Van

Someone who is wild about road vehicles is sometimes known as a "petrolhead". Well, that's not me. I have very limited interest in cars or indeed any other motor vehicles. To me they are just functional machines that serve particular purposes such as transporting people safely from A to B.

However, for a few years I have noticed a decrepit VW van often parked round the corner from us and it makes me smile whenever I see it. The prefix "A" on the registration plate tells me that it has been around for forty years. In the intervening time it looks like it has never been washed, polished or repaired.

It may look like a wreck but its longevity probably means that it is an excellent advertisement for the Volkswagen company. Lord know how many miles it has done or where it has been. If it has covered a fairly normal 10,000 miles a year, that means it must have done about 400,000 miles!

And why has it got a sticker in a side window announcing, "I Love Sewage"? That's a very odd thing to love!

I will be a little sad if that very familiar van drives away and never comes back. It has such character!

P.S. I have "scheduled" the publication of  this blogpost as we are now far away in Filey by the sea. Back on Thursday.

Ending

And so, as some of you may be relieved to hear,  we come to the final section of "The Lost Schoolgirl". If you have not read the other three parts you will find them in previous blogposts dated the 4th, 7th & 9th of November.

Over breakfast, Liam admitted what had happened during the night. He had been trying to play down the entire thing - whatever that thing might have been. It all ran counter to his normally logical mind.

"Well thank God!" said Annalise. "I was starting to think it was all in my imagination."

Later, as they were clearing up leaves at the front, John the vicar appeared - taking his little dog Taffy for a walk. He stopped for a friendly chat over the old school wall but their conversation soon turned to all the weird stuff and to Florence Foster.

"You say you felt as though someone was sitting on your bed?"

To John, the couple appeared apprehensive and possibly in need of help. He had been thinking about them ever since they met up in the pub that night.

"Something isn't right. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe I can help."

"What? How? How could you help John?" asked Annalise.

"Well. Not me exactly but a colleague of mine. We were at Cambridge together. He's based at Lincoln Cathedral and he plays a special role within the diocese."

"What? What does he do?"

John was slightly evasive. "He... he settles things and he... he performs exorcisms."

Liam and Annalise were gobsmacked.

"Exorcisms? You can't be serious. I thought that was only in films," said Liam.

"I am being perfectly serious," said John as a now yelping Taffy pulled at his lead. A grey squirrel was still scampering  up the closest sycamore.

Weird stuff continued to happen in the house. Footsteps on the stairs. Someone or something in their bedroom. Pale light that seemed to emanate from the old mirror. Dreams mingled strangely with reality. In the distance, a small girl running somewhere.

A few days later a red "Golf" pulled up in front of the old school. A heavy fellow in a grey overcoat came to the door. He was carrying an old attache case. It was Canon Thomas Prendergast from Lincoln. He had arrived at the appointed time just as John promised he would.

Annalise prepared three mugs of tea and they sat in the kitchen for over half an hour. He wanted to know everything and there was lots of nodding as if he did not find any of it unusual or surprising.

He rested his chin on his entwined knuckles. "I think you have got a lost soul here. Someone who  in death has been unable to find peace. It is very likely to be the schoolgirl that John mentioned on the phone. She may simply be  reaching out to you for assistance. All she wants is some kind of spiritual resolution."

The expressions on the faces of the new owners of the old school spelt horror

Canon Prendergast smiled benignly. "Oh please don't worry. She won't hurt you. Remember she is just  a lost schoolgirl. I have dealt with several such incidents in the past twenty years. And the good news is that I believe I can help you."

It was agreed that he would sleep in the house that night. "Just give me a couple of blankets. I'll be happy on the sofa. Don't suppose I will get much sleep anyway. She will need to show me where her mortal remains may be found. Come with me if you wish. I will be glad of the company."

With Canon Prendergast as their guest, they dined in "The Bull's Head" again. It was "Curry Night". Old Farmer Foster was hunched at the bar once more but he studiously ignored them - unless of course he was watching them in the mirror behind the bar.

Back home, Liam and Annalise went up to bed as the Canon snuggled down on the sofa.

They were woken in the early hours by Thomas Prendergast's raised voice. He seemed to be outside the bedroom on the landing and he was chanting verses in Latin as medieval monks may have done in bygone times. Liam unlatched the door and there was the clergyman in his cassock and surplus. He seemed to be addressing the mirror - like some crazy man speaking to his television. He was holding a hand-sized brass cross.

Annalise was right behind her husband now. Prendergast  said, "Come with me!" and he led them down the stairs. It was as if he was following someone but there was nobody there - and there was nothing to see either. They grabbed their coats from near the front door and quickly donned their wellington boots. 

Canon Prendergast was already outside, signalling them to hurry along the lane, under the sycamores.

As luck would have it, it was a crisp moonlit night. They followed an old wooden fingerpost out towards the marshes, stumbling over tussocks of rough grass and through muddy puddles left by recent rains. Less than half a mile from the old school, Prendergast stopped suddenly in his tracks. Later, he would say that the body of Florence Foster would be found close to that place. Indeed, that is where the police team would find her remains the following month. Back in the 1920s, she had simply been sucked into those treacherous murky waters and that was why she never came home.

Standing there by the edge of the marsh, Canon Prendergast uttered more words in Latin as he held up his brass cross to the stars above. They thought they heard a girl's voice though it might have been a sheep or a wading bird. And he said her name three times, "Florence! Florence!Florence!" then all was still and quiet.

The three of them headed back to the house where the Canon soon removed his priestly robes. They would need to go in the wash.

"She has gone now," he reassured them as they drank hot chocolates in the kitchen. "She won't be coming back. She has found her peace at last."

"We can't thank you enough Thomas!" gushed Annalise.

And she was right because from that day henceforth, the old school was never troubled by strange things and those powerful moments of trepidation.

The coroner's report revealed no evidence of foul play. But why Florence wandered down that path to the marshes we will almost certainly never know.

Along with a few other villagers and two police officers, Annalise and Liam attended Florence Foster's very belated burial in St Agnes's churchyard. Standing right next to them was the old farmer from the pub, Florence's nephew. He threw a handful of earth over the coffin. The soil had come from Fieldhouse Farm. "Dust to dust".

She is with her family now.  Plenty of Fosters are buried there where snowdrops appear in the early springtime. The words "At Peace" are carved into her headstone.

Gloom

For several reasons, I have found this past week to be particularly gloomy.

First of all, the weather here in northern England has been gloomy. Still air without rain and not especially cold but a blanket of anticyclonic  cloud has hung heavy across the land with no sight of blue sky or the golden orb.

On Wednesday, it emerged that America had made a monumental mistake by choosing the odious Felonious J. Trump as their forty seventh president. It was the same day that our daughter, Frances, lost her job.

Regular readers of this blog will recall that her boss was killed in a tragic motorcycle accident back in June. Unsurprisingly, his previously thriving start-up company has faltered and the business is pulling in its horns in an effort to survive. Sometimes the drive and energy of an entrepreneurial leader just cannot be replaced. In the course of time, I expect the company will fold.

This is no comfort to Frances. The job paid really well and now, with a young family to raise, she must go back to the drawing board. I am sure that something will come up but in the interim there will be understandable anxiety. Also, with her husband Stewart, she had planned and largely paid for a family holiday to Western Australia in February. His brother lives there. If you knew you were going to be jobless you wouldn't plan such a trip.

They are over in Lanzarote in The Canaries just now so I don't even get to see the little granddaughters who always bring sunshine aplenty with them.

To add to the gloom, I watched my beloved Hull City playing West Bromwich Albion on television this afternoon. Though I think the Tigers were the better team, we lost by two goals to one.  Oh, woe is me!

A month ago, I knew almost nothing about blood pressure but since I discovered I have high blood pressure I have learnt a lot about it. It makes me quite glum to admit that I will be taking antihypertension medication for the rest of my life. To check on my progress, I will be seeing a doctor again tomorrow. I will go armed with my blood pressure readings - taken at home over the last seven days.

The doctor will probably advise certain lifestyle changes but I am pleased to say that I had already significantly reduced my intake of alcohol. I went out to the pub quiz and drank beer this evening but I hadn't consumed any beer since last Sunday.

One bright spot on the immediate horizon is that Shirley and I will be driving to the coast on Tuesday. I have booked two nights in a small apartment in the little Yorkshire seaside town of Filey. It is a place I have known and liked all my life and for November the weather forecast seems okay. Certainly less gloomy. It will be nice to get away - if only for a short while.

Third

This is the third part of "The Lost Schoolgirl" which is currently taking the blogosphere by storm. Over seventeen people have read it! Sometimes a story has a life of its own and grows as it desires. So it is with "The Lost Schoolgirl" The first part, "Unfinished" is here. The second part, "Continuing" is here.  And  it's still not over!  There's more to come... Charming! There's really no call for all that groaning!

Liam swallowed hard, "You saw a girl at a window?"

"It was just a dream", said Annalise.

"But," her husband hesitated, "I dreamt the same."

"What?"

"A girl at a window. Just staring at me. She was about nine or ten."

"No way!" Annalise exclaimed. "That's spooky!"

Settling in to a new home is commonly a gradual process. Everything needs its place. They beavered away all through that morning, neither of them mentioning their mutual dream nor the girl in the window. Surely, it was mere co-incidence. Wasn't it?

The sycamores rocked in the wind and the heavens above became a gruesome grey - like smelted iron. Zigzags of lightning whipped steadily advancing thunder clouds when all of a sudden the power went out. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon but it felt as though nighttime had arrived early.

Annalise needed the lavatory so she crept upstairs through the shadowy light. Forgetting about the replacement mirror on the landing, she was suddenly  startled by her own reflection. It was as if someone else was looking back at her. And as lightning flashed again, she thought she saw somebody hurrying away in the background. Where were they going? Her imagination was running wild. 

Liam tried to be the big guy, an advocate for logic as he tried to comfort his new wife. But as days passed the mystery increased. He woke to footsteps on the stairs and once when he passed the mirror he also thought he had just  seen someone running away but for a while he kept this secret from Annalise.

On Saturday night in "The Bull's Head", the rustic old man with bloodshot eyes was sitting at the bar once again, hunched over a half empty glass of ale. He did not acknowledge them. However, they were soon in conversation with the local vicar who lived next to the village's  medieval parish church. A sixty something, well-spoken and ebullient chap from whom the light of The Lord seemed to shine forth. He wore his dog collar with pride.

"Call me John," he smiled.

He asked how they were settling in at the old school and talked enthusiastically about Saint Agnes's and its sister churches in North Lincolnshire. Apparently John was assigned to them all.  He quickly won Annalise's confidence and when Liam went up to the bar for more drinks, she said, "John, can I ask you something about the old school?"

"Sure. Fire away," he smiled.

It was a long shot she knew.

"Did something... Did something happen there?"

"What do you mean?"

"A girl. Did a girl die there?"

She had read a lot of mystery novels.

John's smile evaporated. "Not that I know of. The school closed in 1998 and I was the very  last Chair of Governors. No skeletons in the cupboards that I know of."

She alluded to their strange experiences, mutual dreams and the notion of a girl running away in the mirror. Liam tried to lighten the anxiety but John was all ears.

"Just a minute now. Just a minute. I remember now. Old Mrs Jordan who lived in that little white cottage next to the green - she told me about a farm girl who disappeared in the twenties. She set off for school one morning but never got there. The police came from Grimsby. There was a big search but nothing was found. Folk in the village assumed she had been abducted. She never came home. I hadn't thought about that in years"

Annalise shuddered. "What was she called?"

"I can't remember," said John.

In the very next moment, the old fellow at the bar slowly turned around. He had obviously been listening in or "earwigging" as they say around there.

"She were called Florence. She were me auntie. Me dad's ownly sister. She still roams these parts."

With that, he dismounted the bar stool, swallowed the dregs of his pint and put on his brown tweed jacket as he prepared to leave the pub.

"Thank you Mr Foster," said John.

Annalise and Liam sat open-mouthed, momentarily stunned into silence.

Back home, Annalise wanted to go to bed early. She asked Liam to accompany her up the stairs. There was nothing to see in the mirror - just their reflections. 

Sitting in the kitchen, Liam plugged in his laptop and was soon googling around trying to find references to Florence Foster. He tried several search requests but nothing useful surfaced. There were plenty of other Florence Fosters in the world but not the one he was after.

It was time for bed but weirdly something was wrong. The mirror at the top of the stairs seemed to be glowing or perhaps it was just in his head. Was it just reflecting moonlight? With each stair the pale luminescence seemed to increase and maybe this was also in his head but a kind of mist appeared like dry ice in a film studio. He wanted to get back down the stairs but something drove him up.  Passing the mirror, he briefly thought he saw that same little figure running away. A girl with pigtails. She turned to look back.

"What's wrong?" asked Annalise. "You look like you have seen a ghost."

Liam chose not to reply. After visiting their little shower room, he snuggled up close to Annalise. Her hair smelt good. That night they turned the sidelight off for they felt safe in each others' arms.

Long before dawn, someone or some thing was sitting on the end of their bed - on Liam's side. He woke up abruptly. It was pitch dark. He stayed stock still. Then the weight lifted and he sensed that same someone leaving the bedroom. The door creaked open and he peered out to the landing. Was that person in front of the mirror? It was hard to tell. The bedroom was as cold as a refrigerator.

Quiztime

 

It's "Quiztime" once again and this week the theme is islands. Ten questions as usual and the answers will be found in the comments section that follows this blogpost.

⦿

1. What is the name of the island state that lies off the south east coast of Australia?

2. With which country does The Dominican Republic share the island of Hispaniola?

3. What is the capital of the island nation of Iceland?

4. On which Pacific island could you see these stone heads or moai?  

5. Antananarivo is the capital of a big island nation off the east coast of Africa but what is that island called?

6. What is the name of the former prison island in San Francisco Bay?

7. Which island nation in Asia was once known as Ceylon?

8. By land area, what is the biggest island in The Mediterranean Sea?

(a) Malta (b) Sardinia (c) Sicily (d) Cyprus

9. How many islands are there in the British Isles (i.e. they all remain islands during the highest tides) ?

(a) 44 (b) 440 (c) 4400 (d) 444,000

10. On which Japanese island is Tokyo located?

(a) Hokkaido (b) Honshu (c) Shikoku (d) Kyushu

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After that, I hope your brain doesn't hurt too much. How did you do?

Continuing

Continuing "The Lost Schoolgirl". The first chapter appeared here on Monday of this week.

During the night, the wind picked up. Liam woke in the early hours as his wife's rhythmical deep breathing assured him that she was still soundly asleep. Those sycamores along the lane shook and a loose slate rattled as gusts from the west wind whined through the fan in their en suite bathroom.

In the morning, he woke to the aroma of grilled bacon. Annalise was busy in the kitchen and there was a pot of fresh coffee on the hob. Liam hugged her.

"Where does that go?" she asked pointing to the green door  beside the stairs.

"The cellar I think. Don't you remember, the estate agent bloke couldn't find a key for it?"

"Oh yeah".

After breakfast, they unpacked several boxes. Clothes. Kitchen items, Bric-a-brac. Books. There were empty boxes everywhere and Annalise wanted rid of them. She had found an old key on a hook in the pantry and wondered if it might be for the green door. She tried it and wonder of wonders, the lock turned.

It was pitch dark down the cellar stairs but the light switch did not work so Liam ambled out to the car and returned with the torch he always carried in the Porsche's boot. He hadn't used it in ages. As Annalise clattered around with her saucepans, Liam cautiously descended into the inky blackness. He heard a scuttling sound below - rodents he suspected but there was no sign of  anything when he reached the bottom. 

There were old paint cans, tea chests, an ancient tailor's dummy that gave him a start and under hessian potato sacks, he was amazed to discover a Victorian mirror in a wooden frame. His torch began to flicker as the batteries were clearly weak.

"Annie! Come and look at this!", he yelled and soon she was beside him.

"A perfect replacement!" she said, grinning about the fortuitous discovery.

"I'll put it up later," smiled Liam as the flickering ltorchight threatened to peter out entirely.

"I don't like it down here," she said, spotting the tailor's dummy and headed back up to the kitchen.

As Annalise requested, after cursory  cleaning, the old mirror was put up at the top of the stairs.  There was an electric socket below it. It would be a good place to dry or style her hair. Several ivy leaves were carved into the frame. At first, Liam had not noticed this decorative touch. He thought the style was "arts and crafts".

That night they went to "The Bull's Head" in the village for a meat pie dinner and a couple of drinks. An old man who had been sitting on a high stool near the bar came over to them before going home. His eyes were bloodshot and his attire was rustic.

"Are you t'couple who bought t'old school?"

"Yes. Yes we are!" said Annalise with a friendly smile.

But the old man didn't smile back. He put his brown tweed jacket on and turned round to look at them before he left.

"That was a bit weird," said Liam and they laughed a little nervously before heading home.

Liam slept better the second night but dreams succeeded each other upon his mind's cinema screen. They were vivid and all-consuming. He woke up sweating but as with most dreams, the tide of morning seemed to rapidly wash away most of the details. All that he was left with was the pale face of an unsmiling girl staring at him through a small, square window.

Annalise was already in the shower. Liam donned his dressing gown and headed downstairs to prepare breakfast, pausing briefly at the mirror from the cellar. He checked out his ruffled hair and felt a draught of cold air from below. The weather was worsening outside. Rain lashed the front windows and the sky was heavy with steely grey clouds floundering east towards the North Sea coast.

At the foot of the stairs, he noticed the green cellar door was ajar. Perhaps it was  where that draught had come from. He slammed it then found a bag of almond croissants in the pantry. The coffee pot was already bubbling when Annalise came down. Affectionately, she pecked his forehead and ruffled his hair. 

Soon, sipping hot Colombian coffee, Annalise tried to recall the dream she had had. She was not somebody who normally remembered dreams. They slipped away whenever she was stirring from sleep but this morning  she said, "There was this old  country house, covered with ivy and high up a  small window, behind which a girl was standing. She was as white as snow and she stared at me, expressionless. She had something to say but I can't remember what."

To be continued...

Defeat

"Democrats probably could have found a more saleable candidate — one distanced from Biden who had built a national base by winning votes in primaries. But the 81-year-old president stubbornly refused to acknowledge his physical and cognitive decline and didn’t bow out of the race until it was too late for the party to conduct a healthy replacement process." - George Skelton "The Los Angeles Times" November 3rd 2024

⦿

When Joe Biden eventually resigned from the presidential race on July 21st, it was far too late for The Democratic Party to go through the usual procedures to choose a new candidate. Instead, for expediency, it had to be the Vice President who had been Mr Biden's personal pick ahead of the 2020 election. 

In spite of achieving her candidacy by default, Kamala Harris came across as capable, articulate, unifying and trustworthy. She fought a good fight. It is a shame that we shall never know how her presidency might have been. She was always going to be associated with the incumbent's record even though she had simply been his loyal lieutenant.

In the eyes of thousands of centre and right of centre white Americans there were three other things that undoubtedly counted against her - she was a Californian woman of colour. Though liberally minded citizens might have been ready for such a president, the traditional centre and centre right were demonstrably not.

Now we have to endure that boorish, spiteful, aging egotist back in The White House with his cartoonish view of the world. What further damage will he cause? And I don't know if you agree with me or not but a big chunk of the blame for what has happened lies with the fellow at the top of this post and possibly the woman below. Witnessing his decline firsthand, did she urge her husband to quit the race months earlier? We may never know.

Jill Biden

Cigarettes

These cigarette ads from yesteryear are shocking. Perhaps one day our descendants will be equally shocked when they look at present day ads for betting and gambling organisations. I hope so.

Imagine sending your loved ones packs of cigarettes for Christmas! That's like sending them time bombs or vials of deadly viruses. But of course back then they didn't know better did they?

Actually, "they" - the tobacco companies did know better - but they suppressed the health information as they wanted to keep the money rolling in. Often, through different forms of bribery, they were secretly in league with leading politicians.

I confess that I smoked cigarettes from 1974 to 1988 - fourteen years and for most of those years it was twenty a day. Looking back, I can hardly believe how stupid I was to take up that disgusting habit. However, I haven't smoked a single cigarette in the last thirty six years and that makes me feel rather better about myself.

This is how I managed to give up. It was the summer of 1988 and our second baby was on her way. I had failed to give up in 1984 - the year that our Ian was born but this time I was utterly determined.

I took my newly purchased golden pack of "Benson and Hedges" out to our dustbin and I broke up all the cigarettes inside - crushing them to bits then I ripped up the golden box and tossed that in the bin too. I rubbed my hands and all the tobacco was gone. Then I went inside and washed my hands in the kitchen sink.

In that instant I had become a non-smoker once again.  I was not playing around, not pretending, not playing mind games with myself.  It was over and as I say, I have not had a puff  on a cigarette since. In fact, I have grown to be revolted by the foul stench of cigarette smoke. Horrible!

Unfinished

Checking out "Posts" in this blog's admin and management area, I discovered that I had seventy draft posts to sort through. None of them were complete blogposts and most were just early versions of successfully published posts. However, I also stumbled across the beginnings of a story. It has the feel of a spooky tale.

Soon after I retired from full time teaching, I joined a project that saw me visiting three challenging Sheffield secondary schools - working with individual pupils to boost their English skills.  Unsurprisingly, it was called The One-to-One Project.

One of children I worked with was a thirteen year old boy called Colby. Led by his ideas and word choices, we began to craft a scary story together. For some technical reason that I don't recall, we used a "new post" page from this blog to save the writing during development. 

Working in tandem, he was stimulated by the process but the story itself was never finished. It was slow going and he was absent from school on two or three occasions. Today, Colby will be twenty seven years old and of course I have no idea how his life is now nor how he did in his GCSE exams.

I remember that the title he suggested was "The Lost Schoolgirl". Here with a few amendments is what we wrote and because it is incomplete, I just might bring it to some sort of conclusion this week. Any ideas?

⦿

"I think it's next right", said Annalise, studying the satnav on her smartphone..

"Okay, you mean just here?" asked Liam, turning the steering wheel of their silver Porsche.

Up ahead, beyond soaring sycamores, they could see the old school. It had been empty for over twenty years.

Liam parked up next to the wrought iron gateway. They both got out and checked the external appearance of what they planned would become their new home. It would be their first place together.

"All I can see in my head is the beautiful house that this will be become," beamed Annalise.

They unlocked the main front door. It was a heavy oak door with a black iron ring for a handle. The old hinges creaked as they walked in. Immediately, they noticed how cold it was.

"Don't worry darling, we will buy the best central heating that money will buy," smiled Liam, putting his arm around his new wife. "And there will be a log burner in the lounge just as you dreamed."

Annalise smiled right into his eyes just as she had done at their wedding ceremony in  Healing.

Five weeks later, Liam and Annalise came back to the house to check how their decorators were doing. The lounge had been painted dark purple and there were only a few finishing touches left. The recommended central heating installers from Grimsby had been and gone. And as promised there was now a good-sized log burner in the lounge fireplace

"Wow! It's nearly ready for us to move in darling!" grinned Annalise, hugging her husband.

Indeed, the following week, Liam and Annalise moved in. She instructed the removal men where to put things. As two of these burly fellows were carrying a large, beech-framed mirror upstairs, one of them stumbled and the hefty mirror somersaulted down the stairs, shattering only when it reached the bottom. Annalise was mortified but Liam promised to buy her another even though one might ask - how can you replace a  a family heirloom?

"I'm really sorry!" said the head removal man. "We never usually break  owt!"

After the removal men had gone, Liam and Annalise locked up and drove to the closest supermarket. They bought loads of food to fill their new fridge freezer, spending over £300. By the time they got back to the old school, it was dusk. A flock of crows descended on the bare sycamores near the house and cawed at each other.

Liam and Annalise lugged the supermarket bags into the house and half-filled the pantry and fridge freezer with their provisions. They were both kind of tired after their long day and Liam's back was aching. 

After microwave meals and a helping of television, they decided to enjoy an early night. In the morning, they would get on with the unpacking and try to find homes for everything.

Songtime

"My Back Pages" was written by Bob Dylan and first appeared on his 1964 "Another Side of Bob Dylan"  album. It has often been said that the song is about Dylan waving goodbye to his former self  - a minstrel who preached and supported protest movements. Now a different artist is emerging - wiser and less naive - not interested in changing the world. I find the song rather obtuse and there's a sense in which Dylan is playing with words and images, enjoying the way they collide rather than setting out a clear agenda. Here the song is performed by The Byrds who recorded at least twenty Dylan songs. Only two of the original five members of that legendary band are still alive today - Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman...

Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Countless with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
We'll meet on edges, soon, said I
Proud 'neath heated brow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now

Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth
Rip down all hate, I screamed
Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now

In a soldier's stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I'd become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
Sisters fled by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now

Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now

My guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now

Messages

As a girl, Mum was a dancer 

This morning, I was sorting through my cache of hotmail e-mails that go back seventeen years. I came across this  message that I sent to my brother Paul on September 2nd, 2007. At that time, our mother Doreen was residing in a residential home in Beverley and reaching the end of her life.  She died just eleven days later at the age of eighty six.

⦿

Dear Paul,

We all went over to see mum in Beverley today - me, Shirley, Ian and Frances. We had Sunday lunch in "The Rose and Crown" - it scored a measly five out of ten on my edibility gauge.

Mum was asleep when we got to her room - lying on her new bed which has sides and electronic vibration through a super-duper hospital mattress. This is for her painful bed sores and especially her painful feet. She's probably drugged up too. I doubt that she is ever out of that bed now and wonder if she will ever make it to her chair again. Her "Sunday Express" was unread like Saturday's "Daily Express". She lives in a kind of slumber - fading away with only occasional flashes of her old spirit.

As on previous visits she asked me how old she is. She had no recollection of Katie's visit in mid-August and was surprised that Shirley and I had been to France. We bought her a little souvenir in Lourdes but getting it out of the little paper bag seemed like a test in the Krypton Factor. In the end we had to get it out for her and she stared for a moment at the back of it as if not realising where the front of it was. I put a new picture on her wall of some bluebell woods and rather sweetly she said it reminded her of her childhood in Rawmarsh when she would walk to her bluebell wood past the "fever hospital".

I asked her about "When you have passed away" and she confirmed - no religion - just a simple ceremony at the crematorium. I think I am going to get in touch with the British Humanist Society who will conduct funeral ceremonies now. Maybe one of their reps might visit mum in Westwood Park and get to know her a little before the inevitable end.

She was very thirsty when we were there and seemed to appreciate the non-alcoholic drinks we plied her with. I don't think the staff have time to persuade and cajole residents to eat and drink. 

It's very nearly twenty eight years since Dad died - Sept 14th 1979. If there were a heaven I would think that Mum will be meeting up with him again before this month is out. She's so weak and thin and sleepy.

Neil

⦿

On the day that she died I was at work and what happened that day still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Apparently, the residential home phoned the school where I worked at ten in the morning. They urgently wanted to tell me that Mum was fading fast and perhaps I might like to get over to Beverley to be with her. Beverley is about an hour and twenty minutes by car from Sheffield. Mum died at around two thirty that day. However, I never got the phone message until four o'clock when I just happened to be at the school reception desk.

Judith, the lead receptionist told me she had received the phone message  but I did not pick up my classroom phone when she tried my number. I said, "I am not always in my classroom. I may have been elsewhere! Why didn't you send someone to find me?"  Judith apologised most profusely but it was far too late. Mum was already dead.

Afterwards, I thought of all the times I had "gone the extra mile" for that school and  this seemed to be  my  reward - denied the opportunity to be at my mother's bedside when  she died. The manager of Westwood Park  residential home  later told me that she had stressed to Judith that it was an important call and wondered why I hadn't phoned back.

One

Sweet little Margot will be one year old tomorrow morning. I took this picture of her on Wednesday of this week. She is sitting in our hallway with her coat on and her cute little cow slippers. She was ready to go out.

For the past four months, Shirley and I have looked after Margot every Wednesday. She arrives at around eight thirty and we take her home around five o'clock. It has been a privilege to care for her and to witness her steady development. She is a gorgeous child and as I hold her in my arms, I often find myself saying to her, "You're so lovely!"

She now crawls like an Olympic champion and in the last couple of weeks she has learnt how to pull herself up at the coffee table or the sofa or the  first two steps of the staircase. She sparkles proudly each time.

To be honest, Shirley takes the lead when we care for the little girl. I am just the second in command, like a reserve force. Shirley is a brilliant carer, well-organised and on top of basic things like feeding and laundry. It reminds me of what a good mother she was back in the eighties when our own children were born.

Of course, Margot has everything she needs but for her birthday, we have bought her  this cuddly monkey made entirely from recycled materials:-

Plus a musical book called "If You're Happy and You Know It" and a "Baby Einstein" Guitar  with buttons she can press to make music.

Just this morning, her other grandparents returned to England from a six week sojourn in Western Australia. They will be back in Sheffield tomorrow afternoon to celebrate Margot's first birthday. Let us hope that they have not bought her an identical monkey, a musical book and a "Baby Einstein" guitar.