Musings From Beneath a Pomegranate tree

by Roger Noons

hierbas dulce con hielo  

Ageing Hippie

‘You have been coming to the Balearic Islands for many years, Señor Nunes?’ The policeman said at Passport Control.

    ‘Yes, I used to go to Ibiza for the sun, sea, sand, sex and drugs.’

    He frowned.

    ‘Now I only come to Mallorca for the drugs.’

    His expression darkened. 

    I added. ‘Ramipril, allopurinol, simvastatin and warfarin.’

    He looked totally confused as he handed back my passport.

    ‘Gracias,’ I smiled.

Celebration

Once Soller Reina 11 was tied up in it’s usual position on the Moll, Don Miguel supervised the sorting of the catch, its washing and boxing and Joan pushed the two-wheeled cart to Alberto’s. After the hotels and restaurants had taken their pick, wives and daughters gathered for the auction.    Llampuga 6.90, Salmonetta 3.60; Soller’s prawns, twenty euros per kilo.

    When one box remained unsold, the Don fastened it to Joan’s Mobylette .

    At nine o’ clock, white wine uncorked, sitting opposite each other, their eyes gleamed as they enjoyed the juicy sweetness from the ocean.

    Plates and glasses emptied, man and wife cling on squeaky springs. Perhaps Marta will conceive the daughter she craves.

Dignity and Injustice

By Allison Symes 

black coffee

I was there when she died, you know. That is one advantage to being a time travelling alien. I can pretty much go to any era and explore it from the inside. Okay I have to disguise myself well but I can do that easily enough. Looking like a Tudor peasant is simple and, having befriended her daughter, I had to see for myself.

Elizabeth doesn't know what I am. There is no way to explain but she does know I am her friend and, like her, remained single, despite all the pressures to do otherwise. In my case, I fled my world to get away from my intended. He might have intended. I had no official say in the matter but decided the one who knew what was best for me was me. Elizabeth is very like that.

So here I am at the Tower of London on 19th May 1536. It will be a date that goes down in history. And why am I here at a prime spot near the scaffold? It's not morbid curiosity to see how Anne Boleyn died. It's a wish to know what to say to Elizabeth. She barely mentions her mother but often looks at the locket with Anne's portrait in it and is doing so more since the Scottish Queen's death. I want to tell Elizabeth I am sure her mother faced her unjust death with dignity but I can't lie. That does seem to be a human trait. I've got to know.

So here I am. I must say, as I watch Anne being led out,  she is graceful and calm. Two qualities that monster she married has never had. I am touched by her speech.

And then it is over. I find tears in my eyes and look up to see many here, who disliked, even hated, Anne in life also tearful.

But in a way I am content. I can return to Elizabeth and speak true when she is ready to talk about her mother. I can speak with conviction I am sure Anne met her end bravely. I just pray it will be enough.

About the author

Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, Cafe Lit, and Bridge House Publishing amongst others.  She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  Her website is www.allisonsymescollectedworks.wordpress.com and she blogs for Chandler’s Ford Today - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

Leaving Home

 by Allison Symes

Cappuccino

You will marry Xtia and count yourself lucky. I want to hear no more of this nonsense about finding yourself.

I swore then my mother would get her wish. She would not hear anything from me again. So I took her keys, her spaceship, and fled. Nobody would think anything of it. There isn't a universe anywhere where the kids don't borrow their parents' transport.

And so I found Earth, discovered the joys of time travelling through human history, and it is the last place my people would come to find me. They won't mix with any inferior species so will assume I will at least uphold that tradition.

Wrong! I do wonder someetimes what the reaction to my fleeing was. There would at least be well earned embarrassment.  Good! But do they miss me even a bit? I would like to think so but dare not do so.

About the author

Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, Cafe Lit, and Bridge House Publishing amongst others.  She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  Her website is www.allisonsymescollectedworks.wordpress.com and she blogs for Chandler’s Ford Today - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

The Balcony Seen

by Allison Symes

                                                       Bittersweet Tea

I felt their love pour into my soul.  A trumpet could’ve sounded near the two youngsters and they wouldn’t have noticed.  But on seeing the young man talking up to his girl on the balcony, I made myself stop and hide behind the roses climbing upon the wall of the girl’s home. 

I envied her.  When had someone last spoken words of love to me, yet alone words that almost seemed musical?  But the love kicked out my envy and I just hoped things would work out for these two.  Oh I knew who they were.  Some would say I should have spoken to the parents and stopped this.  No!  I hoped the love here could stop the stupid fighting. 

And as I listened on, I recalled my darling as he tried wooing me all those years ago.  He was nowhere near as eloquent as young Romeo but my love’s words were for me alone.  I treasured them then, I treasure them now.  He was taken from me five years ago now - and all I know of love now is the pain and emptiness when it has gone. 

I looked at Romeo and Juliet.  I wanted to cry out to them.  Make the most of this.  Make the most of NOW.  None of us knows how long we have here…
 
But they wouldn’t have heard me, even if I had. 

As for what happened later, I will always wonder if I did the right thing…

About the auhtor

Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, Cafe Lit, and Bridge House Publishing amongst others.  She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  Her website is www.allisonsymescollectedworks.wordpress.com and she blogs for Chandler’s Ford Today - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

The First Time

 Robert Daley

tea, no sugar

The first time you break up with someone, unexpected stuff can really throw you off.
I’d been unfaithful, more than once. The last time a week ago, with an escort. You know how it is, when you’re twenty, you’d fuck a roll of tin foil if it landed in your lap. We’d lasted eighteen months.
            “I don’t see this going anywhere,” I told her. But it wasn’t so. She’d been through my wallet, left the cards out of order. Some women don’t even need evidence.
            “I see.” She grinned as she scooped a spoonful of sugar from the bowl and gently lowered it into her tea.
            I said, “You’re taking it well.” She was resilient, for sure, the type of woman who could give birth on her lunch break and work the afternoon shift. Even so, no tears?
            “I’ve been seeing Jim.” She gripped a red lock of hair like it was an alarm cord. Stirred her tea some, generating a surge of steam. Jim was a barman at the Kensington members’ club where she waited tables. I’d met him once when I picked her up at the end of the night. He offered me a drink on the house, a glass of red. His smile could disarm an angry old lady of her cane.
“How long’s that been going on?” I cracked my knuckles.
“Three weeks or so.” She pressed her knees together. I knew it’d been longer. I could have thrown my tea in her face. But I drank it and poured another. Wanted sugar but she had the spoon. I couldn’t bear asking for it.

About the author

Robert is a forty-five year old student mental health nurse, studying at the University of the West of England. He lived in Japan for ten years and has recently been inspired by the works of Haruki Murakami. He now resides in Stroud, UK.

Lost Property

By Robert Ferguson

A very, very weak tea

 “No, Mr. Dawson, we’ve no patient registered here in that name. Can I be of any further assistance?”

          “No…er, no, thank you.”

So that was the last of the three local hospitals, and still nothing. Perhaps there had been an incident in London? Google again, list the enquiry numbers. Pick up the ‘phone. Getting a bit agitated now. After all, it has been forty-eight hours. The policeman said I should hear something within forty-eight hours, but I haven’t.

Eighth call later.

          “No, Mr. Dawson, we’ve no patient registered here by that name. Do hope you get some news soon. Goodbye.”

And the ninth, and the tenth.

  

I must call the police station again when I get a minute. Oh, this is all taking such a lot of time! And I must get on with that research old Baxter wanted by this evening. And then … oh, dear. I suppose I must ’phone Amanda, but I can’t do that until this evening because she’ll be at work too, so…

          “Oh, yes, George, immediately. I’ll just gather up my papers and come right along.”

  “Good morning, sergeant. I telephoned on Saturday evening. My name is Dawson. Yes, about my wife. Well, she wasn’t here….well, 46 Ockham Road, … FE14 5BY…. 07367 149 453…well, she wasn’t here when I got home on Saturday evening, and you said …yes, well, a colleague of yours said, give it forty-eight hours, and I have, and that was yesterday evening, but now it’s Tuesday and I’ve telephoned all the local hospitals and all the inner London hospitals … yes, I told you…your colleague, she was going up to London on Saturday to meet our daughter…well, I haven’t actually telephoned her yet….well, it’s a bit difficult, actually, well, we don’t have much to say to each other, you see…well, all right, if I must…yes, I do see your point sergeant. And I’ll telephone you again when I’ve spoken …yes, thank you, thank you.”

“Amanda, it’s your father…Yes, well, I know you know it is…Well, I’m … that is, … I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you, … did you and your mother enjoy your day on Saturday? … Amanda? Are you there, Amanda? … Well, I’m asking you because…well, I can’t ask your mother…She isn’t here…Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I?... No, of course she hasn’t left me … I simply don’t know where she is…She wasn’t here when I got back after last week… At a conference in Scarborough, of course. …Yes, a business conference…Yes, I know there are a lot of them. There always have been a lot of them. It’s what’s …Amanda, you know it’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s how I put clothes on your backs, you and your mother, and food in your bellies…Well, I did, when you were still at home… No! Why should I change jobs? How could I, after all these years?...Look, Amanda, it’s not me who’s not here, it’s your mother. Did she say anything when you met in London on Saturday?...Whatever do you mean, Amanda?... Well, that’s what she told me…Not for how long?...Well, has she telephoned you, or written to you? …No, I know I haven’t either, but you’re a grown woman now, Amanda, with your own work and your own career. I presumed you didn’t want to be bothered with a constant stream of…Look, Amanda, I didn’t telephone you for another row. I’ve got enough trouble at the office…All right, just, if you do hear from her, tell her to ‘phone me…Of course I’m…concerned, but its a particularly busy time at the moment…Yes, I agree, I’m sure she’s all right, it’s just I’d like to know where she is, and what she thinks she’s doing, not being here when I expected her to be. How am I supposed to look after her if I don’t know where she is?...Of course she needs looking after. How is she going to eat? Where’s she going to sleep?...Amanda, don’t take that tone to me again! She has no income, and…Well, as a matter of fact, no, I haven’t checked her wardrobe. No, nor her drawers. I wouldn’t know, anyway, if anything were missing. Why should I? Why should it be? …I really don’t suppose anyone would bother to kidnap your mother, Amanda. Why ever would they? That’s one of the most stupid….All right, I’m sorry, no, don’t hang up, Amanda, I withdraw stupid. Yes, unreservedly. I’m a bit stressed at the office, that’s all…Well, all right, I suppose… I mean, she was just as usual, before the Scarborough trip…Well, we didn’t have long conversations, you know that, Amanda…Now that’s not fair, Amanda. Of course we spoke! We were always … well, when you’ve been married as long as we have…Amanda, I’m your father. A little respect wouldn’t come amiss, Amanda. Amanda? Am…”

I left my brief-case on a train on one occasion. This situation has reminded me of that. A feeling of being ashamed for my carelessness, irritated by having to chase it round the lost property system, and embarrassed to have to admit that I’d lost it. Now, I appear to have misplaced my wife. However much time am I going to have to spend chasing her, wherever she’s got to? I really do have so many more pressing things to do!

“Is that Rosamund? This is Beddy…Bedford…Bedford Dawson, Constance’s husband…No, it is not a scam call, I’m your brother-in-law! Are you…Yes, Beddy…Oh, good…yes, it has been ages, hasn’t it? The thing is, Rosamund, I’m not quite sure how to say this, but…I mean, well, have you seen Constance recently?...Nor spoken to her, I suppose?...No, well, it was quite a row, wasn’t it? But then, you and she…No, no, Rosamund, I wasn’t criticising.  No, nor taking sides. Rosamund, I just need to know, have you…has she…Well, that’s pretty clear, I suppose. OK, thank you, Rosamund…Oh, regards to …er…your husband, by the way…Yes, Edward, of course…Oh. When did you break up?...Oh, Nigel, then. Yes, I’ll try to …no, I don’t suppose there is, unless we are likely to meet in the foreseeable…well, perhaps we might?...Goodbye, Rosamund, nice talking to…” Oh.   

“Good evening, sergeant. I telephoned on Saturday evening, and then again on Tuesday. My name is Dawson. Yes, about my wife. Well, she hasn’t, that is to say, I still haven’t seen her….yes, that’s right, 46 Ockham Road, … Well, I wouldn’t say missing, Sergeant. She just isn’t here, and now it’s been a week, and…Constance Dawson, Sergeant…she’s 46…about five feet two, I suppose…I’ve no idea what she weighs, Sergeant. She’s quite slim…Fair hair, sort of medium-ish, between short and long, I suppose…Yes, I’d say she was reasonably attractive. Everyone seemed to think so, years ago, when we were married…17 years, sergeant, just after the Millennium…The last time I saw her she was wearing her nightdress and housecoat. It was breakfast time, and I was rushing to catch my train to…No, of course she wouldn’t go out like that, but how she dressed that day, when she did dress, I’ve no idea. How could I? Why should I?...Yes, I’m sorry, sergeant, I do understand you have to ask…No, my daughter hasn’t seen her or heard from her, apparently, or my sister-in-law. In fact, I had thought she was having a day in London on Saturday with my daughter, but apparently that wasn’t so…Well, its what she told me they were doing. I mean, if people don’t tell you what they’re doing, what they’re thinking, how on earth can anyone know where they stand, sergeant?...Yes, I do understand that, sergeant. Yes, indeed she’s a grown woman, but she’s my wife, for goodness sake. Surely she can’t just swan off without a word?…Well, I have to say, sergeant, I think that’s carrying the idea of personal freedom rather far…Yes, I do see that, too, sergeant. Well, if there really is no more you can do than note her details…No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly afford a private detective…Salvation Army? Well, we’ve neither of us ever been religious, sergeant…I suppose so, if they’re that efficient at finding people, but I think that’s a bit of a last resort for people like us, and it’s only been a week, so far. I’ll give it a little longer before that, I think, sergeant, and see what happens…Yes, thank you very much, sergeant, you’ve been very helpful, as far as you can be. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Dawson…Oh, good morning, Deborah…The office Christmas lunch? Is it that time already? Well, I think, this year, I’ll give it a … oh, does he? The whole crew? Sort of three-line whip, as you might…? Yes, well, in that case, you’d better put me down…No, Mrs. Dawson won’t be…No, she hasn’t been…Well, there we are, these things happen…No, just me, Deborah, and give Mr. Blakely my wife’s apologies…Thank you. Goodbye, good bye.”

I suppose I’ve adjusted quite well, actually. Hadn’t really noticed. Oh, well, on we go. Now, I must sort out the travel arrangements for the regional meeting at Bognor next week….

Salisbury Plain, February 1946

by Laura Gray

Manhattan Sour

In the empty theatre, the moth-eaten velvet curtain jerked slowly upwards.  A lone man sat at a table on the brightly lit stage.  White coat over his olive army uniform, stethoscope round his neck. A clipboard and a small torch held upright completed the props.  His form was silhouetted and magnified against the backdrop, the stark light of the spots giving it an air of menace.

            In the wings what could have been a clutch of chorus girls pressed together, awaiting their entrance.  Ranging in age from sixteen to thirty, naked under identical bathrobes with ‘Property of US Army Tidworth’ stencilled on the back. 
          ‘Well, I suppose I am’, giggled Marjorie, just eighteen and looking nervous.  Eleanor stared straight ahead.

            Two Red Cross nurses were attempting to herd them into a queue, with limited success.  In exasperation, one of them barked:  ‘You want to be on that ship to New York next week, right?’  Nods from the women.  ‘ You want to see those Yanks who’ve been fool enough to marry you?  Emphatic nods, indignant glares.  ‘Well, you have to have a medical, and this is it.  Now, who’s first?’

            A brief silence, then Eleanor stepped forward.  Since this was a stage, she would use her extensive experience of Miss Holcombe’s PE class to play the part of a shy teenager stepping into the communal showers, faking bravado to get through the ordeal.  She strode up to the table, chin up, waiting until the doctor raised his head and met her eyes.  ‘Name, please’. 
             ‘Eleanor Mary Snyder’.
               A mark on the clipboard.  ‘Open your robe, please, and step your feet apart’. 

            Eleanor remained unflinching while the torch probed under her arms and shone between her legs.  ‘Thank you, that’s all’.  She forced her shaking knees to carry her into the wings on the other side of the stage, where clothes were piled in a row.  She retrieved her soft cotton dress, lovingly made by her sister.  Annie had used her own coupons to make sure Eleanor had  ‘something nice to travel in’. 

            That was the medical.  The rest of the women, watching Eleanor, turned to each other in disbelief.  ‘What’s he looking for?’ hissed Marjorie. 
                 ‘Sores’ said one woman.
                 ‘Crabs’ said another.  None the wiser, Marjorie took her turn.  As she stood straddling the worn floorboards, the doctor motioned to the Red Cross nurse.  A whispered conversation, and Marjorie, crying and protesting, was led away towards one of the cast dressing rooms.

            Silenced, the rest of the women strode the stage in turn, and then dressed with relief.  As the group left the theatre, a notice board proclaimed:

                        TIDWORTH THEATRE FILM NIGHT

                        THURSDAY 8PM

                        MAIN FEATURE: ‘FANNY BY GASLIGHT’

They stared.  Then one by one, they doubled over, faces running with tears of uncontrollable laughter.

            When they boarded the Queen Mary the following Thursday, Marjorie was nowhere to be seen.

About the author

Laura Gray enjoys attempting short stories and the occasional poem. Most of all, she is enjoying putting together a book based on  the experiences of a World War II GI Bride.