STORIES FROM RORY No. 5

 

Scarab

They say you should never try to overhear other people’s conversations but this one was irresistible.

I’d known young Timothy had taken the scarab, that strange little beetle made of some unknown (but unbelievably precious) metal, though  you just weren’t sure what.

But it was supposed to bring the owner luck, wasn’t it?

Still, who believes the old wives’ tales?  The others hadn’t noticed it was missing, so where’s the harm?  Gran wouldn’t notice because she’s dead.  Seems I’m the only one who actually recognises the truth.

But what to do?  Wouldn’t it just bring its own bad luck to the boy if I said

anything??

I won’t tell, anyway.  I’ve got too many things already that I’m ashamed of.

No.  I won’t tell.

After the funeral we went back to Gran’s old house where Auntie May had organised a meal outside by the  fountain.   The full moon had cast a bright light  over the proceedings as we settled down to talk about Gran’s childhood and youth  all that time ago and tried so hard to avoid the topic of possible inheritance.  Would the estate be divided among her relatives  or given to one of her innumerable good causes, all involving animals of some kind?  Well, we’d find out tomorrow at the reading of the will.

And so next day we gathered  round, all eager for revelation, sadness seemingly forgotten.

The process was very short.

As the youngest of the grandchildren, Timothy would receive everything.

Not entirely unexpected but still a shock.  But why?

It seems gran had felt, in all her years of growing old, that Timothy was the only one she felt would do something interesting  with her unsought-for millions.

I was still wondering as I reached my front door.  Feeling about in my pocket for my key I felt something unfamiliar.

Of course.  That bringer of good fortune.  The little scarab.

Anne Hill

Harab Scarab

I was excited to be invited to be to join the chess team.

Not that I really knew much about Chess. It would be a break from the norm, I suppose, so I agreed to take up on the invitation.

I didn’t really know what I had let myself in for, as the team were made up of tip-top champions.

It was just luck that a former member had come in, and he asked permission if he could be my guide.

It set off an argument, as he was the crème de la crème of Chess.

However, when the argument passed over, they agreed to allow him to talk me through the game.

I must say that it was unusual for this to happen. Rules is rules, but sometimes it is good to break all the rules.

He whispered to me move the tower block Behind the Queen. I did everything he asked and I actually won the game! It was only by the grace of the guide that I took the challenge, so I felt guilty about it.

Whew! I was glad when the game finished, it was quite daunting to say the least.

All’s well that ends well, and members were happy enough while sitting at the bar drinking.

My guide said to me, “Right, now I am going to give you lessons, and you will be the best chess player ever. “

The lessons were hard but I was a very keen pupil. I learned very quickly and became a member of the local chess club.

I was winning so many sittings and the club began to branch out into other parts of the world.

We had games by moonlight and we were sat underneath a waxing crescent moon.

It was quite humid, so after the game (which I had won) I had a light- bulb moment and suggested that we go for a dip in the nearby fountain to cool off.

I hadn’t realised someone was there, and eavesdropping, listening in. The police were waiting for us as we reached the fountain. I had no idea that dipping in the fountain was outlawed. Oh dear!

We were put into a very dingy cell for the night and fined a great deal of money. I kissed my winnings goodbye.

The scales of justice in this country were unbalanced. I found out, after we had left the country and got back home, that there had been someone else caught by the police – who turned out to be not Police but crooks, and they had collected quite a haul of money from the Chess players that had won.

So, Harab Scarab, the scales have now tipped the right way, and those crooked Police are sitting in jail and have had to forfeit their takings for court costs.

That will teach them to listen at the keyhole, so to speak, and I hope that person is in jail with them!

Josephine Smith

Under the Table

But where was the beetle going to?

She knelt down on the floor to see, threading her way through the rails that held the legs of the dining-chairs stiffly in place. She loved having an adventure in this way, imagining that she was in a cavern, or making her way through the roots of a fairy-tree, or –

She stopped moving, and pulled her legs up tightly behind her. The door of the dining-room had opened. She wasn’t quite sure that she should be in here, and while she believed that what wasn’t forbidden was allowed, she didn’t know if everyone else believed the same thing. Best to be quiet.

Two men. She could see their shoes. One was her father – scruffy suede, worn shiny and thin, her mother had always called them a disgrace. The other – well, his shoes were shiny, too, but deliberately so, mirror-bright, and his trousers had creases you could cut your fingers on. His voice sounded the same, scalpel-like.

“Let me understand precisely what you require of me,” he said. “Your daughter is beginning to display the kind of traits that distinguished your wife – ” He paused, as though waiting for a qualification, like late or ex, but none came, so he simply breathed and continued, “and you are hoping that the sort of education which I can give her will… divert her from that course, and lead her into a more normal path of development?”

Big words, she thought, they always use big words, because they think I don’t understand them – but I do, because I can read… and then she realised that they didn’t know she was there, which meant that they used big words anyway, probably to disguise from themselves the horrible nature of the things they were saying.

She kept still, wondering whether she’d be able to learn anything more about where her mother was, or what had happened to her, because right now she no longer believed any of the stories she’d been told, about having to nurse her grandmother, or visit her aunts, or go on a lecture-tour with book-signings…

“Yeah, that’s it, you got it,” said her father, and she felt betrayed, because he wouldn’t even take into his mouth the simple words that gave away what he intended to have happen to her.

She knew very well what those traits were that distinguished her mother. Her mother had told her how her father – from the best of motives, her mother had said, though whether she really believed that or not was never quite clear – if you love someone enough, you want to believe them, even against all reason – had tried to find a combination of drugs, measured, measured, carefully measured, grain by grain, scruple by scruple (oh, those words she had learned, that seemed to be all to do with weighing things, but meant so much more) to make her happy, to make her normal… They seemed simple, short words, but used like that they still hid so much!

Tucked up in the thicket of the dining-chair legs, she began to understand why they had left the country, why they had come to live in the city, on the fourteenth floor, behind doors that were behind doors that were behind doors – a princess in a tower! Weren’t they always put in towers, princesses? To keep them safe – well, that’s what the men said, anyway. But it wasn’t true, was it? It was just that if they were in a tower they would still look pretty, whereas if you locked them away in a dungeon they would pine and grow pale and get damp and dirty and covered with spider’s webs, and their lovely dresses would rot…

There was some scrabbling on the table above her head. Paper was being unfolded. She knew the sound of paper. She loved the sound of paper when she wrote her stories… Crinkling – the sound of writing – a contract was being signed! Promises, promises, promises in writing! Oh, no – that couldn’t end well! Contracts like that were always made with the Devil in the stories she read!

Still, still, she had to stay still – and she did, while the shoes went away, and the door clattered open and clicked shut, and she was free again.

And now the idea had to come, the light had to go on in her head, the illumination that would change everything.

Her mother had escaped from this prison, from this tower – but had not been able to take her along… She had to escape now, before that man with the mirror-shoes and the scalpel trousers cut the imagination out of her. She would have to dream of her mother, harder and longer than she had ever dreamed, it would be difficult to reach her, but she must try – she must check the phases of the moon, as her mother had always told her to do, because they were important – if she could even see the moon from here – but if not, she knew they printed the phases in diaries, like the big one her father had on his desk – she must know – she must know –

And then, for no reason she knew, all that enthusiasm drained out of her. It was, she thought, like the way they turned off the big fountain in the plaza, before winter came. One moment, the jet sprang up towards the sky, and the next it dribbled wanly, and even the pool into which it had fallen with rainbow splashes, drained down the dark holes, leaving only slimy, cracked tiles.

How could there ever be escape for her?

And that was when she noticed the beetle again. It had turned round, and was crawling back towards her: a playmate, a friend – a sign! For, encountering her outstretched hand, it had paused, unwilling to be forestalled and prevented and captured, and had unfolded what looked like a solid carapace to reveal wings – wings! And now it was fluttering round the room, up, up, out of sight, out of reach!

That, she thought, would be enough to keep her alive – despite education!

Mike Rogers

STORIES FROM RORY No.4

 

TRICK

The theatre had been closed for years. Surplus to requirements. There were already three cinemas in the town, and one of those had been bingoed. Some entrepreneur had tried to use the building for storage, turn it into a sort of warehouse, but the little twisty stairs, and the rake of the auditorium, and the dry-rot in the stage had made him give up.

The last poster was still stuck firmly on the board at the entrance, faded, rain-streaked, and beginning to tatter. Hal Preston looked at it, as the rain dripped off the brim of his top-hat and ran down his cloak, whose magic didn’t extend to being waterproof.

He hadn’t had to change his name much to follow his chosen profession – drop a letter here, alter one there – but people didn’t want magic any more – not his kind, anyway. He leant heavily on his shiny black cane, hoping it wouldn’t decide to turn into a bunch of flowers when what he needed was its everyday support. It hadn’t been deliberate, coming back to the town where he gave his last show. He hadn’t even looked at where the train was going, just got into it, to get out of the cold and wet, hoping there’d be no one to check his non-existent ticket, and he’d been right.

But he couldn’t magic away the cold and wet, and they’d knocked down the waiting-room at the station, just left the clock as a reminder of mortality, and put up the all-seeing eye of the CCTV so they could get in the security guard to move along anyone they didn’t like the look of. That was why he’d staggered and stumbled his way towards the town centre – insofar as it had a centre any more, shops boarded up, and the ones that were open and had their lights on all hair-dressers, and nail-bars, and sellers of thirty different varieties of coffee.

Time for the skill he still possessed, the one that had got him out of trunks and padlocks and chains. He knew the alleyway with the stage-door in it – but it stank now, and his feet crunched on styrofoam cups and burger boxes, and sloshed through a deep puddle where the drain was blocked by badness knew what. The paint had flaked, and the lettering was gone, but he stood on the dry step under the little awning, and let his lock-picks work their still reliable magic.

Closing the door shut out the world that had shut him out. He ignored the musty smell – most theatres smell like that, behind the scenes. There’s always a bit of rot underneath, and the scent of places where people wait, often nervously, before the bright light shines on them, to show them up and show them off.

Up the bare wooden stairs he went, to the dressing-rooms. What he wanted to try would be better done there, where the lights might work – on the darkened stage, it would be impossible.

He settled on the one with the biggest mirror, and the largest number of bulbs left round it. Looking at his image, he knew he’d been right to keep his costume, even as everything else had been sold or pawned piecemeal for little bits of food and shelter.

He closed his eyes to concentrate. The words were still there in his head – the ones he’d been taught, when he was only a lad who could do card tricks and a bit of sleight of hand, and the Great Marvo had taken him on as an assistant, to hump the trunks around and be sawn in half twice nightly.

“Be careful,” the Great Marvo had said. “Never use these unless you really have to. They are for the Last Trick. You’ll know when you need them.”

Well, he needed them now. But he still felt he had to work up to the climax, to the Great Vanishing Trick. And so he did, by doing his small ones first, the ones he loved, the ones the kids had loved. And finally, finally… he said the words that would make him vanish.

The security guard had seen him, on the CCTV, the Big Eye, that was across the road from the theatre, had seen him go up the alleyway and disappear, so, eventually, when the rain stopped, he went to investigate. He had seen light in one of the windows at the top, and used his key to get in through the stage-door, and followed the wet footsteps all the way up to where they stopped, in the dressing-room where the lights blazed round the big mirror.

On the floor, there was a bunch of flowers. As the security guard picked them up, they folded back into an elegant black cane. He laughed, and walked across to the shelf in front of the mirror, where the make-up would have been. Instead, there were three other things, the kind of things, he vaguely remembered, that people who knew how could make appear out of thin air: an apple, and a goldfish swimming in a bowl, and a hibernating tortoise.

And that was all.

Mike Rogers

And here are the cubes:

Missing

I feel distraught as my little tortoise is missing. I’ve inspected every nook and cranny in the house. I then remembered that I’d left the back door open yesterday. Oh no, if she’s got out onto the road then it’s possible she’s been knocked down.

I ran outside and checked the verges and road. And then I looked into the woodland at the back of our house. I could hear music coming from somewhere close by, and it was playing The Eye of the Tiger. I loved the song, but at this moment it is getting on my nerves. If only I could see the eye of my tortoise, I will be so happy.

I had my walking stick with me, and used it to lift the bushes to inspect if she is there. No joy, and I thought, Oh, where are you, little tortoise?

A walker came towards me and he asked me what’s wrong, also what am I looking for? I explained about my missing pet. The answer I received knocked me backwards. “Get yourself a goldfish, and then you will know where it is.”

I thought, You cheeky blighter, thanks for the help!

I gazed at the walking stick, wishing it was a magic wand; still, it’s no good wishing.

I came to a cherry tree and felt relief for the shade from the hot sun. The blossom covered the ground and the perfume is wonderful.

Feeling fed up now, I thought, I might as well give this up, as she’s gone. I put my left foot out and then my right. I began the trek back to our house and felt downhearted. What will I tell the kids when they get home?

I suppose I have to tell the truth, and this is going to be a nightmare. They will be so upset.

Perhaps the walker is right, about buying a goldfish. At least I won’t have to waste a day searching for it.

Getting home I drew myself a drink of water from the tap, as I’m parched.

The clock on the wall says it’s time to pick the kids up from school.

They came running out of school laughing and fooling around. My daughter said, “Why have you got a sad look on your face Mum.” I took a deep breath and dreaded the thought of explaining our missing tortoise. The children are so happy, how can I bring their spirits low?

It was then I saw our little tortoise, in my son’s hands.

I took a deep breath and just explained why the sad face.

“I thought we had lost her for good. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to bring her to school today?”

“Sorry, Mum, but teacher asked us if anyone has a tortoise and I said yes. And then she asked me to bring it into school for a lesson. Today we’ve been painting tortoises. It felt cool to have my own tortoise to show off to the class. The other children love her.”

Josephine Smith

My day out

On waking I decided to go for a walk, as it was such a nice day. Taking my coat off the hook in the hall, and putting on my shoes, I went out of the front door into the brilliant sunshine.

After walking for a while, I met a young lady with a sad face. I found out later that she was sad because she had just lost her pet cat. She looked me straight in the eye and asked if I knew if there was a pet shop close by. After thinking for a while, I remembered one on the high street so I said, “If you want, I will show you where it is.”

“Thank you she replied.”

So off we went. When we got to the pet shop, I opened the door for her and followed her in. She had told me on the journey that she had had a fish tank given to her and she needed something to put into it. After looking around the shop for a while she was in two minds whether to get a fish or a small turtle; deciding on a turtle, the shop keeper put it into a plastic bag with a drop of water and we left the shop.

Looking at my watch, I realised that the time was moving on, so I asked the young lady, who I found out was called Ann, if she would like a bite to eat, and when she agreed we called into a cafe that I knew did a wonderful meal.

We started going out regularly after that, and now we have been married for twelve years and have two wonderful children.

Ken Smith

The Catch

You have to pretend, don’t you?  When someone shows such enthusiasm you have to go along with it, try to look interested and even try to share his passion as far as you can.

One thing, the weather’s dry, even got a faint glimmer of sunlight creeping up over the horizon.

Of course that can change.  It generally does when it’s this early in the morning but you have to hope for the best.

The clock on the  church tower tells us it’s nearly eight o’clock.  His things are all spread out around him, his rod, of course, then his bag of bait and the keep-net, that prison which takes the little trout and confines them, hopeless and afraid, until it’s time for them to be smashed against a rock and so end their joyous lives among the streams.

I don’t wait to watch them being caught.  Don’t share his excitement as he reels in another victim.  I’ve done my share by coming.

The river bank’s familiar of course.  A mile or so along there’s an old apple tree which will reward my deviation with a few sweet bites.  It always does.

I take the walking stick to make sure the going’s a little easier.  It’s not so bad.  It’s not raining.  Not yet.  And I’m not alone, surely.  That recent footprint in the mud must mean I could meet someone a little further along.

And I’m right.  I call out.  She stops and turns.

“Gemma, is that really you?”

And so we meet and hug, my best friend from all those years ago.

How had we lost touch?  A shadow of sadness falls across her face as she tells me of her much regretted marriage and I tell her of mine. So much sadness for both of us.

We walk  up to the pub a few yards further on.

But we’ll meet again, of course we will. We can’t wait to arrange it. Only we’ll have some lunch here now.

Just not the local trout.

Anne Hill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GRANNY LOST IN TIME

 

GRANNY - LOST in TIME

Granny had been getting on a bit without us noticing it really. We put it all down to bad luck rather than bad handling. There was no such thing as Alzheimer's in those days and when mother came home from war-work to find the pudding was still cold in the pan, it was just put down to too much overwork in our kitchen. So, given a second chance, she messed it up again, and we blamed it on the kitchen clock, when we found a charred mess stuck to the bottom of the pan, quite unlike the one that had been prepared earlier, weeks earlier actually. Well, when she finally set the curtain on fire by turning up the light on the gas water-heater, it was decided to take her on holiday.

The digs were less than satisfactory and not the ones my mother had chosen personally during our reconnoitre of Southport. The landlady had thought our need for a room on the ground floor meant one with just five steps up to it. It would have killed our other holidaymaker, an old aunt with heart problems. So, this lady, with a lack of grace, told us we could keep our bags at her front door but without any responsibility for them, whilst we made off to find new lodgings more suitable to our needs.

We had forgotten that we were supposed to meet Dad later in the day. He was always busy in the Co-op shop on Saturdays, and could not manage to get to Southport before seven on the Saturday, and he would be arriving anytime... and he didn't know we had had to change the address! He would, by now, of course, have had the pleasure of meeting the earlier-mentioned landlady with the massive chip on her shoulder, and he might be needing an appointment at Southport Hospital by this time. He needed rescuing. We walked from end to end of Lord Street several times, from railway station to the old lodgings, and nowhere could we see Dad.

In despair we left Granny under the clock at the railway station to wait for trains to arrive and pick out my Daddy. Then we moved off with elderly Aunt to do the tour of the main road again. When we got back, we had managed to find Dad unscathed by the way, but there was no sign of Granny, underneath the clock or anywhere else.

And so, the long search for Granny began. When we found her, she didn't look herself at all, and said she had been somewhere-or-other and then come back in the aeroplane or something. She probably meant a taxi man had found her wandering. She said her watch had stopped. She repeated this a couple of times and we were starting to wonder about her ageing mind by now. Still, we had our disrupted holiday and Dad finally got back safely to work by Monday.

But then, when we got back to Granny's house, a strange thing had happened there. Jim, her husband, said,

“Ee Doris, oo's not the same, isn't Polly, and her watch isn't reight eether? Well, that's a funny thing, tha sees, because every clock in't th'ouse has been telling t'wrong time over this weekend. I didn't know what day i'd wor misell.”

“Tell us about it,” said Mum.

“Well I've hed some strange dreams...” And we had to laugh at first, as he liked a drink, but then he said he'd dreamed he'd been up in a plane. Well, he was getting elderly, too. He must have heard Polly's story and got it all mixed up. Who can say? The Doctor said it was galloping memory loss.

We checked all the wall clocks and pocket watches, and they'd all needed adjusting, which was a bit rummy. But, yes, the old folks were perfectly correct in saying that none of the clocks was right. So we straightened things up as best we could. After all, Gramps had been on his own all weekend and might have been messing about with them. He'd have been lonely on his own, perhaps, and been wandering… but we never got to the bottom of it. Who knows..?

It's just when you come to think back on it... Well, you hear about all this flying saucer stuff nowadays... Close encounters... and things like that... Best not to think about it, really... or you'd never dare to drop asleep … and you'd never check the clocks again...

Edna Leach

Riverside 22.02.21

edited since the rough scribbles shot off via Mike's screenshare in Zoom experiment.

STORIES FROM RORY No.3

 

Crossing the Bridge

I woke up this morning with a sad face as this lockdown was getting a bit tedious, so I thought I would take a chance and go to the park for a bit of exorcise, I put on my coat and picked up my walking stick and headed out of the door.

As I got to the park it was good to see some trees and flowers again, since living in a terraced house there was not a lot of flora around, and it was nice to get out.

As I got to the bridge over the canal, I saw a magnet on the floor, so, picking it up, it seemed to pull me towards the other side of the bridge, and allowing it to lead the way I walked into a cloud of smoke

As I walked through the smoke and into a clearing I realised that I was in another country, Australia, I think, with kangaroos bounding around all over the place!

This was a big shock – I also noticed that I did not need the walking stick to help with my walking so I threw it away and just enjoyed the experience.

After a long period, it started to go dark, so I was thinking of getting back home. After looking at my watch I headed for the smoke cloud and ended up on the bridge again.

It was not long after that I had made my way back home – but I held on tight to my lucky magnet!

Ken Smith

Mixed Blessings

Eighty year old Sam has just finished his breakfast, and today is his birthday. He reached down to pat his dog. “Another year older,” he said. Sam always kept a dice on the table and he threw it each day to see what location he’d take on his daily walk.

Sam lost his wife several years ago and he’d never re-married. His drinking friends always asked him why he chose not to get hitched again. He would reply, “Bugger that! I would never be as lucky the second time around. I’ve no patience to try and get used to another woman in my home.”

Sam looked up at the clock on the wall and went to get his walking stick.

The black Labrador is eager for his walk. Thump, thump, sounded loudly as his tail hit the wall in the passage, and he barked excitedly as the door opened.

The pair headed for the park and across to the bridge. Sam is glad that the dice indicated this walk today. It had been a magnet to him and Winnie his wife in their years together. It had been their most favourite daily walk. Today was quite windy and the river current flowed swiftly and sounded loud. Sam looked over the side of the bridge and in the sunlight he saw shoals of tiny fish. Taking a deep breath, he muttered,

“Aye, Winnie, my love, spring’s in the air. I do so miss you and the way you loved our garden. You always planted so many flowers for the bees and insects.”

Sam spotted the first bumble bee of the season, and he watched as it disappeared into a daffodil. He stood looking at it for a while. It always fascinated him, how they filled the pouches in their legs.

His sad face disappeared and he began to laugh out loud. People watched him, wondering what had caused him to go into a fit of rapturous laughter. The bumble bee had overfilled his pockets with nectar and tried to become airborne and fell onto his back, and it lay there kicking its legs.

The Lab wagged his tail as he watched the spectacle. The dog is just so pleased to see and hear his master laugh.

Sam helped the bee to get right side up.

The dog has always felt the sadness from his master. But now this feels different.

They sauntered in the park much longer today. Sam threw a stick for Jay to chase. (Oh this is good!) The pet now felt that he belonged. The dog has always felt uneasy and confused, but this was a new sense, a good one.

They arrived home late. Sam put his walking stick up on the hanger.

A quick walk across to the front room, and Sam put his finger on a globe he’d bought for Winnie.

He spun it, and when the world finally stopped turning, he stood in amazement, as it has stopped right where he and his late wife had met years ago. “Yes, my love, I know that you’re still here and you were with me today on our walk.”

Sam’s spirit has lifted and he stooped to pat his best friend.

“We’ll go that walk again tomorrow, boy. Be great to check if the trees are budding yet. Then we’ll see how many varieties of fish we can spot.”

Sam then brought the blue ball out of the cupboard ready to throw for Jay tomorrow.

Josephine Smith

STORIES FROM RORY No. 2

 It's amazing what different stories can come from the same images...

The Tower Mystery

It was time for me to take the dog for a walk, so picking up the lead I shouted Rex and putting on my coat opened the front door and set off.

On previous walks I had noticed a tower about a mile away, so, taking a look at the signpost. the arrow directed me To The High Tower, a path I had not taken before, so, thinking I will have a change, I set off towards this new landmark.

When I got to the door there was a large padlock locking the door but on closer inspection I noticed that it was not locked but just pushed together so being nosey I opened the door and stepped inside.

Looking around there was a table just inside with a thick book on it and on the front cover was a shooting star in gold leaf, opening the book there was a lot of mysterious writing and weird pictures, this fascinated me so I continued looking through it.

In the middle of the book there was a list of orders in English and the first order was to throw the dice, so I looked around for a dice and found it on the far side of the table, so throwing the dice it rolled onto a four, looking at rule number four it stated that I had to go through door number four.

I looked around and only found three doors on the ground floor so I started to climb the stairs. On the first landing were three more doors, so, finding door number four, I was a little cautious about opening the door so I looked through the keyhole and all I saw was a window on the far side of the room. Opening the door slowly, the sun was shining in through the window onto a small desk in the corner of the room, and going over to the desk I opened the drawer and found a toy plane and a letter. The letter read as follows:

To whoever finds this letter.

This plane belonged to my son who was kidnapped at the age of five and I have never seen him since, if any one finds him, give this plane to him, I am sure he will remember it.

I had a funny feeling inside, as I remembered the plane from when I was a young boy, and I thought I had lost it. I turned it over and on the underside of the plane was scratched into it “Norman” just as I had done when I was a child to let anyone know it was mine.

This was a perfect walk and I had a lot of work now to find out the truth of what I had found.

Ken Smith

Strange journey

Over breakfast we grumped about how tired we are. Vera my wife commented. “We need a holiday or at least a break of some sort.”

“You are so right love; I don’t think I can keep going much longer.”

Fashion is our trade and it had been manic the last two years. Because things were going so great and we were making so much money, we had decided not to go away.

We were comfortable and our dream house was our bolt-hole.

Vera loved her garden and spent as much free time as she could out there. I spent most of my time doing carpentry. I loved making toys and we put some into our clothes store for sale.

A family came in to purchase some of my toys, the children were delighted. The small boy wanted the plane I had made. I had made it so it could be hung from the ceiling, and the propellers moved.

The mother asked if I would make a special jewellery box for her daughter. I wrote down the specifics and she went away. I loved making that box and I was pleased with how it had turned out.

On the top I had carved a tower with birds and butterflies.

I also carved a book with pictures one of which was a unicorn. Children seem to love them. I carved a key hole in the front with a shooting star.

I had a small padlock which was just right for this box. I had some wood over and I thought it would be nice to make a dice for the boy. I also carved a direction arrow and made it on a small plinth so that it would turn.

The children came back to the store accompanied with their parents.

They gave me the money me for the work I had done. The small boy was pleased with his gifts and I gave him those items as they were not ordered.

The Daughter threw a tantrum as she wasn’t allowed to see her present. The mother had wanted this as a birthday present.

Wow, she raised the roof! And so I gave her a wooden necklace I had made.

I was glad when they left the store, she was so loud. I felt good though, as she was delighted with the wooden beads I had carved.

Like I said, we needed a break as my temper was almost at breaking point.

We got home and ordered tickets to go the Canary Islands.

Walking around a market my blood began to boil. There on one of the stalls was quite a collection of my wooden toys and among them were the beads and the plane those people had been given. Also the jewellery box was on display at a very high price.

Oh, believe me, I had a right go at the man running the store!

He then told me he had sent some of his friends to purchase a lot of the toys I had carved. I suppose I shouldn’t have lost my temper, but I hate being deceived.

I still make wooden toys; however, these days I charge a whole lot more money for them.

Josephine Smith

THE TOWER

He saw it from the plane, as they came in to land. One of those airports knocked up quickly for the tourist trade – so quickly, they hadn’t bothered to do the local consultations properly – they’d never have let them build one so close to an ancient monument in this country.

Such a small place altogether – and such a big plane. The queue didn’t seem to be getting any shorter. “Just going for a – ” he said to his wife, leaving open whether it was a walk or a fag or a –

Because it was sleepy and small and put up on the cheap, and the planes just came in and turned round and went back, there weren’t any proper fences. No one to challenge him. A couple of luggage handlers, sitting on boxes, handling not suitcases but a pack of cards and a bottle, waved at him – cheerily, not warning him, the way the jobsworths in his own country would have done.

There was a scent on the breeze, as he pushed through the long grass towards the tower. It was a scent he’d only ever smelt on his mum’s dressing-table. Lavender. On the hillside he could see a whole field of it.

He had to walk all the way round before he found the door – and then it was padlocked. So he went back, the way he always did, to his wife and his kid. The officials had gone – he was able to run straight through, and jump on the bus to town – and there were his wife and kid, with the luggage. “Headache,” he said, shaking it to prove it, and they left him alone.

All week, they went to the beach. He didn’t. He pleaded his eyes. He pleaded his skin. He wandered round the town. Dredged up his French from O-level, and those films he’d watched furtively when he was a teen. Sat in bars. Watched them play an incomprehensible game like ludo or snakes and ladders on a board that had big spiky teeth. Rattle-rattle-rattle went the dice, urging him to take a chance. He couldn’t see his future clearly. Like the drinks he drank – they looked clear to start with – and you added something else clear to them – water, that was all – and they went cloudy.

He went into a bookshop – not something he’d have done at home, but the streets were bare of people in the noonday heat, and he felt conspicuous, and it was cool, and inviting. His wife and kid had the sea for that, and the pool by the beach, but he didn’t swim. The smell of the books – it was age, and stone, and it reminded him of the tower – and there it was! A sepia photograph on a tattered dust-jacket. Of course, he bought it. And a dictionary, also old, also musty.

It gave him something to read, as they waited for the bus to the airport, as they waited to go through passport control, as they flew back to this country. He looked, of course, as they rose into the air, but the wind had changed, and they weren’t flying over the tower at all as they took off.

Back they went, him and the wife and the kid, to the little house in the street where all the other houses looked just the same.

But it wasn’t the same for him. He had a book. He had words, different words, unusual words, that he could roll around his mouth and savour like foreign food and practise quietly whenever he was alone – and he felt he was alone, even when he was with his family.

That book, he thought, is like a keyhole. I can look through it, and see things that I can’t yet get to. But I will.

Mike Rogers

Riverside Writers, 15.ii.2021, on the basis of Rory’s Story Cubes, as shown below: