Beyond the call of duty, by Peter Morford

 Jack started to grumble as soon as he reached the station car-park. It was unusually full that dark and wet morning and he had leave his car a good 50 metres from the cash machine. Collar and umbrella up, he splashed his way to pay, scurried back to the car, put the ticket in the right place and ran to the entrance as his train drew up. Of course it was crowded and he had stand up for fifty minutes in the puddle from his umbrella. It was not the best start to his day.

He told himself that he’d had enough. It was time to retire. He meant it. He’d see Human Resources today. He could be a man of leisure doing what he couldn’t do in the last thirty years. He’d travel without being tied to a timetable; sleep-in with no 7.42 train to catch; dine earlier than the customary 8 pm; spend more time with Marian if she could be persuaded to stop teaching; visit their far-flung children and their families; learn the violin and read some of his books.

**

Now, five years later he’s more pushed than ever. Look at them now. It’s Sunday morning at the breakfast table. They’ve enjoyed their fruit salad, full English carbo-hydrated grill and fresh coffee. It’s already ten o’clock but who cares? It’s taken them an hour so far and they’ve barely started on the day’s crosswords.

“Before we get too involved we’d better check our diaries for the week,” she says.

Jack dutifully puts The Guardian aside and opens his week-to-view planner.

Marian puts on her glasses. “I have the Gentlewomen’s Guild Lunch tomorrow.”

“I’ll be at the PROBUS meeting – men only, and I’ve said that we’d both be at the Town Council meeting to fight the new development plans.”

By the time they got to the following Saturday with its Mayor’s Charity Dinner their diaries were full.

“I want to see the latest Spielberg film,” she said. “What about the following week?”

Just as bad. Jack has the bird-watching Club. Between them they have the Cricket Club dinner and dance; a school governors meeting; tree-planting for the rewilding project; a planned walk over Tuxford Hill. It goes on. Marian has a dental appointment and Jack really ought to see Doctor Pearson about his sciatica.

“Luckily, Speilberg is on at the Reel for three weeks,” she says. “What about the Thursday the 16 th ?”

“Looks good, let’s book it.” He opens his smartphone.

The house-phone buzzes. Marian hurries to answer. A few words and she’s back,

“Would you believe it, that was Martin Hawk. He wants us to join the Grey Squirrel and Pigeon Protection Society inaugural shindig on the 16th at 7 oclock.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said you’d be there but I had an appointment with Stephen.”

“Call him back and tell him I hate squirrels and pigeons and it would be beyond the call of duty for me to be involved.”

Freddie Freeloader, by Alex G.

 A cold sidewalk

paves the way to

a club:

Blue Note on 52nd.

Tunes lift from the paper

on the glassy updraught

from beneath his feet.

It's hot here in Birdland.

A shot stings the

cool as he lifts

his horn to play.

Where's Lester?

Shootin' up in the

road as the band 

stays silent.

No money tonight, Miles.

James's lists, by JVC

 James liked to compile lists. Ever since he was a schoolboy he'd carefully noted down places he'd visited, movies he'd seen, records he'd bought, books he'd read, letters he'd written and received, money he'd earned and spent; even notes on the weather. He never deleted a single email. His lists grew to fill many exercise books, and on occasion he'd look through them and reflect on how, like the great diarists of the past, he was compiling a valuable document of social history. Even in his final illness he was able to record, with a shaky hand, how he'd spent the past three days in hospital.

    After James died, his lists were all thrown away.

Information overload, by Peter Morford

We’re about to take off. Now, in a window seat with two empty places beside me I look forward to the flight. I’ll read my new Grisham until dinner; then I’ll spread myself out for a comfortable nap.

I reach into my brief case but there’s no book. Damn. I must have left it on the counter. Why would I do a daft thing like that? I’ll have to read my Kindle instead.

A man’s coming down the aisle, peering short-sightedly for the seat numbers; coming my way; stopping; checking the number again; nodding; saying; “We will be companions for the new few hours Mr Parsons.”

“Do I know you?” He’s putting his overcoat into the locker, placing his briefcase on the spare seat.

“No Mr Parsons, but I know you. You were born in Bradford on 10 th June 1970. You and Elaine have two children. Kenny – at Oxford, and little Julie."

“Are you spying on me?” I may sound petulant.

The plane’s moving. He buckles himself in. “I’m so sorry, let me introduce myself. My card.”

I read Mr Tom, Senior Partner of Tomdickenarry Progressive Headhunters Inc. There’s an address in Canary Wharf.

“That’s a crazy name,” I say.

“Not really. I’m Mr Tom, Director of European Office, Mr Dicken looks after Americas and Ari - Mr Aristotle- is EU. As I was about to say, we’re interested in you professionally. Your feud with the Managing Director is getting nasty. He wants you out; you’re fighting for a golden handshake and he’s doing his best to get your resignation. That’s why you’re doing these rather menial jobs for him. This trip to Dallas could be done by a junior but it keeps you out of the office. Next week you’re off to Tokyo. No wonder that Elaine is looking for companionship. But then you have a pretty-bird’s nest in Paris, when you can get there. Ah, drinks.”

The flight attendant is ready to take our order. Mr Tom orders Merlot. “And I think my friend will enjoy tonic with slice of lemon.”

“Certainly, Sir.” She leaves.

He speaks very softly. “I will have steak and salad but I know you will be happier with pasta and mineral water. Right?”

“So far.”

“I rescued your book in the Men’s Room. I also read Grisham.” I thanked him, wondering.

“You had £13,517 in your joint account last night. Your private account is down to 4398 euros – that’s the fund for Parisian rents. Your personal investment account has just received your BP dividend but perhaps you will sell.

I’m beginning to dislike this man.

“Elaine wants to move. Do you really want a penthouse in Battersea now that your mortgage is cleared?”

“You’ve been busy,” I say.

“Busy enough. We could be looking for a man like you, Mr Parsons. You’re fit, despite all that flying. You could be at the peak of your career with the right guidance. I have a proposition for you.” He puts down his glass and brings his alcoholic lips to my ear to whisper.

“But that’s illegal,” I say.

Mr Tom takes another sip of his wine and daintily wipes his mouth. “You will be amply compensated Mr Parsons.” 

Ravenna, by Peter Shilston

 

Little Theodora

dances in the circus

sleeps in the market

often cold and hungry

sells herself.

Everybody loves her

the soldiers and the sailors

and the market-traders

all say, "You can have a good time

with little Theodora."

But have patience, Theodora,

for soon you will become

a pious Empress

powerful and proud

and hated by everyone.

(The picture is a mosaic of the Empress Theodora, wife of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian I, in the basilica of S. Vitale, Ravenna)

Grief of a man, by Stephen Lovejoy

 

He dared the sun to rise the next morning. Even the giant ball of flaming gas quailed under the fiery heat of his rage. It had barely begun to peek over the horizon before it promptly changed its mind and descended, plunging the village into an eerie twilight that was to last for 80 days.

The villagers pierced the darkness with candles, giving the once sunny town a crypt-like ambience. The odd futile attempt was made at the continuation of an everyday life. These were soon abandoned, until every last person was joined with him in mournful vigil. They sat in silence and darkness measuring the time through the howls of rage that thundered out as the clocks struck each hour.

In the gaps between, they could hear nothing but destruction. The rats and pigeons had fled and the trees were clutching tightly to their leaves, lest they should attract the red eyes of his wrath. He destroyed the crib, the marital bed, the picture frames. But he couldn’t stop. With his bare hands, he tore down the entire house.

When the powder of the last shattered brick dropped from his hand, he let out one final cry. It reverberated through the village, bouncing off the walls and eaves, slicing through the villagers and plunging them into a cold sweat. His voice broke, never to be used again. A single tear dropped from his eye, then another. 

As the second tear graced the now barren ground, the sun peered tentatively above the horizon. It pulled itself up, slowly at first, but with growing confidence. The villagers stepped out, blinking, into the fresh hopeful light. As one, they turned their smarting eyes to the hill where the proud house had formerly stood. 

He was there, sat still as stone, eyes closed, a small sorrowful smile upon his lips.

[Copyright © Stephen Lovejoy]

Poem, by Brian Bilston