Happy Christmas to everyone!

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The Collector, by John Garland

 I didn't know Margaret at all well - she was only the friend of a friend, though after meeting her briefly at a party we'd kept in touch by letter - so I was distinctly surprised when, out of the blue, she invited me to spend a few days with her.

   I found her home to be an apartment in an old building not far from the cathedral, and I had to ring the communication bell to ask her to unlock the front door by remote control. She was on the second floor, and I opted to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift. I wondered, no for the first time, why she wanted to see me again after our very brief acquaintance. It did pass through my mind that it might be sexual, but when she opened the door it was immediately apparent that this could not be the case, since Margaret was clearly in poor health. She was stooped over a zimmer frame, and her face was grey and drawn with pain, which caused her to look much older than I remembered. I muttered some expressions of sympathy, and desire not to put her to any trouble, but she brushed these aside, and her voice was cheerful enough.
   "Oh, don't worry about me! I've done my back in, that's all!"
   "Can I help with anything?"
   "Well, yes; as a matter of fact you can. But we'll deal with that later. Come on in!"
   She led me into the hallway and indicated a door on the right. "You'll be in the spare room there. Dump your stuff while I get us some tea".

The spare room was odd. For a start, there was a strange, faint smell that I couldn't place. There was a door in the corner by the window, which I assumed was a cupboard, but when I tried to open it to hang my coat there, I found it locked. For want of anywhere better, I draped the coat over a chair. One wall was entirely taken up with row upon row of small wooden boxes. In defiance of all the good manners expected of a guest, I attempted to open one or two which also proved to be locked. It was all very puzzling.
   I made my way to the living-room, and soon Margaret appeared pushing a trolley of tea-things. We sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while, until I finally summoned up the courage to make reference to the mysterious boxes.
    "Oh yes", she said, "My collection!"
   She didn't say collection of what.
   "I'm very proud of my collection. There's nothing like it in the world. I guard it with my life. I've never killed for it, yet. Not deliberately, anyway".
   "Not yet?" I couldn't help but ask. "Not deliberately?"
   "Well, it was his fault. He tried to break into one of my boxes. And I wasn't having that. And it was an accident really, but I knew people would think I'd killed him deliberately, so I hid the body in the cupboard. That's how I did my back in. So now I can't move him, so I'm wanting you to help me lug him downstairs and into my car, and then we'll drive out and dump him somewhere. You'll help me, won't you?"
   The woman was clearly raving mad. I felt I had no option but to humour her.
   "Yes, I'll help you", I said. "I'll just go to the loo, and then we'll take a look at him".

But of course I didn't go to the loo: instead I grabbed my things from the spare room and fled the scene. When I'd driven a good distance away, I thought to myself: I wonder if there really was a body in the cupboard? And an even nastier thought: suppose there was, and detectives found my fingerprints all over the room; what then?

That was some time ago. I haven't heard from the police yet, but I still don't sleep easily.

Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 WATER

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or

Even just an ice cube to slide down your

Supple spine and – burning –

Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside

Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,

But I did not raise my hand

To knock.

I answered, though.

Anyway.

I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we

Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.

And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,

Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then

Your feet could not find the bottom, and

Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.

And we swam perhaps a bit too

Close.

So.

I am still holding the pitcher, and

The door is still open,

And I am unquenched

But hesitate to drink.

In the Gardens, by Peter Shilston

 (I recently rediscovered this story, which I wrote a great many years ago!})

I left the crowds milling around near the entrance, picnicking on the lawns or lying by the flowerbeds in the warm sun, and wandered off into the glades. After a while I came upon a long avenue of great chestnuts in bloom, all scarlet and white, and at the end stood the Crimson Pagoda. I walked towards it and saw it was very tall. But it was not what I had come to see.

There were fewer people in this part of the gardens, and they were mostly middle-aged or elderly. Some were walking about with a purposeful air, but most were sitting silent and alone on benches under the trees. I approached one greyheaded man, and when he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence, coughed discreetly to attract his attention.

"Excuse me", I ventured apologetically, "Could you tell me the way to the Queen's House, please?"

He glanced up. There was an annoyed expression on his aquiline face. "Over there through the trees", he said, making a vague gesture with his left hand, and then closed his eyes to indicate the interview was over. Somewhat daunted by this abrupt reception, I walked quickly away.

There was a path that seemed to run in the direction indicated, but it proved to be very serpentine and confusing. No-one had bothered to putup signposts in this part of the gardens. After a while I became convinced that the path was doubling back on itself, so I abandoned it and tried to cut across country. The grass was long and damp. Bluebells carpeted the shady places and there were snowy islands of cow-parsley. Huge clumps of holly and rhododendron loomed up to block a straight path. After I had wandered for some time I caught sight of the Crimson Pagoda, and realised I must have walked in a circle.

I felt hot and tired as well as irritated by my mistake, but I did not intend to be defeated so easily. A glance at my watch told me that it was only ten minutes past three, and I did not need to leave the gardens for quite some time yet.

I tried asking the way again, this time from an old lady with a stick, but her reply was not very helpful. Now my travels took me into untended thickets of willow, where I soon became hopelessly disorientated; then I found my way barred by dense hawthorn all strewn with may-flowers. There was still no sign of the Queen's House. I wished I had taken the trouble to map of the gardens before setting out. Soon the familiar outline of the Crimson pagoda came into view again.

I lost track of how many times I wandered around in these meaningless circles, and after a while I was no longer certain I could even find my way back to the entrance. My feet were burning and I badly needed a rest. There was a secluded wooden bench beneath a gigantic copper beech. The leaves cast dappled shadows and the air was very still. I saw down, stretched out my legs, turned my face skywards and closed my eyes. The Queen's House would just have to wait .......

I snapped awake suddenly and looked at my watch. It still said ten past three and had plainly stopped, but this caused me no great alarm. Even if I was completely lost, I would be rescued eventually. The park-keeper must surely come round and usher everyone out before locking up for the night. Meanwhile the day was still warm, and it was very pleasant just to sit and let the scents of spring waft over me. When I had rested I could resume my search, if I wished. What was so special about seeing the Queen's House anyway? No doubt it was worth a visit, but it would be empty: everyone knew it was many years since the Queen had lived there .....
The sun hung motionless in the sky and the warm afternoon lasted for ever .....

An unwelcome noise disturbed my reverie. It was a young fellow asking his way to the Queen's House. His face, his tone of voice, his whole manner irritated me. "Over there through the trees", I said, waving my arm at random. "You can't miss it" I was glad to be rid of him.

Writing a picaresque hero, by Peter Shilston

 As I understand it, a picaresque novel is one where the hero travels through many different locations and encounters a number of assorted characters, some of whom are distinctly odd.

The hero of such a novel is often a rather indistinct figure by comparison In order to play his part, it is usual for him to be young and naive. He should be good-looking and friendly, to enable him to meet all the various people, but inclined to be over-trusting of them. This, rather than any malice or criminality on his part, will often cause him to get into trouble, though he will somehow escape the worst punishment for his inadvertant crimes. He often gives the impression of just letting things happen to him, rather than initiating the action. Eventually he will get the girl and have good prospects of living happily ever after. 

Classic cases of this kind of hero include Voltaire's Candide, the central figures of many 18th century and Dickensian novels, and more recently most of Evelyn Waugh's heroes.

My own attempt at such a novel can be found here:-

 

A famous person I have met, by Peter Morford

Like everyone else, I’ve seen many famous people in theatres, concert halls, trains, planes and sports events. I knew them but they never knew me.

The truth is I’ve never MET a famous person. It’s a problem of definition. MEETING involves a proper face- to- face contact and conversation which may be memorable to both parties. Being ten feet away from the King as he shakes hands with the pavement crowd is not meeting – it’s seeing.

Imagine you’re in the departure lounge. The person sharing your table looks familiar. Actor, politician or even a “celebrity”? We have a brief conversation about the unreasonable weather. When we board the plane, he turns left and I head tail-wards. He will not remember me – why should he? Three days later I place him as a cop in a tv film.

An old friend of mine - I’ll call him Joe - has a different view. He travels all over the place and on his return he’s full of traveller’s tales. Unlike me, he talks to strangers. He’s a collector of conversations. If he were writing this piece he would run out of space and you’d lose your patience. He’s a parody of the classic name-dropper and I could imagine that after a trip to Rome he could say, “As I said to my friend Pope Leo...” I knew that the Pontiff was addressing the crowded faithful from his balcony.

Archbishops and Cabinet Ministers; actors and musicians; best-selling writers and a surprising number of people who are perhaps temporarily in the news are all fair game for the man who wants to show what a great life he leads.

There are some jobs where the humble nonentity will, if briefly, have a privileged access to the famous. Journalists, doctors and waiters in posh restaurants do it all the time.

............................................................................................................................

Years ago the BBC Home Service ran a weekly chat-show. The Knightsbridge March accompanied the sounds of London, costers, church bells and the flower girl offering luverly violets. The announcer in clipped BBC accent says “We stop the mighty roar of London’s traffic to see who is Mr Sam Weller’s distinguished passenger this evening?”

A hoarse cockney voice, all rhyming slang and dropped aitches says something like, “Good evening listeners. Cor, the traffic’s hammed terday. I bin ‘ere with me engine runnin’ for five minutes and nuffin on the meter. Ah, we’re moving at larst – an’ there’s a cove waving at me. Where to Guv?”

A posh voice intones, “The Globe Theata-a-r.”

“Nice to ‘ave you aboard, Sir Ralph. I ‘drove Sir John yesterday.”

“Ah, Gielgud. What an actor. Tonight I’m Caesar and Sir John will have the pleasure of stabbing me. Julius Caesar at the Globe until the 22 nd of July.”

“Well Sir Ralph, it’s bin a pleasure talking to yer.”

The march plays again and it fades for the cabbie to say. “Yer never know ‘oo yer goin’ to meet in this trade. A lady’s waving me down. See yer next Sat’day.”

A Brief History of Modern Art in Poetry, by Brian Bilston