Magical May by Annabel Howarth

It is May, and I am filled with the spirit of childhood freedom, as I watch my children run under cascading pink blossom.  I am transported to a safe place and you are alive once more. The street where you lived is once again fully lined with tall trees raining pink fairies.  The uneven pavement slabs and cracks on the curbs join us anew, to serve as ramps to ride our bikes up and down, or to challenge my balance as I glide in my adored blue and yellow roller boots.  You are there again, holding the handle on the back of my Blazer bike, and secretly letting go.  

It is May, and on a wet walk, while I impatiently coax my son to walk faster, I suddenly stop. As I watch his excited face, fascinated by the water pouring down the steep hill into the gutter, trying to stop it with his wellies, I can hear the distant xylophone notes of a faraway stream catching on the stones.  And I sense you, patiently holding our hands to steady us on those stepping stones over that babbling brook, as we hopped over and over again from one side to the other.  I feel the freedom splash as my happy boy jumps from puddle to puddle, and muffle the voice in my head saying ‘Don’t do that, you’ll get muddy’. 

It is May, and I drag my children away from computer games to fulfil my annual pilgrimage. I must see your face again, in the crowds of dancing bluebells.  I push through, holding my daughter’s hand, and you’re there, as you will always be.   I close my eyes and we’re back, walking towards Ballington Wood on the uneven pebbled path, which feels centuries old. Once in the wood, the old quarry hasn’t filled with leaves, and we just happen upon a rope swing or a den, again.  And you test out the rope swing, before we take it in turns to fly.  You are there in the wind, in the creak of the trees, in our laughter, and in my tears.

Who do you love? by Suzanne Hudson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who do you love and who loves you?

Repeat this to yourself in times of stress.
Who do you love and who loves you?
Nothing else matters, when all is said and done.

We get so strung up about the little things,

Irate about minor injustices suffered,
We like to moan to anyone who will listen
And we look for someone to blame.

Who do you love and who loves you?
Stop the noise in your head and breathe for a minute,
Who do you love and who loves you?
Nothing else matters, when you consider it.

The rushing, the must do’s, the will do’s, the should do’s,         
The endless need to improve and perform,
But someone somewhere is doing it better,
Already succeeding, all their plates in the air.

Who do you love and who loves you?
Focus your mind on these simple questions,
Who do you love and who loves you?
Nothing else matters, at the end of the day.

The regrets, the failures, the missed opportunities,
What could I have been if I’d tried a bit harder?
The wishing and hoping, the goals and the dreams,
That mean we forget to live in the moment.

Who do you love and who loves you?
Answer these questions to reset your soul,
Who do you love and who loves you?
Nothing else matters, in the end.

 

We meet again by Andrew Shephard

Unexpected technology, once despised

facilitates the congregation.

Same town, same house, same kitchen -

we lounge around like nothing ever happened.

New arrivals hug and kiss, wine is poured,

no smoking like we’d live forever.

Scratched records play too loud,

a freedom dance remembered by our limbs.

We still have fun despite the dead and missing.

Is she coming, once empress to the men?

The one I tried hard to bed, but never said.

Who knows where she lives, who she married?

Later, when the cups are smeared with dregs,

she breezes in, grey locks flowing, dog following.

She smiles the smile that wounded long ago -

I’m stabbed afresh by a ghost made flesh.

Dare I ask out loud?

Is there a chance you smile for me?

Did you once notice, in that fast and noisy time

how I in silence slowly pined?

The love that’s saved in bones, is it in yours

or was it only pain?

Big eyes look sad and dog tail wags 

as we exchange our metadata.

Train Dreams by Emma Harding

We sit facing each other on the train. My mum and me. The conductor marches purposefully along the platform, clanging all the doors shut. A man sitting across the aisle from us pulls down the window to let air into the stuffy carriage. The train groans, shudders, then lurches forward and starts to move. As it builds up speed we can hear the rhythmic rattle and clank of its wheels over the track. I look at my mum expectantly. She looks back and smiles. She knows the role she is to play. 

   ‘So, what takes you to Guildford today?’ she says.

   ‘I have an important meeting,’ I reply, looking important. 

   ‘Oh, I see,’ Mum says. ‘What is it that you do?’

   I pause for a beat. Then, ‘I’m an architect.’

   I am eight. It’s October half-term and we’re on our way to buy me some new school shoes. I’m wearing my favourite corduroy trousers and a red wool coat. In my imagination though, I’m in a smart pin-striped suit, my leather briefcase by my side. I sit, business-like, my high-heeled feet crossed neatly at the ankle, awaiting Mum’s next question. 

   ‘An architect?’ Mum says. ‘And what does that involve?’

   ‘Drawing.’ I say, earnestly. ‘And building things.’

   ‘Goodness. What do you build?’

   ‘Erm. Buildings.’ 

  There’s a chuckle from the seats behind me and the man across the aisle is smiling into his paper. I’m aware that passengers are amused by our conversation but I’m not bothered. I’m absorbed by the possibilities of this new role. I can imagine my smart light-filled office, the lines of coloured pens and pencils laid out on a big white table, my work colleagues greeting me as I enter the room. 

   It’s a game Mum and I often play on train journeys, pretending to be strangers, inventing characters for ourselves, creating little worlds. But there are no fantastical imaginings here. No fairies, wizards or talking animals. Just as Mr Benn became a cowboy, a chef and an astronaut, I’ve been a doctor, a engineer, and a teacher while riding the train with my mum. 

    The train slows as it pulls into the station. A whistle blows and we stand, ready to clamber out. Mum has to lift me across the gap between carriage and platform and in that moment, I am a child once more, high heels replaced by scuffed Mary Janes and suit by duffel coat. But maybe one day …

Gilou (Part three) by Dave Rigby

(See the posts of 18^th January and 14^th March for parts one and two of ‘Gilou’)

Sleep was hard to come by. Although he was fatigued from the harsh conditions he’d been subjected to in Paris and the weeks of flight that had followed, Gilou’s eyes refused to close. Or so he’d thought until he woke with a start.

Coyle’s pocket watch was difficult to see in the half-light. He stared repeatedly at it before realising that he had only ten minutes to reach the lock-up. His two companions, from the previous night – Coyle’s men - were nowhere to be seen, but there was no time to search for them.

Keeping close to the house walls, Gilou made his way as quickly as his worn boots and tired limbs would allow. Rounding a corner, he stopped suddenly. Through the early morning river mist, he could just pick out Coyle being marched away from the lock-up by armed men.

Gilou was on his own. Had the drunks been released and what had happened to Ork and Tawse?

A familiar, reassuring, figure suddenly joined him. If the dog was still here, that meant his master was still in the lock-up. But how could he gain entry? Just as he was beginning to doubt his ability to rescue his friends, divine assistance appeared in the shape of a passing churchman. Gilou was not normally a violent man, but he knew that silence would be essential if his plan was to work. Having achieved his aim, he moved the man into a cobbled yard and set about removing his outer garments, taking particular care in placing the priest’s silver chain around his own neck and displaying the cross prominently on his thin chest. The priest would remain silent for a while – such was the blow he’d received.

Gilou knew his French would give him away. He would have to avoid speaking. The door to the lock-up was standing open. As he approached the building, Gilou nodded to the guard. The man bowed his head in response and made no move to prevent the dog accompanying the priest through the door.

At first, it was difficult to pick out anything or anyone in the interior gloom. The foul stench made Gilou want to retch. He was grateful there’d been no opportunity to eat breakfast that morning. As his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw Ork chained to the far wall of the lock-up, his friend Tawse similarly shackled. Gilou’s disguise was almost too effective, as neither man recognised him. The dog went to sit beside his master.

Gilou realised there was just the single guard on duty and no other prisoners still being held captive. As a seeming holder of holy office, he was able to approach the guard without arousing suspicion. He blessed the man using the Latin he remembered from his school days and indicated that the chains should be removed from the two captives. The guard looked perplexed, but was perhaps wary of upsetting a man of the cloth. He hunted for the correct key on the chain that hung from his waist and moved ponderously across the uneven floor of the lock-up.

Only when the priest stood by them, did a glimmer of recognition pass over the faces of the newly-unchained captives. Their rescuer put his finger to his lips and the trio left the building, the dog following, whilst the guard stood in the doorway, clearly confused, scratching his stubbled chin.

Hardly had they turned the street corner when a shout was heard, followed by a stream of curses. They ran back to the Bear Inn, alerted Coyle’s companions and fled to the river.  

+ + +

The Corresponding Society meeting, two nights later, in the Southwark tavern was well attended. Word had gone out only through trusted channels, but they were well aware that even these routes could be infiltrated by Government spies, intent on quelling the French contagion.

Artisans, trades people and shopkeepers filled the room. Gilou, once more a layman, addressed the crowd, with Ork translating his words. Shouts from the floor and rounds of applause indicated that the speech was well received. Ork distributed copies of his own pamphlet and spoke of the new ideas and their goal of universal suffrage. He warned of repression and the threats of treason trials and the suspension of Habeus Corpus.

For an hour they were able to enjoy the warmth and comradeship of fellow-thinkers, before dispersing into the dark riverside streets, moving quietly, glancing warily over their shoulders.

This time, they’d managed to avoid the infiltrators, but they doubted their luck would last. Tawse had already left for Essex, concerned for his family. Gilou, Ork and Digger boarded the ship.

It was no longer safe for them in the capital.