STORIES FROM RORY No.19

 

Time waits for no one

I have just finished reading my book. I’m sat in the bay window, and I gaze up to see a shooting star. It isn’t quite dark, and this puzzled me. I walk across the room, and switch the radio on. The music’s exciting. I dance around the living room, and I’m really getting into it when my husband returned from a day’s work.

“Wow, Jean, I wish I had your energy.”

He slumped down into his chair removing his shoes and tie.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough day, sweetheart,” I commented.

“Whew! You can say that again, darling, it’s been manic all day. Sorry love, but I’ve brought my sandwiches home as I haven’t had time to eat them.”

I’m really cross as everyone’s entitled to a break.

“Liam! For goodness’ sake! You must be starving. I’ll put dinner out while you freshen up.”

Liam’s mobile rang and he answered it. The cheeky blighters ask him to go back into work. He said, “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had dinner.” Liam sighed. “I don’t believe it; I have to go back in. Can I have a clean shirt, sweetheart?”

I went upstairs to get a clean shirt for him. I got to the top of the stairs and blew my cheeks out. I feel puffed out. I glanced out of our bedroom window at the block of flats across the road. I noticed someone looking out, and it must be my imagination as she seems to be looking at us.

Then I can hear the fire engine, I look out again, and flames and black smoke are belching out of the windows where the woman is. I wondered if she’s alright and then wondered if she has family in there. Liam quickly ate his dinner and put his clean shirt on ready to go back to work.

“Don’t let them keep you for too long, Liam, as you look done in.” (I’m worried for him.)

“I really hate doing this, Jean, when I’m home, I should be home.”

I could see he needed to sleep, or at least put his feet up.

I walk back to the window to see what’s happening at the flats across the road. I heard a screech of brakes, and Liam almost had an accident with one of the Police cars. I ran out to see if he’s okay, but he’s gone by the time I get there. A young Police man is just about to get back into his patrol car.

He asked, “Are you alright, Madam?”

I answered and said, “I wondered if my husband is okay, as he almost had an accident out here. “Oh,” he said “that’s your husband, I almost hit him as I was rushing to the scene of the fire.”

I dryly replied,“Yes, he’s in a hurry too, as they have called him back into work. I would sooner he’d said no to them, and he’s had a horrible day.”

He replied with a grin, “Six of one, half dozen of the other, we’re both to blame.” He said his goodbyes and commented, “Oh well, fire waits for no man, I’d better crack on.”

I came back inside and went to the window again. Firemen were doing their best to put out the fire; however it’s well and truly out of control. I stood there looking across the road for some time.

I began to feel very tired, and I hadn’t washed up the dinner things yet. I turned to go back into the kitchen and put the liquid soap into the bowl ready to wash up. I thought I heard a noise outside of our front door. I went to investigate, but there’s no one there. I went to the back door and placed the key into the key hole, and locked it, in case someone’s in here. I check downstairs, but never searched upstairs. I go back into the living room and switch the TV on. It was the news, and all about what’s happening in the block of flats. I’d calmed my fears, and put my feet up. The news reporter has said that all of the tenants in the flats have to be evacuated, until they can get control over the fire. Liam phoned and asked if I’m to be moved out of our home?

“Well no, no one has said for me to leave.”

While he’s talking, I thought I’d heard a noise again. I mentioned to Liam that I’d heard the noise earlier, and that I’d checked around, but could find nothing amiss.

“I’m on my way home now, love, so have a rest. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

I felt relieved as I knew he shouldn’t have gone back to work. I did say a prayer that he would get home safely, as I know he’s extremely tired. I sat down on the sofa and rattled the dice that’s in the little cup that’s sitting on top of the game on our table. I scored a six. Liam and I often share a game when he gets home from work, it relaxes him. I had no one to play with. I lay down, and must have dozed off. I hadn’t seen anyone indoors.

However, there is someone there and they are helping themselves to our jewels and watches, plus any money that they can find, upstairs. They must have seen my sleeping face, and tried hard not to wake me. Shame for them, as Liam came home as they are about to leave, and he caught them red-handed.

I’m woken by the thumps and shouting. The Policeman that had almost collided with Liam came onto the scene. He booked the three young men. These devils have been robbing folk around here for a few weeks. It’s sheer luck that the officer is checking around our neighbours’ houses, checking the area, in case they’d got up to their tricks while the Police are busy.

Liam is just glad to get home, and he and the young Policeman shook hands, and he said to Liam, “Looks like we’ve both had a hell of a day, and it’s bad news for across the road. These lads we’ve just nicked have burgled them, and then set light to their flats, to take the Police’s attention away from their criminal acts. And this left them free to steal from people’s houses. We’ve wondered down at the station, why there have been so many fires around this particular area.”

I made us all a cup of tea and then Liam said, “Good news, Jean, I’ve got the next seven days off work, and this is why they wanted me back, to clear everything. I’m glad, as I’m dead beat.”

The young Policeman looked up and said, “Is that a confession, Sir?” Liam looked shocked. The Police officer began to laugh. He finished his tea and then got to his feet.

“I must get going, thanks for the tea and chat. He added, “They say time waits for no one, however this isn’t true, as time is waiting for these three thugs.”

Josie Smith

The Masked Dance (continued)

Jacqui picked herself up and muttered, “Thank you,” to Tomas. She followed John out of the restaurant and they got in their Ford Fiesta and John drove them home. Jacqui felt very confused and unhappy with John’s behaviour that seemed, to her, quite out of character. The fact that he was driving after two glasses of wine was not like him either.

As they arrived home and were walking up the path Jacqui saw a shooting star and crossed her fingers, hoping it would be a good luck omen. She was of the type of person who does not believe in omens and superstitions but gives in to the ideas ‘just in case’.

Their house was old and listed and had a large wooden front door with a big keyhole. John took out his key and, as he went to insert it in the lock, they both noticed a piece of card half tucked under the worn lip at the bottom of the door. John opened the door and picked up the card, slipping it into his pocket.

Jacqui couldn’t be bothered to ask what it was, with her feelings running so high after the evening’s events. Once inside, John went over to the drinks cabinet which was part of a dresser they had bought at the local Auction.

“Would you like a brandy?” he asked. “I know this has not been a good evening for you.”She was visibly shaking. She sat down on the big green velvet second hand sofa and looked at the things they had chosen together, making a comfortable relaxing home. ‘What had suddenly changed?’

“Yes, please. With lemonade, not soda. What I would really like is an explanation for your attitude tonight. Whatever got into you? There is more to all this than a mild jealousy!”

John sighed and walked over to the small oval table in the corner where he had an open book. He glanced down at the book then went back to pour himself a drink. He remained standing at the end of the sofa.

“I am really sorry about tonight. It was not so much a concern about Marten as the connection between him and Tomas. He, Tomas, is a really bad person. I can’t explain everything but I have a work connection with him. I did not know before the Ball that he and Marten were very close but now that is obvious it makes something bothering me much worse. He has a sort of hold over me, connected to my job as a Junior Surveyor.”

“It still doesn’t explain your interrogation about boy friends etc. We do need to have a talk about everything that is troubling you, John. I’m not sure I even know you. Anyway, I’m tired. I’m off to bed.”

Jacqui went upstairs and didn’t even shower, she was so tired. John followed and they were both lying facing away from each other. Jacqui fell asleep immediately but woke after a couple of hours and wondered, for a moment, if the memory of the evening was just a bad dream. John was asleep, snoring slightly, which she had previously found endearing, but tonight just annoyed her. She went downstairs to make a milky drink and looked at the book on the table. It was all about building regulations and there was a loose sheet in the middle showing the drawing of a tower block of flats with an address putting it in the outer area of Greater Manchester. She sat and slowly drank her hot chocolate with her mind churning.

Going back upstairs she sought out the card John had slipped in his trousers.

It had a picture of dice and somebody had written, ‘gamble wisely’. On the other side there was an advertisement for ‘The Fire Tree Club’ with a picture that looked like someone’s hand in an inferno. Jacqui did not put the card back. She would confront him when he woke up!

Linda Dalzell

NUMBERS

His wife was asleep, bless her. But he was awake, and didn’t want to disturb. So he slipped out of bed, gently, from under the quilt, turning on his stomach, one foot on the floor, one hand on the floor, second hand, second foot. Pause, to make sure he made no noise. Push with the arms to squatting position, hand on the radiator to help him rise. Once, he might have sprung to his feet – but those days were past, like so many other days, and so many things. Gone – except from his mind and his memory. Good, in the present situation. The sudden movement, the stirring of the air, would have roused her, and she needed her sleep. So, of course, did he, but not all welcome guests came when they were invited. In their absence, you amused yourself.

He padded soundlessly over the thick carpet to the door. Not a friend of modern things, he had to admit they had their uses. In this apartment, on whatever floor it might be of their tall tower, the doors opened discreetly. No need to grease hinges, no clicking latches the way there had been in their cottage – but the cottage had been too far from the help they had needed, sometimes inaccessible in winter… They were better off here, as far as their bodies were concerned, and as for their souls… they carried sustenance in their memories. Or so he hoped. And hoped that it would last.

And that was why, as he went from the bedroom, into his study, he resolved that it was time to begin writing his memoirs.

He had put it off, dismissed the whole project, because it seemed to be putting an end to new experience, twisting the head round on the neck to look backwards instead of forwards… but now, suddenly, perhaps this very moment, he had begun to see it in a new light. Perhaps, he thought, it was this insight that had woken him early. Poems, stories, would often come unbidden into his head in the small hours just before daylight, like snow-covered travellers begging for shelter, or brightly-coloured broad-winged butterflies, fleeing a summer downpour, fluttering in through the open doors of the conservatory, just avoiding the spiders’ webs, and perching, folded, on the tropical plants. This was just such an idea.

Friends had advised him that it was time, and done mathematics to prove it… But he resisted the logic of numbers. Numbers, he said, were everywhere. They were inflexible. You could not persuade them. They were incapable of showing mercy, or making exceptions. They reduced our capacity for perception. His friends pointed to the nature of statistical analysis, revealing trends and truths that might otherwise have remained invisible, and he, mischievously, reminded them of the key-pad that gave admittance to his fine new apartment. Once, he said, there would have been a key-hole, and through that key-hole you could have peeped, and seen what was going on, or bent an ear to it, and listened, and known whether you should have interrupted… Now, instead of remembering to take his key, which was simple enough if you had a copy on a string sewn into the pocket of every pair of trousers you possessed, he had to recall a string of digits…

They mocked him, of course, but he pointed out that there was a real difference between remembering important things, such as how his wife’s hair had smelt on their wedding-night, and the taste of what they had eaten and drunk on their honeymoon, or the sound of their baby’s first spoken word, and a date, which one could always look up, if one needed to.

These were the things that pressed against the doors of the big cupboard in his head in which he stored his impressions and his perceptions. He had never kept a diary. Let memory be the sieve, he had said, that separates the wheat from the chaff. What I remember is what is worth remembering, what has made me what I am. But, he reflected, as the screen blossomed into light, mocking the laggard day outside the window still wrapped in grey bed-sheets, the wobbling piles and tumbled heaps that filled the walk-in closet of his past with colourful disorder, at the risk of overflowing or inflicting mutual damage, deserved better, deserved at least to be looked at again, and appreciated, and then, perhaps, put back more economically, so as to make space for the storage of new experiences…

Unless, of course, this engagement with his past, which he had never before undertaken in any way, except to plunder it for small pieces of truth with which to spice and patch his fictions and his verse, or anecdotes to amuse or console his friends, was to be the new experience that lay before him, the exploration of a country with which he believed himself to be familiar, but which might turn out to be, in fact, unknown territory.

The screen glowed steadily in front of him, inviting, demanding his response. The pretend piece of paper, white on a grey background, was ready to turn the actions of his fingers into neatly shaped black letters in sequence. Above it, numbers defined margins he could not cross, below it numbers were alert to chart his progress.

Numbers, he thought, always numbers. Should he begin systematically, and conform to them? Establish a chronology of his life, by years and months and days and times? Or follow some other kind of thread through the labyrinth? Tastes and smells? Places and views and buildings? Staircases?

Even that thought brought him up short. There was a staircase in the tower, there must be one, for the sake of safety. But he had never found where it was. Doors were anonymous – no, don’t be silly! They all had numbers, didn’t they? But which one on his particular floor led to the staircase, and not into some other apartment, he didn’t in fact know! He got into the lift, and he pressed the number for his floor, and was taken there… He felt, he now realised, some deep reluctance to interrupt that journey. What would he find, if he got out on some other floor? Doors, with numbers on, which were not a clue to what you would find inside. Not like a house-name! The apartments were, naturally, all the same – but of course they were not all the same, because different people lived in them, with different pasts, different possessions, different habits… Numbers didn’t make them all the same… but they made him feel that they might be…

And yet… when he thought about his past… what difference might numbers have made? That girl he had given his phone-number to, after that wonderful afternoon on the mountain… suppose he had made a mistake, or she had made a mistake writing it down? And she had wanted to see him again, and never been able to?

The one he had wanted to send flowers to… and he might have given them the wrong credit-card number… and they’d never been delivered… he didn’t bother to check his bills in those days… didn’t keep them, either, they wouldn’t be stored in any real-life Cupboard of the Past, it was his wife who had made him more cautious, shown him that he had responsibility…

For a moment, he began to imagine the other paths his life might have taken. He closed his eyes, and called up the face of the girl on the mountain. He could hear her laugh, the way her head turned away, to avoid his clumsy kiss, the way it turned back, so that she could kiss him when she wanted to… so many feelings began to well up in him… he imagined what her face would look like now, given the years that had passed, what it would be like to go back into the bedroom and see her head on the pillow, to stroke her soft, downy skin and watch her eyes open…

Suppose that writing about it could make it happen?

The screen in front of him suddenly went blank.

Of course, he thought, that’s what happens when you don’t interact with it! It gets fed up, and decides to save its energy… it’s not a reproach, it’s not a warning, it’s just what the numbers tell it to do, go into sleep mode after a certain number of seconds have elapsed. And as for that… fantasy – well, that’s all it is, because that girl is no longer that girl, she’s a different one, she became a different one after we parted at the bottom of the ski-lift that summer, just as the flowers we walked through bloomed, and set seed, and died… the flowers the following summer may have looked the same, but they weren’t the same… wanting to have her there in bed to go back to is just like the sculptor Pygmalion begging the goddess Aphrodite to make his statue, Galatea, come alive… A fantasy you ought to consign to the flames, as sophistry and illusion… It’s the kind of thing you can make a story out of, but not a life…

And so, of course, that was what he did… it’ll be coming out next autumn. Wonderful where inspiration comes from, like a star falling out of the sky!

And when he’d written the first five hundred words, the start, with the writer waking early on the umpteenth floor and so on, and made notes for the continuation (which I’m not going to tell you about, otherwise you won’t have to buy the book, and you should) he sat for a while, as the computer went back to sleep, and he wondered whether he should, and he fiddled around in the drawer of his desk, and found a couple of dice that he’d once tried to use for plotting random events in a longer novel, but the story itself had taken over, and he began to look closely at one of them and realised something, which he should have known years ago (isn’t that always the way?): that things even out – because the opposite sides will always add up to seven, the wonderful six will be balanced by the miserable one, and so on.

And that made him laugh, and his laugh was so loud that his wife called to him from next door, “What’s so funny? Don’t you want to share it?” And he did, so he got up to go and do just that, but as he rose he noticed the contrast between the blank grey sleeping screen of the computer and the wide view out of the window, with the river curling, and the mist on it curling, and the houses down below and the roads in the middle distance, and the other towers, and beyond them the hills with woods on, going away to the horizon and beyond it, where numberless possibilities lived… and then he went next door, to his reality.

Mike Rogers

STORIES FROM RORY No 18

 

Magnetic force

Ann is reading a piece in an environmental magazine. It’s saying that the magnetic poles are switching, and changing over, and it could mean trouble for people and animals in the world. It set her thinking whether this has got something to do with Whales, Sharks, and Dolphins getting beached. She asked herself if they are getting confused and lost because of this. “What’s wrong, mum?” her daughter Debbie asked.

“Oh! I’ve just been reading about the magnetic North and South pole switching over. I’m thinking this could be why so many sea creatures are beaching themselves.”

Debbie gazed up from her homework. “It’s strange that you should bring this matter up, Mum. Our Teacher has been talking about this in class. Miss Evans is trying to find out more about it.”

“Well done, Debbie, please remember me to Miss Evans, and tell her that I’m interested in this. If she finds out more on this subject, will she share it with me?”

Ann walked across the room and spun the world globe that they owned. “Nature is like a set of scales, Debbie. It keeps a balance. If there are too many of one creature, it will cause chaos to take some out, so that some will survive.”

“Mmm,” groaned Debbie thoughtfully. “This could be the reason for this pandemic. We all know that there are too many people in the world and Nature is dealing with this problem. It’s a bit like cancer, so many have this dreadful disease, and unfortunately not all can be saved.”

The two women grew quiet; both had speech bubbles forming in their heads. However they were blank, they had both thought and said enough.

Debbie got up from the desk and went outside to feed her tortoise. The animal was nowhere to be found. Debbie looked for it and hoped it hadn’t got out into the road. Debbie then checked out there on the path and the grass verge. The little animal was hiding. The girl went back inside and said to Ann, her Mother, “I can’t find Hercules anywhere, Mum.”

Ann commented that he was in the garden earlier. She could sense Debbie was upset and told her that she will help to find the tortoise. “Did you check the pond, Debbie?”

“No! I didn’t think to look in there. I do hope he hasn’t drowned, Mum.” Ann and Debbie checked around and also checked the small fountain they have. Ann then checked around the water lilies. This is a hopeless chore, as the leaves are large and strong and cover one end of the pond. This part of the pond with the fountain is a place that the lilies don’t like. Water lilies don’t like moving water, so they grow at the end that’s still. Hercules is not to be found anywhere. “I’ll go and ask our neighbours, Mum.”

“Great idea, Debbs, and I’ll come with you.” Ann had heard her neighbour cutting his grass earlier and she did wonder. They knocked the door and Liam’s wife answered.

“We are so sorry, and Liam has taken Hercules to the vets. Liam was strimming and accidentally caught the tortoise. We are so sorry, Debbs, and I’m waiting to hear from Liam on how the tortoise is.”

Debbie began to cry and Ann did her best to comfort her. “We’ll get another one, Debbs.”

Debbie sobbed and said, “No, Mum, it won’t be the same.”

“Oh! Debbs! Liam didn’t hurt Hercules on purpose. He is doing his best, as he has taken him to the vet.” Ann felt for Liam’s wife, Shirley, as well as for Debbie.

The phone rang and it’s Liam. He spoke to his wife. It’s bad news.

“I don’t know how I’m going to tell Debbie that the vet has put Hercules down, he was so badly injured.”

Shirley put her head down and turned to Ann and Debbie. “The tortoise didn’t make it, and Liam’s very upset. We will try to make it up to you Debbie, we are so sorry.”

Ann said to Shirley, “We will pay the vet bill and it is good of Liam, and he did his best. It’s nobody’s fault, accidents happen.” Debbie’s distraught, but she nodded her head.

Shirley made Ann and Debbie a cup of tea, and waited for Liam to come home.

Ann and Shirley talked about different things until Liam arrived.

Liam sat next to Debbie and asked her if she wanted Hercules’ ashes, or should he be buried?

Tearfully Debbie decided that she wanted his ashes, to bury him in their garden.

Ann spoke to Liam and thanked him for what he had done. Ann offered to pay the vet bill, but Liam wasn’t having any of that.

Ann, Debbie, Liam, and Shirley, held a funeral for Hercules, and they enjoyed a nice Buffet afterwards.

Liam isn’t finished making it up to Debbie and he decided it might be nice if they all go on holiday together, adding that it’s his treat.

They went to Cornwall and Debbie loves it here. Liam mentioned he wanted to go sky diving.

Debbie looked up and was excited. “Oh please, Mum, can I go sky diving?”

Ann replied that she thought that Liam wanted this for himself.

“Not at all, I’m hoping that you will all join me.”

Ann and Shirley’s eyes grew wide. They both said together, “You want us all to go sky diving? Wow. I’ve never done anything like this before and I’ve had no practice.”

“Well, that’s settled then, we all go sky diving, and we start our training at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Shirley had butterflies in her tummy, but felt excited at the same time.

They began training and quickly learned how to jump and roll. This is it, time to put the Parachutes on and climb into the plane. Up they went feeling anxious, and praying their ’chutes will open.

One, two, three, four people, jumped out of the plane and all are spell-bound. They can see a castle with a turret, and then a bridge with a river running under, and birds. It’s a feeling of real freedom and the fear has left them, and they are in awe. Debbie’s so glad she came on this holiday as now she can tell the friends at school that she went sky diving, and all about her time on the fun fair and all of the things they did and also surfing. She made them feel hungry as she mentioned the fish and chips that are excellent, also a meal they enjoyed at the Three Shires Restaurant. She summed up by saying, “I love Cornwall and I want to go back there next year.”

Josie Smith

STOP

The drive down the hill to the town was familiar. The road curved slowly, gently, giving you the illusion that it was straight. You angled your hands slightly on the wheel, held it loosely, and the car did the rest. It left you free to enjoy the view. The hedges on the other side of the road weren’t low, any more than they were on this side, but you were above them, all the way down. You could see the fields, the trees, sometimes single, sometimes in clumps, enjoy the seasons of the year, the plough ridges losing their sharpness with the autumn rains, the green fuzz of hope, the individual blades in rows, all at slightly different heights, the massed bushiness of a growing crop, the daily change from green through a pale brown to golden fullness, the startling shock of a reaped field, clouds of dust blowing through stubble and crumbles of chalk showing through white like bone… and then you were used to it, the faint marks of the old plough-ridges like acne pits on a middle-aged face, and the features wore away until it was time for the ploughing again.

But today, this very second, there was something different which dragged your eyes, which normally looked forward, encompassing the uncurling road and the unfolding view, sharply to the right, because what fixed them was in the sky, and although it wasn’t perfectly still, but swaying and bobbing, it was, with respect to the panorama of road and fields unrolling before you, effectively stationary, and therefore dangerous.

You find yourself jerking the wheel, to make a correction which you shouldn’t have to make, and it’s an over-correction, and you have to brake, too sharply, and the car pulls to the left, but you catch it, more gently, and you’re back on course, and what you saw is only in your mind, now, though you glance in your mirror, but it can only be a glance, and there’s no point really, because the road’s twisted round, and you can’t see now what you saw before, and anyway what you saw was descending and will be on the ground by this time, so you have to ask yourself what it was, and the answer is: a parachutist. Not one of those paragliders you see sometimes, gliding to and fro in big, gentle arcs, weaving a loose-meshed fabric from the air with their bright-coloured multi-winged ’chutes, but a proper parachutist, descent controlled by use of the lines, spilling air as necessary, zeroing in on a very precise target area, which is, of course, invisible.

Your memory tells you there’s nothing there that the parachutist could be aiming for; but your mind cautions you that you don’t really know, because it’s an area that’s hidden by the slope as you’re coming down the hill, and hidden by the hedge as you’re going back up. Farmland, you say to yourself, no buildings, they’re all on the other side of the road, towards the village.

At the foot of the hill, there’s a roundabout with four entrances and exits. You’re coming in from the east, aiming to go straight over, and then over a bridge across a river which flows south, not a big river, but more than just a stream, and it flows on beside the road that runs south from the roundabout, but then veers south-west, away from it, avoiding the houses of the straggly village-cum-suburb.

The road that carries on to the west goes under a railway-bridge, a low one, and its lowness means that there’s only space enough for one high vehicle at a time to go through, so you’re used to there being hold-ups there, and the traffic backing up for a considerable distance, up the hill, sometimes past the first possible turn-off to take another route. But then, that other route isn’t altogether helpful, since, if you follow it logically and thoughtlessly, it only leads to the same roundabout you’re approaching now, and the more traffic there is on that road, coming at you from the right, the less likely it is that you will get the chance to turn out, and so the queue going backwards up the hill will get beyond the first turn-off, and reach the second, which only leads away from the town that everyone’s really trying to get to. There are, admittedly, ways, by country roads, if you know them, to get back to the town, but they go round and about, and always have to join another big road to get in, and all those big roads debouch onto the ring road and end up throttling one another at roundabouts, so the whole effect is of one enormous cardiac arrest, with every blood-vessel blocked, the pressure building and all the engines throbbing and going nowhere.

So you come down to the roundabout, and you can see, as the traffic slows in front of you, that the road on the far side is at a standstill, in both directions, because the traffic from your right has entered the roundabout but can’t get off it, and the traffic coming from town wants to go up the hill where you’re coming from, but can’t get through the traffic coming from its left which is refusing to give up its place… and nothing seems to want to turn up the road that comes in from the north, towards the place where the parachutist, who is only just still there, on the edge of your mind, must presumably have landed…

And this is the moment when, as you see that nothing is going to move for quite a while, you put on the handbrake and turn off your engine, and don’t quite turn off the ignition, because you need power for the electric window, and you open it full, as the first stage in a process of relaxation, and you realise that everything is amazingly quiet.

There’s a bit of chatter, and some door-slamming, partly angry, partly resigned, but not a single motor is running. One or two tenacious, stubborn or stupid people are opening their bonnets, ready to tinker, but the majority have used their eyes and their ears, most without even bothering to get out, and have concluded, rightly, that whatever force has stopped every engine they can see or hear is not something on which they can have any effect. So they just sit there, waiting to see what will happen.

Just because it’s the next thing to do, you turn your key a little further, but nothing new lights up, let alone turns over. The simple electric circuits still seem to be working – the window responds, but you leave it open. After all, there’s no risk of exhaust fumes. Something magnetic, you reckon, that’s fried the CPUs, or just put them out of action – though in that case there ought to be some old bangers still running, the ones you repair with cold chisels and bent paper-clips.

Out of curiosity, you try the radio, and it still works. Normally, you’d listen to Radio 3, for the music, but under the circumstances you press the button for traffic news – and wish you had a drink with you, to settle your nerves. You know there’s a plastic bottle full of stale water that rattles to and fro under your seat on sharp corners or steep climbs, but that really isn’t what you want as you listen to live reports from around the world. Countries and continents – or at least those in daylight – seem to be competing with one another for length of jams and number of cars involved. You’re relieved to hear no news of air-crashes, or train-crashes. Whatever’s done this is clearly targeted, very precisely. That’s good to know – in one sense, anyway. It’s certainly better than something indiscriminate, even if it indicates a sophisticated level of expertise on the part of whoever’s responsible.

After the first twenty minutes of traffic catastrophes, you turn over to Radio 3 for relief, but it’s not long till that wavelength, too, gets commandeered by official announcements interspersed with three minute classical lollipops that you’ve heard too many times before. Slowly, in the absence of information, the airwaves are filled with chattering voices, talking heads and vox pop, drivers from all over the world, complaining, complaining, complaining. Two minutes of baffled grumbling in a kaleidoscope of languages and accents was more than enough. Silence was a relief.

But that didn’t last, either. It wasn’t impatience that drove you out of the car. It was partly the need to loosen your limbs, and partly the creeping sense of powerlessness manifesting itself in nervousness and restlessness. Walking down the middle of the road, without bothering to look out for traffic, was liberating, as an assertion of self. After all, nothing was going to come along and kill you unexpectedly, not even a police-car or an emergency vehicle.

You carried on down to the roundabout itself, and over it, onto the bridge. Whereas all the other people who were out of their cars were standing around chatting with one another and taking it in turns to pontificate, you were more interested in looking at the river. After all, you never got the chance in the ordinary way of things, just driving by one way or the other, concentrating on the queue to get under the railway-bridge or the queue at the roundabout ahead.

It took you a minute or so to realise what was odd about the river. At first, you thought it had dried up, which was crazy, given the recent weather, then that the weed had taken it over – Algal bloom you muttered to yourself. Finally, you understood. The river still showed the characteristics of flow, but was in fact motionless. The ripples and the eddies and the curling of the surface were all there, but they were fixed. It was so disturbing to look at, that you wandered on, under the railway-bridge, just to see what was happening.

There was a big car dealership there, and they’d gone so far up-market (or indeed, as you thought, up themselves, given that they were slapbang next door to a thriving used-car business) that they’d plonked a ready-made small fountain at one corner of their forecourt, in front of one of their big plate-glass windows – well, the spray from it probably kept the local kids at bay. Only the fountain, too, was motionless, and hung there as if it were extruded acrylic threads. Somehow, its stillness and silence told you that it couldn’t last, so you turned round and walked rapidly back uphill to your car – not as if you were scared, of course, not as if you were in a hurry, but as if you were doing some power-walking, as a form of exercise.

Good thing you did, too, because you hadn’t been sat there five minutes before people’s engines began to start up again. First the ones that had just cut out began to turn over and fire, and then everyone else took the hint. That was an end of the peace and quiet, and brought the need to shut the window and turn off the air-vents, so you didn’t suck in the exhaust from the car in front, and naturally it took half an hour before any traffic-police appeared to clear the gridlock by establishing and imposing priorities, instead of leaving everything to the aggression of the individual driver.

Within three-quarters of an hour, though, the whole procession was moving slightly faster than a snail, more at tortoise-pace, through the first roundabout, under the bridge to the second roundabout, and into town. A change of wind splashed spray from the fountain onto your windscreen. (You’d been too busy keeping your distance, back and front, in the queue to look at the river.)

As you wound along, you tried the radio again. Radio 4, this time. The general view seemed to be that the Effect was of alien origin, and that we should try to do something to prevent it happening again, even though we didn’t know what it was, and could therefore have no idea how to stop it. The buzzword, though, was Fortress Earth. Well, at least that made you smile, and reminded you of the Wise Men of Gotham, who built the towering wall round the tree, to keep in the cuckoo, so they could have spring all year.

The more you thought about it, the more it seemed to you that what had been done was something carefully weighed in advance, a product of the scales of justice. If you wanted to know what exactly it was from our side that, put into the pan, had produced this response – well, the area of choice was vast. Crimes against each other, crimes against our planet, crimes against the universe… where did you want to begin? Where did you feel you could stop?

As you listened to the increasingly confused debates, you found yourself exasperated by the fatuousness of one particular school of thought. These were the people – and there were quite a few of them, to judge by the number interviewed – who criticised the aliens for not having made themselves clear enough. They got our attention these people said but they haven’t given us their message. They haven’t told us what they want us to do.

Round and round they went, saying the same thing again and again in different words, whilst you sat at St Mark’s roundabout, and the lights changed ten times (you counted) and nobody moved in any direction at all.

Finally, you began shouting back at the radio: “Do you really want them to put ideas straight into our heads? Is that what you’d really like? They’ve told us what they want us to do by showing us! They want us to stop! That’s their message: STOP!”

And just at that moment, the lights changed for the eleventh time, and the car in front of you moved forward, and you moved forward too, because the car in front of you had done, and all the other cars moved forward, because that was what everybody was doing, and if everybody’s doing it, nobody can really resist… and if everybody is doing it, then everybody can do it, and so, although you’d seen them arrive (though you hadn’t realised it at the time, or, indeed, now) and although you understood their message perfectly (which not many other people seemed to have done) you still kept on going, even though you were still shouting STOP! STOP! STOP! Until, eventually, you calmed down, and just concentrated on the road on your way to wherever and whatever you thought was important…

Mike Rogers 

Seen from Above

“What are they doing, down there?” asked the creature riding one of the stars.

“Who knows? They don’t seem very sensible to me,” the second star-rider said.

Hera, the first rider, suggested, “Hermes, why don’t you fly down and find what that couple are talking about. They are shouting and frightening the little boy with them. A lot of the people don’t appear to be very happy. “

Hermes looked down at the round world and decided to go down by parachute, folding down the wings on his legs. He landed just near a railway bridge and was able to hide the parachute on the edge of the railway line, knowing that he would be able to fly back up to the stars when he was ready. Climbing up the bank he met a large tortoise who withdrew his head quickly.

Hermes tapped gently on his shell and said, “You have nothing to fear from me. I would just like to have directions to the town.”

The tortoise peered out a little way and rolled his eyes.

I don’t know. I think I am lost. I live in a garden and the people feed me but I wanted to explore and now I want to go home. Sorry I can’t help.”

Hermes felt really sorry for the tortoise but knew he could not carry him and fly so he offered, “If I fly over the area, how will I recognise your garden so I can tell you in which direction to go?”

“There is a trampoline and a blue paddling pool for the children.”

The tortoise did not seem surprised at the idea of Hermes flying around.

Hermes opened his ankle wings and flew over towards some houses not far away. He soon saw a garden with the items described and landed very gently behind a large hedge. There was nobody in the garden so Hermes crept up to the kitchen window and peeped inside. On the kitchen table was a baking bowl and a set of scales so he guessed that somebody would soon be baking. He tip-toed out of the garden and flew back to the tortoise.

“Look here. I can draw a little plan in the earth.”

He did this and told the tortoise to follow the direction of a tower in the distance. He saw the expression on the tortoise’s face and explained, “You will only see it when you have gone round the second corner.”

A big tear rolled down the tortoise’s cheek as he expressed his gratitude.

Hermes ran towards the tower which was on the edge of a large park and shopping centre.

Being a God with amazing powers, he was able to make himself blend in among the shoppers in the bustling shopping centre and he followed the crowd to a man standing on a soap box at the end of the Mall.

The smartly dressed man was obviously extolling the virtues of the current Political Party but Hermes knew that most of what he said was cognitive distortion. He obviously believed much of what he said but many of the people in the crowd were unconvinced and heckling him.

Hermes observed that even family groups or couples were arguing among themselves. One pleasant looking lady surprised Hermes by shouting, “What about mental health facilities? We have nowhere for respite care for our child. We are desperate for a break or some help.” Her partner was patting her shoulder and shushing her.

“It’s no good telling him, love. Politicians are all the same. I think lots of them start out with good intentions but then they have to follow the Party Whip.”

Other couples seemed to have different views from each other and looked cross and miserable.

Hermes felt he had heard enough and flew back to find Hera behind a big cloud talking to Zeus.

“Is there anybody down there who would be worth bringing up here to talk to us?” asked the great God.

Hermes thought for a minute and then said, “I looked at all the papers while I was down there and there were many instances of people being kind and caring towards other people, regardless of who they were. One man drowned, saving a boy from a river, and several people rushed into fire-filled houses to try to rescue people they did not know. Scientists and Health Workers work extra hours when needed. There are wonderful things happening. However, there are families breaking up because they cannot cope with the stresses. They don’t seem to communicate enough. Tell you what, Hera, there is a lot of work for you to sort out Marriages.”

Zeus was looking thoughtful all this time. “It seems to me, they need something to bring them together. Should I throw down a meteorite like the one in Arizona? That would give them all something to think about.”

Hera was looking worried, “Pardon me, Sir, but would that be disturbing only for the people in a particular area?”

Zeus looked very thoughtful again. Then he spoke firmly.

“I have the very thing. I will send a serious pandemic, a virus the like of which they have never known before. That will test their intellects. They will be forced to pull together and pool ideas to find cures. It will bring out the best in people as they try to find solutions.”

When Zeus had gone, Hera said to Hermes, “I do hope He is right. I am not at all sure that the different Countries will think about each other and co-operate to find a solution. Countries are led by individuals who are not always the brightest or kindest. We shall see… ”

Linda Dalzell 20/06/21

STORIES FROM RORY No 17

 

An unusual adventure

Trevor is out in the field, and it is sheep-dipping time. Everything is set up and he and his farm hands began sheep-dipping. As the last sheep went through, and is released out into the field, he felt pleased to have this job done and dusted. Trevor loved his sheep and his farm, and nothing is too hard a chore for him.

Today is his wife Marie’s birthday. There had been a thunderstorm. Trevor looked up at the sky and saw a vivid rainbow. His wife loved to glance at rainbows after a storm, they fascinated her. The rainbow reminded him about something important. He slapped his forehead and said to his best friend, Charlie, “Oh no, I haven’t brought Marie anything.”

“I knew you’d forgotten, and so, I hope you don’t mind, I’ve brought her some flowers and a card. All you have to do is sign it.”

“You’re a life-saver, Charlie, how much do I owe you?”

“It’s alright mate, you can buy the drinks tonight when we go for a meal.”

“A meal, I haven’t ordered a celebration meal! I feel awful, as I know I should have.”

Charlie said, “It’s all in hand, and it’s my treat – after all, you and Marie are good to me. You feed me and allow me to stay in your home. It’s my way of saying thank you.”

“What time are we to be at the restaurant?” Trevor asked.

“Well, we are to sit at eight, so let’s say we leave about seven o’clock.”

Trevor looked up at the clock under the farmhouse eaves. “Gosh, we had better get moving, as the cows have to be milked and that takes a couple of hours.”

“No problem, let’s get on with it, and then we can get ready to go out.” Charlie is a great organiser.

When Trevor the farmer goes out, he always leaves someone to look after the farm in case something goes awry. Because there could be a problem with one of the animals or burglars might break in.

One night two years ago two burglars broke in, and they killed a lot of the laying hens, because they set light to the hen house. Those hens that survived had to be put down because they were so badly burned. They got into the house and trashed it and stole Marie’s gold and silver jewels. They were precious to her as they were what her mother and grandmother had left her. They’ve never been returned.

Trevor was a bit paranoid about leaving the farm after these things happened. But it’s his wife’s birthday and that is special.

Charlie had set this meal up knowing Trevor couldn’t duck out of it. He enjoyed doing something for them both.

They finished the milking and headed for home. Trevor spoke to Charlie saying, “Don’t mention the meal to Marie just yet, I’ll tell her after my shower. I can grab a flower from the garden. She will be happy not to have to cook.”

Trevor and Charlie had separate shower rooms and they both went up to clean up, and get themselves ready.

After Trevor had showered up, he picked out a dress for Marie; he loved the royal blue dress that looked like velvet. He went downstairs and said, “No need to cook, my love, we are going out for a meal, and you had better get ready, as we have to be sat down for eight o’clock.”

Marie didn’t need to be told twice and she quickly bounded up the stairs to shower up and get dressed.

Trevor had picked a red rose from their garden and presented it to her when she came down dressed to the nines.

“Oh, Trevor, how romantic, thank you, and I feel very excited as it’s been a long time since we went for a meal.”

“Yes, I know, I have been a bit of a wet blanket since all of that bad stuff happened. But you have to thank Charlie, he is the one that set this up, and it’s his treat.”

“I see, so you had forgotten my birthday, then.”

“I feel ashamed, Marie, as we have been very busy. I know this is a poor excuse, as you are first in my life and always have been.”

“It doesn’t matter, love, I understand how busy things are at this time of year. I will forgive you if I can have some new flower plants for the garden. A few new herbs will be great as well.”

“You can have whatever you want, as long as I can afford it, sweetheart.”

Marie was a little disappointed as she would have liked this meal to be for her and her husband. But never mind, it is sweet of Charlie to do this for them. (So just be grateful, girl.) It means more plants if Trevor isn’t spending money on the meal.

They were ready to leave for their treat, and Trevor made sure he had the key to the front door.

They could hear the engine of a plane passing over as they got outside. They all gazed up and saw it is a crescent moon. Trevor had picked up his walking stick as they left the house. He always took this when he went anywhere, it belonged to his father and it is a good one. It was made with a silver wolf’s head. He always felt his father was with him when he took it.

They entered the restaurant and were seated. The menu was brought to them and they were asked if they would like a fresh baked roll with butter while they waited for their meal. They all said yes, as they felt quite hungry with the smell of cooking food. And it was cooked fresh while they waited.

Trevor suddenly chuckled, as he’d brought a magnifying glass out of his pocket to read the menu. This item belonged to his mother, who needed it for reading.

Marie remarked to Charlie, “I’m surprised he hasn’t brought the whole farm with him”

“Oh, he would if he could, along with all of the farm implements as well.” Charlie’s statement made Marie giggle, as she had a mental picture of the tractor and the hay bales stacked up outside of the restaurant.

Seeing her laugh made Charlie’s night, as Trevor has been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed how down Marie had looked lately. Charlie is secretly in love with Marie and he works hard to hide it. He knows that if Marie found out he would be asked to leave their home, and Trevor would never forgive him.

The threesome enjoyed their meal and Trevor and Marie danced to the music. Charlie had it in his mind to ask her to dance, but thought better of it.

A good looking blonde came and asked Charlie to dance with her. At first Charlie said no, but she insisted. It was hard for Charlie to admit, but he enjoyed himself. Angela was her name and soon they became a couple and after a year they got married. They have moved into a little farm cottage on Trevor’s land. These days, Charlie is happier than he has ever been, and now he thinks his feelings for Marie were just pure and simple loneliness.

Josie Smith

Destiny or Destination

“Come on, Melanie. We need to be at the airport in about an hour to check in.”

James was making a cup of tea and putting on his trousers at the same time. Melanie reared up in bed and rubbed her eyes.

“Don’t panic, James.”

Just then he wobbled over and banged his leg against the little table.

“Are you alright? Every year lots of people die while dressing,” Melanie volunteered helpfully.

“Thanks for that. I have hurt my knee and a bit of sympathy wouldn’t go amiss. Can you finish the tea, love?”

“OK. Do you want any toast? Have we got time?”

“Probably not. The taxi will be here in ten minutes.”

James was finishing dressing as he spoke. “Good job we packed last night. By the way, where are we going? I ‘m still not sure we should be going anywhere so soon after the pandemic. I thought there were a lot of places forbidden without quarantine. Should we not have waited for everywhere to be vaccinated?”

“Don’t you worry. You admitted you had been working too hard and needed a break.”

Melanie had managed a quick shower and her tea. They gathered their bags and locked up just as the taxi hooted outside. James was limping slightly and Melanie thrust into his hand the walking stick she had used after breaking her ankle at the ski resort before Covid changed everything.

They arrived at the airport and popped their cases on a trolley. Melanie had already checked in online. James, who was quite short-sighted, was peering at the departure lists, looking puzzled.

He looked at the big clock which indicated 12.45. Just then Melanie grabbed his hand, saying, “We are about to board at No 16. Come along, love.”

She walked briskly along to the Departure Gate. As they went through, James held out his passport to the Attendant and she smiled at him sweetly.

“On you go, Sir. Enjoy your flight.”

As they approached the plane, James realised that theirs was not an International flight and he asked, “Where are we going, Mel? I should never have let you have a free hand with this break!”

He had also realised the stick was a liability rather than an aid. When they were settled on the aeroplane Melanie explained, “I wanted to please and surprise you. We are flying to Oban and we will be able to go to some of the Islands. You have always said you have Scottish Ancestry. I know you did not really approve of travelling abroad at the moment and yet you were prepared to leave it to me. You have been working so hard it will give you an opportunity to unwind and relax. Is it OK?”

James leaned across and gave her a quick kiss.

“It is a great surprise but I wish you’d told me I didn’t need my passport. I felt an idiot.”

Melanie was soon looking at maps using a magnifying glass and James convinced himself he was going to enjoy following her lead and being surprised.

After the short flight they took a taxi to their Bed and Breakfast arranged through Air B&B and were pleased to see sheep in the field next to the house. They dashed to the fence as James and Melanie passed by. This confirmed Melanie’s idea of walks, animals and healthy relaxation. The lady who owned the house gave them a key and made them very welcome. They went for a walk and to find a restaurant. They had not gone far before it started to rain but somehow this was fun as James said, “What do we expect in Scotland?”

Melanie stood stock still and pointed up ahead and there, in the distance, was a rainbow with a fluffy cloud. They found a small restaurant with lots of plaid, both in the decor and place mats and even the napkins. They had a delicious meal of black pudding, bacon, lamb chop, purple sprouting broccoli and fondant potatoes followed by puddings of whimberry pie and cream. This was accompanied by a very pleasant red wine, chosen by James.

When they left the restaurant the rain had stopped and the moon was just appearing. James bent down by a little grassy bank and when he stood up, he was holding a tiny wild orchid, which he presented to Melanie.

“Will you marry me, impetuous, bossy person?” he asked.

“Yes, I will marry you, vague, gullible but amenable person.”

The moon looked down on a long lingering kiss that he hoped would bode well for the future.

Linda Dalzell 14.06.21