Word Square Exercise

WORDSQUARE

Dave's writing group was set a wordsquare exercise, these are the words he got.

Purple  bitter    sulphur   anger

So he wrote the piece below which he called 'UNBLOCKING THE SINK' because he was trying do undo a bad bout of writer's block, here goes ....

Bitter and anger go together ….

In ‘Chance Encounter’, the first (and so far only) lengthy piece of fiction I’ve had published in a national magazine (Writing Magazine), the ‘hero’ (for want of a better word) is both bitter and angry following his perceived desertion / betrayal by his former partner (Amy) and the collapse of the company he’s worked for all his working life, leaving him alone and unemployed. He’s bitter about what’s happened and he feels anger towards Amy and just about everyone else. He finds a kind of redemption in the end though. The ending gives hope even if it’s unresolved.

The opening passage of ‘Chance Encounter’ also has another kind of bitter in it, the hero’s sitting in the Buerre Louise pub sinking his ‘second pint of bitter from some obscure Cornish Brewery’ before setting out to find ‘a fish supper at the Judd St Chippy’.

And I’ve just finished reading the latest ‘Rebus’ – ‘Better be the Devil’ – Rankin back to form. And bitter features a lot in Rebus stories, though for most of this latest one he’s on the wagon, fearing the results of hospital tests, the threatened diagnosis from which hangs like the Sword of Damocles over the novel. 

But what of sulphur? The smell of sulphur is the smell of farts, the smell of Trump but that’s been overworked just now.

Then I remember the springs at Saturnia in Tuscany with their warm, bubbling sulphurous waters and the overflow running down the hill into pools where trippers bathed for free. But I’m not sure whether the smell came from underground minerals or from the used disposable nappies floating in the stream.

So my mind turns to the Devil, the smell of sulphur is the smell of the pits of Hell.

And what of purple – well there’s UKIP – the purple rosettes, the purple lettering on a yellow background.

Maybe I should be thinking about writing a detective story. And now I think of it, the opening passage of ‘Chance Encounter’ has its homage to Chandler’s great detective, when the hero mutters as he leaves the pub ‘down these mean streets a man must walk’,

My detective could be a bitter, angry man who’s drawn to Tuscany for some reason. But I worry, aren’t all detectives in fiction, bitter, angry men with relationship and drink problems? And didn’t Val McDermid have a story in which her detective goes to Tuscany. Is this getting derivative?

In my story my bitter angry detective with relationship issues and a drink problem will find himself (or even herself) travelling to this small castle in Tuscany (Val d’Orcia?) pursuing a trail of deceit and treachery surrounding a nationally recognised sort of UKIP figure (with possibly satanic overtones – clouds of sulphurous odours surrounding him – shades of Dennis Wheatley or even the Da Vinci code) With a pivotal scene in the gardens at Saturnia around the sulphur springs.

Yes that’s what to write, with a bit of purple prose, but will I write it?

Watch this space!

APOLOGIES

Apologies that we haven't been posting anything for a month or so.

One of us hasn't been writing much and the other has concentrated on entries to a couple of competitions.

We hope (since next week is half-term and writing group and Italian lessons are taking a break) to post something next week.

Hang on in there, please!

Dave J / Robert E

REUNION - by Robert Eldon

4th March at  8.00 a.m.

Ben finishes his breakfast, washes up and then sits in his chair by the window with a second cup of coffee and finishes the ‘Guardian’ crossword. 

That completed, he limps out into the back garden, shivering in the cold morning air. The limp, like the scars on his chest, is a souvenir of his last heart operation. He refills the bird feeders, remembering to scatter a little seed near the bushes for the dunnocks, before slipping back into the warmth of the house, locking the door behind him. Back in his chair, he watches through the window as a wren creeps out from its bolt-hole in the climbing hydrangea to grab a few seeds. A robin soon chases it back into hiding.

There’s a rattle as the mail comes through the letterbox and lands with a thud on the mat in the hallway.

‘It’ll just be adverts,’ Ben grumbles.

There’s a white A5 envelope amongst the usual pile of catalogues and circulars. 

‘University of Oldbury, another plea for donations.’

But it isn’t, it’s a letter from Morris Hirschfeld. He’s writing to all their old university course. It’s the 40th anniversary of their graduation, and he’s organising a reunion at Oldbury.  There’s a website and an email address.

Ben takes the letter into his study and sits wondering whether he should join them. He’s thinking about someone who he really wishes he could see again.  

‘Hilary and I just drifted together. Nothing intense, sort of friends. We were both still living at home and travelling in every day, so we missed out on a lot of the groups that formed in halls and student flats. We became “study buddies” as they call them in the States. I guess she found the notes I wrote up each night – three colours of ink in hard-backed notebooks – pretty useful. Well most of the time that’s how it was, on her side at least.

After graduation I got funding to do my PhD at Leamwick, and Hilary joined the marketing department of a multi-national down in London, a high-flying career beckoned for her. But we kept in touch.

Then one Tuesday morning, I got a call from her. She said she was supervising some market research exercise near me - suggested we met up. I invited her to stay at my flat. I gave her the bed, slept on the sofa.

She stayed on for the weekend. On the Sunday morning, I walked into the bathroom, and there she stood, just a pair of knickers on - still remember those knickers very well, sort of white with little perforations all over them – like Tetley teabags – I think they called them Artex knickers. No - that can’t be right - Artex is what some idiot had used on the ceiling of the cottage I bought when I retired, bugger to get off. 

I got flustered, stammered out ‘I’m sorry’, closed the door and dived back into the hallway. She came out after me, stood there facing me with her hands on her hips, just stood there smiling.

“Do you know how long I’ve been stood there, quietly waiting for you to barge in and surprise me?” she said. “You really are hopeless.”

You’d think I’d remember her breasts, how she looked, wouldn’t you, but it’s the knickers - that’s what I remember.

That evening I drove her to the railway station, we kissed in the car park, then she took the train back to London.

Back at the flat, the scent of her perfume still lingered on my pillow.

And that was the last time I saw Hilary Blake.’

Ben logs in on his laptop and emails Morris.

7th September 4.00 p.m.

Ben’s in his kitchen when the pain hits him. The iron bands round his chest, the sweating, the feeling of nausea, Ben knows the symptoms only too well. He presses the pre-set number on his phone to summon help.

‘Can’t be ill now,’ he thinks, ‘it’s the reunion next week.’

Half-an-hour later the paramedics arrive, at the same time as his brother, Jim.

‘They’re going to take you in for the night, just to be on the safe side,’ says Jim.

8th September 8.00 p.m.

It’s visiting time in the cardio ward. Jim’s sat at Ben’s bedside. He looks concerned.

‘Well, looks like I’ll still be going to that reunion,’ says Ben, ‘looking forward to that.’

Jim says nothing.

13th September 8.00 a.m.

Ben’s standing on Platform 1 at Blackedge station. It’s the end of the line. It’s a ten minute walk from Ben’s house, but he can’t remember exactly how he got here. The platform’s thronged with people. To Ben’s eyes they seem grey and faded. They ignore Ben. A girl standing near him, shivers and pulls her coat tighter around her, even though the morning sun is already warming the day.

Ben sings to himself, ‘I’m standing on the railway station, got a ticket for my destination.... Paul Simon composed that on Warrington Bank Quay, or was it Widnes?’

He boards the train for Oldbury, he’s heading for the reunion at the University.

13th September 9.15 a.m.

Ben stares out of the window as the aged multiple-unit emerges from the mist that seems to have enveloped it since they left Blackedge an hour or so before. Now it’s ambling through a townscape of scrap-yards and derelict factories, clattering its way towards his destination. He’s still thinking about the girl he hadn’t seen for nearly forty years.

Ben looks round the carriage. The seats around him are empty. ‘So much for all those stories in the ‘Evening Post’ about overcrowding and cattle truck conditions,’ he thinks.

13th September at 9.30 a.m.

Ben disembarks onto an empty platform at the new re-designed University station. He doesn’t know which way to go. Everything’s changed.

Suddenly another train comes in. It’s absolutely jam-packed. Students and office workers in bright, modern clothing pile off the train and start up the platform. Somehow the tide seems to swirl round Ben and he finds himself being swept along towards the exit.

There’s a sign pointing to “University Campus”, so Ben heads in that direction. He crosses a road and finds himself in a car park. All his memories tell him that there should be an old brick building in front of him, but there’s nothing there, just an empty grassed space and a signpost pointing to ‘Library / Cafe’.

‘I’m still too early, maybe I’d better get a coffee.’

So he wanders off across the grass.

As he reaches the Library a woman, a girl really, steps out towards him.

She looks so familiar, he thinks for a moment that…. But she can’t be.

‘Hello, Ben,’ she says.

Hilary?’ he says, ‘Is that really you?’

And they link arms and walk together across the campus. The young woman in her leather jacket and tight jeans and the old man dressed in his best formal suit.

‘You don’t look a day older than when I waved you off on that train at Leamwick station,’ says Ben.

Hilary smiles. ‘You look a bit more worn, I fear. Have the years been hard?’

‘Not really,’ says Ben, ‘there’s just been a lot of them. I used to have hair, and why am I dressed like this? It’s a reunion, not a funeral.’

‘So you’re here for the reunion, then?’ asks Hilary.

‘Yes, you too?’

 ‘In a way.’

Ten minutes later they’re standing in the shadows of the Senate House, looking across the grassy square, watching a group of middle-aged men – their former classmates – who’ve gathered around Morris Hirschfeld on the steps of the sixties glass and concrete block that is now the Maths building. 

‘Shall we join them?’ asks Ben.

‘I don’t think we can,’ says Hilary.

‘So what do we do?’

‘Maybe we should just go back to Leamwick, take up where we left off.’

‘Could we do that?’

Meanwhile the group are chatting amongst themselves.

Morris Hirschfeld is holding a clipboard with a list of names.

‘I think that’s all of us,’ he says.

‘What about Ben and Hilary,’ asks another, ‘Do you know anything about them, are they coming?’

Morris puts his clipboard under his arm and sighs.

‘No they won’t be coming. I suppose we had to expect in forty years we’d lose someone. It’s amazing in a way the rest of us are all here.’

‘Ben was due to be here today. But he died last week, heart attack. Today’s the day of his funeral. His brother emailed me. He said Ben’s last words were that he was really looking forward to seeing Hilary again. He must have been out of it by then. He knew about her, he was the one who told me.’

The group falls silent. Then, ‘why what happened to Hilary?’

‘She was killed in a rail accident, not long after graduation,’ says Morris, ‘apparently she’d spent the weekend with Ben in Leamwick and was heading back to London. I only found out myself a few months ago when Ben emailed to say he’d come to the reunion. First time I’d heard from him in 40 years.’

Morris pulls himself together, ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘we’ve got to get on. Let’s get started on this tour of the new campus.’ He waves to a young woman standing by the Maths Building doors, ‘here’s our guide.’

Meanwhile, in another time and place, in a flat in Leamwick, a long-haired young man is stepping out of the mist and sleepily beginning to turn the handle of the bathroom door.

The Promised (Threatened?) Cartoon

GROKEN CHAPTER FIVE - ROBERT ELDON

This is as far as Groken goes at the moment - Robert should resume soon (we hope!)

Nils Joansen is sat in his study at home, when his wife enters.

‘You have a visitor,’ she says, and she ushers Freya Krol into the room.

‘One of the Huldegarde folk accosted me in the street today. He said he was the son of my mother’s sister. Is it true then, what mother has always said about Anna, that she, well, you know…. with that man from Huldegarde?’

‘Whether what your mother alleges is or is not true is not for me to debate,’ says Nils. ‘I think the man in question must be Bron Turner, who is indeed, or so I believe, the son of Anna Turner, Anna Frandsen. As such he is the legal heir to the Skarafjord properties, both Alvanaes and Huldegarde, and technically my client.’

‘Alvanaes is rightfully my mother’s, she was the elder granddaughter, it should be hers,’ says Freya.

‘But old Frandsen disinherited your mother when she left Alvanaes against his wishes, he left everything to Anna, his will is very clear.’

‘He made that will under threats from Anna and her Huldegarde lover, father will get it overturned soon, I know.’

‘Your father is about 25 years too late to mount a challenge, though I’m sure it fits with his plans to retake the Huldegarde site from Mr Youngman.’

‘Eric says that you should never have given Youngman leave to start his project, and what’s more he says that if you meet with this Bron it will be the worst for you.’

‘I do not take kindly to threats,’ says Joansen, ‘not even from someone as pretty as you. Tell your brother to watch his step.’

He shows Freya out through a door that leads into his garden and then along a path to the street. Once he’s back in his study, Mrs Joansen comes in and says ‘tonight seems to be your night for being visited by attractive young women, maybe I should worry!’

A slim girl with long black hair follows her into the room. Mrs Joansen leaves and Nils and the girl sit opposite each other across Joansen’s desk.

‘Well, Mr Joansen,’ says the girl, ‘you will see Bron Turner in the morning. In fact here is his mobile number, call him now and make the appointment.’

‘The Krols have just told me I mustn’t see him,’ says Nils.

The girl looks amused, ‘Mr Joansen, the AM Foundation has a considerable interest in the success of New Huldegarde and also in Mr Turner. We would not wish our plans to be impeded in any way. You will see Bron Turner in the morning.’

‘Your foundation has made a considerable investment in the project …..’

‘Considerable to you, perhaps….. Do you not think it interesting though?’

 ‘What’s interesting?’

‘That just a couple of days after Anna Turner told you that she and her husband intended to travel here, they were both killed in that car crash. Just a coincidence I suppose? By the way, how did Anna Turner inform you of her intention to visit the islands?’

‘A letter, to my office, Mrs Turner was a somewhat old-fashioned woman in some ways.’

‘And did you mention her plans to anyone?’

‘Other than your colleagues, you mean?’

He picks up his ‘phone and dials the number she has given him.

‘Hello,’ says a voice at the other end, ‘Bron Turner.’

‘Mr Turner, my name is Nils Joansen. I believe we should meet. Can you come to my house tomorrow morning at 8.00 a.m? It’s Karl Johansgatan 14, it’s easy to find.’

The girl smiles at the old man. ‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘I’ll be on my way.’

The next morning Bron parks his motorcycle outside the lawyer’s house, and walks up to the front door. Mrs Joansen lets him in and shows him into Nils’ study.

‘Let me bring you some coffee,’ she smiles, ‘and maybe a few buns would be welcome?’

Bron smiles back, friendly receptions have been few and far between on this trip.

Nils arrives and the two sit down. Mrs Joansen brings in coffee and rolls and then slips away.

‘So, you are Anna Frandsen’s son. How may I help you?’ says Nils.

‘I know that you were my mother’s lawyer and that you wrote to my father about my great grandfather’s estate.’

‘There are those who would dispute that Adam Turner was your father.…’

‘What do you mean, who says that?’

‘Sigyn Krol for one, she believes that you are the child of a liaison between your mother and a Huldegarde man. If I may say, without offence, your appearance does support that belief.’

Bron is silent.

Nils continues, ‘Sigyn believes that your mother and her lover forced her grandfather to draw up a will disinheriting Sigyn and leaving all to Anna. If she could get proof, then she and her husband would challenge your right to the land in our courts. Birger wants the land for his tourism business and Sigyn, well, Sigyn is a Frandsen and Alvanaes runs through their veins like blood.’

‘How after all this time can they believe they can get proof?’ asks Bron.

‘As I said, your appearance supports the story of a lover amongst the Hidden Folk. And were it ever possible to locate and question your, what is the phrase, biological father, they could go a long way. Birger Krol is a powerful man, and many would benefit, financially, were his plans to be successful.’

‘Adam Turner was my father, I will fight any man who says otherwise.’

‘Then you will certainly have to fight Eric Krol, for he will seek you out and try to provoke you.
But we move too fast, let’s drink our coffee and sit a moment, there must be much you want to ask me about your inheritance, about the estate.’   

An hour later, Bron leaves the lawyer’s house. As he reaches his bike, his arm is caught by a burly middle-aged man.

‘Birger Krol,’ says the man, ‘I’m your uncle, as I’m sure you know. Can we have a few words?’

Birger and Bron make their way to a nearby café. ‘If I have much more coffee and eat any more buns on this trip I’m going to be high as a kite and as fat as a pig,’ thinks Bron.

‘You’ve met my daughter, Freya I believe?’ says Birger.

‘Yes, she definitely didn’t like the idea I was a relative,’ says Bron.

‘It’s the Hidden Folk thing, my wife told them stories when they were small. Her feelings towards the Folk, whilst understandable and widely shared are, perhaps, a little extreme.’

‘I believe she has certain doubts about my parentage,’ says Bron.

‘I hate to speak ill of the dead,’ says Birger, ‘but my wife has always believed that your mother was party to some arrangement between her grandfather and the Folk. She believes that Anna was promised to one of the Folk, a man called Machndoch, to be his wife. My wife believes Machndoch and your mother forced old Frandsen to sign a will that disinherited her from the Frandsen lands. She is very bitter, even after all these years.’

‘And you, Mr Krol, what do you believe?’

‘Your appearance suggests that you are indeed the result of a liaison with one of the Folk. But I am not one to hold to old prejudices. You may be of the Folk but you are also half Frandsen, and for the Frandsens the land at Alvanaes has always been the most important thing, almost a sacred trust. And I’m sure you’ll want to maintain that tradition.

Work with me. I have money and influence, I have big plans for that land, together we could achieve much. Think about it, I’ll be in touch.’

And with that Birger Krol signals to a waiting Mercedes that sweeps him off into the town.

Bron rides back to Rachel’s house where he’d spent the previous night. She is standing by a motorcycle very like his own, but a shiny blue. She is tying her camping equipment onto the pillion.

‘Going somewhere?’ asks Bron.

‘I thought I’d join you at Alvanaes for a few days,’ says Rachel. ‘You can tell me everything that’s happened to you this morning. But first I think we ought to go out to Huldegarde. Word on the street is that Eric Krol and his friends are planning to pay Mr Youngman a visit this evening, maybe we should see what transpires. It promises to be ……. interesting.’

STILL WATERS - David Jackson

This is David's attempt at a murder story

Lying on my bed looking up at the ceiling, I think back to that morning when the Police Land Rover pulled up outside my house. I sat quietly alongside the CID sergeant as we drove up the moorland tracks, exchanging just a few brief words as we walked the last half mile to the tarn.

I could see the blue plastic sheet at the water’s edge and the group of forensics, uniforms and paramedics standing around it. They turned to watch as the sergeant and I made the long climb from the forest track below.
As we stood by the pool, a uniformed constable pulled back the sheet covering her.
I looked down at the body of my wife, then looked up at the sergeant.
‘Looks like she came up here for a swim….,’ he began. Then he noticed my expression, ‘Do you know her?’ he asked.
‘It’s my wife,’ I replied, ‘we’ve been separated years, but …..’
The sergeant looked stunned, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.  I’m really sorry, sir, it must be a shock…..’
I looked at him, ‘Could you give me a moment alone? Just a moment.’

Five minutes later I re-joined the others.

The Forensics Officer broke the silence, ‘Looks straightforward, she got cramp in the cold water, got into trouble. No-one to help, she drowned. There’s been a spate of these accidents in this long hot spell.  We can bag her up now. I’ll do the PM this afternoon, we’ll be more certain then. You’ll have my report tomorrow.’
 ‘What about this, Sarge?’ asked one of the uniforms, holding up an old rubber ground-sheet. The sergeant hardly glanced at it, ‘just something left by a camper, I expect.’
‘Come on, Tom,’ I said to the sergeant, ‘we can leave this to the uniforms. I need a drink.’
Tom shouted, ‘Chief Inspector says to wrap it up. We’re off.’
The day passed, there were routines to follow, paperwork to do. The rest of the station gave me lots of space, whether from consideration or superstition, I don’t know. I left early, and made my way back to the stone built terrace on the edge of town where I’ve lived for the past ten years. 

Her letter had come a week or so before, another demand, another £1,000, ‘pay up or else’. It was the final straw.

So I headed up to the moors and hid myself on the edge of a small copse. From there I finally spotted her bright red anorak, as she walked briskly along the path, heading for the mountain tarn. 
I got there before her, concealing myself in the rocks above the pool.  
Standing by the water’s edge, she dropped her rucksack, shed her coat and removed her clothing. I watched as she entered the cold clear water and dived beneath the surface.
I moved silently to the far side of the pool, then spread out the old rubber mat I’d used as a groundsheet in my wild camping days. I stripped to my trunks and sat down on the mat and waited.
When she surfaced, she saw me sitting there.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Same as you. Want me to leave?’
‘Suit yourself, stay or go, doesn’t bother me,’ she said. And she floated off on her back, her face away from me, ignoring my presence.
I lowered myself into the water, drawing the groundsheet after me, and swam towards her. I threw the sheet over her head and forced her under the surface. I held her under until she stopped struggling. Then I released her, and gently steered the body out towards the centre of the tarn. The groundsheet was a neat touch, no tell-tale bruising on her body for forensics to find.
Drying myself at the edge of the pool, the skies began to darken and as I reached my car it began to rain.

Within an hour I was back in the office, chatting to my colleagues, taking phone calls, the start of a normal day.

I had to kill her. She’d never have given me a divorce. I’d never have been free. And all that money she demanded every month. I just couldn’t pay any more. Not with….

It was a week before a hiker discovered the body.

The day after Tom and I made that climb to the tarn, I sat on my old worn sofa. ‘It’s over,’ I thought, ‘at last it’s over’.

Then came the knock at the door…

The End of Allotted

Some of you may know that the Slug Society's  "Allotted" exhibition in neo:gallery27 in Bolton's Market Place closed after the session on Sunday July 24^th.

The exhibition had been very well received and very well supported and the exhibitors had hoped to fulfil the advertised run until August 7th. However the owners of the Market Place have now found paying tenants for the space occupied by the exhibition and those tenants needed the space as quickly as possible.

We could unfortunately do nothing to save the exhibition, neo simply got a message on Thursday morning (July 21st)  telling them that Moorgarth had to have the gallery cleared by Friday 29th July.

Moorgarth have generously provided a new space for the neo:gallery (also on the 1st floor of the Market Place) so the future of neo:artists' exhibition programme is secure - they will restart with the Print Prize exhibition in August..

However there was no provision available for the continuation of the Slug Society's "Allotted" exhibition, so there was no alternative but to take it down.

Naturally the Slug Society (as a group) are very disappointed that the show has been closed before its planned date. We had known there was a risk that new tenants might need the space but had hoped to keep going until at least the end of the month. A great deal of effort went into planning the show, getting funding, getting pre-publicity and creating the two publications (the catalogue and the writers' booklet). At least some members of the group now feel somewhat disillusioned at not being able to see the project brought to its planned conclusion.

We hope that opportunities will be found to show (and potentially sell) at least some of the artists' works in other venues at other times. David is keeping the blog going for a few more weeks – there may be a few more ‘Thoughts’ and he hopes that the projected 'review' of the exhibition can still be completed and published.

The Association of Bolton Allotment Societies are hoping that they may be able to offer the artists and writers some space for the writers' booklets and maybe a few prints at the Bolton Onion, Leek and Vegetable Show on August 20th but for now  from all concerned with the exhibition it's thank you and goodbye. 

We hope that the Slug Society has a future, exactly what form it will take and whether we as writers will be part of it, will be up to the members once they have time to take stock.

In the meantime, we 'd like to thank everyone who helped bring "Allotted" into existence especially our sponsors The Bolton Arts Forum and the National Allotments Gardens Trust and most of all, all those people who came along to see the exhibition, talk to us, leave comments and more... (especially those who read the ‘Gallery Thoughts’) THANK YOU

David Jackson / Robert Eldon

July 26^th 2016

DAVID WINS PRIZE!!!!

Emryst Press writer David Jackson was awarded first prize and £100 in 'Writers' Forum's Flash Comp for an 'amusing travel piece'.

You can see the piece 'Welcome to Bolton' in Writers' Forum Issue #178 (the August 2016 issue)

The Gelati Man

We're taking part in the "Allotted" exhibition at Bolton's Market Place.

The photo below shows David handing out free ice cream at the launch - we think it's the fact it was free that makes him look so cheerful!

We're also writing pieces called "Gallery Thoughts" - these go up on the wall at the end of the Gallery every Friday morning - so far there have been three pieces - one joint piece and two by Robert - Dave is writing a review / introduction piece (with photos!) this week as well.

You can read our offerings at www.allotted2016.blogspot.co.uk

More new stuff on here soon!

BEFORE - DAVID JACKSON

This is a poem about the early days of retirement. It's about the loss of identity that comes with no longer having a job title, with no longer having a role, maybe even no longer having a purpose or a use.

Clearing my desk out, I find a cache
Of old office diaries, dumped in a drawer
Cloth-covered chroniclers, telling the tale
Of the man that I was before

Randomly reading them, scanning the record
Of journeys, and meetings and calls to be made
Of all those things that so filled out each day,
For the man that I was before,

The long days in Dublin, Geneva and Riga
The party in Edinburgh, each Christmas time
That marked out the milestones, and set out the seasons,
For the man that I was before

Bundling the volumes, taking them out
To the recycling bin that stands by the gate
Ruefully, relinquishing the last traces of
That man that I was before



  

GROKEN CHAPTER FOUR - ROBERT ELDON

The Land Rover follows Bron out onto the highway that leads to the capital.

The man in the passenger seat takes out his mobile ‘phone and dials.

Back by the fjord, the watcher takes the call.
‘He’s heading for the capital. What should we do?’

‘Is the tracker on that bike working?’

‘Yes’

‘Then pull back. He’ll be going to see Joansen, get someone outside Joansen’s office ready for when he arrives. We do have the office bugged I take it?’

‘We do indeed.’

The watcher settles back. It’s good that Bron’s going to see Joansen. Rationally, that should have been his first port of call on the islands. But rationality is not a trait he often shows. Still better late than never. The watcher looks across the fjord. Soon Bron will go to Huldegarde. The watcher needs a plan.

An hour later, Bron disembarks from the small, rattling ferry that’s brought him from the Thörsvik island. Although the travel distance was small, the change is major. Here in the capital, he’s in a vibrant, thriving town. There are banks and shops and hotels, everything he might expect. He rides down to the waterfront and parks the bike next to the old harbour wall. Sitting on the wall looking at the sleek white shape of the ferry to the mainland, he realises he never got Joansen’s address from the land agent. Still, bustling though it is, it is a small town, how many lawyers called Joansen can there be? He heads for the Post Office to find a directory. Thirty minutes later he realises that just about every lawyer in the town is called Joansen.

He rings Arnesen’s office, the secretary answers.

‘It’s Bron Turner,’ he says, ‘can you give me Joansen the lawyer’s address please?’

 'Oh, dear,’ she sneers, ‘don’t you have it? I’ll see if I can find it.’

 After what seems to Bron a ridiculously long wait, she finally comes back.

‘You want old Mr Joansen, Nils. He’s at 9, Hafnsgatan.’

‘Thank ….’ starts Bron but she’s already cut the connection.

‘What’s eating you?’ he wonders.

Bron sets out to find Hafnsgatan. It’s almost the next street.

He enters the entrance area, where another receptionist, another Miss Hansen look-a-like looks down her nose at him, as if he’s got dog shit on his shoes.

‘Do you want something?’ she says.

‘I want to see Mr Nils Joansen, old Mr Joansen.’

‘Mr Nils is rarely in the office these days, and he certainly doesn’t see people who just wander in off the street with no appointment.’

‘I hope he’ll see me,’ says Bron, trying a winning smile. It fails.

‘My name is Bron Turner, he was, is, my mother’s lawyer or at least her family’s lawyer.’

‘And your mother is …. ?’

‘Anna Turner, she was Anna Frandsen, from Alvanaes, Mr Joansen manages her affairs.’

‘Well, Mr Nils isn’t available today. Leave me a contact number and I’ll ask his secretary if she can arrange an appointment for you with one of his junior colleagues.’

‘I don’t want a junior colleague,’ snaps Bron, ‘I need to speak to Mr Joansen. Arnesen the land agent at Thörsvik said it was important.’
‘Give me your mobile number. I’ve told you, I’ll pass your request to Mr Joansen’s secretary. Now please leave or I’ll call security.’

Bron scribbles his number on a card and gives it to the woman who takes it and drops it into an in-tray, as if afraid it’s infectious. Then he storms out through the front door onto Hafnsgatan. Through a third floor window, an elderly, silver haired man watches his progress. He is Nils Joansen. He mutters to himself, ‘So that’s Bron is it? I will have to see him, of course. Perhaps tomorrow. I wonder how long he’ll last before Thomas Youngman or Eric Krol sends him packing.’

Bron walks through the streets of the capital. Why are people treating him this way? Back home, as the son of a respected academic writer and his beautiful wife, he has always felt accepted. At university, he’d been popular, his reputation in Tae Kwon Do and his lesser ability at sports like rugby and athletics, gave him an entrée of sorts into all sorts of groups. And of course there had been Ciara. Where was Ciara? She’d make sense of this for him, she’d know, with her lawyer’s mind and her psychology degree, what should be done. But Ciara has vanished.

He wishes his sisters were with him. They have inherited their mother’s quiet calm and determination. They always seem in control. As, he muses, his mother had seemed to be, according to his father’s account, on that flight from the islands all those years before. He still finds the story hard to believe, Adam seems such an unlikely knight errant riding to the rescue of his lady. But true it must be, for Adam never lied.

As if wishes could make things happen, he looks up the street, and sees a tall girl with pale blonde hair weaving her way towards him. He rushes forward but a few feet from her realises it’s not his elder sister, but a girl who looks extremely like her.

The girl looks at him in distaste. ‘Get out of my way,’ she says, ‘how dare you approach me!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he stammers, ‘I thought you were someone else, my sister actually.’

‘Do I look like one of your kind?’ she sneers. ‘I’d heard your people had come back to the islands. You’re trying to create a new Huldagarde. But you won’t succeed, my father will stop you.’

‘Your father?’ asks Bron.

‘Birger Krol,’ she snorts, ‘even you must have heard of him.’

‘I’ve heard of him, he married my mother’s sister. You must be Freya, we’re cousins.’

The girl looks horrified.

‘So my mother’s suspicions are true!’ she says. And she rushes past him through the crowded street towards the harbour.

Bron’s mind is racing. Too many people seem to know too many things about him that he doesn’t know. He needs some answers, and he wants them quickly. Who can he turn to?

‘Hello,’ says a voice behind him, ‘can I speak with you?’

He turns to find a small, brown-haired girl looking up at him.

‘You’re one of the Huldegarde folk, aren’t you? I’m Rachel, I’m really interested in your project.’

‘So, talk to Thomas Youngman,’ snaps Bron, still angry at two rejections in one hour.

‘Mr Youngman won’t talk to me, he doesn’t like journalists.’

‘So why should I talk to you?’

‘Well, you’re out of Huldegarde on your own. That makes you unusual. And you’ve just had a run-in with Freya Krol. That makes you interesting. And you look like you need someone to talk to ….’

‘And what does that make me?’ says Bron.

‘Attractive?’ says Rachel. ‘Well, shall I buy you a coffee?’

‘I’d like that,’ says Bron, smiling despite himself. It seems hard to be angry with this girl. ‘But I should tell you I’m not from Huldegarde. My name’s Bron Turner, I’m from the Isle of Man. You’ve probably never heard of it. And I’m currently camped out near Alvenaes on the Skarafjord. Still want to buy me a coffee?’

‘More than ever,’ says the girl.

Ten minutes later the pair are sat in a harbour-side café, eating cinnamon buns and drinking coffee.

‘So,’ says Rachel, ‘sing for your supper, or at least your buns and coffee. What’s your story?’

‘I don’t think I know all of it myself yet,’ says Bron, ‘but I aim to find out. I told you, my name’s Bron Turner and I was brought up on the Isle of Man. My Dad was Adam Turner, he was a writer on archaeology and ancient languages and my mother was Anna Frandsen, who was brought up at Alvenaes.’

‘You say was,’ asks the girl.
‘They were both killed in a car crash a couple of months back. A real shock. I’d just finished uni and ….. well it knocked me back really….

And then it turns out that I’ve inherited this huge tract of land out here from Mum. It’s on both sides of the Skarafjord, it includes Alvanaes and Huldegarde. So I’ve come over to find out more.’

‘Your parents hadn’t told you about the land?’
‘No, not a word. I just found out from a journal my Dad left and a pile of legal documents that their solicitor handed me after reading the will. I’ve tried to ask Mr Arnesen, the Land Agent out at Thörsvik about it all, but he just said I had to speak to Nils Joansen, the lawyer here in the capital. But Joansen won’t see me, I have to wait for a phone call.’
He pauses, then asks, ‘Why am I telling you all this?’

‘Maybe I’m just an easy person to talk to?’

‘You remind me of someone. But then everyone here seems to remind me of someone else, but then they never are that person. I mistook Freya Krol for my sister, that’s why I was rushing towards her. They’re very alike, I suppose because their mothers were sisters.’

‘Your mother was Sigyn Krol’s sister? You get more interesting all the time. And you’re the heir to Huldegarde, curiouser and curiouser.’

‘So, why are you interested in Huldegarde?’

‘Thomas Youngman is trying to establish some kind of community out there. He’s started bringing back the scattered remnants of the ‘Hidden Folk.’ They’re starting to retake Huldegarde. But his project stands in the way of Birger Krol. Krol has an idea for a place called ‘Ny Asgard’ – a new paradise, a new heaven, a leisure and tourism place for birdwatchers and naturalists. It’s likely to get interesting, few who challenge Birger Krol seem to survive.’

‘You seem to like the word “interesting”!’

‘I do, don’t I? Why don’t we work together then? Between the two of us, we can find out more than working alone.’

‘And then you’ll write your story? But about what, and for whom?’

‘Let’s wait and see shall we? That’s the good thing about stories, you never know how they’ll end.’ smiles Rachel. ‘Now where will you sleep tonight?’

Around six o’clock that evening, the watcher on the hill gets a text.

‘Gröken staying in capital tonight. He’ll see Joansen tomorrow. Have an early night.’

The watcher texts back ‘Take care, sister dear, take care’.

GLASCOT MARKET - by DAVID JACKSON

We're putting this piece in as it's quite cheerful - there'll be time for the murder stories and the paranormals soon!

I wake up worrying that I’ve missed the alarm. I haven’t, it’s only 6.30 a.m., but I get up anyway, shower and go downstairs to make the morning tea.

An hour later and feeling every one of my sixty-two years, I stumble out into a bright, spring morning, Brasher boots clumping on the path; a slightly frayed figure with long greying hair and a short white beard, wearing ‘Blue Harbour’ jeans, a blue polo shirt and a brown cord jacket.

My son Ben can’t drive, so I take the van round to the terraced cottage which he shares with his brother, Tom, and a small, dominant black and white cat called Felix. Since Ben quit his job in Financial Services to be a full-time artist and part-time ice-cream maker, his market stall is his sole source of income.

Ben is sitting on the low wall in front of the house, enjoying the early morning sunshine. His orange T-shirt proclaims ‘Never Give Up on Your Stupid, Stupid Dreams’. 6’4” and 17 stones, he lumbers across the grass verge and into the van. Smelling of toothpaste and shampoo, he utters his customary greeting, ‘I’ll need a crap when I get to yours!’, and settles into the passenger seat.

‘It feels really early,’ he says, ‘so early that Felix didn’t even try to escape when I came out. He just lay in his bed, and waved one paw.’

Ben is the fourth generation of the family to work on the markets, my father and grandfather both had fruit and veg stalls.

Back home, we load the van with cool-boxes full of cheese and fridges filled with ice-cream. The journey to Glascot takes 45 minutes.

We arrive at a scene of chaos. There’s only Alyson’s son and his girlfriend to set up the marquees for the stalls. The farmers’ market has been confined to an even smaller portion of the car-park than usual, and they’re  having trouble shoe-horning everyone in. Some stall-holders sing ‘why are we waiting?’, but mostly we all just stand quietly in the sunshine. Eventually Ben’s allocated a spot under a bright yellow gazebo by the back fence.

‘Coffee-man’ sets up next-door. Small, wiry, with receding hair, Coffee Man is a really nice, friendly man in his fifties. Wildly enthusiastic, he really hustles. He bounds round all the other stall-holders offering to deliver discount coffee or hot chocolate to their stalls. We feel really bad, when we say no. We’ve brought a flask; times are hard!

A figure we’ve come to recognise approaches the stall. A tall, thin woman of around sixty, I’d say, she peers suspiciously at our goats’ milk cheese.

‘Are your goats free to roam, or are they kept in a shed?’

They aren’t our goats. We buy the cheese from a small creamery up in the hills. The goats’ milk comes in by tanker. The cheese-makers say the goats live out in the field, but we don’t really know, and we don’t want to lie. We explain this to our interrogator.

‘We don’t know, we’ll ask them again when we see them,’ we say.

 ‘I wouldn’t want to buy products from goats that are kept in a shed,’ says the tall, thin woman and sets off to the next stall.

‘She asks that question every month,’ says Ben.

She’s questioning the Coffee Man now, about where his coffee beans come from and what the conditions are like for the workers.

We know about the sheep’s milk cheese, that’s been on TV. That guy on ‘Countryfile’ was standing in the miniature milking parlour while all the sheep ran in to be milked. That programme boosted sales for weeks. I made us a poster with a picture of a sheep on it.

‘What breed of sheep is that?’ asked a burly man at Asham Market, ‘Looks like a Clun. Can you milk Cluns?’

It’s a Southdown, but I say ‘I don’t know, it’s just a sheep from ClipArt.’

The things people ask you!

A disgruntled looking woman, like an Alan Bennett character; square-set with a leg at each corner, approaches the stall with her husband.

‘I fancy trying damson ice-cream,’ the husband says.

            ‘Well I don’t,’ she says, ‘I like plain supermarket ice-cream.’

Her husband rolls his eyes behind her back.

She looks at me accusingly, ‘Is this plain supermarket ice-cream?’

‘No, it’s got real flavours.’

‘I’ll have a damson,’ says the husband.

We give him his 125ml tub.

‘Is that all?’ says the wife, ‘I’d expected a litre tub at least!’

‘What, for £1.20?’ says Ben.

She marches away; her husband follows, eating his damson ice-cream and smiling.

One of the pie-men – there are three on the market – comes over for a grumble. He talks nineteen to the dozen. He gestures towards one of his rivals.

‘Hand-made pies, he calls ‘em, hand-made pies. I know for a fact he gets ‘em from a factory in Ashton-under-Lyne! I don’t know why I still come here, trade’s really slow. There’s better markets. Are you going to Hamford mid-week? Really good market Hamford, goes like a storm, you want to try Hamford. Have you seen Kevin recently, the one with the flower stall? I heard he’s been poorly, no? I’ll have a gooseberry ice-cream. Stall-holders’ rates?’

The market opens at 10, but by noon we’ve only sold £15 worth of cheese and 3 ice-creams. The stall rent’s £20 and there’s diesel to pay for as well. Things are looking desperate!

Coffee Man says his family are Italian, ‘Just call me Adriano from Napoli!’  He maintains a non-stop patter and offers free samples to passers-by; a cup of coffee or ‘a chocolate-covered coffee bean’. He attracts small family groups around his stall, all enjoying his samples.

He hands out leaflets. I don’t think he’s too bothered about actually selling hot coffee. He has his website and sells ground coffee, roasted beans and chocolate direct, by mail, and his quarterly visits to this market seem mainly about promotion.

Still, he’s selling quite a few of his distinctively patterned black and brown tins (‘nobody remembers the name, but everybody remembers the design’) of coffee and ‘edible drinking chocolate’. Past customers are buying refills. He seems happy with the way things are going.

Some people seem alarmed by his approaches. They veer away and scurry past; we hope that doesn’t mean they’ll miss our stall!

Coffee Man thinks we don’t hustle enough. He thinks we need to promote ourselves more, to be more visible, more aggressive I suppose. Get people talking, offer samples of the cheese, samples of the ice-cream.

Ben isn’t sure about samples. He’s heard my stories of taking stock to the Royal Show when I was a kid. By visiting the bread and cheese promotions in the right order you could get a free lunch. You could even get something hot if you hung around the demonstration kitchens.

Coffee Man’s probably right, neither Ben nor I are good at ‘hustling’, we tend to wait for people to come to us. Tom‘s a lot better; five years in the hotel trade taught him how to talk to the public. But he’s still abed at home.

The organiser stops by to encourage us, ‘Ice-cream has its selling time. After lunch, if it’s warm and sunny and you’re open and visible, people will buy ice-cream’.

Coffee Man has made a big sale. He calls over, ‘Got any carrier bags?’

I rummage in our box and find a plastic bag, ‘Here you go.’

He puts his goods in it and passes it to the customer. She wrinkles her nose.

‘But it’s a Morrison’s bag!’

‘I might be able to find a Sainsbury’s bag,’ I say, ‘but we’re out of M&S.’

She laughs.

Ben thinks the cheese signs are confusing people. And so at 1.00 p.m., with temperatures rising, we take them down and pack the cheese away in the cool-boxes. We move the ice-cream signs to the centre of the stand. It’s very clear; we’re an ice-cream stall.

            Sales and spirits pick up as people start to buy our ice-cream. As others see them enjoying it, they buy as well. The ice cream’s good and customers pass the word around.

I ponder this change in people’s buying behaviour.

I tell Ben that people seem so affected by ‘image’ that we should adopt a new strategy.

We’ll be a cheese and baked-goods stall until 12.30, then away with the ‘Artisan Cheese’ signs and the green and white chequered tablecloths.

Shazaam! Hang up the ‘Home-made Ice-Cream’ signs, on with the blue and white gingham tablecloths, and put out the black glossy A-frames stressing the wholesomeness and exciting flavours of our superlative product! In the afternoons, we’ll be just purely an ice-cream stall.

Let’s hope it works!

Coffee Man has an audience. Two adults and a small girl with scraped-back black hair, large, round, dark-framed spectacles and an intense gaze. She looks like ‘Clare in the Community’ in the ‘Guardian’ cartoon. Coffee Man gives her some chocolate discs to try and asks ‘Are these your Mum and Dad?’

‘No,’ she replies. She points at the man, ‘he’s my uncle.’

‘And is this your aunt?’ Coffee Man asks gesturing towards a slightly plump young woman.

‘She’s my “soon-to-be” aunt’.

‘Hello, soon-to-be aunt,’ says Coffee Man, ‘have a chocolate-covered bean.’

They move on to our stall, the girl stands in front of the table scrutinising us intently.

‘She doesn’t like ice-cream,’ says Uncle. ‘Can you imagine, a child who doesn’t like ice-cream?’

‘We like ice-cream,’ says the soon-to-be aunt firmly.

‘We certainly do,’ says Uncle, ‘I’ll have a mango ice cream, please.’ ‘What about you,’ he asks his girlfriend.

‘Lemon meringue,’ she gives the child a long appraising look. ‘Doesn’t like ice-cream...... perhaps a child psychiatrist might help?!’

By 2.30 p.m., it’s all over. We pack our gear in the van. In go the cool-boxes. We connect the fridges, containing what’s left of the ice-cream, up to the electrics and set off for home. We haven’t made much money, but it’s been a good day.