An Amazing Voice by Judith Skilleter, provencal rosé

Ray has the most amazing voice. He is a bass singer, a rich booming bass singer. It is a fabulous voice with a wonderful range and one that could tackle any role or song. It is a voice that captivates audiences. In his early years Ray had singing lessons and even attended music school where he was encouraged to perform by his teachers and to make singing his career.  But that sort of life was not for him: always on the move and new venues and new people every day - no way. He enjoyed stability and being in one place too much. In any case his girlfriend from when he was fourteen years old was pregnant with their first child and it was with delight he chose a different profession that had nothing to do with music – music was a hobby he loved and he was not prepared  for it to become a chore. So Ray became a history teacher where he used his voice to great effect but not by singing. He married his girlfriend and very soon they had three children under six years. The peripatetic life of a troubadour was definitely not for him.

As a teacher he did not need to raise his voice to be heard; it was beautifully raised all the time and even the miscreants at the back of the class did not miss a word.  His pupils loved him, he was an entertaining teacher and he made history fascinating and his punishments were a delight.

Ray remembers one time some years ago when he was teaching A Level students about the Italian Wars. He saw Alec Finn at the back of the class chatting to his pal in the next seat.

“Finn,” boomed Ray without much effort, “you are here to learn history and not talk to your dodgy pal in the next seat. Both of you, by tomorrow morning I would like to see in my cubby hole a full list of the states in the United States alongside their capitals and I would like to see underlined those capital cities that have a name the same as a city in the UK. And do not let Washington baffle you.”

This, of course, led to much laughter and merriment throughout the class.

“What do the two of you say to that then?” continued Ray.

“Yes sir, sorry sir” said Finn and his dodgy pal at the same time.

“In fact you can all do this lovely little task. I don’t mind if you share and copy, do it together” said Ray.

“Oh no sir,” went right round the room.

“It is a useful piece of learning for which you will all thank me when you are as old and grey as me and love doing crosswords and pub quizzes. So stop whingeing. Now, back to the Italian Wars – and I mean you too Finn.”

Next morning Ray found one completed and correct list in his cubby hole signed by the whole class, the Headmaster, a few of the other staff members, Paul McCartney, Shirley Bassey and Mick Jagger.

“Wonderful,” said Ray quietly to himself.

Ray is a football referee and again his big voice is an asset. He does not referee for the big professional teams, rather local school and amateur teams. And he loves it. Refereeing keeps him fit. (He tried golf but he found it boring and his clubs, new, shiny and hardly used, were sold on eBay). Ray rarely has to use his whistle to stop play or identify fouls as his voice his quite enough.

There was a young player, Joe Dobson, who was with a professional side’s academy for a while until he was let go. - “Football can be a cruel business” thinks Ray. Joe had committed just too many fouls in the penalty area. “The lad just gets too excited if there is a chance of a goal,” rationalised Ray. But Joe was sent off many times often with the words “Dobson off” ringing in his ears when Ray was the referee. Of course, the crowd picked this phrase up and Ray hears them singing “Dobson off” even when Dobson is not playing.

“It is my own personal chant,” Ray thinks with delight.  I have a nickname – Dobson off. As for Joe Dobson himself, he signs autographs “Dobson off” as he now enjoys a solid football career, albeit not in the heady heights of the Premier League.

But music is still a big part of Ray’s life. He is in a couple of choirs – of course he is. And he is in a barber shop quartet whose repertoire is enjoyed at weddings and dinner dances. Ray’s voice can always be identified no matter how big or how small the venue. His favourite songs are from the Deep South where he can give full rein to his rich bass voice and these are often requested by his audiences.

Every year Ray is asked to be Father Christmas in the local big stores and shopping malls as his 'Ho Ho Ho's are well known. He says no to the traditional Santa Claus tasks: having young children on your knee can be risky these days, risky to himself, so he avoids these contacts and contracts. But, now he is retired from teaching he instead enjoys singing in shopping malls dressed as Santa Claus at Xmas. And the money he raises goes to charity.

 Ray loved singing his own children to sleep all those years ago, although he had to learn to sing very quietly otherwise there would be complaints that he was too loud and they couldn’t get to sleep. He is now relearning quiet singing for when his small grandchildren come to stay.

“One day they will ask me to read to them rather than Gramps singing” says Alice wistfully, but she doesn’t mind really. Ray’s voice has always been one of the reasons she fell in love with him and always will be. She delights in the pleasure the younger generations get from Gramps’ marvellous voice.

But Ray and Alice also enjoy silence. Every morning there is up to two hours where there is not a word spoken.

Their routine is that they wake up and enjoy a cup of tea from a long-hated Teasmade that Alice inherited when her mother died. She now loves it and enjoys a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk while Ray enjoys tea with honey and lemon (to protect his voice) before they start their day. Once up and ready they stroll to the newsagents for their newspapers and come straight home for breakfast. Breakfast is spent in complete silence as they do the puzzles in their papers – Ray attacks the cryptic crosswords and Alice attacks the Sudokus and general knowledge crosswords. The only word spoken during this precious time is the occasional “Shhh” if one or the other mutters to themselves.  Only  after the puzzles and most likely a second pot of coffee have been completed can their noisy day begin.

Both Ray and Alice are now retired. For all her working life Alice was a librarian. What else could she be with all those decibels at home? Her working days were spent in relative silence while her personal life was full of glorious noise – apart from puzzle time – and she loved and still loves it.

About the author

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren 

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Mind Maps by Jenny Palmer, a half of Wainwright's

 

‘I’ve found the perfect walk for us,’ Celia said. ‘It’s a village circular. And it’s only three miles long. I’ve downloaded the relevant section of the ordnance survey map from the internet. We’ll be fine so long as we stick to the instructions in the guide. If you can read out the guide notes, I’ll follow them on the map. What can possibly go wrong?’

This new venture was Celia’s idea. She’d recently read an article in the newspaper which claimed that being organized, active and helpful not only made you a better person, but it also helped you to live longer.

 Monica was sceptical about the theory.

‘How could it work?” she said. ‘Surely, physical health is more important. I wonder how much research they did.’

‘That’s such a typical response from someone of your disposition,’ said Celia.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Monica.

‘Well, you know: moody, anxious.’

‘I’m not moody,’ said Monica. ‘I’m realistic, that’s all.

 Celia and Monica had met some years before in a walking group, but recently when younger, more agile members had joined, they had been finding it harder and harder to keep up. Gone were the day of walking seven or eight miles. These days they were lucky to manage five.

‘So which way do we go?’ said Celia.

Turn right after the pub and follow the road until you come to the waymarker on the left. Continue along the road until you come to a fingerpost on your right. Then go over a small bridge and through a kissing gate. and continue along the fence line. Monica read

‘What’s a waymarker or a fingerpost?’ Monica asked. ‘And who wrote this guide, anyway? Why don’t they just say signposts? Trying to follow these instructions is doing my head in. It’s taking all the pleasure out of the walk.’

‘Don’t worry about them, then,’ said Celia, undeterred. ‘I’m sure we’ll find the footpath in the end. How hard can it be?’

They continued up the road for some time without deviating. It was a narrow country road. The hedges on both sides had grown so high over the summer that you couldn’t see over the top of them. Their conversation had slowed to a minimum.

‘Not much of a view,’ said Monica. ‘Come on, admit it. We are lost.’

 ‘We are not lost, I assure you,’ said Celia. ‘How can we get lost? So long as we stay on the road, we can’t go far wrong.’

‘Well, we are not on the footpath for one thing and there’s nothing to look at. To my mind, half the pleasure is looking at the views.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Celia. ‘It’s a whole lot easier being led than doing the leading. Now I really appreciate the work our walk leaders put in. They recce every walk beforehand, just so we can follow behind and complain if they go wrong.’

‘Well, they are not here now,’ said Monica. ‘I think we should retrace our steps and go back to the pub.’

 ‘That’s just boring,’ said Celia. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? I’ve got a better idea. Let’s take a short cut through the fields.’

 ‘Are you mad?’ said Monica. ‘That’s asking for trouble.’

 But before she knew it, Celia had taken off into the fields.

‘Just follow me,’ she shouted back. ‘I’ll soon get us onto the right path.’

By now Celia was ploughing along a path which looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. It was waist high in thistles and nettles. And against her better judgment, Monica found herself doggedly following behind. At the far end of the path there was a five-barred gate with no sign of a stile anywhere in sight. Celia was clambering over the gate, which was so rickety it looked like it might collapse at any moment.

‘I’ll leave it to you to explain to the farmer that we’ve broken his gate,’ Monica shouted.

 ‘Oh. Don’t be so negative,’ said Celia.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve even seen that herd of cattle there in the next field,’ Monica responded.

‘Don’t mind them. They haven’t got any calves, and we haven’t got a dog. They’ll leave us alone,’ said Celia.

‘Okay. This is as far as I go,’ said Monica. ‘I’ll see you back at the pub.’                                

‘So, what happened?’ Monica asked when Celia finally arrived back at the pub.

‘Well, you never said anything about there being a bull in the field, did you? It made a beeline for me and the rest of the herd followed in pursuit. I had to make a run for it and just managed to reach the wall in time, but my blood pressure had shot up and I collapsed. When I came to, there was a farmer shooing the cattle away and pointing to the Beware the Bull sign.’

‘You were lucky he was there. You could have been killed,’ said Monica. ‘I thought we were trying to prolong our lives, not shorten them. Didn’t that article say something about being organized and helpful, as well as active?’

‘You’re right,’ Celia conceded. ‘It’s down to you to sort out the next walk.’ 

 

About the author

   

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections Keepsake and Other Stories' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists, 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

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Money For Old Rope by Diane Neilson, ginger hemp tea

Bert Marrison sat in the cave mouth on a rickety hazel stool. It was 1970 and he was 85 years old; too old to be a rope-maker any more, with his gnarled and deformed hands, but not too old to fend off the returners. In fact, his age – in this role – was a definite advantage, as even the roughest and most foul-outhed of the lead miners would stop short of hurling abuse at an old man – especially Mr Bert Marrison.

 

Bert was born in the cave. He had spent his early years exploring every nook and cranny of the caverns, screeching ghoulishly at the visitors to elicit coppers, and exaggerating the local folklore, just for fun. One time, a tourist called Carl Moritz had labelled Bert’s home ‘an abode of silent horror’ after being shown the Devil’s Arse  – out of it, a trickle of water, fondly regarded by the inhabitants as ‘The Styx’, disappearing towards the cave opening. It wouldn’t have been silent if the water level had dropped; God only knows what Moritz would have made of the unfathomably human sound that came from  the Arse, had that happened.

 

‘The Cave’, was a natural cavern and had the largest open entrance in the British Isles, although Bert wasn’t aware of that when he was a lad. It was just home, work and play; a hundred-metre-long, twenty-metre-high and thirty-five-metre-wide space where thirty or so families made up the Derbyshire rope-making community, spinning local grown hemp into ropes for the local miners.

It was a tough working life, from your eighth year ‘til you were ready for your coffin, and carrying no passengers; even the little ‘uns – the under 8’s – being responsible for the animals, feeding them twice a day and mucking out as needed, the main priority being fattening the pigs to ensure a supply of the tallow needed to proof the rope. The kids were also expected to scare the visitors ‘good and proper’, thus ensuring that plenty of coinage was thrown to chase away the perceived spirits.

Once you were eight, though, it was on to proper work. The lads would split the hemp, holding tallow candles, made from the pig fat, in their black-lipped mouths. It was intricate work requiring deft fingers and good eyesight, but not pleasant as you can imagine, with the candle heating the hemp and the stench of the tallow coating their nostrils; the lads would have been as high as a kite most of the time.

The girls had to tread the walkways, winding the hemp back and forth up to three hundred yards at a time, between the three-pronged-cog at one end and a single hook at the other, before the older lads would work in pairs to turn the cog to twist and braid the rope, inserting a top  to keep the strands apart until they came together to close the rope. Turning was a tough job, requiring both strength and stamina, whilst the walker would load the sled and inspect progress, halting and restarting the process as necessary to ensure the best strength and consistency. Once finished, the rope would be hung with rocks overnight, this stretching important if they were to get the best price per yard.

As if birthing, feeding and raising a large family was not enough, the womenfolk would also be kept busy spinning the raw hemp in preparation for twisting and braiding, then dipping the finished ropes in molten tallow to give it further strength and make it waterproof.    

Each family had their own walkway, and was responsible for preparing, making and selling their product, so it could get competitive. Large families were necessary to ensure a strong workforce, and living conditions were less than ideal, with families of up to eight people inhabiting a tiny hovel beneath the cave floor: one room with two purposes - sleeping and making new rope-makers.

Bert had never married. He had been born and lived in the cave his whole life, working the walkways alongside his uncle and in time, becoming an established craftsman. When his nephews and nieces married, they all received a rope washing line made by Uncle Bert, and he was also respected by the miners who appreciated an invention of his ‘The Marrison loop’ – an intricate knotting method, which involved splicing an ‘eye’ through taut rope and re-threading or looping the rope end back through itself creating a loop which could be attached to the miners’ belts, a safety feature that made the dangerous job of lead mining a little safer and saved many lives.

The world was changing though, with new modern technologies being developed. Soon there would be no room for artisans like himself and the cavern would only echo with the memories of the hustle and bustle of the rope-makers. Bert could remember when they were the ‘next big thing’. A curiosity. Indeed, he remembered his uncle talking of visits by royalty. Of Queen Victoria, no less, coming to see the caverns. In fact, the cave name had even been changed to Peak Cavern to save her blushes – well nobody would have been willing to welcome royalty to the Devil’s Arse now, would they?

Just like all the other visitors to the great cave, the Queen had been pushed by rope-makers into the large chamber beyond, lay in a straw-filled box resembling a coffin.

With a short, tallow candle on her chest (what could possibly go wrong) she was manoeuvred under a low archway into the vast space beyond, into the magnificent cathedral-like cavern, the enormous space lit only by candles, and silent apart from the ‘drip, drip’ of water from the ceiling.

Bert’s uncle had told tales of other visitors whose straw coffin-boats had been set alight by the flame of the candle, or who had been accidentally tipped into the water as the rope-makers tried to navigate the deep water and low ceilings. Almost without exception, the candles, made deliberately short, would have to be replaced – at a cost of course – several times during the journey. Well, a rope-maker has to find ways of making a living doesn’t he.

Roused from his reminiscing, Bert watched as a noisy gang of lead miners approached the entrance to the cave.

“Lads.” He greeted them touching his cap.

             One of the younger men approached him, visibly flustered. “Bert,” he replied, shuffling from one foot to the other and struggling to meet Bert’s eye. “No disrespect intended, but we want our money back.”

              Bert eyed them quietly for a moment.

“What’s this all about lads? Money back for what?”

“It’s not waterproof. We’ve had two ropes fail this week. Could have caused a nasty accident.” Sounding braver now, the lad continued. “The boss has sent me to ask for replacements or we’ll go elsewhere.”

Bert laughed and patted the lad on the shoulder. ‘Go where?’ he thought. They were the only rope-makers this side of Manchester.

“Don’t be so serious lad, it’s probably just a damp batch of hemp. Bring ‘em back and I’ll sell you another batch for half price.”

Obviously relieved that a confrontation was not going to be necessary, the lad started to breathe easier, and an hour later, returned with the box of ropes.

Bert took payment, at half price, and handed him the new box, sending him on his way with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Turning into the cave, he summoned his youngest nephew.

                “Johnny, take this box ‘o’ ropes and re-tallow ‘em. When they’re dry you can put ‘em in the store with the new ‘uns.”

               Sitting back down on his hazel stool, he adjusted his cap and lit his pipe, laughing to himself.

                “Money for old rope,” he said to himself, “Young ‘uns, they’ll never learn.”

 

 

About the author

  

Diane is building momentum as a writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She likes to experiment with a range of genres including poetry and short stories, and has released three books, a travel memoir, a book of poetry and short stories and a children's picture book. 

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Bless the Bubbles by Marc Watson, pint of amber ale

I stare down into the nearly empty pint in front of me. I know it will be the first of many drinks to come with the sort of day I have had. My head is pounding something fierce. I try to drown out all the noise around me and focus purely on what was left of the gold nectar before me. Most of the bubbliness is gone. It don't matter. It still does the job, and watching those remaining few bubbles was helping keep me catatonic.

I needd to drink to wash it all away. With any luck, I will forget it all, too. This has honestly become my daily routine. The regulars all know me now, and at any moment, Paul will drop his butt down into the seat next to mine and proceed to talk my ear off for the rest of the night. Like clockwork, I feel the pat on my back as he plops down in place. ‘Hey Jimbo. How’s it hanging?’ I hate being called that, but I gave up trying to stop him a long time ago.

I keep my focus on the pint glass, waiting for it to suck me in somehow. Paul must have ordered us another round as the bartender slides a golden beacon of promise in front of me. I slam back the last few drops of the previous promise and stare at the swirling head of hope. I watch as the tiny bubbles race inside to the surface. I imagine each one popping as a metaphorical release of stress. They join the foamy storm of overflowing thoughts. I imagine them all bursting at once and how that empty bliss must feel.

‘That kind of day, huh?’ He asks. I nod in silence. ‘Oh man. That bad, huh?’ I nod again. We sit there for a minute in a state of purgatory before he has to break the stasis. ‘Hey. Have you sent that new memory backup place?’ I utter a short ‘Nope.’ He drones on.

‘They like, hook you up and sort of download all your memories and such. They can also help you forget about things you don’t want to remember too. I have been thinking about it, you know? Carl said I shouldn’t, though. Apparently, an old buddy of his went in, and the place screwed something up.’

 I nod my head and choose to contribute. ‘He ends up with memory loss or something?’

Paul coughs. ‘Worse man. So get this. He now apparently thinks he is some form of sentient automata. Full on robot. Like total beeps and boops and whatnot. You can’t even get actual words out of him. Wild, right?’ 

I shake my head, mildly annoyed. Paul doesn't seem to notice, and another silence falls upon us. This time, it feels a bit better. The drinks must be working.

I look up enough to gesture to the bartender for another round for the two of us. When it arrives, Paul thanks me. ‘So, what do you think?’

I snap out of a daze and respond. ‘About what?’ 

He takes a drink. ‘Would you do it?’

‘Do what?’ I ask. 

‘The memory thing. You know. With the risk and all.’ 

I look up from my glass and gaze at the poorly ceramic-coated bipedal cyborg next to me while a tube protrudes from its face, siphoning from its oddly grasped pint glass. ‘Nope,’ I reply and stare back down at my drink, watching the tiny bubbles pop as they reach the surface.

 

 

About the author 

 

Marc Watson is a writer, educator, and father residing in Michigan. He spent most of his years in Texas before moving to Hawaii, where he passionately wrote on secluded beaches. He became a father and moved once more to Michigan, where he now writes under the canopy of maple trees. threads.

com/@meteorsnmilk instagram.

com/meteorsnmilk 

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Rough Seas in a Safe Harbor by J. Greve, ginger tea

 A great storm tossed the tire hither and yon but the newspaper pirate hat never got wet and the child’s laugher never dried up. The storm surged, waves crashed, thunder roared, and the child giggled.

 

Her mother pushed the tire swing and sang out the tale of the little boat in the great big storm, and the child believed. The storm could have been scary if told by a less skilled narrator, but the mother was not less skilled and the child was not scared.

 

Knowing her audience better than anyone else, the mother knew when to calm the swing, part the clouds, and breathe rainbows and blue skies into the tale.

 

She and the child would give great big dramatic sighs of relief, then the mother would lift the child from the swing and home they would walk, swinging arms hand in hand.

About the author

  J. Greve is a writer from the US. Her stories tend to focus on relationships and the moments that help to define them. Other times, her stories are unexpected, whimsical, or altogether random. It depends on the day. 

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Join the Club by Rob Molan, bitter lemon

I estimate that the combined age of the four of us on the committee is at least two hundred and fifty years but the others have not got any wiser as they’ve aged. The meeting has dragged on much longer than necessary due to Stanley’s pedantic chairmanship but thankfully we’ve reached the last item.  The heat in the room is becoming insufferable.

‘You’ve all seen, I assume, the recent editorial in the 'Gazette'.” Stanley opens up a copy of the paper. ‘As you know, this made some disparaging comments about us.’ He wrinkles his nose and reads from the offending publication. ‘Specifically, it commented how odd it was that Tatsby Social Club has never been known to have any members from the nearby village of Haston. Do they have a ban in place, we wonder?’

 

‘That new editor is trying to make a name for himself,’ mutters Harold before striking a match to light his pipe.

 

‘He's got a bloody cheek,’ snarls Ken. ‘Probably been got at by some sod in Haston, who’s envious we can buy a pint for fifteen pence while they have to pay a few pence more in their local.’  His shock of unkempt, white hair is more unruly than usual tonight.

 

‘Indeed. He’s clearly an over-promoted scribbler who's trying to stir up trouble.’ Beads of sweat are now appearing on Stanley’s bald head. ‘There has been a shocking decline in newspaper ethics in recent times.’

 

‘We have been advised in the past that there is nothing in our articles of association which prevent a resident of Haston from joining our club.’ I have to remind the others of this fact.

 

Stanley leans forward and studies me through his horn-rimmed glasses.

 

‘That maybe so, Les, but we don't want to broadcast that, do we?’

 

I hate the condescending way he talks to me.

 

‘No one has applied from there in the forty odd years I've been coming here.” Ken’s back is so straight it doesn’t touch the back of the chair. “If one of them rang up enquiring about membership, they were told that someone would get back to them. That never happened, of course, and they soon got the message.’

 

‘Having new members would bring in an extra few bob in takings. We're barely covering our costs these days.’  This is the umpteenth time I’ve reminded them we’re barely solvent. It’s hard being the treasurer in this place.

 

‘We don't want their bloody money,’ snaps Harold through clouds of smoke.

 

‘But the two communities share a lot of history. It would be good to intermingle.’ When I was a child, I loved it when we used to visit my uncle there.

 

‘Get away with you.’ Ken jabs a finger at me.  ‘The place is full of inbreds and they like a bit of fisticuffs after they've had a few pints. This place would go to rack and ruin if they were admitted.’ 

 

‘My late mother-in-law was born inl Haston,’ says Harold, lowering the corners of his mouth.

 

‘Enough said,’ murmurs Ken.

 

Stanley leans towards me.

 

“I think you have a rosy-eyed view of the place, Les. I remember when we held the joint jamboree to celebrate the Coronation, the Haston lot gobbled up the meat sandwiches before we could get a look in and then helped themselves to the biggest cream cakes.’

 

‘And they didn’t pay their share of the marquee rental either,’ adds Harold, raising his bushy, grey eyebrows.

 

Stanley clears his throat.

 

‘I think it is agreed that this scurrilous article should be ignored.’ He looks me in the eye as he speaks. ‘This week's Gazette will be fish and chip paper in a few days’ time and their pompous editor will no doubt have moved on to some other spurious campaign.’

I bite my tongue.

 

‘I call the meeting to an end. We can now adjourn to the bar for a pint or two of mild.  'A Question of Sport' will be starting soon on BBC1 and young Bobby Moore is on the panel this week.’

There must have been a function in here earlier as the room stinks of ciggies and stale beer. I notice the picture of Her Majesty on the wall is hanging askew.

 

The door opens and Stanley waddles in looking flustered.

 

‘Apologies gentlemen for being late. My moped wouldn’t start and I had to walk here.’

 

He hangs up his coat, sits down and pulls some papers out of his briefcase.

 

‘Thank you for attending this extraordinary meeting of the committee. I've received two vexatious letters which we need to consider. The first is from a man called Collins from Haston applying to join our club, together with a postal order for fifty pence to cover the membership fee.’

 

‘No doubt he was put up to it by that bloody paper,’ Ken snarls.                  

 

‘It was certainly most improper of him to have applied without talking to me first,’ says Stanley.

 

‘Typical Haston behaviour,’ mumbles Harold. The white shirt which he is wearing is too tight for him and his double chin hangs over the collar

 

‘Can't you just pretend you never received it?’ asks Ken.

 

‘Not really. It was hand delivered,’ responds Stanley with a frown.

‘Just tell him we're full up,’ says Harold.

 

‘The place is empty during the week,’ I pipe up. ‘Anybody passing could tell that by looking through the window. The takings on those nights don’t cover the heating and lighting costs and….’

 

Stanley jumps in.

            ‘But if he came on a Friday or Saturday night, the queue for the bar would be that much longer. We're already getting lots of complaints already about the slowness of service.’  He shakes his head.

 

‘If we let one in, the floodgates would open,’ says Harold.

             ‘A point well made,’ comments Stanley. ‘I suggest we now turn to the second letter which arrived by post this morning from a solicitor called Alan Jones claiming to represent Collins.’ Stanley lays the letter out in front of him. ‘It says that if we refuse his client's application without good reason, he will take legal proceedings against us. He claims the courts have ruled against a number of clubs who refused to accept applications for membership from certain groups in society.’

 

‘What’s the world coming to if men can’t decide who they drink with?’  Harold rolls his eyes.

 

‘He's a flaming Quisling that Jones.’ Ken bangs the table with a fist. ‘He was born and bred in Tatsby but developed hoity-toity ways after going to university and opening his own practice in the city.’ Judging by the smell of his breath, he’s already had a few.

 

‘He's bluffing,’ says Harold.  ‘Collins won't have the brass to pay the legal fees.’

 

I have to correct him.  ‘I wouldn't be so sure about that. He's a coal merchant and owns several lorries.’ 

 

Harold looks daggers at me but I plough on.

 

‘We would have to pay a lawyer to defend any action against us and we’ve not got the money to do that.’

 

The room falls silent for a few seconds before Ken erupts.

 

‘Which side are you on, Les?’ he shouts. ‘Always worried about the pennies but not about doing what’s right.’ His spittle goes flying over the table.

 

‘Calm down, man,’ says Stanley sharply.

 

Ken grunts and falls back in his chair.

 

‘I’m sure any judge with a shred of common sense would refuse to hear the case as it would be a waste of the court's time."  Stanley pulls a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and glances at it. "Some of us now have a darts match to take part in. I don’t think we should be rushed into deciding how to respond to these letters so I propose we reconvene in a week's time to determine what to do.’

 

 

My resignation letter is sitting on the sideboard. It was hard to write as I've been a member for decades, following in the steps of my father and grandfather. But I've had enough of the place.  I can no longer remain on a committee of dinosaurs who can’t see they’re heading for extinction. Furthermore, the last two nights I've popped in the bar nobody spoke to me, no doubt because someone (probably Ken) had been blabbing about my comments on admitting members from Haston. I'll pop down to the Post Office after lunch and get a stamp for the letter.

 

The telephone starts ringing and I get up from my armchair to answer it.

 

‘Tatsby 1586,’ I say.

 

‘Good morning, Les. It's Tracey from the ‘Gazette’. Remember we spoke a few days ago?’

 

‘"I do.’ She was trying to get me to comment on their editorial but I kept schtum.

 

‘I understand you were unable to attend last night's meeting of the Tatsby Social Club management committee.’ I could hear the relief in Stanley’s voice when I rang him to tender my apologies. ‘They've just faxed us a statement which I'd welcome your comments on.’

‘

"What does it say?’

            ‘’The committee have decided that, with immediate effect, existing members will be able to bring wives and girlfriends with them to the club and, to that end, the bar will start to stock Babycham and Dubonnet; and in anticipation of increased numbers being present on the premises, new applications for membership cannot be considered for the foreseeable future to comply with fire regulations.’

 

The cunning beggars.

 

‘It’s great they’re moving with the times. Don’t you agree?’

 

I take a deep breath.

‘

‘I’ve got nothing to say on the matter. As a widower, the change will not benefit me. Thanks for calling.’

 

I put the telephone back down on the receiver. If I'd ever suggested letting lasses in, they would have shouted me down. They’ll be moaning before you know it about giggling young women spoiling the atmosphere and their wives talking too much. Still, they’ve made their bed and they’ll have to lie on it.

 

I’ll go down to the British Legion tonight. My brother will be there and I’m sure he’ll be happy to sponsor me if I apply for membership. They’ve got a better range of ales on offer there.

 

About the author

  Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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Saturday Sample : Baubles, A Ray of Sunshine by Glynis Scrivens, strong coffee

 

A Ray of Sunshine

Glynis Scrivens

 

There’s an orange on the floor in the cloakroom. And when I went into the bathroom to wash my hands-, a large toy eye stared up at me from the tiled terracotta floor. It belongs to an octopus we made from an old T-shirt. The octopus, though much admired, didn’t survive its first bath-time adventure.

 The sight of these random objects in incongruous places has become the norm. What is unusual is to find anything where it actually belongs.

 Take the egg-slice, for example. Until this week it’s led a mundane existence, alternating between the container on the bench top and the dishwasher. When I needed it Tuesday, to turn over two eggs, it was conspicuously absent.

 Not lost, of course. Everything is found, eventually. And the egg-slice mysteriously reappeared in a toy box on Thursday, none the worse for its adventure.

I wish I could say I’m also none the worse, but I’d be lying. Being sleep-deprived has never brought out my better nature. Neither has the need to read the same book aloud twenty times. Yes, twenty. I’m not sure why but yesterday I counted.

Outside, the rain teams down into the garden, which is already a bog from last week’s rain. And the week before.

I look out the bathroom window at the bedraggled remains of my lilies and roses. They thrived initially but then the soggy soil couldn’t hold the lilies upright, and the roses quietly pined for sunshine.

Just like me.

Outside the kettle comes to the boil. I walk quietly down the hall to the kitchen. Careful not to walk on a toy car. My elbow is still recovering from yesterday’s impromptu skating display. As is my rear end.

I was the only one who didn’t see the funny side. It’s hard to feel amused when your tailbone sends out shooting pain and you have trouble getting up from the floor. Well perhaps it was a bit funny. But as I lift the kettle and pour water into my mug, my elbow reminds me yet again of its presence.

Elbows aren’t something I’m usually conscious of. Like tail bones, they’re largely forgotten until something goes wrong.

I stir and prod the teabag, conscious that it’s already seven o’clock. These precious minutes of peace are unexpected. If only I can sit down and drink my tea uninterrupted…

The kitchen at least is as it should be, I think, looking around. I stayed up last night to make sure of that. The egg-slice is in a new position on top of the dresser just until the weekend, when it can safely descend.

There’s a sticky patch on the oak table. I must’ve missed it when I wiped up the spilt custard.

It’ll have to wait.

I take my first grateful sip of tea and lean back in the chair letting the wooden slats support my spine. Minutes pass.

The windows are a blurry mass of racing raindrops. It’ll be another day indoors by the look of it. I thought the weather forecaster looked a bit shifty last night when he spoke of a break in the weather. You simply can’t trust a word they say, can you? No better than our politicians.

My mind starts to come into focus. Thoughts appear. I decide to write a list. It might save some of yesterday’s pandemonium.

But when I open the drawer to the dresser, my notebook isn’t there. Another casualty? Surely I’d have noticed if Willow had managed to get the drawer open?     She’s only just turned three, after all. Awful possibilities crowd my mind, blanketed in feelings of guilt. I use the other drawer for cutlery. I shudder at the thought. Next time there’ll be some of those child-safety things in the kitchen.

Another sip of the tea brings back a vague memory of using the notebook. We’d been drawing around the outlines of our hands the other day. I can now remember writing down the date too. Feeling a bit overwhelmed by memories and wanting to preserve this one. I know only too well how quickly time races by. It can’t really be twenty-five years since I made pastry hands, lining up the kids and getting them to place their hands on the sheets of pastry, fingers outstretched. I’d always use the bluntest bread knife. And they’d always move their fingers at a critical moment so we’d have to reposition them. When there was finally a line of pastry hands of various sizes, we’d grate cheese on top and I’d sprinkle paprika. Ten minutes in the oven and I’d have something everyone would eat, and the oven would warm up the kitchen.

  A tear unexpectedly trickles down my cheek. I sip tea. It feels comforting. Something that has stayed the same. Just like this oak table.

  I’ve changed. I know that. I realised it only too clearly yesterday, as I was slow to get off the floor.

  Where have the years gone?

Where has my energy gone too?

Things I took in my stride now occupy far too much of my time. It leaves less room for the other things. The ones memories are built on.

Next door’s car comes to life. I watch as it swims onto the road and causes tiny waves to appear in its wake. Like the thoughts that ripple through my mind. Thoughts and images of the future.

Swimming lessons. School. Driving lessons. All these things lie ahead for Willow.

How much of these times will I be privileged to share?

A little voice disturbs my thoughts. Willow is standing in the doorway, her wispy blonde curls dishevelled, her eyes blank, not yet focussed, still only semi awake.

Smiling I rush over and lift her, sore tailbone forgotten. Elbow forgotten. Even the rain doesn’t touch the happiness I feel at that moment.

Holding my granddaughter in my arms, her soft warm cheek resting against mine, my world is filled with sunshine. Willow nestles against me. Another day has begun.

 

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About the author 

Glynis Scrivens’s short stories have been published in Australia, UK, Ireland, South Africa, US and Scandinavia.  Her book Edit is a Four-Letter Word was published by Compass Books in 2015. She writes for Writers' Forum (UK), and has had articles in Pets, Steam Railway, Ireland's Own, and Writing magazine. She lives in Brisbane with her family and a menagerie of hens, ducks, dogs, lorikeets, and a cat called Mr Floof.

  www.glynisscrivens.com/wp.