Diet, by Peter Morford

When Dr Bell retired he realised he would have to keep out of his wife’s way during the day. After all, she was used to having the house to herself – alone that is, except for the constant flow of WI members for coffee, Ladies’ groups for lunch and sewing groups for conversation.
  At first, the retired doctor bought himself a glorified garden shed, 12 x 12, insulated, heated, coffee maker in obedient reach. This didn’t work too well because when the female hordes descended, he would all too often be called on to collect stragglers, meet Mrs so and so who urgently but unreasonably wanted to meet him, or use his male muscle to unscrew lids. His answer was to go out.
Walk a mile to the town and enjoy coffee in the Hospice Coffee and Bookshop. Old friends, patients and colleagues would be there. Soon, refreshed, he could set off for a longer walk, lunch in The Swan and head for home when the coast was clear. Like many a comfortably-off retiree, he was mean about his spending. Waterstones were there to tempt him, but he told himself that he had much more choice in a second-hand bookshop, especially if it were a charity. Happily admitting to being a parasite, he collected on the cheap.
  One day, in the Hospice Shop, the manager joined him at his table where he was reading a book he intended to buy.
“You spend a lot of time in here, Dr Bell. How would you like to volunteer an hour or two per week. The books are not in perfect order, but you’d soon fix that.”
Bell stirred his coffee and pretended to think for a moment.
“OK. Monday and Wednesday mornings any help?”
“I’m grateful.” Dr Bell was now a Friend of the Hospice.
Very soon his hour or two became almost a daily duty. Then it became four days a week. His wife barely noticed because the summer tournaments had started.

He only read novels these days. When he took over, they were arranged in rough alphabetical order. Sometimes, to his annoyance, Frank Herbert would be standing next to Frayn; Hardy among the Ts. He set about curing this untidiness. Very soon customers remarked on how nice everything was – except the bottom shelf. He was upset by that area of disorder. He knew that every charity shop had no idea how to handle what he called non-books. Who brought them in the first place? Those gardening books were Dad’s Christmas presents, a few years ago. Since then his back has collapsed and he had to smuggle the books to charity. The aged road atlases; expensively self-published memoirs and generously-advanced politicians’ autobiographies had very limited shelf life. Worse still, were the ghosted footballers’ and actors’ stories; business and Self-improvement books, written by people who feel they have the divine right to tell us how to run our lives. The worst clutter, according to Dr Bell, was the gluttony of the cookery books. Most of us are too fat already. Then there are the diet gurus. Go Vegan; starve two days a week, live on seaweed and carrots; drink white wine. Diet or you die. The unwanted books collected dust and took up valuable selling space. The people who support the hospice wanted to read stories. For them the whole bottom shelf could be pulped.
   Dr Bell agreed. With no qualms, he removed a few, then a lot, day by day. Kind supporters brought more in. He suspected Oxfam when he saw an old National Trust publication which he had kindly slipped onto their shelf a week before.

Whitewash, by Peter Morford

When they found the first cave paintings, the experts thought they were about 20,000 years old. They praised the draughtsmanship and realism, and if one buffalo in Lascaux appears to have two rear and three front, legs, nobody worried.
As time went by they found ancient art in every continent. In Australia the dating was 28,000 years: Borneo 40-52,000, Iberia 64,000 years. Three thousand generations. In Borneo they were still painting in the last 100 years and palaeontologists are running classes on tv.
Silly question: Why did the cavemen paint their walls?
Answer – because canvas was too expensive.
Alternatively: Our ancestors had the same instincts as we do. They had imagination. They could see the galloping animal and carry the mental image back to the safety of their cave and draw it.
Well-decorated walls have always been a sign of cultural or economic power. I imagine a Neanderthal man, with a much bigger brain than mine, had the same instincts to outdo the Joneses. Later, the builders of cathedrals and pyramid had the same idea of aggrandizement.
Today, it’s expensive girlfriends, the fleets of expensive cars, the Old Masters, the ownership of Championship League football teams, the superyachts, Lear Jets and the £100m. houses in Belgravia which, declare the owner to be the big winner. Nothing changes.
Some time, perhaps during the Industrial Revolution, people living in mean houses in befouled industrial cities tried to improve their hovels by painting the walls with whitewash. It was cheap, easy to make and, when the smoke spoilt it; easy to repaint. The front step had to be scrubbed daily and repainted frequently if the lady of the house, mothering the survivors of her fertility, could earn respect in her neighbourhood.
Sunny Mediterranean houses are painted to reflect the heat. It isn’t art but it’s practical and, anyway, there were plenty of pictures in the museums.
Nowadays, whitewash doesn’t mean cleanliness but covering up the dirt. We’re all good at it, especially if we’re in public life. Persons of power or influence use it to the maximum. Governments and Ministries are especially liberal with the wide brush. When some blunder leads to loss of life or enormous expense to the taxpayer, there’s always someone demanding an Enquiry or Royal Commission. A big name is made chairman. Over well-paid months or years he digs enough dirt to justify further budget and time. Two or several million pounds later, he promises to publish his report- but not just yet. There’s the hope that the Public will have lost interest after all this time but there’s sometimes a pesky protester. In haste a bland and diluted report squirts forth and the Pesky Protester demands more.
Time for another barrel of whitewash. This type of whitewash is art. It’s the genius of cover-up and the freedom of the perpetrators to enjoy their pensions. It’s enough to make you proud if you’re a politician or a lawyer.

The Office Cleaner, by Peter Morford

About out a year ago I told Betty, the House Manager, that my office was not being cleaned properly.
“I’m sorry Mr Perkins, we’ve had a number of complaints lately. We’re going to change the cleaning contractors – they start next week. I’m sure you’ll see a difference.”
“I’m on holiday for a fortnight.”
“You’ll see an improvement then. Have a good time.”
Two weeks later I checked the bookshelves and the top of my filing cabinet. They were clinically clean. The phone smelled medicinal. The air was fresh and wholesome even though I had yet to open a window. I said as much to Betty.
“I’m glad you’re happy. We bend over backwards to serve our clients,”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She winked and rolled her eyes.
As I said, I try to work regular hours. On this occasion I was having deadline trouble.
The Telegraph had commissioned an article about a company in Glasgow and I had spent a few days researching and interviewing. It was going to be a late session. It must have been about 7 o’clock when my door burst open.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t think you’d be in. Shall I come back later?”
She was about thirty, dressed in the smart uniform of our new cleaning contractors, with her vacuum cleaner, basket of dusters and polish. Her ID tag told me she was Mary Patel.
“No. Come on in. I’m almost finished.”
She started in my spare office while I rechecked my article and emailed it to the paper. As I was locking my desk and filing cabinet she came back. I said, “My office is much better since you took over.” She smiled.
“Goodnight Mrs Patel.”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
For the next week or two I kept to my usual times and was away before the cleaner came. And then I had another tight deadline. I had been down to the café for a sandwich and returned to finish my article. There she was, sterilising the phone.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
I decided then that she was not quite the sort of person one associated with the term ‘cleaning lady.’ I may sound old fashioned, but I usually expected cleaners to be, well, more working class. She spoke properly, for a start and there was the lilt in the voice, as you would expect from a Patel. I decided that she was too old to be a student. Perhaps she worked three hours a night because she needed the money, while her partner (she wore no wedding ring) looked after the children.
“How long have you been working for OffKlene?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“Do you like the work?”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t stretch the mind. I’ve just read that,” she added, pointing at a new-published novel on my desk.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Within three minutes she had analysed the style, psycho- analysed the author, found an inconsistency in the plot and anticipated the sequel. Here, I thought, was a cultured, educated and beautiful woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”

Room Service, by Peter Morford

It was still dark when I woke up and tried to move my legs. My knees hurt but my legs were numb. I knew I was moving my toes but I felt nothing. Remembering what my doctor had said, I rather guiltily uncrossed my ankles without feeling a thing. When I tried to sit up I saw, rather than felt, that her beautiful strong legs were holding me down.
I needed a paracetamol. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, I wriggled and slithered out of bed and limped into the bathroom for the pills. Fully awake now I made coffee and went to sit on the balcony.

In the still air the only sound was the sea lapping the beach 30 metres below me. It was a moonless astronomers’ night. It was nearly 4 o’clock and I could see the first glimmer of the sunrise. The pain was less now as the circulation returned to my legs. It wasn’t deep vein thrombosis after all. I carefully went back to bed and adjusted myself around her.

I lay there thinking about our holiday. After our long flights we had spent Sunday just relaxing on the beach, swimming, sun-bathing and talking. On Monday we’d exploredthe Old Town where we sheltered from the sun in the museum and the art gallery and took a tour round the Castle and Cathedral. That evening we went to a concert. We rented a car for a few days and just drifted around, stopping at places whichlooked interesting. We could be energetic or lazy, people-watching from a pavement café; arguing about the things which interested us; or just reading in comfortable silence. We were,I thought, as compatible as anyone could expect or hope to be.

I must have dozed, for when I woke the sun was well up and I could feel the heat through the open doors. She was already up, presumably in the shower. I noticed how quiet the room was and realised that she wasn’t singing this morning.

I went into the bathroom. She wasn’t there. All her make-up and toiletries were gone. I checked her wardrobe. Empty. Cases gone. But for the state of the bed and a trace of her favourite perfume there was no sign that she had been here at all. There was no message. She had just vanished.

You may imagine how I felt. I called Room Service and asked for Luis, the Night Manager. “Ah good morning Senor Byron. I have a message for you. The courtesy car delivered the young lady at the
airport and she took the 8 o’clock west-bound flight.”
“Thanks, Luis. I’ll check out after breakfast so have my bill ready. Then I want you to give me a different room on Floor 10, facing the sea.”
He said, “I understand Senor. Will you excuse me for a moment – my other phone is ringing.”

After a few seconds he was back again. “Senor – I’ve just heard from my driver at the Airport. He tells me your wife’s plane has been delayed by an hour and will land at 10 o’clock. She should be here by noon.”
“In that case Luis, make sure that you put a bottle of champagne and flowers in our new room for her arrival.”
   I could hear his chuckle. “The usual procedure, Senor?”

Not for the first time I praised the hotel for its friendly service.

Mist, by Peter Morford

If you can reasonably see the view for half a mile – that’s mist. If you can’t see that far, it’s fog. If you’re choking, it’s smog. If you’re wearing a face mask, it’s Tokyo, Beijing, Los Angeles or London’s South Circular Road.
It’s all very well for Keats to praise the mists of autumn. Wordsworth loitering on misty Westminster Bridge at dead of night could be lonely as a cloud while the city slept. But I’m pretty sure that neither of them was ever stuck on the M1 for three hours while the police cleared up the wreckage. Half a mile visibility is all right if you’re walking a docile horse but at 60 you never see the road signs in time. As any HGV or white-van driver will tell you, fog and mist are bad news if you have a schedule to follow.
Fog was Dickens’ inspiration and he dreamt up ever more nasty deeds for his inventions.

Sorry.
I’ve just realised I’ve already broken my NY resolution circa 2001. Look on the bright side, I told myself, see the good things amid the aggravations of life.

Start again.
Mists and mellow fruitfulness. How true. Use a little imagination. It’s a few minutes before sunrise. The tide is creeping into the estuary. By hazy light you can just see the small boats leaning over in the mud and, beyond them, the outline of a fishing boat, shored up by timbers because a hermit lives there. Look again and you’ll just see the dark shapes of other craft. It is quiet enough for you to hear the tiny sounds. A frog below your window, distant birdsong, the lapping of the gentle waves; the tick of the clock in your holiday rental. It’s already getting warmer and you know that soon the sun will burn off the mist and the old boathouse will be visible again. A van will be there and several men will emerge to unlock the great doors and begin another day’s work of hacking, bashing and burning a hulk into many tons of scrap metal.
If you head for the hills there are better mists to enjoy. It’s just hazy enough on the track to dampen your coat and smear your glasses. It’s not cold on this October day and you know that in perhaps half an hour it will clear and you will reach the top and enjoy the view as you eat your picnic.
In the valley, hundreds of feet below, there is a blur of trapped mist. We cannot see the village in its wrapping. The people down there cannot see us. It gives all of us a sense of being in a special place as we start the descent.

Sweet Auburn, by Peter Morford

A visitor seeing Auburn for the first time would see it as a bit of authentic English history.
Come to Auburn and enjoy its Englishness. Take a seat under one of the protected oaks and admire the 800 year old church with its faded sign inviting you to support their repairs fund. There’s a Tudor pub, a cafe calling itself "The Old Smithy", and the cottages have wild life gardens and hanging baskets. Gnarled Wisterias reach the thatched roofs. All in all, you might think it’s an idyllic place to live.
   Opposite the church is Mr Seth’s farm gate. Mr Seth is a relic of his own ancestry. His farm, or rather small-holding, is just productive for his ageing family’s needs. They have a cow for her fresh un-adulterated milk. They eat their lamb and wear their wool, home-spun by Mrs Seth. They have just enough land to produce all the fruit and vegetables they need. The pigsty and hen-run provide the rest of their diet. He nurses his old Massey-Ferguson tractor because it’s his only vehicle and is cheap to run on red diesel. They even have a little surplus to sell to the just-surviving village shop.
   Sometimes, more for sport, Mr Seth will shoot a few pigeons or rabbits. Recently he shot a drone which had been annoying him. So be not misled by the apparent tranquillity! 
   Next to the church is the 18th century rectory, built for a large family, but recently the vicar and his small family hadlived in just three rooms, leaving the rest to nature. Before it could fall down through neglect, the Church Commissioners found a hedge fund manager who was used to London prices and knew a bargain when he saw one. “For the price of my three roomed flat in Canary Wharf I can live in the country,” he told his accountant.
   The new owner extended it and generally concealed all the original features. He built a four-car garage for their son’s Lamborghini, his wife’s purple Range Rover and the orange Humvee he’s always wanted for himself. A pair of Harley-Davidsons had their own space. He replaced the low garden wall with railings and a security gate. And now what do we see? An extended old vicarage, renamed Hedgefund House. It is protected by powered iron gates and conspicuous security devices. When they have a party the favoured guests land their helicopters on the back lawn.
  The neighbours object to the noise. But the Hedges have their problems too. Unpleasant country smells waft over from the Seth’s farm. A tycoon needs his rest without the disturbance of those strident bells counting out the quarters. Mr Hedge, in the spirit of being a decent chap, got himself on to the Parish Council, the better to make his protests. Old Seth turned up at the PC meetings to fight his case. “Get they foreigners out,” became the slogan 
of Sweet Auburn: loveliest village of the plain.

The Robing Room, by Peter Morford

My friend Petronella’s two marriages had been conventional enough.  Number one was in the village church, 20 guests, reception in the pub.  Number two was a bit more lavish, reflecting her social promotion.  A marquee on a National Trust estate, 200 guests, honeymoon in Kenya. And now, number three, on her new man’s yacht moored in Cardiff Docks, crewed and provisioned for the long haul.

            I, as one of her special friends were to, officiate in costumes which she would provide.  She fixed the appointment with the costumiers for me.

**

            I rang the bell twice before anyone came. A tall rather imposing woman opened the door.             “Yes?”

            “I’m Martin Black, guest of Petronella Parker’s wedding.”

            “You’d better come in.  If you sit here I’ll bring you a coffee. Then you will proceed to the robing room,” she said.

            I sat down. She returned with coffee and biscuits for two, put them on the little table and sat opposite me.

            I looked her. Perhaps fifty or even sixty. Slim in her ankle-length black dress with dozens of buttons from neck to the floor.   Greying hair piled high on her head.  Long nose, thin lips. Veined hands. Wedding ring. An imperious rather impressive Victorian lady. I supposed that I would impersonate a 19^th century gentleman. She had the look of someone who didn’t want conversation so I said nothing.

            Suddenly she stood up. “I’ll fetch your costume. You may go into the robing room now.”

            I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t what I saw.  The room was about 15ft square.  The only furniture was a pair of bentwood chairs, a hat-stand and a cheval mirror covered by a velvet cloth. 

            The walls were papered with flock and the room smelt of dust.

            She returned with a small case. “I’ll leave you to change.  Call me when you’re ready.”

I opened the case.  Inside was a striped bathing costume, a neck to knee woollen thing vintage 1920s. Feeling silly I changed and uncovered the mirror. What I saw shocked me. I looked aghast.  I’m not a vain man but this kit was ridiculous.

            I called.  She came.  Said, “Are you sure that Petronella wants me to attend her wedding in this?”

            “Those are her instructions Mr Black.”.

            “And will the other ushers be dressed the same way?”

            “I’m not at liberty to discuss the others.”

            I turned back to the mirror. It had changed.  I saw my ungainly striped figure and behind me, an automated  car assembly line.  Orange robots were assembling Range Rovers. I looked round but the wall behind me was just a wall covered in flock wallpaper.   I looked back at my reflection.  Cars were slowly progressing. Robots were delivering bonnet tops and fitting the doors.  I turned round very fast again.  Flock wallpaper.

            “How’s it done?”

            “What are you talking about Mr Black?”

            “Look at the mirror,” I said

            “I see myself.”

            “But the background looks wrong.”

            “Have you been drinking Mr Black?”

            “Only your coffee.”

            “That would account for it.  I think you’d better leave.”

            Back on the A5 I was stopped by the Police. They didn’t believe a word of it either

Night Worker: an extract, by Peter Morford

He stumbled over something in the alley.  It was a man lying across his path, his head to one side, eyes open. Ben crouched down and shook him. Slapped his face; checked for pulse in wrist and neck.  No pulse, skin cold, dead.  The man looked about 50. He was wearing a dinner-jacket and his bow tie was undone. There was no sign of injury, as far as he could see.  Instinctively, naturally and professionally, he reached inside the jacket for identification.  A small wallet contained a Maestro Card in the name of Charles Spencer, credit cards for John Fortune and Henry Jessop, and a couple of £10.gambling chips. There was no driving licence and no address. Ben knew the type. The dregs of humanity.

In the other inside pocket he found a gold propelling pencil and a wad of used twenties, bound in a paper band.

What to do now? I should call the Police and ambulance, he thought. But why? This obviously suspicious character was dead; nothing could be done for him.  Ben really didn’t want the bother, not with his churning stomach and early sign of influenza. Then he did something he had never done before.   He pocketed the cash, except for a couple of £20.notes, and replaced the wallet.  He looked carefully around. He was alone and he knew there were no cameras in this alley. He walked quickly for the half-mile back to his car.    He had decided to go  home. 

After five miles he stopped on a layby because he wanted to check the cash.  Above all, he wanted to think.  The first time he counted £960.  Then it was £980.  Check again, right first time.  The dead man must have had a good night in the casino. He was probably a worthless gambler using stolen credit cards, laundering his illegal gains. Ben wasn’t to be fooled by the fancy suit and vaguely distinguished appearance.

He looked back on his own life.  He had always played to the rules.  No crook had ever succeeded in bribing him.  There had been times of course, when it would have been easy to falsify a bit of evidence or accept a favour. In that very Casino a few years ago his Inspector had mysteriously aborted a raid only to be able to take a rather expensive holiday a few weeks later.   Plenty of his colleagues had bent the rules to get their man or protect another.  But he had always played it straight. Which was, he thought, why he had retired as a sergeant when less able men had left him far behind. 

And now here he was, sitting in his car, riffling through the wad of notes, wondering why he had even thought of taking them. It’s not that I need the money, he thought.  What with the pension and the job, and Sheila’s business we do well enough. The kids are gone, the mortgage paid, this nice new car, all paid for… why do I need the best part of a K?

There was the sound of a car door slamming. He looked up and saw the car, nose to nose with his own.  A man got out, hurried over and tapped on his window.

Aladdin Updated, by Peter Morford

Aladdin was feeling his age.  Not surprising really because he was crossing a parched desert which stretched for miles in every direction. He staggered step by painful step, hoping he was heading south where he thought there would be an oasis. His camel had died two – or was it three? days ago. He had drunk all his water and eaten all his figs. The merciless sun had burned his bald head and dazzled his myopic eyes. Still he plodded along, slipping in the loose sand of dunes, covering his face against the occasional dust blows.                                                                                 

            He fell heavily, face first, into the sand. He couldn’t breathe until he had pushed himself into a kneeling position. He scrabbled in the sand to push himself up.  There was something just below the surface which wasn’t sand.  He smiled for the first time that day. He recognised the shape and the texture.  It was his old lamp, lost with his good luck, many years before.   He rubbed it clean. There was a loud popping noise and a puff of smoke.

            “How can I serve you, O Master?” the genie said.

            Now Aladdin was an unselfish man.  He thought of the greater good of mankind.

            “I require three wishes,” he said.

           “That’s most irregular, O Master. I usually grant only one.  But as it’s been a long time… What is your command O Master?”

             “That all human diseases cease to be.”

         There was flash of blue lightning and a great crack of thunder.

            “It is done, O Master.”

             Aladdin felt the life returning to his limbs and he could see the distant mountains clearly. His newly-restored hair was sheltering him from the sun.

            “And your second wish, O Master?”

            “That all poverty be abolished.”

            Another flash and boom.

            “It is done, O Master”

            Aladdin felt the thickness of his wallet, now filled with hundred dollar bills, credit cards and tickets to the pantomime.

            “And your third and final wish, O Master?”

            “I want the weather to be under Man’s control, so that the deserts bloom.”

            Yet another flash and bang.

            “It is done O Master. Farewell.”

            The sky clouded over and he felt the first drops of rain.  And the second.  And the third until the downpour was a monsoon.  Green shoots miraculously appeared as water gushed down the dunes.  He was soon up to his ankles, his knees, his waist.  He climbed but the water rose faster.

Aladdin, RIP.

Migrants, by Peter Morford

“Migrants? Don't talk to me about migrants,” said the man on the bench by the lake.  “They’re a menace.”

          He carried on. I mean he carried on. “Telford used to be a nice place. Now it’s nearly as bad as Wolverhampton and Birmingham.. Overrun by aliens, foreigners and squatters.  And don’t think you’re safe in Bridgnorth.”  He glared at me as if it was my fault.

          “This used to a nice place when I was a lad. Now look at it. They’re everywhere.  And don’t think you’ll get away with it in Bridgnorth. Just you wait. You’ve only seen the first of ’em.”

          I agreed.

          “Someone must have invited the first ones. They must have come thousands of miles to be here. They used to leave, seasonally, but not anymore. And just look at the mess they make. They take more than their fair share of food and they give nothing in return. They’re scavengers. I hate them and they don’t belong here. They breed worse than rabbits and we can’t send them away.     There’s only one way to stop them- population control.”

          “How?” I asked.

          “Abort the young of course. I know it’s against the law, but what the Judge doesn’t see.”   He tapped the side of his nose as if expecting that I would understand.

          “How?” I said, repetitively.

          “With this spike,” he said, as he pierced the egg and let the contents pour into the lake.

          The mother Canada Goose honked in protest but it was too late.  One less.

The day the circus came to town, by Peter Morford

          It’s funny how the memory works. You’d think that it would be the big things that you’d remember all your life.  What I call the “peaks” – first day at school, or the new job, your wedding day, the first-born child.

If you’d scored a century at Lords, you’d remember – and I suppose no one forgets the dark days of clangers and embarrassments. But amidst all these big things are the little events which make a distant day stick in the memory.

Mention D-Day 1944. It was also my tenth birthday and we were all looking forward to the summer holidays.  Dad was probably in Normandy with the first wave – we couldn’t be sure. As I finished breakfast Mum put sandwiches and an apple into my lunch box.

          “You’d better take this with you,” she smiled.

          It was a new cricket ball.  Not a proper leather one but a hard, red composite with a moulded seam.  I knew it would sting my hand when I caught it but unlike a real cricket ball it would keep its shape.

          “Thanks Mum, I can try it out in the lunch break.  Johnny Vaughan’s got a new bat. I’ll bowl this so fast that I’ll break it,” I boasted.

          School was a mile away. Johnny was waiting for me at the cross roads and we had to run the last half to arrive, a bit breathless, just as the bell was ringing.

          All through that morning’s lessons I planned how I would bowl my new ball. It would leave my hand at 80 mph, pitch on just the right spot, break away to the left and take out Billy Anderson’s off stump.  The next batsman would fall to my leg break and –

          “What did I just tell you Charlie Morris?” Mrs. Skeet yelled. “Stand up.”

          But before I could say anything, the noon bell rung and I was saved.  Far louder was the howl of the siren, the air raid warning.

          “A fine time to have an air raid,” Johnny muttered. “You wouldn’t think the Jerries would have time to come here.”

          “Right class, bring your lunch-bags and gas masks and follow me,” Mrs Skeet shouted, leading us to the shelter.

          We had to cross the yard and go down about a dozen steps into a cold and dim place with bare concrete walls and ceiling. Against the long walls were benches for the girls on the left facing the boys on the right.

          The caretaker brought in a crate of milk and went out again, slamming the heavy door behind him.

          Mrs Skeet lit a candle and we waited for the bombs to fall.

Sunrise, by Peter Morford

It had been a pretty good night really and Lerner could have a lie in, for tomorrow’s Sunday. He had £40 for the evening’s work and a quid or two extra from tips. He felt it was worth working on the weekends if it meant his student loan would go further.   After a short walk he was at the entrance to the tube station.  In thirty minutes he would be home to enjoy a beer.  Then bed. And Sunday?  A bit on work on his essay about The Romantic Poets and back to MacD for the evening shift.  Another forty quid plus.

            At the bottom of the stairs leading to the escalator he saw the man sitting in the yoga position, his erect back a few inches from the wall. As he approached him Lerner heard him say, in a cultured voice, “If you feel so disposed you could put a small offering  I might be able to do something for you.”

            Lerner looked down at the shiny brass bowl and almost automatically he tossed a couple of coins onto it. “I might be able to do something for you,” the man said again. Lerner saw that he had put coppers in.  He felt embarrassed. After all, there were the gratuities.  He felt in his pocket again, dug out a pound and dropped it into the dish. As he was about to move on the man said, “Thank you young sir. Now I will do something for you.”

            Lerner stopped, wondering what the beggar meant.

            “You’ve helped me.  I’ll help you,” he said again. “I can grant you a wish.  Don’t laugh. I have a rule though. Do not make it here.  Don’t even think about it until you get back to your rooms. Then, and only then, just before you go to sleep, make the wish.  I’ll get the message. I bid you good night.” The young man hurried down the escalator and boarded the train.

            Later, as he drank his beer he thought again about the mysterious man. I’ll humour him, he thought. It’s harmless. In the warmth of his bed, he thought again of the man on the cold floor. Smiling to himself, the student murmured “I would like to see Australia.” He was quickly asleep.

            When he woke up he felt the warmth of the sun through the open flap of his tent. He went outside and saw the vast plain, stretching to the hills on the horizon. There was no sign of human life.  He felt as though he was the last man on earth when several kangaroos came up to him, and as if satisfied by what they saw, hopped away.

            He considered his position.In his pyjamas. No money, no other clothes, no cellphone. Nothing.  He though hard and wished.

**

Moral – if you make a wish to go anywhere, make sure you have a return ticket.  And cash.  And clothes.  And…

Waterman, by Peter Morford

It was a nice avenue with tidy gardens and expensive cars, Neighbourhood Watch signs and burglar alarms.

     I pressed the bell of number 41, and stepped back two polite paces.

     A little old lady opened the door four inches.

     “Mrs. Phelps?”

     “Yes.”

     “Severn Trent.”  I showed her my badge.  She studied it, compared the mugshot with the mug and released the chain.

     “Come in out of the rain,” she said. “I took a sample for you this morning.  I’ll fetch it.  I’ve just made tea – would you like some?”

     I checked the time.  “Yes, please.”

     “Go through to the drawing room.”

     “Thank you.” 

     Two 12 gauge Purdey shotguns hung over the fireplace. Must be worth ten grand. Crossed swords behind the tv.  The more I looked, the more gunnery I saw.

     She set the tea things on a little table. “Here’s the sample,” she said. “The water’s clear now, it’s only nasty first thing in the morning. Help yourself to cake.”

     “Thank you. I’ll take another sample before I go,” I said.

     She saw me looking at the armoury. “They’re my late husband’s guns.  We lived in Kenn-ya.” That’s the way she said it. “Kenn-ya.”

     “I hope they’re all disarmed – and that you’ve got a licence,” I said.

     “Yes and Yes.”

     “You have a beautiful garden,”

     “Thank you.”   We sat down like a pair of old friends.

     Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “That damned squirrel’s back again.” And so it was, running prettily across the lawn, leaping onto the bird table.

     Mrs. Phelps opened a drawer in a Chippendale desk. “This is my father’s service revolver,” she said as she took rapid aim through the open door.  The squirrel was blown off the bird table in a mess of blood and brains.

     “I have to be going,” I said.                                                                                        

Memoirs of a Travelling Man, by Peter Morford

In my early days  my expense allowance limited me to the rather lower class of hotel. Ensuite? Most unlikely.  TV? Lounge available. Bar? Sometimes, but not in the small, family-run establishments.

            Meals were at set times. There would be a queue for the bathroom. The attitude of the staff was often at least aloof, as though they were doing us a favour by allowing us to give them a living. The guests were, for the most part, travelling salesmen and minor executives; suited chaps with small company cars.

            I remember a place in Essex. I had booked in advance and arrived at 6.30 to be greeted by a spinsterly harridan.

            “I have a reservation,” I said.

            “Name?”

            I told her.

            “You’ll be wanting dinner I suppose.”

            “Please.”

            “It’s at 7 pm sharp. Don’t be late.”

            Thus admonished I realised I had thirty minutes to change into something comfortable. Heaving my case up the two flights I found my room. I was about to remove my tie, then thought again. This was a formal place where suits and ties were to be demanded.

            The dining room had five tables, twenty chairs.  Two oldish men in tweed suits occupied the table in the window with its commanding view of the petrol station. Three other tables had one diner each.  I took the last free table. Four solos, one couple.

            As a remote clock struck seven the waitress came in. And what a girl!  Tall, short dress, tempting figure, blue-eyed real blonde of the Teutonic variety with the arrogance to match. Satisfied that we were all present she was ready to serve us. When I asked to see the menu she said,      “Souplambmitvegetablesicecreamandundcoffee,” all in one word over her departing left shoulder.

            Nobody wanted to break the silence. The old guys in the window stared at the view as if hoping it would change.

            When the Rhine Maiden brought our soup we whispered our thanks.

            It was still light when I finished my icecreamundcoffee.  The Rhine Maiden surged in to collect the last dishes. It was time for us to leave.  What to do with the rest of my evening?

            “Er – excuse me, where is the bar?” I asked the RM.

            “We don’t have a bar – there’s a public house a kilometre that way,” she pointed.

            “A TV room?”

            “On the first floor. It’s tuned in to BBC1”

            “The football’s on ITV,” I said bravely.

            “Herr Jenkins is already watching Panorama.”

            I decided to go for a walk in the rain.

            Breakfast was 8.30. Having beaten the bath queue I was first in the dining room. I chose the window table.

            Rhine Maiden wasn’t taking that.  She swept in.  “You’re sitting in Herr Jenkins’s, place,” she said. To my shame I apologised. In her moment of victory she finished me off with “That’s your table – over there.”  I took the five steps to my little fiefdom and sat down, just as Mr Jenkins and his friend took their place in the sun.

Cause of Death, by Peter Morford

For two miles the winding road to the village runs in a cutting beneath fields and woods. Locals who know the hazards drive slowly and carefully, noting  the few places  where two cars could 

pass each other.  In the early mornings you might see the road-kills; hedgehogs, rabbits, the occasional badger or fox and, sadly, someone’s pet cat. Soon, tyres and crows will have destroyed the evidence.

            One evening Judy Vance was driving her husband Harry from the station. They were chatting about his day’s work; her lunch with the W. I.

            “Look out,” he roared.  “Stop the car.”

            Before she had time to think, Judy braked, and felt a slight bump under the wheels. Harry was screaming now. There was a second lesser feeling from the rear wheels.  He screamed again and she saw him straining forward, his face red, choking, running his hands frantically over chest and head.

            She switched the engine off and tried to comfort him as he fell slowly forward, his head against the dashboard. He was too heavy for her to move him back in his seat. Knowing she could do nothing for him, she phoned 999 and waited.

            The ambulance was quick; four minutes.  Two paramedics soon had Harry on a stretcher. Judy watched in horror as they gave him an injection then reached for the defibrillator. Then the Police arrived and an officer put up the red triangles to protect the area then returned to get the car out of the way. Within five minutes the ambulance left, taking them both to the hospital.

            Harry was dead on arrival.

            The post-mortem report stated that Harry Vance had been a healthy man with no known medical problems and no cause of death could be established. In the black humour of his profession the pathologist said privately that Mr Vance was the healthiest corpse he had ever seen. Despite the reported screams and signs of deep distress he had suffered neither stroke nor heart attack.  All his vital organs were healthy and in fact, in another bout of medical humour, he was the ideal organ donor.

            The Inquest recorded “Death by unknown cause, and there were no suspicious circumstances.” The Coroner noted Mrs Vance’s statement that she had stopped the car to save an animal, that as she had been travelling at less than 20 mph the airbags had not deployed.

            Nobody could have told the Inquest that as the wheels crushed the rabbit Harry had felt his own pelvis snap and stomach implode under the infinite weight of the front wheel. Then an eternal second later the rear wheel pressed sternum against spine, bursting the lungs… and then his head, reduced to a disc.

            Empathy killed Harry Vance.

Nanobot Future, by Peter Morford

They had been watching the sun for many of their own revolutions and could already see the signs of its ultimate inflation. But for now it was well worth visiting.  There had been evidence of intelligent life on its third planet and it would be in the interests of science to take a closer look.

            There were the usual arguments about finance.  How, people asked, could the Ruling Party countenance the danger, effort and expense in an enterprise which could bring no benefit for generations to come?   How long would it take to travel the 7 light years?

        The boffins did the sums and made a concession.  “We’ll not send live souls, we’ll use micro-organic robots. They are expendable.”

            “How long?” the sceptic repeated.

            “At 10% of the speed of light – 70 years.  One way.”

            On Earth, if there had been any men on it, they would have said the date was AD10,301. But Man and all the mammals and marine creatures were long gone from a planet which only supported plant life south of Capricorn and north of Cancer belts.  The rest was hot enough to melt tallow.  From the trickle of water that had been the great oceans mountains rose 7 miles high.

            The arguments were over at last. The exploration was on.

            It wasn’t much of a spectacle. In the early days a space launch was dramatic and noisy. Crowds would watch the great tube hoist itself into the sky, belching fire, dropping bits off until it disappeared into the ether.

            But now, in AD10303, a very small craft took off with the dignity of an aircraft, went into low orbit and, well out of sight of its sponsors, released a cloud of microbots which would stream away, driven by the solar wind and cyclotron radiation. They would sail separately and only reunite at their destination. Earth.

            The trillions of ‘bots, tethered to their sails, orbited Earth for several weeks before choosing a landing place near the edge of the fertile region. They discarded their sails and gathered together on a flat plain.

            Only insects would have seen them. The bigger ones picked up individual microbots, found them indigestible and cast them out.

            The microbots formed  themselves into machines; diggers, chemical laboratories, transmission devices, vehicles for both land and air. 

            They started to dig in the hard ground, looking for evidence of intelligent life.

             They were still digging and moving and digging again in AD10506.  Nothing yet, they reported.

            Mission aborted.

Trading with the Arabs, by Peter Morford

“As I write this page it is 6 days since I saw The Son,” I emailed to my Chairman. He would know what I meant.

          When he was in England, The Son, Sheikh Ibn ben Mohammed, could have passed for a well-tanned Englishman, in his Saville Row suit, bowler hat and English manners. Six days ago he had been my dinner guest at the Savoy Grill. And, because he was drinking my wine we were on Ben and Jerry terms. To have discussed business during a meal would have been unmannerly.

          As we sipped his port he wanted my guidance on the matter of casinos and nightclubs and “Where are the prettiest women for the right price?”

          “I thought you’d been here often enough to know,” I said.  He lit his cigar.  The head waiter whispered into his ear and, with reluctance, we went out for a walk in the Embankment Gardens.

          At last it was time for business. “I am not authorized to sign the contract with your company,” he said. “My father, Crown Prince Frazel, has the final decision. We must meet again in Dihary. I will fly back tomorrow and request an audience for Monday next. Will ten o’clock suit you?”

           “Can I be sure that your father will keep the appointment?”

          He smiled. “Of course, Jerry. I will call him now – if you will excuse me,” he said as he took out his cell phone.

On Sunday afternoon I touched down at the peaceful Dihary Airport. From my suite I phoned Mohammed to invite him for a non-alcoholic drink. “I cannot come now, Mr Conway,” he said “but my father will see us at ten tomorrow as arranged. Please be punctual.”  The Sheikh was in his formal mode.

          The next morning I arrived in good time. A receptionist in a burkha took me to a waiting area and offered me coffee, cakes and a pile of English papers. 

          At ten nobody had called for me, I checked with the burkha. “Later, but soon,” she said.

          I returned to my computer, keeping in touch with my London Office.  At one o’clock the burkha came to me.  “You are invited to lunch. Follow me please.” She led me to a table by the window so that I could admire my most recent project; a ninety storey tower.  Our next building would bring even more glory to the Kingdom.   

          Meanwhile the Siduas have their own concept of time.  As buyers they always keep the seller waiting. I finished a leisurely meal and returned to my computer. At 4 o’clock Burkha came over to me and said, “Sheikh Mohammed and Crown Prince Frazel will see you in the morning at 10am.”  No apology.

          Nobody came from Tuesday to Friday, when the secretary told me, “Monday morning at 10…please.” Was there a smile in those dark eyes?

          All this time I had no word from Ben, sorry, Mohammed.  I had called his mobile – no connection- and his office was clearly instructed not to put me through.  Had we lost the contract? My Chairman was getting restive when he skyped me.

          “Don’t worry Sir George. They need this deal more than we do. All they’re doing is showing a bit of Muslim contempt for the infidel.  I’m patient because I’ll get it in the end,” I said.

On the second Monday morning I decided to give them some of their own medicine.  I arrived at 11 and was asked to wait. I settled down to coffee and The Times.

          At 12.45 Sheikh Mohammed came in, wearing a djellaba and  head-dress. We certainly were not on Ben and Gerry terms.

          “Good morning, Mr. Conway. The Crown Prince is ready to meet you and discuss the contract. We will go to the palace at 2 o’clock. You will be my guest for lunch.”

          Afterwards we drove to the palace. It was 2.45 but Mohammed was unconcerned.

          “My father will be here soon,” he said.

          “Perhaps,” I said as his entourage came into the room and a different burkha lady brought in more coffee. The old man stopped before me and bowed formally.

          “I am honoured to welcome you to my humble tent, Mr Conway. You will take coffee with me?