In the last great bloody war. From cities burning
He came home with a medal and a gun
Here I am again, sheltering in darkness
Listening to the sirens and the crash of bombs.
Keep safe, and please, come home again, my love.
Golden haired child, the little boy I love
Now grown up, trained and uniformed, a fighter
Pilot, flying planes and then dropping bombs
I watch him go and I see him fall, burning,
The plane and wreckage flaring in the darkness.
No wonder we mothers too pick up the gun.
I watched a parade today. Men with guns
On every arm. Off to fight for the homes they love.
Mummy said we should be proud. But when darkness
Comes, fire falls from a thousand roaring fighter
Planes and the stinking night air is red with burning.
What can those men do to stop the fire bombs?
Wait, stand by. They said. When at last the bombs
Come, it means making shells for every gun
Or taking people, wounded from the burning
Will this stop out the pain of my own lost love?
I give some comfort to these broken fighters,
Some warmth ‘till death becomes their final darkness.
Sew black-outs so the house is kept in darkness.
We sit, and mend and make do in the bomb
Shelter. Help the children make paper fighter
Planes. Pot up bean plants, fill the old spray gun
To kill the worms. Take in Mrs Lane, poor love;
Make tea for twelve while half the street is burning.
Everyone’s a fighter, most without a gun.
In Moscow, Kent or Dresden, darkness comes with bombs.
But it is we, the women, who keep love alive and
all the home fires burning
BEGINNINGS
by
Romayne Peters
Age is a beginning
A beginning of the realisation
That the end is now nearer and
The beginning further and further away.
The knowledge of things left undone which
Ought to have been done
Matter less and less
Regrets of little consequence.
A new beginning,
An end merely to begin again? Or
Is it an everlasting end?
Everlasting….
So difficult to comprehend
ATTACHMENTS
by
Bronwen Wild
You share your life with old friends; maybe as much as fifty years of it. You know who they are and the things that have happened to them. You don’t have to ask about their lives; you know that they came originally from South Africa, that their father was a town planner, that they have three brothers. You know the names of the brothers‘ wives as well as those of all the grandchildren. You are aware of dark secrets too; that one friend had an affair and that another had a child before she was married and that it had been given for adoption. You shared the experience of your children’s lives; their birth, infancy and adolescence. What’s more you’ve talked about the pain and difficulties these events caused, listened and sympathised and kept the secrets. Better still, have been all the lovely occasions you’ve shared; the meals, the parties, the holidays and the weddings. Nothing in the world, for me at any rate, is more precious than my old friendships.
But sometimes, the weight of all those years, with all the accumulated baggage of emotions, secrets or just knowledge, can come to seem burdensome and you long to cast off and sail away - free from it all.
That’s what I did. And living for a while at least, with no past here, no associations, no acquaintances let alone friends, was a heady experience. Everything was new; the landscape, the towns and villages and the people. Now I know nearly everyone who lives at my end of our straggling parish. We’ve been invited to lunch, tea and dinner with one or other of them. We share in a village lunch once a month and pass the time of day or stop for a chat with nearly every one we meet as they walk their dogs along the lanes. People have been kind; visiting with flowers and messages when I was ill; offering us surplus wood or fruit. I like these people but I don’t know whether they are truly friends. How much do you have to share, how much do you have to know, before you can really describe anyone as a friend? How much do you have to accept and tolerate views you do not agree with or habits and idiosyncrasies which irritate but which you bear with equanimity because of the qualities you love? So what are the ingredients that constitute a good dish of friendship? I think you have to share in something you really care about.
Very soon after we arrived a neighbour told me about a farmer, a widow, who wanted to learn to play the piano. I said I’d give her some lessons and that I didn’t want any money. I loved going to her farm. Her fields ran down to the river and the view from her garden across to the Golden Valley and the mountains beyond was worth the visit alone. Because she didn’t pay me she gave me joints from the lambs she had slaughtered periodically or flowers and vegetables which we picked together in the garden after the lesson. She was really too old to expect to learn to play - her fingers are stiff and swollen from being outside in all weathers, handling the sheep and the bales of hay she so gamely trundles out to them all through the winter. I admire her courage and resilience in carrying on the farm after her husband’s death. She invites us to watch the sheep shearing and shows us the old tools and implements left over from a lost age, in the barns and the farmhouse. She likes my grand-children to visit her and play on the little stony beach by the river on hot days. She never had children for she married late and she has told me she bitterly regrets their absence. I gave her something and in return she continues to give me her trust and friendship. The lessons have long ceased but she is the only person here at whose kitchen table I find myself sitting, laughing and eating some of her everlasting supply of cake as we tell each other a little more each time of the story of our lives.
People often say “If you want to make friends, join a group.” I’ve been a member of a number of groups in the past - an Amnesty International group, on the committee of a local Music and Drama Festival and a school governor but they all lacked the one thing necessary to the forming of friendships. They were all concerned with other people or the pursuit of an external goal. The writing group which meets every Thursday morning is different. We are here to read and listen to what people have to say for and often about, themselves. In this way I’ve learnt in less than a year more about sixteen or so people than I ever did in normal circumstances in twenty years! I’ve learned about people’s sorrows, their early lives, their careers, their children and spouses; I even know about the contents of their houses, their favourite colours, details of their holidays and much more. The business of building up friendships, the incremental bits and pieces that grow into knowledge and liking usually takes such a long time but here, among my lovely writing companions, the process has been speeded up and because it is too late to make new “old” friends, the group itself is becoming a precious new friend.
DRAGONS
by
Helen Beach
The Northern Line is still deep when it reaches Highgate, and the shortest way to the Library is up a long flight of steps and then up the slope by the car park. This not inconsiderable ascent never used to bother Miss Forbes. She prided herself on her stout heart; and of course never having smoked, not even experimentally, there could not possibly be anything wrong with her lungs. She was not anxious – that was not her way – it was more with a sense of annoyance that she found she needed to stop at the top of the steps before tackling the slope. She was going to have to leave her small flat in Camden earlier if this went on. It would be unthinkable to arrive late. As her breathing steadied, she reminded herself she must ring the plumber in her lunch break. One more week-end of that dripp
ing tap in her kitchen would drive her mad.
Her annoyance was rekindled when she saw Lola had already arrived. She much preferred to be the first. She loved the feeling as she unlocked the Library door that she was opening up a treasure trove to all the good citizens of Highgate. Here were Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Trollope, and the other Trollope even; Salman Rushdie, Martin Amis (she shuddered slightly), J.K.Rowling, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Jacqueline Wilson, Maurice Sendak, Julia Donaldson. Here were the Local History Archives, the stories of Queen’s Wood, the gift of Waterlow Park with its wonderful views of the City of London.
Those first few minutes, when she was alone in the lovely old building, were the best part of her day. Now, with Lola already here, all that was spoiled. “Good morning, Lola. I’d be very grateful if you could take a black bag outside and clear up all that litter. And – I’ll just get the key for you – if you could remove all the out-of-date notices from the notice board.” Poor Lola had only just finished pulling off her boots and putting her coat away. But one look at Miss Forbes was enough.
It was Tuesday. The young mothers with their toddlers would be in soon for the weekly story time and the Library would be full of their noisy chaos. Lola really wasn’t up to keeping them quiet; she would have to see that man about the Enlightenment lectures in her tiny office.
As it happened, when he arrived, seven minutes late, the children were surprisingly quiet. “Aha!” he said, as they crossed the floor, “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Smiling, he offered his hand. “I’m Charles,” he said, “Charles Smithson.”
Miss Forbes was disconcerted. She had been expecting the Second Master from Highgate School. This man was older, with a strong kindly face, but it was the voice – she felt slightly unsteady and quickly put down the coffee cups. She had always been susceptible to the timbre of a voice. This one was deep, rich and sonorous, with a musical quality that, she suddenly realised, reminded her of her father. Hesitantly, she put out her hand. “Elizabeth Forbes.” They both sat down and arranged their knees carefully in the small space. For the second time that day she couldn’t quite get her breath, and it was confusion she felt this time rather than annoyance. She found she was noticing his cableknit pullover under his tweed jacket and his nicely polished brown shoes. “Now,” she said briskly, “about these lectures.”
They had nearly finished when they noticed the door was being opened very slowly. They paused. Miss Forbes tensed, cross at this interruption. Charles Smithson was sitting opposite and saw the small face first. “Hello, young man,” he said. “Are you looking for something?”
“Yes.” A pause.
Now Miss Forbes could see his face too: actually, rather a sweet face. Charles Smithson spoke again. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m looking for the dragon” said the small face with great seriousness.
“Well, young man,” replied Charles gravely, “I know there aren’t any dragons in here.” The door closed again, very slowly. They looked at each other and laughed.
As she showed him the side door, not wanting to interrupt the storytelling, she found to her surprise that she was pleased he needed to come back next week.
“Well, that was very pleasant! Goodbye, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth. No-one had called her that for years.
HILL FARM
by
Peter Holliday
It must have been the rain that woke me, tapping the window with its impatient fingers, so loudly that I felt wide awake. I climbed out of bed and drew back the heavy curtains. It was still dark and I had no idea what time it was. The hills were just visible through the rain, line after line, ridge after ridge stretching westwards. All else quite black - except for one light, somewhere in the middle distance. One light that burned steadily, though occasionally blurred by a bead of rain, or flickered as a tree’s branch swayed and shook.
“No! - that’s impossible!” I exclaimed.
I bent to my lamp, struck a match and lit it; pulled on my dressing-gown and strode along the landing.
“Franklin!” I called, and banged on his door. “Franklin!”
Sounds of movement and muttering within, then a pale tired face appeared in the doorway.
“Have we a new tenant in Hill Farm?” I demanded.
“Hill Farm? No, sir.” he mumbled, still half-asleep.
“There’s a light there,” I said wildly.
“A light where, sir?” He looked at me anxiously.
“Hill Farm!” I repeated.
“That’s impossible,” he replied. “Hill Farm’s empty. It’s been empty this last five years.”
“Saddle ‘Stalwart,” I ordered.
“But it’s two o’clock in the morning, Sir Richard,” the old man protested. “You can’t go out now. And it’s stormy, sir. A wild night- “
“Saddle ‘Stalwart,” I said. “And be quick about it!”
Within ten minutes I was galloping out of the yard, Franklin’s lamp swinging pathetically from his hand as he stood in the pouring rain and watched me go.
I knew every track in the estate. Every dip and slope; every rock and every tree. I had been like a wild beast marking his territory, noting everything. And my horses knew the terrain too, so I knew that Stalwart would not put a hoof wrong as he strained through the slippery night towards Hill Farm.
As we crested the last rise: I soaked through and the horse running with rain and sweat, the windows of the farm glimmered below me, and as we approached I thought I could hear the sound of fiddles and shouts of laughter.
“This cannot be!” I said to myself. “Tell me this cannot be -”
We clattered into the farmyard. Stalwart stopped by back door. I dismounted and hammered on the door. No-one answered. The music roared on.
“Of course you can’t hear me above that infernal din!” I shouted, and twisting the handle I flung open the door.
The kitchen was deserted, but one lamp swung from the central beam - and showed the table covered with fallen plaster, chairs tipped over and broken, cupboard doors wide open and the shelves bare.
A strip of yellow light showed under the parlour door: the room where the music, the laughter, the dancing came from.
“What’s this?” I cried, as I swept the door open. But the parlour too was deserted, though a lamp burned on the table and a fire fluttered in the grate. The music had stopped. A violin with its strings snapped and twisted lay on the windowsill. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust.
I hurried through to the stairway and called up the stairs: “You’ve no right here! You were evicted! You cannot come back!”
Silence - but I thought a shadow jumped across the open doorway of one of the bedrooms. “Do you hear me?” I called again, and I began to mount the stairs. “You were lawfully evicted! This is my inherited estate. This ..”
The doors stood open, but the rooms were empty. Yet in every room a candle burned, bending and shaking in the window’s draught.
I realized now I was being made a fool of. Those tenants, that family - who were they? - Shaw? Sharp? Stuart? - (Franklin would remember -) resented being turned out. Franklin said they swore and cursed me. Now they had returned under cover of darkness- just to disturb my sleep, to bring me out in the wind and rain.
“You’ve no rights here!” I shouted. A squeal of laughter answered me from - as I thought - the cupboard. But the cupboard was empty, the shelves dotted with mouse-droppings, bird-shit - and the only sound the rain on the windows and the rattle of a loose pane.
I began to shiver, for I was soaking wet and the night was cold.
“I’ll come back in the morning!” I declared to the empty room. “This is my property. I shall make it secure,” I said as I descended the stairs. “If necessary I shall take it down stone by stone. It will be a ruin!”
Stalwart stood patiently in the rain, head-down, water running down from his snout like rain-water from a gargoyle.
We turned and plodded homewards. As we left I
heard the music begin again.
The lights were all out when I returned home. Obviously Franklin had gone back to bed, but I needed to talk to him immediately about boarding up Hill Farm - and ejecting that family! He would know how to go about it.
I lit a lamp and went upstairs.
“Franklin!” I called, throwing open his bedroom door. But the room was empty. Completely empty. No bed, no chair, no furniture. Curtains hung limply down, drawn back.
What nonsense was this? I roamed the house, calling for him - but every room seemed as though it had been deserted for years. It was as though no-one lived here.
I returned to my room. Thank God my bed was still there, though it felt cold and damp. I lay down and tried to sleep, listening to the rain tapping the window, hearing the wind wailing ….
RENEWAL
by
Haydn Lloyd
I never tire at any time of this,
A ray of hope, renewal, even bliss.
To wake one morning from a winter pillow
And look out of the window at the willow.
The only weeping thing that cheers my mind,
The end of winter’s rule again I find.
Oh many are the things I’ve done and seen,
But thrill each year at willow’s waving green.
GROWING OLD
by
Jill Lawson
What can I write about growing old?
Memory’s bad and my feet are cold.
Folk who used to talk so clear,
Now take to mumbling and I can’t hear;
I’m frightened of slipping on icy streets,
And sometimes my heart takes irregular beats.
There are whiskers which shouldn’t be under my chin.
And, alas, my hair is drab and thin.
Food doesn’t taste like it used to do,
And my once-admired writing is spidery, too
I need more warmth, and I need more light,
And I seldom sleep soundly all through the night.
So, are there benefits I have found? Or is it just one steep slope down?
With my Bus Pass, I get to Hereford free,
Though I can’t be back 'til it's time for tea