Forgotten

by Mark Readman 

Indian pale ale

Edward Watts had volunteered to take the afternoon sessions at the local school, though he had been due to retire back in March. The government had seen fit to have these places of learning open for the key workers children. With no curriculum for the students to follow it was up to him to engage them in any subject of his or their choosing. The class size was a lot smaller, he had found them to be very respectful for their age group. 

The classroom door was open.  It was a relief to have some of the windows open as well to lessen the chance of infection, these were strange times and Twenty-Twenty would be remembered as a year the world was changed by an unseen enemy.

Though the students had gone home Edward took his time to remember how the class of eight had reacted to his question of remembrance of V.J. DAY. The look on their faces said they had no idea of such an occasion, though V.E. DAY this year had been given its special place in their minds and it was possible they would remember that in years to come.   

Knowing that Covid 19 would over shadow everything else in their lives for many years; he hoped they would also remember thousands of people died fighting a war for the freedom we enjoy in Britain today.                                         

Though Burma is far away it would have been a disaster had it fallen to the Japanese, for then it was still part of the British Empire. This had drawn the students into a good debate on the rights and wrongs of the empire and Edward had to steer the subject back to V.J. Day . Yes some of the students only aged fourteen had seen the Film Pearl Harbour and thought only the Americans had been at war with the Japanese.  It was easy to forget the grandparents of the generation he had been talking with hadn’t been to war to protect the British Isles with the exception of the Falklands. He had asked that question did any of them have a family member with a military back ground; this had been met with blank looks. It was interesting that one girl had asked, a question for which there’s no answer. Would the war have carried on if the Japanese had beaten the British in the conflict?

Dutifully wiping the desk with a disinfected cloth, collecting his jacket from the chair and covering his face it was time to leave. The cleaners signalled with thumbs up as he passed them in the corridors.   No car today. There was no point. It was only a forty minute walk, and now the shops had reopened there were less walkers and cyclists riding on the pavement, even the short cut through the park was now a pleasure.

The post person had managed to jam several large envelopes into the letter box, one of which was his pension application papers. From the study he watched the birds on the feeders, hanging from the apple tree grandfather had planted all those years ago on his return from Burma. Four generations of the Watts family had lived here; Edward and his father James were the only ones never to have fought in a war, though unlike his father Edward had escaped the governments’ national service programme.

 Pictures of family members hung from the walls, he took a while to study the one of grandfather and grandmother standing in front of the apple tree in their Sunday best. Sunlight glinting off his medals it wasn’t long after this picture was taken they had both passed away he couldn’t recall his exact age when that happened.     

Like the teenagers he’d spoken with today, he would have been in his early teens, he recalled being sad for a few days then his life had moved on and they would become a distant memory but the medals take pride and place in the glass cabinet along with other family memorabilia.                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Likewise his own mother and father passed away and for whatever reason he doesn’t always    remember to celebrate their lives.                                                                                                                                   

Try as he might he couldn’t get it out of his head that his grandfather had fought in a war that in future years the nation would probably forget. People just wouldn’t remember unless the media mentioned wartime Britain.  For Edward these things matter, mainly because his teaching subjects are military and social history from the nineteenth and twentieth century. Though it now seemed that no one had any interest because they have no connection with those times and the people that did care have all but passed away.                              

In twenty five years time it will be the hundredth anniversary of V.E.DAY or will Corona virus be the headline news? As they remember those who sadly passed away while Britain was in lockdown.  There is a small chance that one of his students today will remember the afternoon they talked of the forgotten war.      

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

 About the auhtor

Mark Readman enjoys writing short stories for his own pleasure and of course sharing them with the writing group he attends once a month, which is most helpful as they are able to help each other with good writing practice. Cafelit has inspired him to share his work with a wider audience.

A Global War

by Mark Readman

Gerald made his way upstairs. The stair lift was a blessing now. Originally put in for Delia, when her cancer treatment had sucked away all her energy. That was thirteen years ago. It was at times like these he really misses her.

He doesn’t mind being alone in the house, isolation was not new to him his nearest neighbour was half a mile away at the end of the track. In truth this is his driveway but the unmanaged hedgerow meant most people drove past without seeing the house sign or his post box.Being too tired to shower, he cleaned his teeth and went to bed; out like a light. Woken up by the telephone and grabbing it from its cradle he sat up.

 “Yes.”

 “Hi dad you okay.”

 

“Mathew for god’s sake when will you get to grips with the time difference, it’s after midnight here.”

 

“Sorry dad, I’m sitting in the car, while Lian is shopping, I thought I should check you’re alright with virus being global.”

 “Well you know how isolated I am, anyway I hope Lian is buying plenty of toilet rolls.”

 “What are you talking about? Toilet rolls?”

 “Look it up on the BBC news you’ll soon see what I mean, anyway I’m very tired and need to get back to bed, ring again at the weekend at a better time.”

 “Hang on; I just wanted to say how sorry I am, not getting home for the holidays.”

 

“It’s okay; I understand why you couldn’t come. Now I’m going.”

There is a ringing sound to bring him out of his sleep, taking that minute to realise it’s someone at  front door. Throwing on a robe, running down to be greeted by Mrs Kramer,  the local busybody (councillor) and active member of any organisation you care to name.

 “Gerald how lovely to see you, I only said to the ladies of the W.I. the other day, we’d not seen you in the village lately.”

“That’s possibly because I’m in isolation.”

 

“Well of course you are! That’s why I’ve brought you a food parcel, and toilet rolls.”

He gave a big sigh and muttered what is with people and bloody toilet rolls. “Thank you but I’m well stocked, I’m sure there’s someone in more need then me.”

Mrs Kramer had that enquiring look about her, she of all people would want to know how and why anyone would refuse a food parcel. Gerald’s quick thinking to avoid telling her of his stock pile of food for the next year in his secret place.

 

“I received my monthly delivery from the supermarket two days ago so I’m okay for now.”

 

“But you’re on my list for a parcel every week Gerald.”

 “Mrs Kramer please! You’ve got me out of bed and I need a pee, now leave your parcel on the step this time, should I need any help or something, I have the leaflets with all the numbers, I promise  to call, now will you go.”

The door closed as she lifted the box out of the boot, getting herself as close to the lower glass panel as possible to see inside, only to see the back of  Gerald  as he hadn’t closed the closet door.  This was of course on purpose as he had seen her in the village looking into people’s windows before knocking on their door.  Duly washing his hands he returned for his box of essentials, there was a moment of delight seeing a bar of chocolate tucked in between the bread and the milk neither of which he needed.

As he sat at the table with toast and tea he couldn’t help feeling he’d been a bit hard on his son then Mrs Kramer this morning. There wasn’t a name for the way he felt, least not in his book.  Mathew had a good head on him for all things high-tech.  He came home one day saying he was going to Silicon Alley California. After his mother died he didn’t come home so often, then he married Lian, he was very much settled in the States. They were due to come over for Christmas, and then Lian’s father suffered a stroke so they cancelled at the last minute.

  

He glared at the list on the fridge, a daily routine of things to do; something to be getting on with at all times to encourage him not to sit around. Otherwise depression will set in, not a good thing when in isolation. It was strange how memories just popped into his head, silly little things triggered the past. How he and Delia had been on holiday here in Devon, when they saw this house for sale. Being exactly what he termed an ideal candidate, she at the time had no know idea why he’d said that. 

They went and found the estate agent, made a cash offer and bought the old farm house tucked out of the way on Dartmoor. Delia had so many plans for the interior; Gerald had bigger ideas, an extension on the rear. In the bureau he found all the old paperwork, back at the kitchen table, he spread the contents of the folder out. This brought a smile to his face, as he remembered the man from the planning office saying he could build whatever he liked within reason as the land was still listed as agricultural. With the plans for the extension passed he set about his masterpiece, Delia was carrying Mathew at the time when Gerald had a very large hole dug about twenty feet deep and the size of a small bungalow.

The nineteen seventies was an unsettling time, as the cold war was coming to a head.                     Even the government was worried about the nuclear threat from Russia.  He had a fascination for all things made of concrete, ever since he learnt at school the Romans were the first to use it. Of course this had been reason he had to be in isolation; those early years of inhaling cement dust had damaged his lungs.

 He made a coffee and crossed over to the pantry door, that’s what the enamel sign said but behind was the stairs down to a nuclear bunker, which was under the garden out of sight.  

After a brief moment looking down the stairs he went back to the table. It seem odd now that he spent all that money and time planning to protect him and his family and for what?  If the war had come about, there would have been nothing left to start a new world.  he science said there would have been a nuclear winter and the planet would die anyway.     

When Mathew was about two years old, they spent ten weeks down there just to see what it was like. As he remembered it was okay but they didn’t concede to each other if they could do it for a year. He was still replacing the food down there refreshing it all the time. That’s why he didn’t need food parcels. He had enough food for a family for a whole year, it had become an obsession to never be without supplies.   

He had considered spending the next three months down there. As he had to stay at home anyway!  The intention was of updating his information papers for the future generation.                                  

Yes a hand written log of everything, because it seem to be the only thing left you didn’t need to replace the machine every other year to do it for you. Of course with Mathews help all the modern technology had been installed over the years.

Ironically his thinking is different now to how it had been back in the seventies and eighties when he built the bunker, back then all he thought about was saving their lives he never took in to account what they would do if one of them had tooth ache or suffered an illness that needed hospital treatment. As he pondered theses thoughts one of the many leaflets he’d saved fell to the floor, retrieving it he was compelled to read this information and make the comparisons of  what the government had said of what you should do if a nuclear attack was imminent, with what we should do now to avoid catching coronavirus.

    

NUCLEAR ATTACK.  1 Protect & Survive.  2   You should stay at home. 3 Have a safe room (build a shelter using doors). 4 Have enough food & water for fourteen days plus strong disinfectant & toilet rolls, essential hygiene. If not at home lay in a ditch and cover exposed skin, head & hands. 5 No part of the U.K. is safe.

 

CORONAVIRUS   COVID19.  1 Stay at Home to Protect the N H S. 2 Wash hands often Essential Hygiene.  3 Stay indoors if you show signs of the Virus, Isolate for up to fourteen days (food needed).  4 Non essential travel ban, to stop the spread of the Virus. (No part of the U.K. is safe).

 

After sorting the papers into some order replacing them back into the folder, he made another coffee and went out to the garden. He indeed felt Delia’s presence near the old potting shed, quite often he openly talked to her taking advice on the plants. The garden had always been her forte; recently he’d been having forty winks on the bench in the warmth of the sunshine, waking up with a start asking Delia if she would like a cup of tea.   

In some ways he was glad she wasn’t here, her body wouldn’t have coped this bloody virus.

 He went back inside to look at the list again, reading through the days tasks, deciding  that they could wait, feeling an anger that he had to be alone, at a time when he needed to let it out, to put his point of view over and get into a debate how things are all wrong.             

Delia had been very good at listening and having a view on all matters; quite often ending with I’m sure it will sort itself out!  Back in the garden the wood pigeon watched him take the watering can to the tomato plants. The can was thrown to the ground; quick strides brought the bench back into view, like an angry child throwing himself down hard with head in hands.

 “Help me! Delia I have to vent my frustration, of all the bloody wars, and the near destruction of the planet, melting the polar ice caps, holes in the ozone layer, oceans filled with plastic, even down to children telling governments how wrong they are is beyond me!”

Delia didn’t answer; in fact he couldn’t feel her presence this time but he carried on.

 

“The one thing that separates humans from the animals is the ability to talk, communicate in any language and live together, which is what this virus feeds on and could be man’s undoing, well I’ve got that off my chest, now I’m going to lock myself away and do some paperwork.”

  

 Mathew spent most of the weekend ringing; the phone was never answered, so he contacted the police in the nearest town telling them of his concerns.    

Their return call wasn’t encouraging though they gave a contact number of a Mrs Kramer for some reason!   It wasn’t going to be easy to make arrangements to get home.

About the author 

Mark Readman lives in Essex near Maldon, being retired has taken up writing short stories, having now two published stories on the Cafelit site, he is quite pleased with himself

VE Day

by Mark Readman  

brandy

Dawn brought in a new day in the half light; Susan’s reflection looked back at her in the tall window. The face mask hung below her chin, her blue overall faded away as the sunlight strengthened revealing the grass and the yellow of the daffodils in the borders.

 She watched the flashes of white tails as the rabbits rushed off to their burrows.                                     

It’s been a long time since January the first, when Edwards Hall goes into lockdown.  A clause was applied from the sixties, after it converted into retirement apartments for wealthy gentlemen and ladies. The signage in the staff room clearly states:                      

 " To lower the risk of passing on influenza as a resident you are requested not to receive guests or to leave the estate during the winter months."

 For many generations this big house was the home of the Edwards a military family.  Set in the Norfolk countryside, enclosed by farmland and security fencing it makes for a safe place to be.

The kettle comes to boil just as Emma entered the staff room, the fire door slamming behind her. 

“Do you know how long it takes for the hot water to come through in my room?   When it finally gets there, it could strip your skin off.”

“Well good morning to you too.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know why but last night I couldn’t stop worrying about this virus. I mean being this close to the end of our own lockdown.  Now all of a sudden we have to stay in, for God only knows how long.”

 “This new virus has changed everything; we should think ourselves very lucky to be in this environment. We are used to isolation and we know how to follow rules our jobs depend on it. This will come very hard to a lot of people but that is the price we’ll all have to pay for the freedom we’re so used to.”

  Susan buttered a couple of rounds of toast and made them a coffee. Emma moved over to the table resting one knee on a chair. Susan returned to the window placing her mug on the window sill.

 

 “I’m so grateful we’re in here and not having to worry if there is enough food. I’m glad we had the delivery a couple of weeks ago, the cellars are fully stocked for at least the next six months. It must be hell in one of those nursing homes.”

 “It’s good that the residents here just look after themselves while all we have to do is the cleaning and housekeeping, which means it must be your turn to clean Phyllis’s apartment.”

 “Thanks! I don’t know why she always makes me feel like I’m here to be told what to do. It’s like she owns the place, the other day she told me to make arrangements for her trip to London in May. She wasn’t too happy when I said nobody would want to go to London at the moment."

 “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Phyllis was the owner up until the trustees took over about twenty years ago. Surely you must have realised that with her name being Edwards?”

 “No I just thought it was coincidence, but that would explain a lot. Well you’ll have to tell me how she came to own this place.”

  “Okay but it will be quick, we’ve work to do. Between the wars, Colonel Edwards’s wife was very ill. Frieda Holst a young nurse of German descent was employed to look after her.  The Colonels son took a shine to Frieda and they became lovers resulting in marriage.  Which was just as well because she could well have been imprisoned in the war years; you’re looking puzzled?”

 “Where does Phyllis come into this and why would Frieda have gone to prison?” 

 “Sorry I should have said Phyllis is the daughter of Frieda and the Colonel’s son the heir to this place. Anyway when the war came all German nationals living here were confined, to lessen their chance of spying for the Nazis.”

  “Of course Frieda would have been an Edwards by then and she was over looked.”

  “Right history lesson over! Back to work, if you want to know any more ask Phyllis I’m sure she be delighted to tell you.”

On that note the air thickened, though Emma was respectful of all the residents; Phyllis was the only one she never felt comfortable with. It’s a long walk to the other side of the house. Phyllis was seated in the bay window taking in the sun, Emma’s voice being slightly muffled by her mask.

 “Morning Phyllis how are we today, it’s lovely now the sun is out.”

  “Have you washed your hands?”

  “Mrs Edwards! Please I do know how important it is for us all to keep a good standard of hygiene even without this new virus.”

 “Emma, leave the cleaning today. Come and sit down. It would be nice to talk with you. I’m getting a bit fed up with the T.V. and the radio, all the time it’s bad news”                                                                     

“Only if you’re sure, but I’ll clean your bathroom first, then I’ll sit with you for a while.”

This was a first, in all the time she had worked here. Phyllis actually spoke to her like a fellow human and not as a servant. Emma did ensure she done a thorough job in the allotted time, not to be caught out by Phyllis saying it wasn’t done properly.  

  “There sit yourself down and take your mask off then I can see you properly.” 

  “Well I’ll have to sit back from you, if I remove the mask.”

  “When was the last time you left the building?”

  “January the forth I went to Norwich and bought some new underwear.”

  “And have you been ill since then, no! So you haven’t got this virus and it's April now.” 

  

 She was right.  No one had been anywhere since then, Emma was last one to have been out of the grounds. The virus had only been talked about on the T.V. feeling the need to change the subject.

 “Is that your husband in the photograph, he was a good looking man.”

 Oh, no dear I never married, that was Daddy.  He died trying to save a pilot who crash landed at the airfield during the war.”

 “Was he a pilot too?”

 “No he was an officer at the airfield they all had a very dangerous jobs to as well, I think people tend to forget that war involves many more then the frontline fighters.”

 “Were you very close to your father.”

 “Yes, I was very young I had very little understanding of what was going on. Times were different then, children were shielded from the horrors of war.  I was lucky to have lived here and able to stay with my family.”

 “It must have been hard for you though.”

 “Well yes I looked forward to Daddy coming home, because mummy was a nurse and part of the house became a hospital for awhile. He seemed to be the only one who had time for me when he was able to be here.Then he stopped coming home and Mummy and the Colonel were very sad, then Mummy took more notice of me and we took flowers to the church and put them on a heap of earth. You see I wasn’t told, I was probably deemed too young to understand.”

Emma was feeling emotional as Phyllis spoke of her past; she’d never given the children of the war years any thought. Like the children now, they have no control over their future with this virus taking their loved ones who would have guided them into adulthood.  Phyllis was staring towards the main gates; a tear appeared as if she was reliving a memory waiting for Daddy.

 “Would you like me to make you some tea or something?”

“There’s some brandy in the cabinet over there, treat yourself to one as well.”

  Emma duly lifted her mask back over her nose, returning with the glasses of drink.                            

Phyllis held the photo frame in her arthritic hand, taking a sip without a flinch or gasp swallowed deeply. Emma on the other hand felt its smoothness then the violent kick resulting in a cough.

 “One day mummy took me to the church with some flowers. Mummy said how beautiful it was, as we stood at the earth mound. I watched as she ran her hands over the top of the headstone and the words. Of course back then as a child we never used our parent’s names it was just Mummy and Daddy.”

  “It must have been awful for you, reading the headstone when you hadn’t known why you had been going there with flowers.”

 

“It was a lot to take in, the capital letters V and E. of Victor Edwards that made such an impression on my mind, even when I closed my eyes. Worse still, a few days later there were flags and buntings on the trees and lots of people came to the house. There was food and drink and everyone was happy.  They kept saying victory and I tried to tell them daddy’s name was Victor but they didn’t listen to me. It made me so unhappy I sat near the stables at the back of the house, after a while the Colonel came looking for me.”

  “I can’t imagine how you must have felt at the time.”

  “The Colonel told me about the Victory in Europe and we should keep my misunderstanding a secret. You see for me V. E. Day is Victor Edwards’s day that’s how the Colonel and I would always remember daddy.”

“That’s why you were asking to go to London. For the V.E. Day celebrations.”

 “Yes. Dear I’ve never been and I should before I die.”

 About the author

 Mark Readman is Essex born and bred and enjoys writing short stories in his retirement. By joining a writing group he’s found this to be most helpful to polish his written work, having one story published on Cafelit site   2019 (The kings Shilling)

The King's Shilling

by Mark Readman 

weak tea

 Albert Lickiss walks by the mill on his way to the school the stone work is cold to his finger tips,. his boots echo on the cobbles beneath the arch that’s carrying the railway, there is a silence in the autumn air, its cold and misty in the north.

Albert is up early so he can count the panes of glass in the windows at school, it’s something he wants to remember forever, Miss Hughes had made him see how important mathematics would be, a glint from the ground catches his eye, a shilling that somebody has lost.

Albert is honest and would give it back to the owner but there’s no one around, placing the coin in his pocket he returns to the mill. This is his first day, fourteen years of age, the mill has a place for him, his mother and father had seen to that.

Albert is a big lad, looking older than his age and a quick learner.                                      

The work is heavy, bales of cotton are sorted on the top floor the heat and the noise coming from the looms below is unbearable at times, he likes to feel the coin in his pocket.

The locomotive makes a sound like thunder as it passes over the arch, with its cargo of cloth from the mill, on its way to the tailors to make uniforms, that’s what dad had said, and Albert’s mother did not want that sort of talk in the house.     

Albert now sixteen years plus, the war that dad had spoke of had started some time ago, the military men were going from town to town recruiting.  Albert had read the posters, The Country Needs You, God save the King, in his pocket his fingers feel the kings’ head on his lucky coin.

No one had claimed to have lost it and he never claimed to have found such an item, working in the mill he learnt many new skills and it had been said he could be a foreman one day. Albert has thoughts about this, how many years would he have to work before that happens.

It was on a Saturday in the town square; he watched as the men lined up and moved along to the table where an officer shouted out name. He was trying to keep out of the way but somehow Albert found himself in front of the officer, “Name!” “Albert” Christian name “Albert.”    Sign here the officer looked curiously at him. Along with the others being directed to the waiting trucks, Albert had no chance of saying good bye.

Before long he is on his way to France, on the ship he feels the uniform, could the cloth have come from his mill, he holds the silver coin thinking of home.                                           

 He’s not had time to write, his parents have no idea to his whereabouts’ they can only guess. Mother has written a letter telling of how much she misses her only son, he will never receive the letter as it is addressed to Albert Lickiss; the army have no record of this name.

The trenches are deep, filled with watery mud, for Albert it is a lonely place the older soldiers talk quietly amongst themselves, these battle hardened men the wounded moan and groan as they lay dying on the ground above, he counts them down as the area becomes quieter.

A soldier climbs the ladder a single shot is heard then a thud no one moves, there’s talk of going over the top and charging with bayonets fixed.

The night has been very quiet, the big guns are silent; some rifle shots pick off those who dare to look out onto the no man’s land. In the darkness just before dawn they are to climb the ladders and lay low, hundreds of men following orders getting ready for the element of surprise.                       

The order is given they all rush ahead, entangled in barbed wire some never stood a chance, the falling shells explode around them, machine gun fire mows them down fifty at a time, a bullet passes through Albert’s chest. 

As his life passes before him, his hand grasps his silver shilling taking one last look, as he counts panes of glass, he falls into a mire of mud and guts. His young body slips down into a crater; another shell explodes, throwing tons of mud over him and his silver coin.   

The decades have gone and many people have seen the plaque, inside the museum that used to be the mill, remembering those who did not return, from the Great War all the names are there to be read.

Except for the only son of Mr and Mrs Lickiss?                                                                                               Their family name like many others forever gone.                                                                                            But a mystery remains who was A. Albert, the first name on the plaque, recorded as missing in action. He and his coin remain unfound till this very day.