The Unsung Heros Of Arnham and one mans parth that took him there.

On the 6^th May 1916 Edith May Spring gave birth to one of the many unsung heroes of the Second World War, Albert Edward Spring. Borne in a humble cottage on the top of Winwick Hill, he was the second child and her first son, his sister Grace being the Eldest. His father Edward Spring was to die in the First World War and just before his third child John was borne.

             (At this point I will apologise to Mr Spring as from now on I will call him Albert, which I never did when he was alive, though he asked me too once. I know it’s a bit silly maybe, as sadly he will never get to read this and to him it would not matter one jot but for me it’s a respect thing).

            He was brought up; he would say ‘lean and mean’. He was an outdoors person from the very start with a good ear and eye on detail in every respect. Reading his two books ‘Gamekeeping at Hamerton’ and ‘Characters’ and papers that he had given to my dad, who passed them on to me you can see that clearly. These papers and books have made up most of what I have written about the 10^th Para and how it was formed. His youngest son Phil has also kindly given me his account so that a more rounded version of some of his exploits in the Second World War. Albert himself had a wonderful gift of telling you dry facts in a humours way. Feelings such as respect with a sense of fun were always present and I have done my best to carry that on.

            So by 1921 Edith had married again and now had five step sons to contend with. That closely knit community on top of Winwick hill could and did field their own football and cricket teams. His mother who was by all accounts the kindest person and had a big influence on her son and most of the people she met, including my dad. Unfortunately the man that became Albert’s stepdad was not and due possibly to a head injury sustained in the First World War and drink, his character could turn ugly.

            Albert from an early age helped out with the filling of the family cook pot by catching with his catapult and snares, all manor of wildlife, sometimes this would get him a spot of bother in a very Albert way. For instance there was an elderly gentleman who lived in one of the eight cottages, who worked for farmers that needed hedges trimmed and ditches cleaned. So at the bottom of his garden he had constructed an earthen shed with a wood and straw roof to store his tools in. Another of his neighbours, Arthur White was thirteen years Albert’s’ senior. Arthur had a muzzle loader gun that Albert would watch intently, gleaning everything there was to know about the gun by observing.

            Arthur had come up with a cunning plan to draw some sparrows in the line of fire so that as many of these birds could be killed with one shot. Yes they did eat the sparrows and glad of them, they were tasty but you had to be careful how you ate them apparently, not much meat on them and you had to nibble not munch. I never pressed him on that point, having a vivid imagination and a delicate disposition.

            So there they were on a dry and windy day putting bread crumbs on the roof. Now at this point in the story he would find something to do while I sat there building the scene in my mind.  He left me thinking so long sometimes I was sure I smelt the dry earth and straw. I knew what was coming but his pause always added to the story, that and his smile as he would recount the happenings in his minds eye. Now they were fifteen yards away when the gun was deployed. The thing is a mussel shot was a very messy affair, shot and burning paper went all over John’s shed killing a lot of sparrows. Albert’s grin spread all over his face and his eyes would sparkle at this point. In the first instance they were out to retrieve the barbequing birds until they thought about Old John’s tools.

            Sadly by the time they had taken a few tools each it was well alight and the heat too much for the boys to go back in. They saw Old John coming up the path with a youngster’s vigour and there was no doubt in Albert’s mind that if he had caught them they would suffer the same fate as the sparrows. ‘Not sure he would’ve ate us afterwards’ he would wink at me ‘I was a bit tough even as a youngster’. I know he enjoyed seeing the contortions on my face at the telling of this story and as I write it down I still marvel at his antics that could have gone so horribly wrong. As it was John Jolly’s livelihood had been taken away in that instant and if it had happened today allsorts of mayhem would have been caused with social workers and police claiming lots of overtime on his behalf.

             As it was everyone rallied around with each family finding at least one tool for John Jolly. This story goes to demonstrate Mr Springs Character. He always thought of himself as a rogue heading for trouble in his younger days and even to his last breath he was a hunter gatherer, it was his biggest passion in life. But if he had been caught that day he would have taken what was coming to him without qualm or disquiet on his part. It would have played on his mind that this man was put out by his actions but it would have not deterred him from trying other foolish ideas or enjoying the fun of it.

            As a young man he was still living at home but now there were, just his mum, stepfather, younger brother John, their half brother Victor and himself. They would go cycle on Sunday afternoon’s weather permitting. On one such afternoon they met two sisters, Ivy and Olive Taylor. After finding out her name and spending some years getting to know Olive they got married in April 1939. By that September war was declared and on 7^th February 1940 he was a conscript of what was known as the 23 Group at Spring Hill Barracks in Lincon.

            He was Six feet tall and a lean mean fighter and had trained with an ex-boxer named Jack Sharman at Kettering, biking the twenty miles there and back, so it was no wonder he made Lance Corporal in the Eleventh Scottish Commando by Christmas. By the time Dunkirk had taken place Lincolnshire had become part of the frontline with Norfolk and Kent. Being the closest to the enemy territory, aircraft was now part of the daily scene in the sky. Now the new recruits were issued with live ammunition and their fighting skills were sharpened and made ready to fight.

            There was a notice put up asking for volunteers for a specialist unit that was being formed. So 200 of them; incited no doubt by each others banter to put their names down, had packed their kitbags to go to join The Sixth Battalion Seaforth Highlanders, who had lost heavily at Dunkirk.

            Having spent two weeks at Fort George they were then off to Doune in Perthshire for a very pleasant yet all too short time. He was camped next to a river with lovely fish in it, and I’m sure when he left it had quiet a few less lovely fish and many more contented tummies. Up on the board again came his name; he was now to become one of the commandos and went off to Netherdale Mill at Galshiels.

            In his account of what happened shortly after they arrived he wrote “Our commanding Officer who had marched with us, addressed us like this, his first words was ‘Gentlemen, you are all volunteers and, as such you must be ready to fight against all tyrants and oppressors, so when we are welded into a well trained body of men, I hope it will be my privilege to lead you’. His name was Lt. Col R. N Pedder who was from the Black Watch Regiment, who then told us that we were the Eleven Scottis Commandos.” When ever he spoke of Col Pedder and Black Watch you could tell that he had felt he had met his calling, he understood and respect Col Pedder as all his men did.

            They then trained hard for almost a year to form 10 troops and trained on three well equipped ships Glen Gyle, Glen Roy and Glen Hearn. One night in Lamlash Bay Isle of Arron they loaded up to set sail on those ships. The ships were capable of 28 knots and were taking them to Egypt. The sea was rough and sick or not the training continued.

            Their base was at Kabrit and this is where the First Special Air Services was formed that is the S.A.S It was the idea of Lt. Col Stirling who had gone to great lengths to get his idea up and running. Looking back this is an extraordinary thought that someone had to convince the powers to be, that the S.A.S should be formed. I found this on Wikipedia and thought you might like to have a look. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Stirling  this website is of Lt. Col Pedder http://www.commandoveterans.org/cdoGallery/v/units/11/Dick+Pedder+HLI++copy.jpg.html

Training in Egypt, he had told me was enjoyable and was he privilege to have bathed in the same river as Cleopatra had. He asked me if I could tell turning his face to see if any of her beauty had rubbed off. I told him he had to use milk to make a difference, we both found this most amusing and given the chance I’m sure he would have given bathing in milk a go.

            Of the Egyptians he said that they were resourceful and his type of people. He would have studies their ways and found out how to get the best out of his new surroundings. He wrote that he was “fortunate enough to be on a couple of four week patrols; I loved it. There was wonderful variety of wild life in the western desert. There were sand plover and wild turkey, a lot of gazelle, these usually weighed about 30lb and, of course, snakes and lizards, also foxes. It was the foxes that were captured when they asked him to get something very special for some visiting brass. He asked the Chef (who was a local of the area) to spice it up (if you have ever smelt a fox you will understand how musky the creature is and must have been fairly unpalatable). He said that the chef smiled a knowing smile. He would not tell me why those poor guests were going to get a desert fox for their just deserts? He would always say ‘Now look, I have met many idiots in my time but the worst idiots, it has ever been my misfortunes to know have been covered in brass.’ I would ask if they ate the meal and apparently they not only ate it but enjoyed it! ‘No accounting for taste’ he would say. This episode would have lightened the step and load he knew his men had been carrying and am sure this was his intention.

            When wondering out on one patrol, he and his mate came across some old mattresses stacked up in piles, now being resourceful and not ever wasting any opportunity they grabbed them and took them back to base. He told me that he got a restful nights’ sleep but his friend did not fare as well, he had been eaten alive by fleas. We should have known, he would say that they were put out for a reason; they were burning them the next morning. ‘I’ve always known I had bad blood, not even the fleas would touch me.’ We would chuckle knowing how unpleasant that would have been for his mate and jolly glad he had not suffered the same fate.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

            In the Month of May 1941 the Germans Airborne Forces attacked and captured the Island of Crete, so sailing on Lord Louis Mountbatten’s destroyer, The Kelly they set off to lend a hand but they were under constant attack and ordered to turn back to Alexandria. The men knew how lucky they were to arrive. They disembarked and The Kelly was refuelled, re-armed and set off to see if they could evacuate any of the troops. By the time they reached the island it was under German control and The Kelly was sunk.

             It was thought that the Germans would try to joint up with the Vichy French holding the northern end of the Mediterranean. Having lost many of their finest Officers in the battle for Crete the Germans found it hard and time consuming to regroup, the numbers are truly staggering http://www.explorecrete.com/preveli/battle-of-crete.html gives you a full flavour of the battle.

            With the generosity of the United States the allied forces were building up their fighting strength once again while the Germans licked their wounds. The U.S sent tanks, aircraft and Lorries loaded with beer; a present by the workers and greatly received and enjoyed. Even many years later Albert fondly remembered the strong taste of the bottles of Dow and Black Label.

            The 11^th Scottish Commando’s were called in to help the Austrailian forces that were jammed on the one vehicle track leading up to the iron bridge that was still intact. The Vichy troops had dug into the banks of the Litani that were approximately two hundred feet above the river bed. This caused a stalemate. It was decided to attack from the sea and on the west side. It was the first time Col Pedder was to lead his commandos into action. He was killed within the first ten minutes of the battle. He was 36 and had indeed welded his men into a well trained body that could carry on; even though their leaders were shot. Albert wrote that he believed 176 men died with Col Pedder that day. Another 200 men were wounded with many dying later of their wounds. Albert himself was hit by a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh, he was patched up and carried on the best he could. “They had nowhere to run to” he wrote

            Knowing Albert some years, I knew there was more to it than what he wrote. Putting the Litani river 1941 I came across http://www.combinedops.com and marvelled and smiled at it all.

            I gathered from reading this site that as they were sailing out, there were hasty meetings to organise their plan of action with heated arguments about the timing. One thing that Albert said of Pedder was that he trained the men hard and made sure everything was in place, this was not always under his control though. Reading through this web site you can see why it all went wrong and how the men must have felt about the maps not being adequate enough.

            There were highly trained snipers that seemed to target the higher ranks. Col Pedder had been given a map that did not cover the full area and others were not aware that a small dot on a map could be so big on the ground. These small facts make all the difference to the men on the fighting and could have been responsible for many of the deaths that day.  

            The French blew up the bridge and captured many men. The Australians built a pontoon bridge and freed them again. Albert wrote it took the Australian’s a further three months to gain control of the Syrian coast road.

            When they went back to their training headquarter at Kabrit, there was a change in the atmosphere. They had suffered a great loss as so many good men had been let down by the rush to get the job done. So I have begun to understand why Albert fed the top brass the foxes. Albert chose to put his name down to join the 10^th Para.

            Albert wrote about The Rommel’s Raid which took some of the men 200 miles behind the German’s front line. Albert put it down like this “Understand that General Rommel’s brilliant and courageous way of leading his highly mobile Africa Corp had allowed the Eighth Army to regard his as invincible, which meant that the moral of the whole of that force were very disheartened.” So with as much intelligence (no doubt some gleaned out on patrol) as they could muster the attack was planned and reading through the accounts of the men as ever, you are left with your mouth open in wonderment. It was found out later that Rummel was in Rome when they tried to track him down.

            Albert and his comrades were now becoming experienced soldiers together and were going through a terrible time in the western Desert. The African Corp had driven them out of Lybia. At this point General Montgfomery came and took over. He told the men “From this day on, the only movement will be forward”. Albert would tell me in his straight forward factual voice ‘He was absolutely correct for the simple reason he would never make a move until everything was in place for his men.’

            The next bit in his write up of how the 10^th Par was formed explains what they got up to as the Commandos disbanded and the official forming of the 10^th para was made and is so typical of the man and the men around him. He begins ‘In the waiting’ a flippant use of the word waiting I must say. They carried out a lot of patrols to try to obtain as much knowledge as they could about the Africa Corp’s and caused a lot of irritation to them I would hazard a guess. They also trained with the newly formed S.A.S Commanded by Lt.Col Jock Stirling. At the end of this training they gained their wings. In November 1942 he was given the opportunity to join, not everyone was asked to.

            They were soon in action gaining enemy information, strength and armaments. Training was usually from a submarine. In his son Phil’s account; apparently they would ‘jump overboard into fell boats with full kit on their backs; it was so dark they could not tell whether they had made the safety of the boats to go ashore or not. So they use to tie a rope to their pack and on to the rail of the submarine and if the rope stayed tight for two minutes the crew knew they had missed the fell boat and would pull them out of the water and they would have another go.’ This must have been a bit like the blind leading the blind I would guess and where trust played a big part.

            After they had defeated the German Afrika Korps his Company Commander told them to tighten up on discipline and generally smarten up. When the platoon officer and Albert were inspecting the troops they told Joe Beet to get a hair cut. The next morning parading in battle order, they were inspected again. When they got almost abreast of Joe, Joe stepped forward, took off his helmet and showed off his new haircut. His comrades had shaved his head until it was as Albert would say ‘as bald as a pound of lard.’ Joe was so well liked and it caused a lot of amusement within the platoon.

            They were then off to Taranto and then onto Casttstellanceta. I wrote a piece in my blog about this and the link below will take you there.

http://tillymoments.blogspot.com/2010/11/my-humble-tribute.html

            When they advanced to the out skirts of the town, by Albert’s account they advanced section by section he wrote “there was a road that went off to the right at that point a machine gun opened up from our immediate front and another from the side street. We did not have any real cover and two of my men were hit, one of them a young soldier, his surname was Martin: he always looked so boyish and young that we always called him young Martin: he died during the night. The other wounded man eventually made a good recovery and came back to the unit after we returned to England. That is war and that is how it goes. Also lost that day by machine gun fire was their divisional commander General Hopkinson. When we were ambushed, the first man to get his machine gun into action was Jim Westbury.”

            I find it so chilling, hidden under these words are the emotions of a man who understood the consequence of those scattered life’s littered around him. There is no mention of the sight, sound or smell of it all. He would have considered it too dramatic but I know he would have relived every one of his senses that were highly tuned from a very young age. He is quite correct, to have lived through it for him was enough.

            Their next objective was Goiya, they advanced but were driven back so they pushed harder, eventually driving out the Germans. There they found a fiat lorry that had broken down which they got going again, they loaded it up with supplies and set off again, forever the resourceful hunter gatherer.

            As they entered Bari they were met by Italian civilians headed by the Lord Mayor, this would have pleased Albert. They stopped and had some food and took a bath in hot water with plenty of soap and he recalled how good it felt.

            At Bari they were to get ready for a seaborne attack but their heavier units advanced more quickly than expected he wrote “We thanked them in our minds and toasted them in wine. The Comfort Funds Officer used 3 pounds sterling to buy 75 gallons of red wine for the unit.” So they would have thanked them well!

            They stayed for a month in Bari in luxury and comfort a much needed rest and recoup for them. 19^th December 1943 they were back in England. The Tenth Para Campaign in Italy was over and it was back to waiting and training. On their journeys he was fortunate enough to pass by Col Pedders grave and a Comrade of his one Q.M Sgt. Knobby Clarke took a few photographs of the graves there.

            One very telling sentence Albert put “Little did we think of the carnage that we were to be sent into in the following September at Arnhem.

            After all he had been through, for him to use the words ‘carnage’ it must have been a hell on earth and reading a lot of accounts by all who took part, he was as ever, correct.

I give my thanks to all that have helped me with getting Mr Springs facts together. All the websites I visited I have added as I looked them up. They in the most part are run on a voulantry basis and great reads, they have included as many orriginal accounts as possible. I have written with Mr Springs facts, as he requested no facts to be changed.

www.pegasusarchive.org/arnhem I have found out from Mark that Joe Beet was taken prisoner at Arnham and if anyone has any information about him I would be very greatful indead.

Tina Rodwell © All rights reserved

I Gave My Mum Tourettes - Short story 3 pages long

This story is dedicated to Oscar, who is my nephew and has been patiently waiting for a poem or story to call his own. Hope you like it x

            It is, as ever based on true events but with a Tilly twist but I’m not saying which ones.

            While writing this I have read a lot about Tourette Syndrome. Reading about the research going on I have been stunned by how little we know and how far we have come, a paradox that is life. Reading the diagnosis and symptoms I can see that a few of the traits are in us all. I also know how embarrassed I feel when on the school holidays and pushed to the limit how very hard a verbal tic is to suppress and sometime I just don’t manage to control it at all. To live in that state must be stressful and am grateful that any muscular or verbal tics I have soon passes.  

            So who ever reads this I hope it brings a little understanding, empathy and a smile.

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I Gave My Mum Tourettes

My mum says I gave her Tourettes over the summer holiday. I looked it up on wikipedia and it said it was syndrome that was inherited. It is a neuropsychiatric disorder. It has a spectrum of tics with at least one being verbal. Mum defiantly has a verbal tic that’s for sure. She really blew her gasket last week and went for the world record of most swearwords used in the shortest period of time.

            I really did try to think it through this holiday. How could I make my mum’s life a little easier? I wondered what I could do that wouldn’t cause any problems, accidents and will keep me out of bother. Fishing! Now what could possibly go wrong with a few lads fishing? A quiet and pleasurable way to pass the time or so I thought.

            Being responsible is what got me into this mess, that and my laughing mechanism. It started with maggots. We mostly use sweet corn as bait, but we asked mum if this once we could use maggots. I promised with the face my mum finds hard to resist that I would not do anything silly with them and she relented and smiled making me promise to be good. 

            We had a good days fishing and swopping stories about fisherman that put maggots in their mouths and how those maggots would then burrow into their cheeks to come out weeks later as blow flies. It really grossed us out.

            Being responsible though and knowing money was tight and that we would be off fishing again tomorrow, I decided to keep the maggots and not throw them away. I made sure the container had a tight fitting lid and then put them securely in my fishing tackle box. I had cleaned and put everything away, which I must admit I don’t always do, so I was really, really trying to get it right.

            Mum, as she often did when she had time, had cooked our favourite, a roast with extra gravy and Yorkshires. She is the best mum ever! We were going to be up yearly the next morning so I went to bed without being asked and was defiantly looking forward to the morning. A perfect end to a perfect day, mum having no verbal tics at all.

           

*1*

            I was woken in the morning by a most horrendous scream, followed by a string of words that I could not hear but felt sure they were not the kind for young ears. Obviously mums verbal tic was back and worse than ever.

            We have a lot of mice come in at harvest time so it’s not too unusual to hear this early morning wake up call. Mum is extremely house proud, mostly softly spoken and would never use a swearword unless severely provoked. Well there she stood in the middle of our conservatory, the two black labs trying to get in through the window

to protect her and no matter how hard I tried I could not stop my laughing mechanism from firing up. I knew that look of horror but all those words that seem ‘so dude like’ coming out like machine gun fire from my mums mouth was so so wrong, it had me in fits. Mum’s verbal tic was progressively getting worse and beyond her control.

            My brother and sister stood crippled with laughter too at my mum’s contorted face that held disgust, horror and anger, until she shouted about the maggots. Our little sister, who we had told those stories too, now was behaving like mum.

            I tried to go in to the conservatory to help but the stories about maggots growing under skin freaked me out so much I just stood there. My older brother went in to capture the little beasties, while my mum stood in her pure white dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers with little maggots crawling up them. Rude words were bouncing off the walls. She was rooted to the spot and hysterical.

            Mum spent the next hour in the shower trying to wash away the thoughts of maggots. I helped clear and disaffect every thing after my brother had got rid of most of the little creatures but they seem to get everywhere and I felt sure they were hiding

and I could feel them waiting for their opportunity to jump out at me.

            Now this put my mum in a very tricky dilemma. She wanted to ground me for the rest of the holiday but needed time to calm down and this is best achieved if I’m not around. After I had explained that I had kept the maggots to save money she softened a little. We were being picked up by our friend’s dad to go fishing at a different lake. So my mum relented and I promised no more maggots and to be good, what ever good meant.

            I had never been to this lake before and my friend’s dad, who is a keen fisherman, came with us. It was great, we were using the flies and hooks he had given us and had caught a load of fish including the biggest one I had ever caught.

            When we got home we helped as much as we could and I asked mum if I could just tidy up a few things out in the conservatory. I got my tackle box looking neat and tidy and again put everything away hoping this would make amends for the morning’s trauma. Mum and dad came in with their coffees dressed in their costumes for the party and we laughed, as mum retold to dad what had happened with the maggots. She turned to me with her bright face that I like the best and I knew I had been forgiven although it will never be forgotten.

            That was when mum felt a bee sting her and went to get up the cushion went with her and I could see the line dangling down like a semi invisible tail. I knew I was in trouble. Fishing hooks are made to go in and not come out unless expertly removed. This was all bad but the worst thing of all was that my dad was dressed in drag. They were off to a tarts themed party for my mum’s best friend fortieth. As he bent down to try to unhook my mum, it looked so wrong on so many levels that we were all in convulsive fits of laughter.

*2*

           

            Mum who was dressed as flirty floozy with fish net stockings and thigh high kinky leather boots now looked desperately at my dad who had tried everything but only made the situation worse. There was nothing else for it he had to take her to accident and emergency at the local hospital. Dad wanted to change but mum was having none of it. She got the verbal tic and said that if she had to go dressed looking life a tart with a fish hook stuck to her arse, he had to go in drag. Her language was a lot more extreme.

            Getting into our car was difficult and very funny. She couldn’t sit down and every movement she made, the deeper the hook went in. She had to bend over the back seat and hold onto the head rest, not easy to do dressed in tight skirt and high boots.

            I had tried to help and felt sure I could have got the hook out given the chance but I was not allowed anywhere close. So off to A&E they went, Mum bent over the seat shouting with full blown Tourettes saying I would not survive to my next birthday! I did manage to get a few pictures on my phone discreetly. Even if I got busted it would be worth it!

            They were stopped by the police who thought they had seen it all. They took pity on my mum though and gave my dad a lot of stick about his dress sense, blond wig and shade of lipstick. They even managed to make my mum smile getting them to hospital quickly. Once the doctors had calmed down enough, they expertly removed the hook closing the wound left, with a few stitches.  

            I felt sorry for my mum because every time we tried to give her sympathy we would all fall about laughing. Facebook and the phone were full of people who could not believe what had happened and who appreciating the pictures. My mum looked good as a tart and as ever is a really good sport, given time.

            I consoled my mum that at least she wasn’t born with Tourettes and one day the cause of it all will leave home and she will be free from that involuntary verbal tic.

*3*

Tina Rodwell © All rights reserved

           

I Will Wake up Laughing

They had given me another shot of morphine but the pain still exploded like those pretty fireworks that expand out like an opening hydrangea. I wished that the pain would move to a place giving the clueless doctors a hint to what was causing it. But having just been told by the very observant surgical team; who all week had been sticking things in me, up and down me, that I was a woman and could have and I quote ‘slightly differing bits and bobs that could cause gynaecological problems.’ Stunned by this admission, I let hope and faith silently slip away into the never, never.

            I hate morphine. The first time they gave it to me, it made me sick. So now they give it to me then stab me with the anti-sickness drug. I asked them very politely to give me some of the stuff that drug users have, to at least give me some fun while I  lay incapacitated but they just laughed.

            I now have a racing heart and feel sure it will jump out of my chest like one of those wind up toys you can get around valentines. My eyes are shut and colours jump around my head as a warm and soft blanket slowly pulls itself up my toes and I panic. Is this what its like to die? I could see the light that’s for sure.

            I try to open my eyes and reach for the buzzer to call for help but the warm, soft and very heavy blanket make it impossible to shake it off, no movement can I make nor sound. I felt a tear push from my eye, its forever expanding form lay between my eye and my nose as the blanket pulled itself over my head and I thought of my mum who died last year, her death was nothing like this though. My poor dad was going to be left alone. Cocooned in this warm deep feeling the deepness devoured me.

           

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Gods voice was nothing how I imagined it. It was far away and I strained my ears to hear what was said. I tried to think of all the things I had done wrong and how I could account for my actions.

‘Miss Longbottom.’ As the warmth of the blanket fell away the pain came back. This could not be heaven it must be hell! You wouldn’t feel pain if you were in heaven, I felt sure of that.

‘Miss Longbottom, could you open your eyes for me. It’s Mr. Pratt and I need to discus what we found on your scan.’

‘Not another Pratt!’ I heard several voices ripple with amusement. I Smelt spice to my left but the voice was on my right. ‘I just got rid of one Pratt, I told him to sling his hook.’ I wanted to explain but I had no energy left.

‘Hear what I have to say and then you can tell me to sling my hook too, if you like.’ His gentle humour made a faint smile come to my face and he seized his opportunity. ‘It will be worth while I promise.’ I opened one eye and his face circled like a vortex making me queasy. I couldn’t be sick not in-front of all these people, anyhow I had nothing to eat now for days or was it weeks? So nothing would come up, not really any cancelation in that though.

‘It weren’t worth it!’ I pathetically and churlishly responded.  

‘I know I’m not the most attractive person but give it another go’ everyone appreciated that one. My smile had broken across my face and I knew I was going to like him and somehow trust him.

            I also knew it was going to bad news. I knew every subtle tone doctors use to convay the difference between hopeful and terminal. I had experienced them all through my mother’s battle with cancer.

‘No! Just tell me while I have my eyes closed. I don’t want to be sick over someone who makes me smile.’ I felt a hand gently squeeze mine and the smell of spice soothed the needling sensation of anxiety.

‘I would prefer it if you have your eyes open.’ This meant treatment and he needed to know that I understood what he had to say.

‘Bugger, it’s going to hurt, I have an aversion to pain.’ Another ripple politely went in the semi circle around my bed. I felt the cooling hand soothing. The exploding knot expanded. ‘Could you just give me a mo so I can stop the world from spinning?’ I could sense him looking at Mr Spicy hand and hesitating.

‘I have a few more people to see and will get back to you. Not a problem.’

‘Thanks’ He lingered and then they all shifted body weight to follow Mr. Pratt in his wake. The hand still was over mine and I made an effort to gain control of my body and open my eyes, grateful I didn’t have an audience at my pathetic state.

‘Would you mind me calling you by your first name?’

‘No I don’t mind’ I laughed ‘anything is better than Miss Longbottom.’

‘My name is Professor Anthony James and’ I cut in

‘Wow a Professor I must be in a bad way, just let me get my eyes open.’ A sickening thud held my heart captive as my eyes began to work I looked up at the Professor. He was striking, tall and bald, which suited him. His dress sense was sharp distinctive and unique. I was stunned. He smiled a little uncomfortable with my reaction.

‘Can I call you Anthony?’ I asked ‘professor freaks me out?’ His face relaxed and gentle humour touched his eyes.

‘You can call me what you like as long as it’s not Longbottom. My Christian name is Freya.’ I told him.

‘Freya is a nice name.’

‘Not at school with Longbottom. I was called ‘frayed your long bottom? Sometimes they would put knickers into the equation for extra kicks. He raised his eyebrows in the most captivating way. This mellow feeling I had now with the drugs was a good place to be, if only it would last and put the exploding fireworks out.

‘I was the one they called when they took your ultra sound scan’ I cringed; I would have preferred never to have met anyone again who had been there.

‘Sorry’ I said

‘You have nothing to reproach yourself over.’ Normally, when a doctor or Professor said that, it was said as a matter of course, a pleasantry but he meant it.

‘You’ve had a pretty rough deal over the last month or so.’ He nodded to my notes that now reached a foot high of a man with size thirteen feet. I blushed, having no idea what was written in those notes.

‘Good reading?’ I asked. He looked at me with such sorrow; I knew he had fully read my history. I felt so angry. All this pain was so unnecessary, avoidable even. He squeezed my hand.

‘Mr. Pratt will be back soon. He has his young team with him. Would you like me to ask them to stay behind while he has a word with you?’

‘No. I’ll be ok’

‘Right then, I’ll just go and tell him you’re ready.’ He squeezed my hand with his calm cool one and off he strode. His purple pinstriped suit accentuated his body in all the right places. The same shade of purple was used on his shoes. He could have looked as though he was a conceited peacock but as my mum would have said he looked ‘dashing’ he was considerate and kind. I smiled at her voice inside my head ‘We need more people like him. And he sure is sweet eye candy’.

His best quality though was that he understood people and wanted to change things and would go to extraordinary lengths to make things right. He had shown me that in the little room where I found out that I mirrored my mum’s diagnosis in everyway detail.

            I was a lot younger than her and had no children and likely never to have any, I may be lucky and have a life though, unlike my poor mum. It was time to show my true colours, hold onto my beliefs and put my money where my mouth was.

            Professor James was talking to Mr. Pratt and they both looked over to me from time to time. Their entourage following closely holding onto every word they spoke learning, understanding and willing. I closed my eyes to shut out the emotional and physical pain, to become who I am. I had one chance to make a difference to these impressionable people to tell a truth that rarely gets aired, to give them raw unyielding and honest reality. I knew the drill better than most.

            Professor James on my left who’s spicy tones gave me strength and vitality with Mr. Pratt on my right with his open face.

            ‘Miss Fraya Longbottom.’ There was a boyish look concealed in formality between them not lost on me or the rest of the team. My eyebrows rose at a schoolmistress angle, they both apologist immediately. ‘Fraya is able to keep her eyes open now.’ The Professor began.

‘May I call you Fraya?’

‘If you call me anything else I’ll be very angry and you won’t like it!’ We all laughed softly. The tone of light and dark was set for the relaying information. None of us, even with our collective experiences found this conversation easy.

‘We found, what we hope is a dermoid cyst. This’

‘This does not mean it is cancerous as most dermoid or cysts are benign. My mother died of one last year.’ I tried so hard to let him carry on with his speech but I just couldn’t handle it. ‘There is only about a 2% risk I know, but as I had an ectopic pregnancy last year and this year I have a possible dermoid. Luck is not on my side.

            I have spent the last months trying to convince my GP I needed a scan. He said I had psychosomatic pain. Understandable considering that my mum had just died riddled with cancer because she got her diagnosis too late. My boyfriend walked over me to get to work because he thought I was a drama queen and I had to pass out at the surgery to get anyone to take me seriously.           

            I was sent to a surgical ward because the GP had to send me in with something so questioned appendicitis. I spent a week with the surgical team examining every orifice, looking for the cause of my demise only for them to miss the one that I kept telling them about.

            Don’t you people talk to each other? Do you not see patients as humans instead as a list of symptoms? Are we just fragmented bit and pieces. To see the full picture you have to have all the pieces joined together, communicate what you know. They then in their infinite wisdom decided that patience came in two forms male and female and sent me down to the gynaecological ward to have my extra bits looked into.

            They observed me, waiting for the pain to go away, instead it increased. If they had just read through my notes but they couldn’t find them or couldn’t read them.

            Sorry but this patient has become in-patient and in too much pain to go over old insignificant ground. The big picture is that I am a woman I have a possible dermoid cyst on her right ovary and wants to know where we go from here.’

            Mr. Pratt nodded at me. ‘We will perform the operation to-day to remove it. I’m trying to fit you in for this afternoon. I have asked Professor James to perform the operation and I will be assisting. This is his field of expertise and we are lucky to have him. Professor James would you like to take over.’

            ‘Thank you. We will send a sample off for analysis, which is standard procedure and takes a couple of weeks to get the results back. We will look thoroughly I promise, for anything we feel needs further investigation. You are in an incredible amount of pain because I believe that the cyst is wrapped around your fallopian tube and engulfs your ovary. In these cases we may find that it has bounced on and off other organs in your body, hence the unusual places that the pain has affected you.’

‘We are all unusual, as individuals we are unique, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes I would’ He looked down at me and I felt a rising crush developing. Everyone gets a crush on their Doctor; my mum said it was the thing that kept her going, all the lovely doctors and surgeons. I thought Professors were infinitely better and my crush was deepening into love. You had to love the man that was about to save your life.

‘You know and understand that I may not be able to save any part of your only ovary?’

‘Yep, I sort of figured that.’

‘If I can, you may have a better chance than you think of being fertile. It depends on you as a unique individual and what I find’. He squeezed my hand. I love him, I really, really do.

‘I need to go and sort a few things out, get the relevant forms then I will be back and go into more detail about the operation and its consequences. Your father is coming in and has asked if he stay with you. Is that Ok?’ Tears well up in my eyes, my poor, poor dad. I nod, he squeezes, my heart swells.

            They leave and the nurse comes over. She is my around my age yearly to mid thirties, confident, fun and caring and told me how she listened into the conversation.

‘You were very good. Mr Pratt will do what he can and Professor James is excellent and is working on some new procedures with conditions like this, you’re in safe hands now’.

‘Safe and caring,’ I smile, ‘it makes the difference just to be believed and listened to. Do doctors never get a full picture of what happened to their patient? Can’t see how they can make proper diagnosis unless they know the full story.’

            I’m given all the ammunition they have against the pain. My heart pounds as though it is about to leap out and take flight and I force myself into a sleep.

                _____________________________

            In my dream, I’m back home as a child. The smell of fresh laundry blowing in the wind caresses my face and I climb into the sheet hanging on the line, hoping that it would feel like a cloud and for a while I swing in the breeze. I so wanted to float on a cloud. Softness brushes my cheek and I feel my mother holding me, her smell engulfing me. I feel elated and the warmth of her smile gave a golden light as she called me ‘Pumpkin’. I opened my eyes and my dad’s tear stained face looked down. A forced smile never reached his sorrowful eyes as he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

            I smelt spice, delicate and tantalising. I looked around for him and there he stood. He introduced the anaesthetist, we went through the forms. I was prepared for theatre and rolled down the now familiar corridor.

            I looked at their faces ranging in age and gender. All gowned up, explaining what was going to happen next. I was having a spinal tap so that I wouldn’t have to put up with too much morphine. Hanging over the bed, stretching my back to make it easier for the needle to hit the spot, I took a good look at them.

‘You lot look worse than I do.’ They looked exhausted. ‘Leave me until Monday.’ They laughed. Robert who had expertly and without trouble administered the epidural asked me to swing my legs back onto the bed. I looked at him as though he was daft.

‘You have just given me a cocktail of god knows what to stop all sensation in my lower body and are now telling me to swing my legs, that I no longer feel. How am I to do that then?’ The good looking blond whose clear blue eyes shone with humour took pity on me. She gently helped me back on the bed. Arranged the sheets so my dignity was kept intact and a mask was placed over my face. I will wake up laughing was my last thought as the blanket of sleep engulfed me.

The End

Tina Rodwell © Reserves all rights.

The Affair

I think I should put a warning on this one. It is a first draft but so full of fun my fairy could not wait to put this one out, naughty naughty fairy! It is definitely a Chick Lit that will bring a smile to your face with its little twist at the end.

            Let me know if you enjoyed it with the comment box at the end.

____________________X______________________

After being married for over twenty years, I can’t remember what I was thinking when I walked down the isle. I knew that life was going to be full of routine. But I did think I would see my husband from time to time. Silly me! Oh young love so innocent, it makes me laugh. 

            I have turned into that which I despise the most, a lame and dysfunctional person, thing. Mothers often are and need to be I guess. Life’s needs are, at the moment, needier than my own personal womanhood. That was until I went to a wedding a month ago. I met a man…… a gorgeous, attractive and very seductive man. He reminded me that I was all woman!! ‘Mmmmmm... ohhhh yaaaaaaa’           

            I am a big dreamer but I live in reality, mores the pity. I knew he was being kind. I’m no great looker and my body has taken a bit of a tumble after the kids and general neglect. Not that I had much to start with, buxom is what my husband calls me. I never asked whether that was good, perhaps I should. Anyhow, there I was standing admiring the beautiful setting, drinking in the atmosphere and the Champagne. When this vision walked over to me, a bubbled haze engulfed us and no other life existed before or will ever exist again, it seemed.

            That night for the first time ever, love, time, and space meant something to me other than, this is what happens in life. I understood what they meant in romantic novels when they say electrifying. Each touch or brush with this man was painfully erotic. My senses awakened once more, after their long and dormant coma they vibrated with tingly sensations that I just wanted to close my eyes to enjoy. His laugh rendered me incapable of thought or movement and I looked in ore over his ability to be himself. Just at this point of loosing myself to this dream of a man, I hear the call of ‘He’s just been sick mum!’ Realism came crashing down, my bubble was burst and off I ran to my child who had, apparently, for a dare put his head under the chocolate fountain, for 3 minuets!! 

            Well I promised my self that I would have my night back, I needed that before I became a totally wizened old hag, emotionally and physically. I just had to track that man down. My friends kept asking if anything was wrong, I just couldn’t tell them the truth. How could I explain what was plainly ridiculous? A person like me wanting, needing an affair, now that was silly! Beyond belief!

            After many attempts I did track him down and he agreed to meet me at a rather wonderful restaurant. I had left strict orders that champagne was on ice for when we arrived, I had already ordered our meal. Presumptions of me I know but I didn’t want to waste one second on the plenary of looking through the menu or wine, discussing this or that, I just wanted him, all of him! I had pre booked a room at the hotel. Childcare arranged and I had no mobile phone or contact details and I was a jabbering wreck. He was half an hour late and I was sat in a rather sumptuous lounger the staff were on stand by as though the most important guest was about to arrive. 

            I was on my third glass of bubbly and crippled with anxiety over the cost and what will happen when my husband finds out. As soon as I saw his silhouette coming through the doorway, all other existent lives were shut out. That most beautiful sphere surrounded me again and as he entered it, my husband became my lover and our marrage came of age.

            As he held my face and kissed me as he had in-front of all those people at our wedding, I remembered what I had been thinking when I walked up the isle twenty one years ago to-day. I always needed to be a woman to him and as he sat down I could see the passion that had been suppressed. The true thrill of an affair was as my kids would say OMG, like truly awesome. It felt so good to be young free and single again!

The End

What are you waiting for go book the hotel all you married ladies? I love my fairy :-)



How do I Write?

So how do I write and where do my ideas come from? My friends often ask me and I have to admit I like it too when writers tell you their little ways. I tend to shy away from this question, preferring not to think about it too much and possibly acutely embarrassed by the reality of how I set about things.  When I had read ‘Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’ He explained how you need to grow a set of male appendages (which is rather difficult I must say and very painful!) I decided to stop hiding, bare all and man up to the consequences…… so here goes!

 I write while I do practically everything else. I have pieces of paper scattered about the house with started thoughts and sentences. Hoping that maybe at some point through the day I will get time to write them up, getting more and more frustrated as the day goes on. Every time I sit down at my laptop a more important issue needs to be addressed, this can be anything from needing to fetch a broken disc cutter, the accounts or administering love, care and attention to a grazed knee.

            Yesterday was a bad day for writing but a good day for thoughts, so this morning I am determined to write about my three sentences written yesterday and one written earlier in the year they were: -

            Like a pack of cards the washing fell.

            My life is like running a constant marathon.

            I catch my thoughts in a butterfly net, it’s just a pity my net had a whole in it.

            As a child I had once tried to climb into a sheet on the washing line, thinking I could get an idea of how it must feel to sit on a cloud (when I wrote that sentence down I knew there was a story there but as yet the idea is still only a seed). 

Now for the fun part, trying to weave a story around those thoughts and including the sentences.  

It was six in the morning and the house was quiet, still and anticipation hit the air. The laptop choked into action and started the weekly scan process that would take more of those precious moments of silence.

            You see I had caught the most beautiful purple butterfly in my net and wanted to save its vision deep within my files to explore its true uniqueness. As it crept to the gaping tear in my net to freedom, my anticipation quickly turned to frustration. The mask like pattern on its wings held my fascination. I tried to hold on to this precious fragile creature but too afraid of crumpling those paper thin wings, released my grasp a little, it hung to the outer edge a while, flapping it wings, showing me its true beauty. Hoping to hold on to its vision my eyes held every movement, colour, reason and thought. It persistently sought its freedom of free flight, through and out of the open window it glided. This masked veil of beauty caught the breeze and flew out of vision and although not forgotten, would never be remembered as it was.

            Saddened at the loss I took my laptop with me as I answered a child’s cry of ‘Mummy where are you?’ which meant the starting pistol on my days marathon had started. As he climbed into my bed snuggling up for a morning story I put my laptop on the ironing board.

            With a trail of impatience my daughter came in and attempted to find her favourite top amongst the neatly stacked ironing pile, hidden in the corner of my bedroom. As she took the red t-shirt and before I would run and catch it, it all came crashing down like pack of cards. ‘Oh my days’ she exclaimed turning to smile at me as bright as the morning sun. The acceptance washed over me albeit tinged with a little resentment, as we picked the washing up and as neatly as possible stacked them up again.

            I go back to my laptop and tick the relevant options on my little dog icon that protects my computer from harm and eats the spam. I jump on the bed and we read a story my little son and me. I then explain I have some work to do so he must run along and play for a while.

            Take a deep breath of calming influence and start to type catching the essence of what I had seen earlier. Like little baby chicks they call their hunger and I, like the house martin outside my window fly to their needs. The cupboards are bare so to the shops I run at a steady constant pace I shop and bring home my booty as they swoon and swoop eating with delight and soon the bags are empty, their stomachs full and contentment spreads over them as a blanket on a sleeping baby.

            To the ironing board I rush to and tap the fading memory. I look up I catch a glimpse of that dancing butterfly with joyous relish I join in its frolics in the beams of sun until the phone calls for my attention.

THE END

That was as far as I got. Now I didn’t get around to the climbing into the sheet on the washing line as a child and the piece is incomplete, as it’s the first draft and there may be typos and allsorts that need ironing out but that was the point I gues?

Please leave a comment. It doesn’t have to be very long, as a gut reaction is always best, there is a click tally at the bottom and no one will know you clicked it. Not for me would suffice or it made me smile in the comment box. You may have to sign in for that, as they are trying to cut down on spam that the bloggers get. Which ever you decide to do, Thank you.

Are the English Verbal Androids??

Tilly is floating in her own little world again try to make sense of it all

We don’t speak in that female mescaline way of other tongs ‘you’ is the person who is being addressed ‘you’ is a bit of an android word don’t you think? Is this why our language has taken bits from here, there and everywhere? As a consequence we have built a complex language for sure but one in which forgets the sexuality of the people who it is referring to. Is that why we Brits have a stiff upper lip? We are just pondering on whether we are talking about a man or a woman that our lips stay in a stiffened state.

            But our tapestry of speech goes way back and is very eclectic. With each generation adding their own usage, words change their meaning as we go. Some academics do not like this one little bit, believing language should be set in stone and hung around the neck of each of us, to understand the universe as they see it, with clarity and meaning. I like change, although I admit there are some changes to our language I do not approve of, mostly the words that I do not understand or ones that are unnecessarily abusive to my ears and thoughts but I keep it to myself.

            It seems to me each time we were invaded, as they pilfered and plundered we rummaged through their language and used it against them. They say that Chinese and Mandarin will be the next language invasion. Can’t wait to see what effect that has on our lingo and for the esteemed language boffins to blow their collective gaskets. Come to think about it, if they were ever to read my blog, they will surely have a coronary explosion.

            Don’t get me wrong we need people to tell us how it all began, why we use the words we do and indeed how to use them properly. But the joy for me as a dyslexic writer is the sound of them, not their patterns on the paper. Those patterns and their changing rules, on a good day, make a hazy sense, on a bad day totally confuddle me.

            Now let’s take the word confuddled (while skipping over the usage of ‘let’s’ instead of ‘let us’), It is a blend of confused; Tilly’s meaning- unable to think or reason in any logical or sensible way and befuddled; Tilly’s- meaning; to make someone in a state of perplexed and muddled mind. Neither word would suffice or convey how I feel on a bad day with dyslexia. I can spend hours looking and not seeing a word, sounding out each letter but as my eyes track them I will miss a few and not be able to make sense of the word written. I also get this when people speak but have learnt a trick of lip-reading so that between the ear and the visual I can, pretty much, guess what is being said. You see the words befuddle me with confusion so I need to be able to use confuddled!!!! Nothing what so ever to do with the fact I’ve always liked its soft sound of ticklish fun that it produces in my mind and ear.

            So us English may be verbal androids but with our stiff upper lip, we do like to have a bit of verbal fun, albeit in an android sort of way!

Albeit, is a conjunction word a fusion of thoughts and a connective word like a door between two rooms of the same house. Apparently, it is going out of fashion which is sad as I like its sound and it is better than furthermore which is harsh and boring!! Furthermore is an adverb that modifies verbs, which leads onto another thought. So it does connect but not in the same way so can’t be called a conjunction word? I’ve blown a gasket and am having too much fun? So I will quietly go for a lie down.

From your English android Tilly x

For all the Frazelled Mothers

Contemplating marriage and bring up children after being told I was just full of frills on my puffed up fairy life and that I had no understanding of reality (I took this as a compliment I have to say) I watched the Richard Dimbleby Lectures given by Michael Morpugo (my hero of gentle thought) and was inspired. His ‘The Butterfly Lion’ gave me faith in how I look at things and as soon as I can I’m going to buy ‘The Kites are Flying’ that he based his lecture around. His books are written for children but defiantly have adults in mind.

            Well I woke up grumpy one morning this week and by hook or by crook I want to stay grumpy. I deserved at least that, don’t I? I have a right to be how I feel, don’t I?? I feel surly and cantankerous, wizened and old and life-just don’t ever play fair!! My children said this is because I’m not getting what I want! ‘You receive as a parent’ I told them in that surly tone I have when frazzled, ‘that what you gave as a child!!!! So be careful’ I warned them. With a backward glance one of them in a quiet voice and under their breath replied ‘well you should know’ Anyhow it’s not as though I’m asking for the impossible, or am I? All I want is five minutes peace. But there again it is the summer holidays when mothers turn into entertainers extraordinaire, adding to their many talents.

            But my fairy just won’t let me be, she fly’s around my thoughts and always lands at some point as a smile upon my face. You might say this is a good thing, that being grumpy is a bad thing to be but sometimes you need to vent and people definitely need to know you also have limits but The Fairy just don’t see it that way. My fairy is a beautiful flight of fancy with frills with a puffed up attitude to life, you just have to read some of my poems and stories to see that. She sees life in such a fanciful way with no basis in reality or that’s what I was told the other day. Is this true? If you read carefuly there is a large dose of reality in her fluff and frills? Those trappings only make the bitter pill of life a little easier to swallow.

            So what was making me grumpy and why on earth did I want to stay in that state? Do you know, I can’t remember, so lost was I in another flight of fancy of Michael Morpurgo words. A man who has seen at first hand the devastation humans can do to one another and yet humanity still survives and love carries on. If he can see the beauty that can be had, surely I can!

            There are people right now starving, hiding from danger watching as others suffer so the rich can thrive. There will be many; who will be given bad news about a disease which will not be cured. Some will be harmed through another’s hand. All these things have touched me, indirectly or directly.

            For all of you out there that face these issues I pay homage to your tenacity to smile and your ability to hope. This is why my fairy wears her frills and fluffed up undergarments so she can fly through your thoughts and land on your face as a smile x

 I have no right to be grumpy, do I?

May she fly around your thoughts and land as a smile

 www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00fgfl8
Have put this link in but unsure if it will work as I have never done this before. Also added it as a link, hoping one or the other will work :-) It is well worth a look x

Now off to read the Butterfly Lion to Angus

Thurning Feast is A pagan feast to be proud of

Who in their wisdom ruffled the fairies frilly undergarments?

Who in their right mind dared to clip her wings and rain on her parade?

Who would want to be so cruel? Who would not want to let the beauty that is held within out to let it shine for the entire world to see?

Life that’s who!!!!

Don’t you just love life??

Her frilly undergarments were ruffled by the constant change of family life. Of arrangements never adhered to and others needs put before the fairies. Well it’s her own fault as she is a very good facilitator. I fear the crumpled up silk may never recover to its former glory the lace has no chance.  

Her wings were clipped by the radiator bottle springing a leak that turned into a waterfall with no movement allowed at all!!! So no Thurning Feast for this little fairy.

She will just have to stay at home and dream of Pimm’s, paella and friends

Last Year I stood up and Did a little Tilly Moment and Here it is in Part

Now that I live in Suffolk, I have to cross the fens to get here and as I bypass through Cambridge I take a beep breathe of the rich peat earth which fills my senses and awakens the excitement of my youth. Last year Thurning feast fell on the first weekend of the school holiday, so I was in a relaxed and open to the holiday spirit. The excitement of youth and the holiday spirit can be a lethal combination.

When I got here, I came through the front of the village hall entrance and as I passed from bear hug to bear hug with kisses of greeting a strewn in my wake. My eyes feasted on the sights and the sounds of my childhood. The aromas of the home grown and cooked food took me back to its pagan feast roots. The old fashioned cake stall with a rustic twist, beckoned me to stay for a while. With carpet and welsh dressers to make you feel as if you have just popped into visit friends for a chat. But meeting and greeting didn’t allow me time to linger and as I finally came up to the line of twenty different barrels of brewed hops their inviting perfumes danced tantalising around me; akin to a snake out of a charmer’s basket I was determined to partake in the sweet nectar. I breathed deeply in so the hypnotic essence of honey, wheat and elder flower took over my senses and left me dishevelled with choice.  Before I could make my decision I met my Uncle Derek’s eyes and I knew that the evening was going to take a Thurning twist.

‘Great Tina, just the person I wanted to see, the drums in the shed’ his enthusiasm was undeniable. A drum, whoops a daisy I had forgotten to warn my son about the drum. Well to be fair nothing had been definite, no rehearsals organised and no songs mentioned so I thought that the Skiffle Band idea had been put on hold for another year. How’s so ever Axl (my son) does take his music a little too seriously and his initiation onto the ‘Derek way of things was well over due I thought so pushed him forward to partake in the merriment.

We dually went off to the shed to find the one and a half drum sticks and the snare drum that were the only equipment we could salvage. We improvised with a pair of castanets for symbols and a tambourine, not sure what to do with the tambourine but best take it I thought; I had to laugh, as Axl looked at me as though the world had suddenly just gone mad. His eyes finally took shape again during the rehearsal. As they practiced packed into a little shed like sardines in a tin, behind the stage, the band; which consisted of two guitars (one played by Uncle Derek), violin, trumpet, saxophone, drum with castanets and tambourine, and builders base; made up from a tea chest with a beautifully crafted hole that had a gramophone flute to magnify its sound, a plank of wood for the neck holding the guitar strings like a proper base, with a trowel on top expertly played by Jason Capp who is a builder of some repute.

The singer was exceptional, holding them all together well. As they got to know each other and tune their instruments to perfection, I took a cup of beer and I do mean a tea cup, from the barrel that had been laid on for the entertainers. Well I reasoned it’s not easy watching your child go out to perform on stage in-front of a large crowed so I had to steady my nerves.

I had to smile as I sipped and took in the construction of the stage, with a mound of earth to give the stage its desired height, while scaffold poles and planks made the stage itself. Old curtains (which I’m sure had been taken from windows near and far) with odd bits of heavy material, giving a fine and rustic elegance to the back drop. It was then, that I felt my uncle’s strong hand in the middle of my back, propelling me up to the stage. ‘Now Tina, you know the words’ and I knew it didn’t matter if I did or not, I was now the newest recruit in the just formed skiffle band. I didn’t put up a fight; after all I had just put my son forward for the experience telling him to live life to the full and stop taking himself too seriously.

But unfortunately the frustrated singer in me was unleashed; I hasten to add without a mike- (though my daughter recons that I could still be heard and it was embarrassing) and my son and I in public for the first time gave it our all. Each one of us on that stage, enjoying the experience possibly more than the now dancing and raving crowed. We ‘strutted our stuff’ to songs like ‘Great Balls of fire’ and ‘Jail House Rock’. Sadly, and I hope to the crowds disappointment, it all came to an end too soon.

As the saxophonist came off the stage, he uttered ‘Traumatised’ with a grin as wide as Niagara Falls and a spring in his step. We looked at each other, my son and I, we both understood what he meant. We also knew we would all be back to do it again next year, if they would have us, as we had been captured by the Derek spirit and the ‘Thurning Feat Skiffle Band ‘bug.

One moment can change everything

Here are series of short stories about one event. These are dedicated to a very special man, my uncle Pete. He was raucously funny and had the best bear hug imaginable and I miss him still x He once gave me a huge compliment. He told me I never changed, that I always had a smile somewhere inside just waiting to erupt even when I was angry.

I got this idea when my uncle was knocked down and killed. It was an accident and all those concerned couldn’t make sense of it at first. We still can’t. It has affected us most profoundly and always will, with its far reaching tentacles.

            Soon after I began to wonder why we do things, that is to say send our children to school or work hard and never spend time enjoying life. I came up with no real answers just open thoughts really, a see-saw of life’s off beat balance.

            I will post these little stories at the top of the page so if it’s the first time you have read these start at the bottom and work your way back to the top. If you have been to this before welcome back and I hope eventually you will see the smiles.

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The Beauty of Her

It was the most beautiful face I have ever seen, not in the glamour model sense of beauty but of the kind that lasts, an inner quality that you would never grow tired of looking at so deep was its richness. Serenity oozed out of those eyes that held my gaze and would not let it go. She always had a smile that you envied, one that enjoyed life’s simple pleasures that most of us never achieve, someone who would take time out of her day to brighten up yours.

Unwittingly she came between my wife and me; she crept through my thoughts as a ghostly wisp, a thread of silk that held a belief in me that my wife could never share. For my wife had gained the material things that we had dreamed about and instead of enjoying the benefits she had relentlessly pursued the next must have dream. She wore me out.

I always tried to cross Rachel’s path in the mornings to get my daily fix of her but that morning I was too late. I tried to bump into her in the car park but she wasn’t parked in her usual spot and time was running out. I had an important meeting to get to and wanted to put together a few last thoughts. I knew they would consolidate all we had to offer our client, making it hard to turn the deal down. As I drove this familiar road I saw a harassed mother with a buggy, a dog on a lead and a little one on a bike. Unsteadily they came around the bend and down the hill. I knew instinctively what was about to happen and swerved just in time as the little one fell at an awkward part of the road, right into my path. Relief shuddered through me as my evasive action saved a young life. I looked in my mirror to see the mother who now was tied up by the dog, the buggy tipping while franticly trying to retrieve the bike and child. When the most horrendous jolt spun my head in time to see the face I loved for so long crumple.

I was out of the car and at her side within seconds. Aware of people around me shouting and swearing one was on her mobile explaining the scene. I held this most precious life as it escaped its bodily cage and drifted around with an atmosphere of calm, as deep inside me, carnage warred. Not taking in what was reality; I looked for any signs of hope and took her hand that held a hair. For some reason that held my attention and its one thing I will keep inside of me.

            For the first and last time I held her close and as her warmth seeped out, a gust of wind blew the hair as though it was her wisp of life. It took off hitting a ray of sunlight swirling on a thermal ever higher, stopping time and when no longer I could see it, reality came crashing down.

            My flash backs are relentless, the image of the child crying looking for its mothers comfort and that singular hair making its assent to the great unknown. To have saved the child I had killed my love.

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It was just one hair; she had just ran her fingers through her long glittery soft ringlets and one single hair danced on the breath of the breeze as joyfully as its owner went about her life. Time had not yet matured her out look on it and fun was the only thing time should fulfil, it landed back on the seat it’s donator had departed from as though to take her place. I refrained from lifting it gently up and letting it free to explore the out-side world alone. As I privately shook my head at my own exasperated need to get the day’s timetable done, I took her to school.

She was fine in the playground talking to her group of friends. I passed the precious minutes in friendly chatter as the bell went, she came over to me and a hug pursued that broke my heart as the uncertainty vibrated from her body and through my flesh, I looked into the eyes of youth that asked the question why; for which I had no answer and smiled with all the radiance of motherhood and gently kissed my beautiful butterfly as it took flight upon it’s fragile and oh so gentle wings. These wings would be dented, crushed even before this day was out but I told myself it was for the best. Did I believe this, no, I was not convinced, as my history had none of the battles for knowledge that my ancestors have had, no I had not gone through the humiliation that ignorance of the world around you brings. I forced her grasp to slacken and propelled her towards her day of education. Have I regrets? Yes many.

Should I teach her from home? I could through my own understanding, books and the World Wide Webb. All she needed to know without the statts and tests, the worry of how well she should be doing and how much more I should be teaching. Life would be so laid back and how it is meant to be.

As I pull the car out of its resting place to one of its journeys for the day. First to the part time job, shopping and back home to the house work that always seems to get the better of me, I think to my self could I give up again the freedom of a job and the financial independence, to become a full time companion, teacher and mentor to my child and as her hair was lifted by the air conditioner and landed on my hand, a gentle kiss so much appreciated, so much loved. This simple part of the day made the vivid memory of her group of friends, embrace me and I started to relax understanding it was the best way, the only way open to me.

She needed people to interact with in a fragmented society. Isn’t this what life is all about the ability to communicate your loves, likes, dislikes, concerns, your ideas and opinions and this is what I hoped she would truly be learning.

I breathed in the solitude and with the reassurance that I was truly right to have stayed at home for the first few years at least, even though my career had suffered and people had made me feel a lesser person, I forced a smile on my face and got on with the day. It feels as though I have two full time jobs now to fulfil; that of housekeeper, the supporter of the family unit and a job I took for convenience but would never reach my full potential in. Those first few years had been her foundation on which her life would be built on; this had been a sacrifice worth paying and with a picture of my dreams of the life to come, calmness washed over me.

In the distance of this long and fraught road, full of hidden turns, I saw the cars that had no time for steady drivers and groaned. You meet them all the time they say, what is the point of slow speed limits, it just encourages people to overtake, with disregard to the actual road its self, hidden turns and all; “anyway I’m a good driver I can handle a car.” But in reality the car is not the problem it’s the fact that other people have a right to be on the road and they are not all in cars.

There was nowhere for me to go, to over take on such a road is so irresponsible and as the crush of metal came; as I knew it must, so did the pain. I lifted that single hair to my lips to whisper that last farewell to my precious gift of life and as the crumpled car came to a stop, life was lifted out of me and that single hair and me dance on the breeze a sorrowful ballet entwined together, lifted, then gone though perhaps not forgotten, especially by that one single gentle butterfly.