, all it did was singe their hair and turn their faces brown. They’d joke to one another at how silly they looked and within a couple of days, there they were, bright and breezy, their faces turned up to the sun and laughing at the gardener. He was really angry, muttering under his breath, “Those horrid evil weeds they’re running riot again. I’ll have to do something to get rid of them once and for all.” Daisy, Dandelion and Buttercup were doubled up with laughter. “Ha ha you can’t get rid of us WE’RE THE EVIL WEEDS, we’ve taken over your garden with all our long deep roots and you will never get rid of us.” Then came the day the gardener looked around, nodded his head and proceeded to bring a weird looking machine into the garden. The weeds wondered what on earth it could be. They knew it wasn’t a lawnmower as they were used to seeing those. This machine had two 54

sets of big sharp teeth at the front. The gardener switched it on. It was very noisy and as he pushed it, it gobbled up the earth from way way down and turned it over. Poor Daisy, Buttercup and Dandelion never stood a chance, their roots were tossed around, battered and broken as they screamed and cried out in agony. When the gardener had finished he switched off the machine, nodded his head again and said. “There, that’s got rid of you; you won’t take over my garden again”. “Want to bet”? Said the weeds. “You just wait, give us time and we’ll be back to our evil ways again. You can’t get rid of us. We’re THE EVIL WEEDS.”

POLICE BEAT ANOTHER G20 PROTESTOR By Catherine Hart It has been the sporting event of a generation. In a new twist to the rivalry between protestors and the police, a school-style Sports Day has been spread over the period of the G20 meeting in London. In something that couldn’t have happened even five years ago, a Facebook group was started urging a more peaceful resolution to the conflicts that were guaranteed to flair up between protestors, the police and the City. At first it was seen as a joke, especially when the CEO of The Royal Bank of Scotland volunteered himself for the eggand-spoon race. But when a senior police officer posted that he was particularly good with a skipping rope, the leader of the anti-capitalist coalition challenged him to a race on live television. While BBC Breakfast reporters tried to make light of the situation, Chief Inspector Clive McAndrews accepted the challenge with a hand shake. This bizarre turn of events led to a massive, impromptu festival of sports that is continuing all over the country. Initially it was pointed out that the leaders of the protest groups were considerably younger than the leaders of the Police and the City Boardrooms. A system of age-related events was devised, allowing junior police officers and graduate trainees in the City to compete against age appropriate opponents. The main problem came with the Parents’ Race, when it was pointed out that the 45 year old parents of a vocal Greenpeace campaigner had a considerable advantage over the Chief Constable’s parents, who had both been dead for many years. As even age banding couldn’t help in this case, it was decided that parents would stick to buying the ice creams and, in the tradition of Sports Days throughout the ages, ‘adopt’ a competitor whose parents were unable to attend, buying them pop and so forth. Last night’s gripping 400 metre (male) race was billed as an even-odds match between PC Jamie Duncan of the South Yorkshire Police Force and Adam Whynots of Cornwall, protesting for Surfers Against Sewage. Both competitors had raced at county level as

school boys and, while PC Duncan had the best average times, Whynots had a more varied time spread, leading to more overall wins. In a photo-finish, Duncan beat Whynots in 0.03 of a second over the line. And while the Police Force hailed it as a victory, the real winner was good sportsmanship, with competitors embracing as the result was announced. It seems that the event could be won by either the Police Force or the Protestors, but in an unfortunate reflection of the credit crunch hit City, the bankers and brokers are trailing in a very distant third.

RACE IS ON TO SAVE THE WORLD By Barbara Thackeray “Are things really so serious?” I asked myself. As I let my thoughts drift, I realise that there are many things world wide that do give cause for worry. Much of the trouble is caused by neighbouring countries abroad, unable to live peacefully together, and plundering each other’s territories. Whilst we have had wars over centuries past, none have been as serious as today, with modern technology providing weapons of extreme power and destruction, many lives being lost in the process. I seem to recall reading the words of an ancient prophet: ‘man will destroy himself’. Little did we know that there was something even more terrifying afoot, that must unite all of us. Scientists across the globe have for some time been watching the movement of planet Earth, which is drifting much too close to the sun. Alarm bells ringing, they admitted there is nothing much anyone can do. There is only one certainty, it will soon be too hot for us to survive; the sun will burn up the planet. Amazingly, from out of the gloom, they have now discovered that the planets Mars and Venus have placed themselves either side of Earth and are acting like magnets, drawing our planet to a safe distance away from the sun, in a race to save the world. It has been affirmed that there is no life on Mars, but I am now inclined to question that. Apart from the moon, Venus is the brightest thing in the sky, often mistaken for a star, rather than a planet. The stars are closely watching the planets’ movements and as darkness descends, there not being a moon, they agree there is little they can do to help except band together and shine as brightly as possible, directing a beam of light on the emergency. “We must save Planet Earth; after all, the humans are our greatest admirers.”

There are many galaxies, which are systems of stars in the universe, and planet Earth, along with the other eight planets, belongs to the galaxy named ‘The Milky Way,’ which can be observed with the help of ordinary binoculars. The numerous stars within shine brightly, giving much light. It would be difficult to see many of the other galaxies, which are millions of miles away, if it were not for the observatories with powerful telescopes, which we have today. Some of those closer to Earth were given names and, in the days before the invention of the compass and the radio, sailors and adventurers steered their ships by these galaxies, keeping them on course. The stars remain very proud of that. Mission completed, Venus and Mars took their usual place in the sky, and the stars dispersed, taking just a little longer to reach their destination, millions of miles from earth. After a crisis like this, “Is it possible for all nations to live peacefully together on planet Earth?” I wonder.

POLICE GUN SENT TO GRANDMOTHER By Sue Sullivan Police chiefs were left feeling red faced today when an internal source revealed that a gun, used to train firearms recruits, had ended up in the custody of a local grandmother. Doris Bracegirdle, 87, received the Heckler and Koch assault rifle through the post in a plain brown Jiffy bag. The serious gaffe only game to light when Mrs Bracegirdle’s grandson visited her while home on leave from the army. Corporal Tom Smith, 26, told our reporter “My grandma enters lots of competitions and over the years has won many prizes, so she thought the gun was just another one. She never realised it was real. I’m currently serving in Afghanistan, so I knew straight away it was the real thing and contacted the police immediately.” “It looked so nice in my display cabinet,” added Doris. A police spokesperson explained that a garden gnome reported stolen sometime ago by Mrs Bracegirdle had been recovered, and support staff were instructed to return it to her. The gun was also being returned to the manufacturer, for service and repair. That’s when the mix up occurred. Following a review of security procedures, systems have now been put in place to ensure this type of error never happens again. The gnome meanwhile remains at large. Anybody with information on his whereabouts should not approach him, but should contact their local police station.

BRAZILIAN MAN DENIES ORDERING DEATH OF A NUN, 73 By Jean Allen Sister Anna Maria leaned over the side of the ramshackle river boat and breathed in the sweet, cooling, night air of the Amazon. It was as magical as ever. High above sprawled the Southern Cross, centre piece in a heavenly landscape of countless stars. Lofty palms stood silhouetted against an indigo sky and, on the edge of the forest, palm thatch dwellings on stilts were revealed by tiny twinkling lights from oil lamps burning through the night in an effort to stave off visits from vampire bats. Anna Maria loved Brazil. Born Helen Margaret Snyder, she was the eldest daughter of Agnes and Helmut. Raised in British Columbia, from an early age she had enjoyed idyllic days spent in the woods watching her father hunt. She became skilful, regularly bringing home small game for the family meal. It was her proudest moment when her father gave her a gun of her own on her fourteenth birthday. Her saddest day was when he died later that same year. She was sixteen when the State banned hunting completely. Tourists were pouring into the area, ploughing money into the local economy and so the authorities didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want trouble; but the family was poor, so Helen cautiously carried on hunting and her activities remained undisclosed for a long time. How she managed to hit a straying member of a group of visitors she never knew, but the result was a hasty flight over the border into the USA, where her mother placed her in a convent to continue her education in seclusion and safety. Rebellious at first, Helen eventually realised that taking holy orders might be her passport to a more appealing kind of life. After completing teacher training, she took the name Anna Maria and on her twenty seventh birthday, left Canada to join Sister Teresa, eight years her senior, on the Amazon in Brazil. Now, forty six years later, she waited nervously for the antiquated vessel to dock at the jetty of the small, interior town of Boa

Vista on one of the lesser tributaries. She clutched her voluminous grey habit, closely averting her eyes as though in prayer. At seventy three Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m too old for this, she thought. Part of her duties consisted of a two monthly visit to a leper colony several hours up river to hold classes for adults and children. It was three years ago, as she travelled back from one of these trips, that she noticed two men furtively engaged in conversation. She forgot about the incident until her next journey, when the two were together again. When the same thing happened the following time, she suspected that they were involved in smuggling of some sort. The people of Boa Vista were poor. She had often wished she could make life easier for them. Here perhaps was an opportunity, so she continued to watch the two men. One night she saw packages change hands. As most passengers dozed in their hammocks, rocked by the steady chug of the engine, she approached the conspirators and softly told them she knew they were breaking the law. If the police didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get them in this life, God would certainly hold them responsible in the next and purgatory could last a very long time and be most unpleasant. In exchange for her silence, she would say special prayers and hold a regular mass on their behalf; she would also take half the money each trip. Manoel and Dico were extremely superstitious. The nature of their activities made them constantly uneasy. The threat of divine retribution was powerful. Reluctantly, a deal was struck. So it began. Every two months Sister Anna Maria hid a sizeable sum on a ledge in a disused well at the bottom of the yard. She became known for her generosity and the townspeople were happy to accept the explanation that God had provided for their needs. No one was ever turned away. Tonight however, she felt apprehensive. Manoel and Dico had not been on board as she had expected. Instead, a stranger had approached her and said heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d taken their place. The deal had gone through as usual. It was pitch dark in the town as the boat bumped to a stop against the timbered jetty. The captain leapt onto the pier and expertly secured it. Sister Anna Maria hurried forward, one of the first to disembark, and made her way swiftly through the darkness to the 62

wooden house on stilts beside the white painted church, which cast eerie shadows in the moonlight. Sister Teresa would already be asleep in her hammock. Anna Maria moved silently through the house, down the steps and into the back yard, crushing lemon grass and cumin as she half ran, her feet forcing them to release their perfumes into the stilled air. Squat banana palms and bushy bay trees stood out in stark silhouette against the night sky. Behind them was the well. The town now had its own water supply and the communal tap was in the street outside the house. By the beam of her flashlight, Anna Maria removed the lid, took a small package from inside her gown and placed it carefully on a ledge about eighteen inches down. Her misgivings faded as she replaced the cover. There would be enough money there to help the people for some time. A slight sound behind made her spin round. The shadowy figure of the man from the boat stood there. He was pointing a gun at her. “I’m sorry Sister but my bosses are not happy. You’ve cost us a lot of money. Your two mates are feeding the piranha right now. You’ve left us with no choice but to finish the business.” A shot pierced the tranquility of the night. The echo reverberated for a few seconds before being smothered by the denseness of the forest. Anna Maria ran back into the house as Sister Teresa stirred and painfully eased her arthritic legs over the side of the hammock. “Did you hear something?” She asked. “Something woke me.” “I heard it too,” replied Anna Maria, as they listened intently, “but it’s quiet now, I think we can go back to sleep.” Sister Anna Maria made one more trip to the well that night. “I’m sorry to lose you old friend, you‘ve been a trusty companion most of my life,” she whispered, as she dropped her pistol into its depths. “I shall miss you.”

Bonfire Night Josh, aged 9 I can’t wait for it to get dark an’ me mum to get home from work. We’re goin’ to a Bonfire Party, all t’ streets goin. It were great last year, me an’ me mates had been collectin’ stuff for weeks. I had mine in t’ back garden for ages. Me mum were right glad when I took it t’ field and Mel who runs all t’ street parties round here let us help him build it into t’ Bonfire. It looked right good, owd chairs an’ tables an’ stuff at t’ bottom, then some bits o’ wood an’ stuff all stacked up at t’ top. We put a mask an’ a jumper on one o’ me sister’s owd teddy bears for a Guy. Right good it were. Me dad took me to t’ Chinese firework shop in town an’ got some right good fireworks in real big boxes. He said he wouldn’t be stoppin’ long at t’ party ‘cos he had to work to pay for ‘em all. You should’ve seen ‘em though, big fat uns that made a cracklin’ sound. Long thin uns that screeched and banged and shot sparks up. Me mum said dog’d be terrified. An’ some rockets, that went miles up in t’ sky and burst coloured stars all o’er t’ houses. They made everywhere smell all fireworky like. They were great. There were some right stuff t’ eat an’ all. Mel’s wife had been round to all t’ houses and sorted that out. They all did summat; some made stuff like sausage rolls an’ that gingery cake stuff that owd uns like. Me mum got toffee from Thornton’s. It tasted right treacly and made me fingers all sticky and me teeth feel funny. Some blokes got the barbeque goin’ and made us hot dogs an’ burgers. They were all right, a bit burned like, but I ate loads an’ were sick. Me mum took me home and told me dad when he got in from work, but he just laughed an’ said I were just gettin his money’s worth. An’ he give me a play station, but said not to go tellin all me mates because their parents couldn’t afford stuff like that. Jess, aged 14 I said I’d stop in and look after the dog but Mum said she’s taking him to Nan and Grandad’s. We left him at home last year, with the radio on to drown out the bangs and crashes, but he was still scared and

messed everywhere. It stunk rotten for days and I daren’t bring any of my mates round. Anyway, Bonfire Night’s for kids like our Josh. I hate it, and the street party we always have to go to. Every year it’s the same, Mel and his wife Lynn organise it, well, she does really. Thinks she’s in charge of everybody. She’s not telling me what to do, this year. No way. We all have to have a sparkler to ‘kick off the proceedings.’ How sad is that? We look right idiots waving them about and them sparks hurt when they land on your hands. So, we all stand around in the freezing cold, watching Mel light the fireworks. Half of ‘em don’t work anyway, so he gets all hysterical and starts chucking buckets of water on ‘em and shouting at everybody to keep back. What a Muppet. The ones that do go off are all loud bangs and white lights, dead exciting – not. And them screeching ones do my head in. The smoke gets in my eyes and makes my mascara run. Then there’s the food. Even it were edible, I’m vegetarian, and who wants to wait hours for potatoes burned to a cinder in the fire, making your hands filthy and tasting like charcoal, when you can just shove one in the microwave? Lynn gave me a chestnut last year that she’d done in her oven, made a right mess of my nails getting the shell off. Then it was half raw. Yuk! It’s dead boring, and there’s nobody my age, so even if Mum does make me go I’ll slope off as soon as I can, like Dad does. He might get home early and bring me something. Last year he got me a laptop, but told me not to go bragging to everybody, it would only make them jealous and it could get nicked. Kay, Jess and Josh’s mum It’s that time of year again, the clocks have gone back and they’re all mithering me about Bonfire Night. As if I haven’t got enough to do, what with the house, garden, the dog and working extra hours to make ends meet. Our Josh loves it, bless him, but it’s all so expensive. When I was a kid fireworks cost pence, you could choose what you wanted, nice pretty colours that seemed to go on for ages. I kept them in an old biscuit tin until my dad got home from work and had his tea. Then 66

I’d take them out one by one, feel the rough paper, smell the sulphuric gunpowder inside, and Dad would set them off one at a time for my brother and me. Nowadays it’s all organised displays, or neighbours getting together to try to out do one another with ever bigger and more expensive boxes of fireworks. They’re over almost as soon as they’re lit. Might as well set fire to £5 notes, it would last longer. Of course it’s taken for granted we’ll put some food on, but who has time to mess about like that? Okay, I know Lynn does all the planning and co-ordinating, but she’s at home all day, like my mum was. She used to make us toffee apples that made the whole house smell of vanilla. I couldn’t wait to bite into that first one; the sweetness of the toffee perfectly complimented the tart apple. I loved the feeling of smooth fruit and crunchy toffee in my mouth, until one day I lost a filling. I’ll just have to get something on my way home from work, though I really could do without shopping as I wanted to get home early to get the dog up to Mum’s before it gets dark. The last thing I need is a repeat of last year; of course it was left to me to clear up the mess. Our Jess never stopped moaning about the stink, she said it was like living in a dogs’ home. I think she’s growing out of Bonfire Night, and I know she really doesn’t want to go to the party. I’d rather stop in too, but we all have to go. Mick stays just long enough to make sure all the neighbours have seen him, and then he’s off to work. After all, it’s one of his busiest nights of the year. Lots of people rushed out to bonfires by the kids, forgetting to lock up properly, the huge explosions of fireworks to cover any noise he makes. I wonder what he’ll get the kids this year? Sue Sullivan

All Hallows Eve It is All Hallows Eve, dusk has fallen and the air is alive with strange sounds; echoes of an owl hooting, bats flapping their wings and swooping down on an unsuspecting mouse. Trees are whispering in the slight breeze that always seems to accompany this night of Pagan rituals. On the outskirts of the village is a stone built house, the garden is unkempt and overgrown and is home to an assortment of animals, which roam the village, usually after dark, rummaging for food. From the outside the house looks uninhabited, but looks can be deceiving, as it is home to the Eripmav family, of unknown origin and nationality they too are not all they seem. The family consists of father Mort, mother Leticia, both of indeterminate age, daughter Olivia aged fourteen and son Little Mort nine years old. There’s also an assortment of pets, which includes the family hound affectionately known as Flow. There is much disquiet in the house tonight. The family, all having just had their main meal of the day, is discussing the events of the evening to come. Little Mort is anxious to be off to join the other children of the village, who are dressed in the usual masks and capes. Carrying lanterns made from scooped out pumpkins, with a candle in the centre to guide them around the village, they follow the custom of trick or treat, knocking on doors to receive either sweets or pennies from the occupants. Little Mort loves this night and thinks it is the best one of the whole year. Olivia, much to her parents’ consternation, isn’t so happy. There is a celebration party at the Old Manor House tonight and she is determined that’s where she’ll be, not going around the village with the other families. However Mort and Leticia think otherwise and things look like turning into a full scale argument. Olivia says she is too old to be playing children’s games and is becoming increasingly angry at having to go out with the others. She finally has to relent when Mort tells her (in no uncertain terms) that if she doesn’t do as he says there will be no going out after supper for the next month, as she will be grounded. After much bickering and arguing Olivia finally realizes that Mort, for once, means what he says and gives in somewhat reluctantly. 68

Donning their capes to mingle with the other families, the Eripmavs blend in amongst them. A scent of sulphur, candle wax and scorched pumpkin invades the air along with the other pungent smells that hang around at night. Mort glances across to Leticia as they join a family group. They can smell the fear that radiates when they glide past brushing against them. Leticia nods to Mort and smiles. Meanwhile, the children are wreaking their own havoc amongst the village children. Olivia, having overcome her annoyance, tantalizes and taunts the other youngsters. Little Mort follows her example and both enjoy the terror their victims are experiencing, while Mort and Leticia look proudly on. By now the villagers realise that something evil is around them, they feel as if they have been touched by some strange presence, and hurry home with the children, who are distressed and crying. They will take some settling down this night. Back at The Old Stone House, Mort, Leticia, Olivia and Little Mort are recounting what they have been up to and how they tormented the others, touching their faces and tapping them on their backs; watching with glee when they turned around and saw no-one there. The fear and shock on their faces was so funny. Everyone in the village thinks the Old Stone House is uninhabited and has been empty for years. You and I know different. There is a strange family, a very strange family, living there who sleep through the day and, when dusk falls, glide through the village seeking their next victims. It is only upon All Hallows Eve that they can wander amongst the others, the normal people, without seeing them as something to get their teeth into. Angela Robinson

Autumn Haiku Roman candle fizzed, A fountain of golden rain Falls to earth: ‘silence.’ Barbara Thackeray Hot dogs, chestnuts, Jacket potatoes, Toffee apples. Delicious. Jackie Burrows Many coloured stars Light up the November sky Then fall back to earth. Heather Norton Pungent wood smoke reeks, Smell of sulphur fills the air Mixed with dank damp grass. Angela Robinson Psychedelic spears of light Pierce the velvet blackness Exploding. Janet Stearns Sparkle, shimmer, BANG, Little bombs everywhere Burning sulphur smell. Catherine Hart Heat and smoke filled air, Vivid colours fall from sky Prompting children’s cries. Win Francis

Blazing bonfiresâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; light Cracking, banging colours bright Then the Guy Fawkes gone. Betty Chambers Rocket pierced night sky Swirling, mist wreathed smoky fires Hot chestnuts, cold hands. Jean Allen Dark skies, bitter air Bonfire night is here agin; The hooligans win. Catherine Hart Lighting touch papers, Anticipate outcome Explosion of fireworks. Susan Roberts

Christmas Cake Day Food was the foundation of Jenny’s relationship with her granny. The warmth and closeness, the attention to detail, the feeling of being the most special child in the whole wide world. Jenny could still conjure up a vision of the bath top in Granny’s kitchen, straining under its load of curd tarts, currant teacakes and her favourite ‘sugar buns’, all cooling on their wire racks, teasing her as they waited to be eaten. Even now, Jenny would smile to herself as she remembered Granny’s plump arms wobbling like jelly as she kneaded the bread dough on the floury wooden board. Granny always had time, time for a cuddle, time to answer questions and time to explain things. Time for the chicken on Saturdays, sitting on the back doorstep, plucking off all the feathers in small clumps, her fingers moving like clockwork, hardly ever needing to look down as she worked, talking softly and smiling, always smiling. As Granny plunged the goose-pimpled flesh into the bright copper pan of boiling water, Jenny would be wide-eyed with wonder. One time, Granny carefully cut open the chicken’s stomach to show Jenny inside; it was full of mush and pieces of grit. Jenny’s favourite place in the whole world was on her special stool in Granny’s kitchen; standing at her elbow, surrounded by the comforting smells of baking in the oven and spices in the air. Jenny would be captivated by the whisking, mixing and beating; rich dark fruit, golden syrup, soft white flour and pale blocks of butter, warmed and mashed with castor sugar. Eggs cracked on the edge of the blue and white bowl, bright yellow yolks seeming to float before being consumed by the mixture and spooned into cases. Then, oh the sheer delight of scraping out the bowl and licking the spoon, sweet, creamy and delicious! Jenny would trace her finger around the rim, being so careful not to miss a single smear and relish the last mouthful. Precious moments captured in memory, safe, secure and nurtured. Jenny loved her granny with warm, fuzzy feelings that made her tingle all the way down to her toes.

Granny was always there. Jenny couldn’t remember a time when Granny had not been there - in the house right next door where she could go anytime she wanted. Granny always had everything you needed, a plaster for your grazed knee, a butterscotch to suck for your sore throat, some spare material to make a dress for your dolly or just the right button to match the one you lost from your favourite coat. Granny had a very special tin full of buttons. It was designed like a merry-go-round at the fair and was full to the very top. Jenny had never seen so many buttons and she loved to sort through all the different kinds - round, smooth, knobbly, sparkly, pearly or just plain dull. There were shiny army buttons, wooden toggles and velvet clasps, but Jenny’s favourites were the animal buttons. Granny said they were made out of bone and had been on one of her dresses when she was a little girl, so they must be very, very old. There were rabbits, foxes and birds, all with bright blue eyes and friendly faces. Jenny loved to make up adventures for them, although she did sometimes wonder where the bone came from. Granny had lots of funny sayings, like “pass salt, pass sorrow” or “pick up that glove, there’s a surprise for you” and “don’t look at the new moon through glass” (that was a difficult one for Granny as she wore spectacles, but often took them off to look at the moon). Granny liked card games and taught Jenny how to play Old Maid and Happy Families. There would always be dolly mixtures for the winner, which Granny kept in a special silver bowl with a lid. Jenny often slept with her granny in the huge feather bed. She loved to snuggle down into the softness, safe and warm as she watched her dress in the chill of the early morning light. How difficult those corsets looked; Jenny was sure that she would never be able to do up all the hooks and eyes, even when she was grown up. How uncomfortable it must all be. One Christmas, it had started snowing, and Jenny remembered watching the soft flakes float down as she stared out of her classroom window. She couldn’t wait to leave school and run outside, catch snowflakes on her tongue and make giant footprints across the 73

powder-covered ground. But most of all, she couldn’t wait to get to Granny’s house. Today was ‘Christmas Cake Day’ and Granny had promised Jenny that she could help, just like last year. Granny’s kitchen would be warm and cosy, heady with Christmas spice and festive fruits. Granny would have on her best pinny, with sleeves rolled up and flour dusting her elbows, ready to give Jenny a big hug and begin the shared tasks of sifting, mixing and stirring with the big wooden spoon. Granny always said to make a wish, it would be sure to come true, and she never forgot to put in the lucky sixpence. Who would get it this year Jenny wondered? At last, class was over and Jenny ran to get her coat and be off into the magical white world outside. Some of her friends were lingering for snowball fights and sliding along the pathway, but Jenny ran on, leaving a trail of hasty footprints all the way to Granny’s house. She ran without stopping, right up to Granny’s back kitchen door. Just as she began to shout out “I’m here”, Jenny realised that the door was closed and no lights were on. She banged on the door, but the hollow sound just echoed back. No warmth, no comforting smell, no cosy kitchen. No Granny. Where could she be? Jenny ran around into the small back yard, now blanketed by a soft carpet of white. That sound of snowbound silence Jenny would remember for the rest of her life, for just a fraction of a second before the wailing siren in the distance pierced the stillness and shattered her childhood. Janet Stearns

Christmas Presents It all started about 2000 years ago when a very special baby, who was very very poor, was given some very expensive presents by some very clever men. I know they were clever because the presents they gave were very useful and meant something. People liked the idea, so every year on Christmas Day, the special baby's birthday, people give presents to each other. Of course, we've moved on and made a lot of progress since that first occasion. Nowadays, Christmas presents begin and end with the January Sales. It works like this. People give you lots of things you don’t really want or that don't fit (because you went up two dress sizes after eating ten Christmas dinners in the run up to the festivities), or that you already had three of (which you've only just taken to the charity shop), or that you would rather die than wear or have on show in your house. The day after Christmas day, the sales start and shops try to get rid of all the stuff they got in for Christmas and that nobody wants. You take your unwanted gifts to the shops, exchange them for money and at the same time, you buy next year's Christmas presents. With no-one in particular in mind, you buy anything that looks like a bargain. The nice thing is you don't have to be very clever, the present doesn't have to be very useful; nobody will know it's not very expensive and you get a very self-satisfied feeling. So, you see, it's a good system. However, it can be a bit challenging next Christmas when you trawl through your pile of ‘bargains’ and wonder who on earth you could possibly give them to. 2000 years ago, those very clever men got it absolutely right. When they gave the very special baby his presents, they realised that He was the very best present anyone could have. Jean Allen

Christmas Dinner It’s just a roast dinner really, but as it’s Christmas we go that extra mile. It’s traditional to have turkey, goose, or beef, unless you’re the token vegetarian; then there’s a single frozen nut cutlet warmed up in the microwave. My more avant-garde neighbours have lobster salad, but they consider themselves a cut above the rest of us and did spend several years living in the tropics. To accompany the turkey etc. are all the trimmings. Firstly, there are the potatoes and parsnips roasted alongside the meat, effectively ruling out vegetarians enjoying them. There’s also Devils on Horseback, little bacon-wrapped sausages whose sole purpose seems to be to garnish the bird. Nobody actually eats them other than the dog, as a treat to supplement his Marks and Spencer dog food, as it’s Christmas. Everybody gets to sample the carrots Julienne, which just means cut into little sticks instead of sliced and boiled, and don’t forget the sprouts, which have been quietly simmering away since late July. Then there’s the chestnut stuffing – golf ball sized spheres of nuts, breadcrumbs and herbs – which, if baked too long, resemble tiny but deadly cannon balls. Add a dollop each of bread sauce and cranberry jelly and bathe in gravy made with the meat juices plus a generous splash of red wine – as it’s Christmas. Dessert is a wonder to behold, a heavenly smelling mountain of rich fruit, spices and spirits that has been maturing for months. The lights are turned down and it’s brought to the table flaming, causing my brother-in-law to exclaim “Mon Dieu” and cross himself; especially the year we ran out of brandy and used 70 proof vodka. It went up like Vesuvius. Next are the mince pies, again off the vegetarian menu unless you have a special one bought for you. “There now, you’ll enjoy that. I got it from Greggs a week last Friday.” And finally coffee, with After Eight mints, in the lounge while we watch the Queen. Why do we do it? Because “it’s Christmas” and we love it. Sue Sullivan 76

Winter If she closed her eyes, Evie could still flood her mind with the memories and vivid sensations of all those winter mornings on the hill. The intense, white brightness reflecting around the room, dancing patterns of light across the ceiling, impish and childlike. The stillness surrounding her as she lay warm and lazy, enveloped in the soft duvet, with no urgency to move or do; the thin strains of a Christmas carol drifting up the stairwell from the kitchen below, mixed with the enticing smells of fresh coffee, frying bacon, blueberry pancakes and maple syrup. Frosty images blurring the window panes, sharp fingers crackling across the glass; icy stalactites hanging like a fringe around the eaves of the roof. Stretching her body luxuriously across the bed, relishing the softness and tranquility of being totally alone. Evie could still remember the tantalising anticipation of the day unfolding, with the promise of family fun in the winter landscape outdoors. Skating on the frozen pond, chasing, falling and sliding on the unforgiving ice. Tobogganing down the hill and collapsing into a tumble of body parts, snow-filled clothes and uncontrollable laughter. Walking through the woods in the deep snow, following deer tracks into the silence of the haunting trees, their branches heavy with winter garlands in picture post-card perfection. Making snow angels in the fresh powder and rolling down the hill for the sheer exuberance of being alive. The day would not be complete without a traditional snowman; the collective effort of moulding, rolling, lifting and sculpting; the finishing touches gleaned from woodshed, kitchen and wardrobe and the ceremonial photograph to crown the achievement. Never really feeling cold, until those first sweet sips of hot chocolate scalded her lips and tongue. Lingering to savour those moments, Evie would sit up in bed, her sleepy eyes slowly absorbing the magic of the wintry world outside. The garden, once so vibrant and alive, now engulfed by mounds of soft snow and transformed into an alien world. Evie sometimes wished that those moments could last forever, but knew that their beauty lay in the fleeting imagery and brief sharpness of the sensations, which would always be imprinted upon her memory. 77

How long ago that seems as Evie now huddles in front of her small electric fire, craving its meagre light and warmth. Her gnarled hands encased in fingerless gloves, cradle a mug of tea, long since gone cold. A toe peeps from her worn out slippers and woollen socks droop in crumpled coils around her swollen ankles. She listens to the wind rising and falling, rattling the old window frames and whispering secrets that no-one will ever hear. The faded curtains hang in lifeless folds around the window, where the rain splatters against the glass, urgent and demanding as a fractious child. A random collection of photographs huddle in their frames on a small table, their faint images now only distant memories. Evie gingerly lifts one of the pictures in trembling hands and stares at her own carefree, smiling face. Whatever happened to the girl she once was? A moment lost in time, frozen like the ice and snow of all those winter mornings on the hill. Janet Stearns

Through My Window Tuesday morning. Dawn is breaking as I open my bedroom curtains and look out onto the back garden. It seems lighter than usual, due to the fact we had our first fall of snow some thirty six hours previously. Being biting cold behind the house, it remains as it had fallen: two inches deep and not showing any signs of thawing. In the distance, there is the most glorious sun rise to be seen. Swirling shades of orange, yellow and even a dash of purple are intent on deceiving us into thinking it is going to be a beautiful day. It may be bright, but with a high of four degrees centigrade forecast, it is going to be very cold. Living on a small side street, there is little to be seen at the back of the house, except a few dwellings opposite. There seems to be little activity there, but then the morning is early yet. The garden, however, is a scene of enchantment, due to the blanket of white that conceals it. The shed roof is covered with about two inches of snow, like a huge cap, protecting its whole body area. The garden bench also has a covering, which looks like a sprawling white cushion lying across the seat. I’m relieved to see that the bird table is clear. It is metal, which snow doesn’t cling to at all, replacing the wooden one I’d had for several years. It has ornamental arms that hold the wild bird seed and nuts, not forgetting the cake, which they seem to prefer above everything. I can see my footprints in the snow on the garden path, which were made when I took food to the bird table the previous day. Because the lavender tree is deciduous, it has lost all of its leaves, but looks quite dramatic with snow lingering on its naked branches. Winter pansies in a host of attractive colours are in full bloom in two hanging baskets. The spring bulbs, not to be outdone, are showing their heads quite clearly through the snow. Wednesday morning. It isn’t nearly so light when I open my bedroom curtains. There’s no sunrise to see and the sky looks dark and threatening. What has happened to my magical garden? The snow is gone and plantation is green once more. Maybe that’s not so bad, but I can see how shabby things are in their true light. Look at the shed. It 79

is brown and dull and the roof shows signs of wear. The bench is old and weary, and rocks when it shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t rock. The lilac tree is stark and bare. I think, maybe I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t complain when we next have a fall of snow, but look for the magic it can bring; especially when it transforms my very simple garden into a place of complete charm.

Barbara Thackeray

Winter and Spring Haiku A resolution â&#x20AC;&#x201C; to refresh and renew banishing winter. Janet Stearns Winter receding, The earth is awakening Bringing forth new blooms. Win Francis Daffodils bloom bright Winter is stilled, now sleeping, Life beams happiness. Betty Hancock Spring is coming soon Blossom budding on the trees, Bringing joy to all. Heather Norton I dreamed there was no spring Woke in despair Joy, I heard a cuckoo call. Barbara Thackeray Sun shines on grimy panes Dusty house comes to life With hasty spring cleaning. Jean Allen New beginnings Making different sounds, Noises with smiles. Susan Roberts 81

A transformation â&#x20AC;&#x201C; life imitating nature unfurling. Janet Stearns Bursting buds and corms, Rusty bracken turned to green, Birds eating tenderly. Betty Hancock Sunshine after rain Result, a rainbow With seven colours to show. Barbara Thackeray Creation laughs, Sunbeams waken frosty earth Larks soar, bees bumble Jean Allen Daylight hours extend Birds are singing, so alive, Busy building nests. Betty Chambers Warm sunshine Hibernates the cold, Breathes fresher breath. Susan Roberts

The Beach 8.30 a.m. The tide drifted lazily away from the beach and began its slow return journey to some other shore. Miniature fish and tiny sea creatures wriggled happily in rock pools, which reflected a forget-menot blue sky speckled with the occasional cotton ball cloud. A pale, primrose sun smiled benignly, imperceptibly climbing higher. 9.30 a.m. The damp sand was cool and smooth underfoot; perfect for sand castles. The child dug contentedly, stopping sometimes to examine small shells, puzzling for a moment whether to discard them or incorporate them into the grand design. Old people in floppy hats lounged in striped deckchairs. Bikini clad young folk sprawled on gaudy towels and smothered themselves in Factor 20 sun block, its Italian leather smell mingling with their floral perfumes. 11.30 a.m. Swimmers took their dips in the tepid water. The sun climbed higher and the old ones made tents from the Daily Mirror or Telegraph to cover their faces. The child left his digging to drink from a bottle of warm orange juice. It did not quench his thirst. His lips were dry and salty. He continued to build, but the drying sand crumbled in his hands. Peevishly, he kicked. The morning's work collapsed in a disorderly heap. He demanded an ice cream. 12.30 p.m. The tide had disappeared into the distance. Rock pools began to dry out, leaving their inhabitants squirming frantically as they searched for a drop of water to preserve their fleeting existence. The sun, a blazing furnace, glared down, shooting white hot rays across a cobalt sky. The child's ice cream began to melt before the first lick and the chocolate flake fell into the sand. Old folk looked for shade and

pressed their deckchairs into the narrow path of shadow under the sea wall. The young ones ate gritty sandwiches and pulled tee shirts over their bikinis. The child cried as sun cream mingled with sand was rubbed into his reddening skin. Irritably, he snatched at the sun hat his mother was pressing onto his clammy blond hair. 4.00 p.m. The old people had found refuge in tea bars and coffee shops. The young ones had left to get ready for the evening's revelries; the tired, whimpering child was carried home. The sun smiled wickedly as she looked down at the empty beach. Once again it was hers alone.

Jean Allen

Endless Summers Why do the back-to-school adverts start a month before the summer holidays begin? Why does Christmas start in October and Easter on Boxing Day? By the time the event arrives we are all utterly sick of it. I remember when six weeks was a wonderful eternity and I actually looked forward to the last week, when we went shopping for pencil cases, PE skirts and new school bags. Now kids are reminded they are going back to school before they have even had the customary Sports Day and water fights that mark the end of term. Everything changed when you left primary school, of course. No more taking dolls in on the last day, but the water fights became increasingly spectacular. The end of term meant something else as well exams. Hours and hours sitting in the sports hall or classrooms, writing until your hand ached and your brain just wanted a holiday from your head - which it got, for all of a day or so before you started the summer job. Things got worse when you went to university. The summer job stopped being about clothes and a week in Newquay with friends; the summer job became about paying rent and tuition fees. Now July is the same as February, just warmer. The daily grind remains, you just get irritated with all the kids running about the shops and getting in your way. We can buy Easter eggs between January and June, Halloween decorations in August and, if you have ever worked in a place that sells Christmas decorations, you’ll know that the season of goodwill never ends. My first job was in a garden centre. I spent days and days and days pricing individual decorations. That was the summer job, the Saturday job, the after school job, for two and a half interminable years. We started blocking off a sizable portion of the store to dress trees in August. In October we opened the Christmas area, complete with musical fairy lights. Electronic carols played all day, every day, and by December we were begging to be outside in the cold rather than working a till listening to ‘Deck the Halls’ four hundred times between 9am and 6pm. I usually volunteered for the Christmas Eve shift, as I wanted nothing to do with the festivities except for the booze. 85

I bought my first Crème Egg in January this year. I have no idea when Easter actually was, but I’m still eating the spoils of after-Easter pillaging of unsold eggs. To be honest, the hamster probably has a better idea of the date of Easter Sunday, since I haven’t been to church in a decade, other than the usual hatches, matches and dispatches. I hate that high days and holy days have been reduced to nothing other than an endless display of consumerism. But it is the back to school thing that bothers me the most. I’m sad for kids who are not allowed to enjoy the eternal summer I was lucky to have. Games of 50-up that ran way past a term time bedtime, days spent making treasure hunts and dens at the golf course, when the rivalries between people were about who got the swing ball racket next and war meant water balloons. We formed new alliances daily and daily our best friend changed. Sometimes I wish I was nine years old again, when summers lasted forever and pencil cases, PE skirts and school bags were a treat to look forward to. Catherine Hart

Summer Haiku Oh to be outdoors Listening to birds and bees, Summer smells so sweet. Betty Chambers Dark clouds looming Thunder and lightning, Rain pouring, gardens refreshed. Jackie Burrows The trees are deep green With leaves of different shapes, Branches standing out. Betty Hancock Azure sky, warm sun Heat reflected from stone walls, Sweet smell of berries. Win Francis Picnics at weekends, Longer, lighter, warmer days. The smell of summer. Susan Roberts Green, brown and golden, Farmers busy ploughing fields, Sheep and cattle grazing. Jackie Burrows August summer school, Stifling heat keeps me awake. Want my home â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but stay. Heather Norton 87

The Spider and the Buffalo The buffalo roared till he made himself hoarse, now a fraction of what he’d once weighed. Drought had dried up the rivers and shrivelled the earth, how he longed for a cool lemonade; it would moisten his tongue and give him the strength that he needed to simply survive. Then a spider brought news to the buffalo’s ear from which he might comfort derive. They travelled all day, the bull and his friend, both feeling incredibly brave, then at last reached the sea, but before they could drink, fell foul of a huge rising wave. The spider hung on as they rose and they fell and the swell took them farther away from the drought ridden land to the welcoming shore of Great Britain and Freshwater Bay. They decided to stay and that's one reason why our rivers and reservoirs fail. The buffalo’s drinking the water we need and never intends to set sail. Jean Allen

Pride The opening credits set the scene like a movie unfolding before my eyes. The storyboard of images, broad shoulders in crisp white shirt, confident smile and eyes alive with the future. The blended soundtrack, nervous laughter and ripples of applause, constant clicking of avaricious cameras. The Oscar-like atmosphere, anticipating honours to be awarded; the determination of youth looking forward without regret. Struggling to choose the right words, battling with the heartache; the raw emotion of unconditional love from mother to son. Tears fill my eyes and blur my vision, my heart is pounding and my hands applaud wildly. Graduation day is the epitome of pride. A curtain closing on one chapter, an exciting, inspiring beginning for another. Janet Stearns

The Kid 15 There’s this kid This kid across the street He watches through my window When I take a seat at my desk To write, read or think, Even just to eat. But this kid This kid across the street He can’t be watching me Through my window Can he? My friends My friends are so pretty And so nice and so sweet But this kid This kid is watching me This kid across the street When we walk past each other Our eyes never meet We just stare down at our feet 30 And now, another life away And the tables have all turned I am watching him The kid across the street While he sleeps in my bed He’s stolen all the covers And he snuffles while he sleeps The kid across the street Now a man My heart skips a beat For the kid across the street.

I roll in closer to him The kid from across the street And I love him And I think that he loves me The kid from across the street The kid was watching me And I smile Because he makes me feel complete The kid The kid whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fast asleep. Catherine Hart

A Stolen Life You sit staring vacantly into space, unresponsive to my familiar voice. Eyes dull and lifeless as well-used marbles, mouth drooping slightly at the corners. Where is the enchanting girl I married? Skin so soft and glowing like a peach, eyes green as sparkling emeralds. Emerging from the shower fragrant as an angelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath, damp hair curling round your shell-like ears. What happened to the stimulating talks we had on politics and world affairs? Your anger at the injustice of famine and war, eyes flashing like lightning in a summer storm. Our walks in the hills of Derbyshire were balm for our work-worn souls, or dancing the night away close in each others arms. Now, I bath and dry you. Your skin is pale as hawthorn blossom, you are unresponsive and silent as the grave. What is this cruel malady that takes you from me, you who had a heart of gold and a caring mind? When life has lost all dignity, what then my love, what then? Will I have the courage to help you end it all? Who knows my love, who knows. Win Francis

Our Gang Can I introduce the few? We’re a pretty motley crew, there are samples from each avenue of life. Though we each may have our foibles we haven’t lost our ‘moibles’, tho’ we may have lost a husband or a wife. The regal one is Nerys and she's often 'with the fairies', but her sojourns with them seem to hone her brain. You know she's really quite a whizz when we have our weekly quiz, with the answers all in order - in the main! There’s Sandy who’s a dandy and Christopher who’s gay (though you'll rarely hear us talking about that). Then there’s Martha, such a sweetie, and her best friend dearest Beattie, sister to Sarah, who can be quite a cat. The buxom one is Rose, who used to model clothes for Marks and Sparks department store in town. They gave the boot to Rose, (or so the story goes) when she clapped on all those spare unwelcome pounds Tom’s the tall one with the beard, he can act a little weird and the bonny one is Ida (with the wig). When she really gets in motion, it’s like a liner on the ocean; on ‘Come Dancing’ we all think she’d make it big.

The last one is our Lottie, she's gorgeous, but quite dotty and often gets her blouse on front to back. But we all just let her be as if we didn't see and support her when she really loses track. We are usually quite placid and rarely ‘come the acid’, seldom greet each other with a moan or frown. But when tempers flash and simmer you can hear the clash of zimmer and the carers have to come and calm us down. Now it’s time to finish drinks and take our forty winks, before the start of ‘Countdown’ on TV. So we’ll bid you all farewell you’ll have quite a tale to tell, about the finest old folks' home you'll ever see. Win Francis

The One That Didn't Get Away Feeling the light pole in my hand gently moving in the summer breeze; waiting with bated breath in anticipation of what might be. Sometimes you have disappointments. Another day you feel great joy, achievements in what you aim for. Nothing else matters on this day. In the quietness, you look around at the beauty of the lake. Surface mirrors the clouds and trees, reflecting every living thing. Birds chirrup in the hedges, a rustle might be a vole. Dragonflies and butterflies spread their wings, basking in the summer warmth. The line gives a slight pull. This is the moment I've waited for. With a gentle jerk of the wrist I've caught my first fish of the day. Susan Roberts

June 1750 Slept late after King Neptune’s party. What a thrilling, wonderful night it was. Has he really arranged to pick me up today and take me around his realm? Aren’t I the lucky one. I must think about making the best of myself, pay even more attention to my hair, which his majesty did seem to be particularly enchanted by. Which necklace shall I wear? Not the coral I wore last night; perhaps the sea-green emeralds. They were a very lucky find, straight from a sunken ship full of treasures from galleons the pirates had robbed, before they themselves were caught in a storm and sent to the bottom of the sea. I wonder if Neptune will take me out for a meal tonight? Hopefully we’ll go to that new place, Davy Jones’ Noshup. I’ve heard it’s absolutely fabulous. Maybe we’ll be going in a foursome with his brother Poseidon. He’s rather dishy too. Oh well, I think I’ll swim up to the top, sit on my favourite rock and sing to the sailors while I comb my long tresses. It’s great fun. Betty Chambers

May 11th 1755 I’m so bored. Bored, bored, bored. Another ball tonight, yawn! I suppose I’ll have to dance with that dreadful Duke of Orange, what a letch he is. If he puts his hand anywhere near my bottom again, I swear I’ll scream the palace down. He always drinks too much and thinks he can get away with his obscene comments. And as for Prince Charming, what a disappointment he turned out to be!! He is such a ‘mummy’s boy’ and, if he’s not dancing to her tune, then he’s out hunting with ‘Robert.’ Good friends? Yeah right! I never thought I would think so, but living with those evil stepsisters was better than this; at least I was always busy, even if they did nag at me all the time. Sometimes I really miss that! My only escape is in my own mind; daydreaming, fantasising, wishing things were different. I would have my own home with double glazing, central heating and a detached garage. I’d do all my own housework and have a job (which I would love), a fantastic husband and two children (a boy and a girl). I would juggle everything perfectly and my life would be so amazing! I’d never be bored, because every day would be a new challenge and I would love every minute! Oh no, that’s Emily calling me, it must be time to get dressed. I wonder if it will be the ‘Midnight Blue’ or the ‘Vibrant Emerald’ tonight; should I wear the diamonds, the pearls or the rubies? Glass slippers or satin? Maybe I should go for the velvet? Or perhaps the calfskin? Oh, I don’t know. That new fox fur stole would be so perfect with the ivory silk, or even the lilac taffeta. Maybe I should just do something simple and elegant? Black and white with the sapphire encrusted tiara? Oh, this is way too hard. ‘Happy Ever After’ is just not as easy as it sounds. Janet Stearns

July 1943 Today was special. Mac and I are two of a group of friends, but we have always been regarded as a couple. His Christian name is George, but his surname is McGivern, so we all know him as Mac. Mac is nineteen, two years older than me, and received his call up papers for the army two weeks ago. He is to report to the military camp tomorrow. Our crowd of friends got together this evening to give him a good send off. No doubt some of the other boys will be following him soon. All we wanted to do was talk among ourselves, about how long weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been friends and all the simple, but nice, times we have spent together. I shall miss Mac, but it is war time and we have to face these things. In six months time, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be old enough to join the Wrens, which I have every intention of doing, along with my best friend Elsie. Mac and I talked about how long it might be before we meet up again. Perhaps we might get leave together at some point? He knows he will be posted abroad and seeing each other again is unlikely. There is no knowing what lies ahead. We are young with an uncertain future, so we have not committed ourselves to one another. We said our goodbyes tonight, as Mac will leave very early in the morning. His father will accompany him to the train station. My thoughts will be with him. Barbara Thackeray

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Summer 1943 I’ll be eighteen in six weeks’ time. That seems quite a big step from now. Here I am at Alne Hall, north of York, which I love. Again I’ve got an extra week’s leave from work. I like being out of doors, but it’s hard graft. I was an idiot last year, going for a walk with that airman, but I know better now. We were all up at 5 o-clock this morning for breakfast, which was dreadful. The chef told us “I’ve got to do ‘some at’ with some dried egg.” He had, he’d done his worst. Then, into a truck to take us to a farm, where we spent the whole long day picking potatoes in boiling sunshine, with only about twenty minutes off for a break. I must be mad. There was a heavy noise as I looked up to wave to the bombers on their way to Germany. Good luck lads, come back safely. It frightened me when we were bombed in the Blitz, so now it’s the Nazis getting a taste of their own medicine. What a tiring day, with only a bread and jam sandwich for lunch, but the best cup of tea ever, brought down to the fields by the farmer’s wife. It’s all very hard work, but lovely to be outdoors instead of the stuffy office. Evening now. All of us piled into the RAF truck to be taken to a dance at the Canadian station nearby. Lots of men, not like at home where there’s hardly any men to dance with. They’ve all been called up and sent abroad, so that girls and women have to dance with each other. It’s a French-Canadian station. I told them I didn’t drink beer, but they thought that was funny; it was something that I’d never heard of called Pepsi cola. I love the French language and this lot speak it with a Canadian accent. I danced the whole evening with Ben, playing all Glen Miller’s music. Lovely. Ben was my partner for every dance. I felt safe with him; even risked going outside in the interval. He asked me to see him again, when they come over to our hostel. It’s been a marvellous day – I just can’t wait till tomorrow, when I shall see my gorgeous French-Canadian airman again. Betty Chambers 101

April 1955 Our teacher, Miss Pearson, is quite strict, but okay. In Housecraft we learn how to do basic things like personal hygiene, washing hankies, then drying and ironing them to perfection. Also, learning to make a bed on a doll’s bed and various other things. Today I cooked a soused herring. I had to take a dish to school for this. Preparing the herring:Cut the head off. Cut the side open and take out the guts. Put it in a dish, cover with vinegar and bake in the oven. I couldn’t take the soused herring home in the dish, so Miss Pearson let me borrow a large pickling jar – you can imagine what it looked like. When I arrived home, I gave the jar to my mum. She took one look at it and blew her top. The herring ended up in the bin. Luckily, everything else we’ve cooked has been fine. I’m only in the first year at secondary school, but Miss Pearson will be my Housecraft teacher until I leave. Jackie Burrows

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July 29th 1961 Day three of the worst holiday ever. I thought yesterday and the day before were bad, not even worth writing about but today beat them both. Why I had to come on this stupid holiday in the first place beats me. I’m nearly fifteen, well able to look after myself. I could’ve stayed at home on my own and been fine, but no, Dad said I had to come to this forsaken place, so I’ve been determined to have a lousy time. Well! Today it backfired on me big-time. We were having breakfast when Dad came up with the idea of a day in Bridlington. Well of course Mum agreed, and of course I said no way. Dad actually said that was fine. I was surprised, to say the least, and thought I’d scored one over on him. No chance! As they left the caravan, he told me to come outside then locked the stupid door behind him and pocketed the key. I sat on the caravan steps all day, apart from walking to the chippie for some chips and a bottle of pop for my dinner. I’d no more money so I couldn’t do anything else. When Mum and Dad came back at teatime, Dad asked me if I had enjoyed myself. I wasn’t going to tell him I’d had a lousy day, so I fibbed and told him I’d had a great time. Then he said I could do it again tomorrow if I liked, because they were going to Scarborough for the day. I told him it was okay, I would go along with them, as I quite like Scarborough. I don’t really, but I’m not having another lousy day. I’m gonna get some sleep now, surely tomorrow has got to be a better day than today? It would be hard for it not to be. Night night diary. PS. I’m still not intending enjoying myself too much, I have got my reputation to think of you know. Angela Robinson

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January 1964 Mum’s left my bedroom light on. I don’t want to lie here in the dark. Dad died. He didn’t feel well. We went over to Frank’s parents – me and Judith and Frank. Judith was crying. Frank said she didn’t feel well. We all sat and watched television. Steptoe and Son were on. They were collecting coffins. I was frightened. I wanted to go home. When we came home my dad was dead. Mum said I can stay home from school tomorrow. Heather Norton

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August 1972 Tuesday The phone rang. It was 10 a.m. I felt really tired. I’d been on stage most nights at the Las Vegas Hilton. I knew who it would be – the Colonel, Tom Parker. And I knew straightaway what he was going to tell me. Another film. I was right. “Hi Elvis, just ringing to let you know there’s a new film in the pipeline. I’ll get back to you later with more info.” Oh no, not another one. I’m getting fed up with these silly storylines, but Parker just keeps on pushing and pushing. Won’t take no for an answer. But I’ve made a decision. I’m going to sack him. He’s made enough money out of me over the years. I refuse to make any more films. I don’t need him now. Wednesday Parker rang this afternoon, started to tell me more about the next film. I told him I wasn’t interested in his cheap, tacky projects. Then I took a deep breath. “You’re sacked.” I feel a whole lot better now. I’m going to the kitchen to have a peanut butter sandwich and a milkshake. Jackie Burrows

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Biographies Jean Allen was born in 1937 and developed a love of books from an early age. At school, English language and literature were favourite subjects. She became a committed Christian in her late teens and, after training as a nurse and midwife, felt God’s call to missionary service in Brazil. After 14 years, Jean returned to England and began community nursing. While doing this, she met and married Ron. On retirement, she joined Lowedges Writing Group and continues to enjoy the weekly sessions and the friendship of other members. Time spent in Brazil has influenced her writing. Jackie Burrows was born in Sheffield in 1944. She has always liked reading and enjoyed English, especially spelling and writing essays, at school. Married in 1966, she had three children, two grandchildren and, more recently, was blessed with an adorable great-grandson. Jackie was a home care worker and also took up cleaning privately. Nearing 60, she completed a computer course and received three certificates, of which she is very proud. Jackie is a member and trustee of the Lowedges Community Safety Forum. She joined the writing group in 2006 and enjoys listening to everyone’s stories. Betty Chambers was born in Beauchief and has lived in Sheffield all her life. She attended Abbeydale Girls’ Grammar School and, despite the disruption to her education from the Second World War, achieved her school certificate. Leaving school earlier than she would have wished, she joined the Civil Service (secretarial) and worked until her marriage to Don. The next years were spent raising her three children. Betty later worked in market research and continued her education through evening classes, particularly enjoying studying French. Determined to try something new, she started creative writing at Myrtle Springs and, since 2007, has continued to develop her work with the Lowedges Writing Group.

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Win Francis has been married to Vic for 63 years, living in Lowedges for 52 of them. She enjoys writing descriptive pieces and short stories. She has been a member of the writing group for 6 years and was involved with the first anthology. The comradeship and support of her fellow writers and tutor have enabled her to develop her creative writing. Before her retirement, Win worked in a voluntary capacity within the community. She was a member of the Sheffield Health Authority and the Family Practitioner Committee, Chair of Governors for two local schools and, for 29 years, a magistrate. Betty Hancock was born in Rotherham and has lived in Greenhill for 30 years. She married her boss, John, and moved to Sheffield aged 21. Betty has always loved writing and reading and was delighted to discover the Lowedges Writing Group and meet like-minded people. She has two daughters and a grandson. Catherine Hart was born in Wigan in 1979 and moved to Sheffield when she was 7 years old. After university in Exeter she returned to train as an accountant, until illness stopped her from working. She joined the writing group in 2008 and really appreciates the warmth, support and stimulus it provides. Catherine has been writing creatively since she learned which way up to hold the crayon. While studying English at university however, creativity had to take a back seat due to the vast amount of writing the course required. Since graduation, Catherine has rediscovered her love of all things expressive, particularly poetry and humorous writing. Heather Norton was born in Ellesmere Port, Cheshire and moved to Sheffield to join the staff of a newly-opened day nursery. Unfortunately, work is no longer an option due to major health issues. Heatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s main interests are reading widely and creative writing. She loves poetry and writes a poem for the carol service at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital every year. As a member of the writing group, Heather enjoys listening to other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work and really appreciates the feedback she receives about her own writing; this has helped her to reflect upon and develop her short stories.

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Susan Roberts was born in 1946 and has enjoyed all of her working life. She was an usherette at the Gaumont cinema in Sheffield and also worked as an Avon Lady for 27 years. She has a son, a daughter and two grandchildren. Susan has been writing short stories and poems since she was 18 and still enjoys it. Her own life and experiences often influence her writing. She has made lots of new friends through the writing group and felt a real sense of achievement when their first anthology was published three years ago. Angela Robinson was born in Sheffield and left school aged 15 to take up an apprenticeship in hairdressing. After bringing up two children, she re-trained in her early forties and became head cook in a nursing home. Angela has always loved writing poetry and short stories and finds she can lose herself in her own ideas. Since retiring, she has passed courses in word processing and RSA English, to support her ambition to see her work in print. She joined the writing group in 2008 and has enjoyed the course immensely. Constructive criticism from other members and her tutor has given her the confidence to expand ideas for her writing. Janet Stearns has lived in Sheffield for 28 years, working in both the health service and higher education. She currently runs her own business as an education consultant and trainer and is a part time lecturer at Sheffield Hallam University. Although writing has always been a large part of her working life, Janet only started writing creatively two years ago, prompted by the death of her mother in 2007. Her ambition is to collate the material her mother saved over many years and write a creative account, as either a real-life or fictionalised work. Sue Sullivan was born in Sheffield but, after marrying a sailor, lived for several years â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;down southâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. On returning home she began writing short stories and, after her husband encouraged her to do something with them, joined the writing group. She finds that the support she receives enables her to find the time to write regularly; something she previously found difficult. Sue would love to be the next JK Rowling, but will settle for selling her stories to magazines in the meantime. She enjoys cooking, gardening, reading and most sports and is a passionate Sheffield Steelers fan. 108

Barbara Thackeray was born in Gateshead in 1926. She moved to Sheffield in 1948 when she married Jim, having met him while serving with the Royal Navy. Barbara left school at 14 and has never been happy with her education. So, after bringing up her family, she took a course in office procedure and got a job; which she enjoyed until retiring. Years later, with the opening of Lowedges Community Centre, she began learning again, as computers took the place of typewriters. She is fascinated by how each member of the writing group produces an entirely different narrative when given the same idea for a story.

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