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

 

The other bag, by Peter Shilston

 Harry stepped off the train onto the busy platform. He was wearing a blue waterproof, although it was a cloudless day, and he carried a green sports bag. He asked where he could find someone at the station who dealt with general security and similar matters. He was shown into the inspector’s office.

   “I’ve got a problem”, he announced, “Or rather, two problems. Firstly, I’m afraid I got on the wrong train, so I don’t have the right ticket. I should have left the train earlier, but it was very crowded and I was tired, and I’m not familiar with this route. So I’d be most grateful if you could help me get a ticket to return back home so I can start again.”

   He produced the ticket. The inspector looked at it and reassured Harry that this would not cause any difficulty.

  “But the other’s rather more complicated”. Hary continued, “You see, this isn’t my bag, and I don’t know what to do with it. My bag looks just the same, it's the same make, but it doesn’t have this little padlock on the zip. Also, mine wasn’t as heavy. I left my bag on the rack at the end of the carriage, and I picked this one up when we reached the station, thinking it was mine. I don’t know what had happened: I didn’t see any bag like mine. Perhaps someone else took my bag by mistake at an earlier stop, and left their own: I don’t know. But what should I do now?”

    He  asked if his bag had contained anything valuable.

  “Oh, just clothes and shoes and a few bits and pieces: nothing of any importance. But it’s the annoyance, and it makes me feel such a fool, picking up the wrong bag. I’m sorry to be a nuisance. Can you help?”

  The inspector suggested Harry should provide his name and address, so he could be contacted if his own bag was handed in somewhere.  Harry told him, as he had been instructed, “I’m James Harklid; that’s H-a-r-k-l-i-d, and I live at 14, Merrial Street, Reading…” he found he had forgotten the postcode he was supposed to have memorised, but he remembered that Reading began with RG-something, so he made the rest up and added an improvised mobile phone number and email address. He was much relieved when the inspector noted them down without question.

   Harry then asked, “Look, do you mind if I nip off to the loo? I’ll be back in a minute!” He was directed to a public toilet further along the platform.

   Once in the cubicle, Harry pulled from his pocket a tightly rolled bag, into which he stowed his waterproof, then he produced a black baseball cap which he placed on his head. Confident that he would not be recognised, he left the station by handing in a legitimate train ticket to that town, and without much difficulty identified the car that was ready to take him away. He gave it a wide berth and walked on.

  He was greatly relieved to have made his escape, and although it was no longer any concern of his, he mused vaguely on what might be found in the bag he had contrived to leave. Certainly it was heavy, and felt like it held a number of different large objects. Would it eventually be claimed, and by whom? Or would it remain for weeks, perhaps months, before people decided to open it? And then they might get the surprise of their lives ….. those who survived.  

 

…………………………………………………

 

Alternative ending

 

   Harry took his seat in the getaway car and explained his actions.

   “I sensed right from the start that the operation had somehow been compromised. That’s why I bought the two different tickets – and of course I was careful to buy them on different days, and paid with cash, not a card. I was certain I was being watched on the train, and I recognised two men at the barrier, waiting to intercept me. But after I changed clothes, they didn’t spot me when I left; and anyway I didn’t have the bag. Oh, and I think the inspector might perhaps be one of ours; you’d better check with higher up. Anyway, I’ve got the goods this far, so it’s up to you and higher up what to do now.”

   He felt greatly relieved, and silently swore never again not to be involved in such a perilous transaction. It never occurred to him that his companions might view his actions in a more critical light.

Gathering, by Nina Bagley

 

Just, by Peter Morford

 

We, Sis and I, sheltered from the hot sun and played cards. We’d been playing for an hour when- “What are you doing?” Eddie had found us.

“Playing Rummy.”

“What’s that?”

“A clever card game,” she said, with the haughtiness of the first-born.

“Can I play?”

“No. You’re too young.”

“I’m 9” he said proudly. Why can’t I play?”

He looked over my shoulder for ten minutes and moved to watch her hand. After half an hour he said, “I know how it’s done. “Now can I play?”

Sis looked at me and winked. “OK”

She served the cards. Eddie fanned them ready for his turn. He won. What’s worse, he kept on winning. Sis and I frowned at each other. She asked, “Did Mom teach you?”

“No. I just watched you. It’s a simple game.”

Mom called us for lunch. Eddie boasted that he’d beaten two experts. When Dad came in from work Mom told him about it.

The heat wave was followed by torrential rain. We played on. He beat us again. I thought he was too happy with himself and his new confidence could be irritating. 

A few days later Dad gave him a book called Scarne on Cards. Eddie let us read it while he

practised the tricks and manipulation skills.

In that autumn term Dad took us to whist drives. Eddie became a minor celebrity when he always seemed to be on the winning side. I remember when he got his new computer for Christmas and he spent more time in his room doing …what? Then few weeks later came a large Amazon package addressed to Dad. When he opened it he found the £500 bike which Eddie had ordered and paid for.

 Mom and Dad were shocked. Where did he get the money? The cat was out of the bag when Eddie admitted he’d won in a Zoom poker competition, using Dad’s date of birth to open account. Dad realised Eddie was growing up fast. He had to be stopped before the police banged on our door.

I know now that once set up on his course it took more than a computer ban to get him under control. He had money; lots of it. As he told me later, in a year of on-line poker and Bridge he had salted away £40,000 in a safe place. He had bought another computer but its whereabouts were secret.

2025

Ten years have passed.

And now, we’re at Cicely’s graduation ceremony. Dad says to me, “You’re next, Simon. You’ll get your degree in two years if you can stay the course. And you, Eddie, you should be here if you work at your A Levels.”

“Sorry Dad, it’s not my scene. Count your blessings. You won’t have to pay my fees. I can even find you a few grand when you need it.”

“It’s not a just world,” Dad sighed.