Resolution

The Council Chairman rapped his gavel and stood to read the latest document that needed Council approval. He cleared his throat and began:

“We, being the lawfully constituted and duly elected members of Ossington Borough Council, do hereby, notwithstanding any previous resolutions of said nature, not including sections 7, 8, 10 (subsections 14b, 27c and 34 f, g and k) of the resolution proposed by the Ways and Means Committee and duly approved by the full council on 27^th May 2017, subsequently amended – according to due process under Standing Order 17B – on 30^th September 2017, resolve to take note of all previous reports on such matters as may want approval before any subcommittee lawfully constituted for such purposes, whether permanent or interim, and that anything said in committee, be that ultra vires or post positum nonsequitorum, be thereby subsequently approved.”

The Chairman paused, then asked, “Are we all agreed?”

He was met by a sea of blank faces.

“I said, are we all agreed? That sounds clear enough to me. You wish to address the Council, Councillor Locke?”

Councillor Locke stood and stated that he did indeed wish to do so.

“With respect, Mr Chairman,” he said, “I don’t think that’s clear at all. I surely cannot be alone in not having understood a single word of that resolution.”

There were nods and murmurs around the Council Chamber that made it perfectly clear that his opinion was shared by all those present.

Councillor Berkeley stood up.

“With just as much respect as offered by Councillor Locke, Mr Chairman” he said, “that resolution is a load of guff and twaddle. I propose that we amend it so that Councillors have at least a fighting chance of working out what it means.”

“And just how do you propose to do that, Councillor Berkeley?” asked the Chairman.

“For a start,”, said Councillor Berkeley, “we know who we are, so we don’t need all that ‘lawfully constituted’ stuff at the beginning.”

“And the same goes for ‘hereby, notwithstanding’,” said Councillor Hume, joining the fray. 

“And how about all those sections, subjections and standing orders?” offered Councillor Bentham, to general approval from his fellow Councillors.

“All right, all right”, said the Chairman. “We’ll do what you say”. He motioned to the Council Clerk that her large red pencil should get to work and start crossing out all the offending words and phrases that the Councillors had objected to. When this was done, he addressed the Councillors once more.

“Is there anything else you want changed?” he asked, hoping that that the answer would be No. But it wasn’t.

“Let’s cut that bit about permanent and interim subcommittees”, said Councillor Mill.

“And let’s stick to good, plain old-fashioned English”, said Councillor Russell. “We don’t need all that Latin stuff. This is Ossington, not Ancient Rome.”

“OK”, said the Chairman. “The Council Clerk has so far deleted everything from ‘being’ to ‘Council’, from ‘hereby’ to ‘nature’, from ‘including’ to ‘as may’ and from ‘approval’ to ‘and that’. I shall now ask her to cut the last bit out as well. That should leave us with a resolution that everybody will be happy with.”

There was general agreement in the Council Chamber.

“I shall therefore ask the Clerk to read out our amended resolution”, said the Chairman.

The Clerk duly rose and read what was left between all her crossings-out.

 

"We … do … not … want … anything”.

© John Welford

100 words for Christmas

The challenge was to write exactly 100 words on a Christmas theme. This was my response:

Over the Christmas period he sent her a weird assortment of presents, including people of varied social statuses, poultry, other types of bird, pear trees and gold rings. At first the gifts were welcome, but the novelty soon wore off. She felt she had no choice but to send the whole lot back. The postage cost her a fortune, especially as the lords kept leaping out of the boxes she put them in, as did the dancing ladies, and the pipers and drummers were so noisy. That was why she decided to defray her expenses by keeping the gold rings. 

© John Welford

Opportunities: a story

Saturday  8^th December 

I’ve just had a brilliant idea for a story that will absolutely knock their socks off at the Hinckley Scribblers. All I need is an hour or so to sort out the details and get it written. However, that could be a problem today, given that we need to clean the house this morning, and this afternoon we have to take some rubbish to the tip and pay a visit to B&Q in Hinckley. Maybe I’ll get a chance to do the writing tomorrow.

Sunday 9^th December 

We usually take the dog for a long walk on Sunday mornings, and today is no exception. We’re going to Battram, near Ellistown, where there are miles of woodland paths to explore and which the dog will love. This will take us right through to lunchtime, but I might get a chance to do some writing this afternoon.

On the other hand, I’d forgotten that the snooker final takes place this afternoon, and that could easily take priority. No matter – there’s always tomorrow.

Monday 10^th December

Writing opportunities will certainly be limited today, because this will be my final session at De Montfort University library before I retire, and I need a buy a box of chocolates in town as my farewell gift to my colleagues. My wife has suggested that I go into town early, so that I can also do my Christmas shopping as well as visiting Thorntons for the chocolates. Good idea.

However, this does mean that my morning at home will be severely curtailed, given that I also have to take the dog for a walk round the village before I catch a bus into town. So not much chance of being able to get anything written today.

Tuesday 11^th December

I had thought that today would be the real opportunity for writing the story, because Tuesdays are usually unencumbered by other distractions, but this week is different. I co-ordinate the volunteer rota at Newbold Verdon Library, and I cannot find a second person to do the morning shift. Given that today has been booked for the Tots Tales Christmas Party, I really have no choice but to fill the breach myself. So how about this afternoon for getting the story written?

No such luck. My wife has phoned to say that her sister, Jenny, has come to Leicester from Aylesbury for a business meeting and has another appointment at a branch of her company in Glenfield on Wednesday, so she has asked if she can stay the night with us?

The problem with that is that our spare bedroom is now my office, and full of books and other stuff, although the dismantled spare bed is propped against the back wall. This will mean clearing enough space to get to the bed, taking it downstairs, putting it together in the dining room – which is the only suitable space in the house for this purpose – and finding all the necessary bedding.

Bye-bye Tuesday!

Wednesday 12^th December

Sister-in-law Jenny is not leaving until mid-morning, so story writing is not really an option until she does so, after which there is another job to be done, which is reversing the tasks of yesterday afternoon. The spare bed has to be stripped and dismantled before going back against the wall in my office.

I then have to think about doing my regular shift at Newbold library, for which I will need to leave the house shortly after one o’clock. 

The shift ends at four, after which I will catch a bus into town to meet my wife, help her with the shopping and join two of our old friends for a regular get-together at Pizza Hut.

Chances of writing my story? Minimal!

Thursday 13^th December

At last! Now I have a real opportunity to get to work on my story for the Scribblers. Or at least, that would have been the case did we not have an invitation to a wedding on Saturday. The house will be devoid of people – but not dog – for more hours than we would really like to leave said dog alone for. We have therefore arranged for someone we know to come and take the little darling for a walk while we’re out. The lady in question, who has never been to our house, is paying me a visit this afternoon so that I can show her where everything is.

However, once I’ve got the morning dog walk out of the way, there should be time for story writing. On the other hand, Sod’s Law being as inescapable as it is, today’s walk turned out to be a lot more protracted than expected, due to an emergency involving an elderly lady whose Yorkshire terrier got over-excited on meeting our border collie and slipped his collar before running out into the road.

I therefore found myself chasing after a Yorkie while still holding on to our dog and stopping the traffic with frantic gestures. Success on this front was followed by the lady crossing the road to the bus stop, tripping over the kerb and measuring her length on the pavement. Fortunately other people stopped to help, although the bus then arrived and some other drivers got very cross about the obstruction caused by the cars of the people who had also stopped.

Everything got sorted out, and the lady and her dog were both perfectly OK, but it all ate into potential story-writing time.

But then, when I thought about it, I realised that maybe I didn’t need to bother about the story after all. This little diary is a story all on its own, isn’t it? 

I think I might give it the somewhat ironic title of “Opportunities”.

© John Welford

How Mark Became a Gospeller

This story is based on the line "Mark blushed as his voice became more highly pitched as each moment passed." I've changed it slightly, but it is there!  

**************************************************

Mark thought that he was going to be able to have a quiet coffee in the student cafeteria, but this ambition was not going to be fulfilled today. The coffee was managed perfectly adequately, but his peaceful solitude disappeared when three other students slipped into the other spaces at his table.

“Hello” said the student sitting opposite him. “You’re just the guy we need to talk to”.

“I am?” asked a somewhat surprised Mark.

“Let me introduce myself”, said the student. “My name’s Luke, and I’m a second-year Music student. This here is my friend and fellow Music student John, and sitting next to you is Matthew, who is a post-grad in the Music Department. 

“Nice to meet you,”, said Mark. “But why do you need to talk to me? I’m a final-year student in the Philosophy Department – I know precious little about Music.”

“We saw you last night in the student bar”, said John. “You must have had a few before we arrived, because otherwise you would never have attempted that karaoke number you did. You remember, surely?” 

Mark felt himself going red with embarrassment. How could he have forgotten? Nobody expects much quality from a pub karaoke session, but his effort had been what the word dire was invented for.

“Your problem”, said Luke, “was that you started in the wrong key, and an octave too high, and found yourself in the stratosphere when you reached the point of no return.”

“So you’ve come here today to rub my nose in it, have you?” said Mark, who was getting annoyed and starting to stand up.

“No, no – far from it”, said Luke, waving him back down again. “We liked what we heard – in a strange kind of way – and that’s why we want to talk to you.” 

“The first thing we did after we heard your performance was find out who you were”, said John. “And we couldn’t believe our luck when someone told us that your name was Mark.”

“You see,” said Luke, “the three of us have wanted for some time to form a singing quartet that we could call The Gospellers. We had Matthew, Luke and John – but were only lacking a Mark. And now we’ve found you – if you’ll join us, that is.”

“But I’m a lousy singer – as you’ve just reminded me”, said Mark.

“But your falsetto range has definite promise,” said John. “And that’s what we’re missing.”

“Let me explain,” said Luke. “Apart from the appropriate names, the three of us all have different singing voices. I’m a bass, John is a baritone and Matthew is a tenor. We only need one more male voice to complete the set”. 

“Which is?”

“Countertenor, otherwise known as the male alto, singing an octave higher that the normal tenor range. Back in the day they used to castrate boys so that their voices wouldn’t break, but that custom is no longer practiced.

“I’m glad to hear it”, said Mark.

“However,” Luke continued, “Some men have a natural countertenor voice, and others can be trained in the falsetto range to produce something that it is nearly as good.”

“And we reckon that you could be just such a person”, said John. “With the proper training, you could be the fourth Gospeller and we could give concerts round the University and anywhere else if we wanted to.”

“Singing what?” Mark asked.

“Our own arrangements”, said Luke. “Madrigals, folk songs, religious stuff, that kind of thing.”

“But what about the training?”

“That’s where Matthew comes in”, said Luke. “He’s a professional voice trainer who worked with dozens of singers before joining the University and now he does the same here. What do you reckon, Matthew?”

"It’ll be a challenge”, said Matthew, “But I reckon it might work.”

So that is precisely what happened. Mark had twice-weekly sessions with Matthew for the next six weeks, after which the new Gospeller – thought not quite the finished article - was reckoned to be good enough to be let loose on an audience

When the four of them next got together, Matthew had news for them. 

“We’re going to give an end-of-term concert”, he said. “Just to the Music Department. We’ll do a set of madrigals for the main part, but the conclusion is all yours, Mark.”

“What do you mean”?” Mark asked.

“I want to perform the Professor’s own arrangement of The Lark Ascending, by Vaughan Williams. He’s set it for countertenor voice and small orchestra, and it’ll be a real showstopper if you get it right. Are you up for it?”

Given that Mark had no real idea of what was involved, he agreed on the spot.

Rehearsals for the concert went really well, although as the concert date approached, Mark became increasingly worried that he wouldn’t be up to the job. For one thing, he had no real musical knowledge and he would be performing in front of an audience of musical experts.

And then there was the little problem of being able to conclude the concert by singing a piece arranged by the Head of the Department, in his presence, and producing a final sustained top note that was as high as any male singer – trained or not – could be expected to reach. During rehearsals he was sometimes able to get it right, but by no means always. 

On the night of the concert, Matthew took Mark to one side to give him some final advice.

"I’ll be conducting this piece”, be said, “So you’ll need to keep the final note going for as long as my baton stays raised. Take a good deep breath before the final rising sequence and then keep the last note as steady as you possibly can. The volume is not so important, but the purity of the note most certainly is.”

Mark had this in mind all through the concert, which went very well with the audience clearly enjoying what they heard. The final piece was then announced. Matthew took to the podium and the other Gospellers, whose work was now done, sat in seats in the front row of the audience. 

Fortunately, the Music Professor’s vocal arrangement of The Lark Ascending was not quite as intricate as the original violin version, being considerably shorter and with far fewer twiddly bits. However, that did not mean that it was not a very tricky piece to perform. As it proceeded, Mark was fully aware that without Matthew’s excellent training none of this would have been possible.

The climax of the work was approaching. Mark became acutely aware that every eye in the audience was on him and his old self-consciousness returned. He blushed as each moment passed and the notes got progressively higher. 

And now here it was – the final sequence. He took the deep breath that Matthew had advised before allowing the “lark” to reach its final height. He watch the tip of Matthew’s baton more like a hawk than a lark, but he also became aware of something happening in the audience just behind Matthew. His fellow Gospellers appeared to be mouthing something, and it looked for all the world that what they were mouthing were numbers.

And it was not just the Gospellers. All the audience members were counting in rhythm. Despite continuing to sustain his final top C, Mark could definitely hear “six, seven, eight, nine”.

And then they all shouted “ten”, at which the baton dropped, and Mark felt like doing so as well. There was wild applause and cheering and everyone rushed up to Mark to congratulate him. The happiest person in the room appeared to be Matthew, who was also being mobbed by his fellow students.

“What was all that ‘eight, nine, ten’ stuff about?” a puzzled Mark asked John and Luke. 

“I supposed we’d better come clean”, Luke said. “My name is not Luke, it’s Dave. John is Peter and Matthew is Alec. The whole Department were in on this, including the staff. We all knew that Alec was good, but the Professor, having written his Lark Ascending arrangement, bet Alec that he couldn’t produce – from scratch – a proper “count to tenner” for the final note.

“We all reckon that Alec – thanks to you – has won his bet and he owes you drinks for a month!” 

© John Welford

A Winter's Tale

“Do you like my new motor”? Dave asked Jack.

“Must have cost you a few bob”, said Jack.

“And then a few more”, said Dave. “Want to come for a run out in it with me?” 

“Sure”, said Jack. So that is what they did.

Dave’s new motor was an SUV pick-up that looked to be top of the range and brand new, although he explained to Jack that he had bought it secondhand from someone who had had a business loss and needed to realise his assets.

“So you collected it today, did you?” Jack asked as they set off down the main road leading out of town. “Everything sorted? Tax, insurance, that sort of thing?”

“I’m working on it”, said Dave. “It’ll all be settled tomorrow.”

“So you’re not actually insured yet?” Jack asked, slightly concerned.

“Don’t worry,”, said Dave. “It’ll be fine”.

“Where are we going?” asked Jack.

“I thought we’d go fishing at Jackson Pond”, said Dave. “I’ve got all my gear in the back”.

“Jackson Pond?” asked Jack. “You do know that it’s private property and no fishing’s allowed there?”

“I’ve been there dozens of times”, Dave said. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see – just fine”.

“And I take you know that there’s a 40 mph speed limit down here?” said Jack. “You’re doing a good 60 at the moment”.

“I’ve got to give the truck a good workout”, said Dave. “There are no speed cameras on this stretch, and I’ve never been caught before. It’ll be fine – absolutely fine”.

As they whizzed down the road Jack heard a sudden clonk. He glanced in the wing mirror to see that the petrol cap had fallen off and was bouncing along the road. He told Dave what he had seen.

“We’ll pick it up at the way back”, said Dave. “I did wonder if I’d put it back properly when I filled her up earlier. There are one or two things I need to get used to with a new truck, and that’s one of them. Don’t worry. It’ll be absolutely fine.”

“I’ve just thought of something”, said Jack. “You do realise that it’s the dead of winter, the temperature’s way below freezing and the lake will be frozen solid? So how are we going to fish in it?”

“I’ve thought of that”, said Dave. “We’ll make a hole in it. You’ll see - everything will be absolutely fine.”

When they reached Jackson Pond, having passed several signs that read “No Entry” and “No Fishing”,  they stopped the truck on the slope leading down to the lake, which was indeed completely frozen over. 

“This ice looks pretty thick”, Jack said as they got out of the truck. “How are you going to make a hole in that?”

“With this”, said Dave, pulling a large axe out of the back of the truck, along with all his fishing gear. “It’ll be fine – absolutely fine.”

They made their way across the ice, and were about to start cracking a hole in it, when Jack spotted something that he felt constrained to draw to Dave’s attention. 

“You know you said that you needed to get used to one or two things on your new truck?” he said.

“That’s true”, said Dave.

“Does that include the handbrake?” Jack asked.

“Why do you say that?” Dave replied, at which Jack tugged on his sleeve and pointed him towards where the truck was gently making its way onto the lake and spinning round as it did so.

“Don’t worry”, said Dave. “As you said, this ice is pretty thick and we’ll be able to drive off it with no trouble at all. Everything will be fine – absolutely massively fine.”

And with that Dave swung his axe at the ice and made a substantial crack in the surface. He followed this with another huge blow. 

“This’ll be great”, said Dave. “A few more hits like this and we’ll have a hole we can fish through. It’ll be absolutely, massively, hugely fine.”

Jack then felt the need to tug on Dave’s sleeve a second time. What he had seen, but Dave had not, was that the first crack Dave had made in the ice was growing. It was not only growing wider, but snaking off in the direction of where the truck was marooned on the lake. They watched in horror as the crack reached the truck, which then toppled over sideways and plunged to the bottom through the chasm that the crack had now become.

Not even Dave could claim that this new situation was even remotely fine.

And so it proved. The truck proceeded to leak fuel into Jackson Pond and kill every single fish in it. It was not difficult to identify the culprit, and also to discover that the truck in question was neither taxed nor insured.

The private prosecution that came Dave’s way was to cost him considerably more than he had paid for the truck, and he was also wrong about not being caught by a speed camera. Indeed, once the case came to court and all the charges were totted up, he found himself required to pay what – in words he would have found familiar – could best be described as an absolutely massively huge fine.

© John Welford

My Journey to Burnside Farm

Normally I prepare for my holidays well in advance, but on this occasion I did not. It was to be a week’s walking break in the Highlands of Scotland, staying at a farm that offered bed and breakfast and a packet of sandwiches for my daily roaming over the fells.

The only information I had about the place was that it was called Burnside Farm and that it was reachable from the remote village of Lochanhead, which was fortunate in being served by the railway line to Wick and Thurso.

I therefore turned up, late one Friday afternoon, at an otherwise deserted railway platform within a short walk of what appeared to be quite a small village. However, one thing in my favour was a tattered notice on the gate as I left the station, announcing that a taxi service was available, courtesy of Hamish.

So all I had to do was find and ask Hamish.

The village did not appear to have a lot of amenities, but it did boast a pub called Mackenzie’s Bar. This would surely be a good place to ask where I could find Hamish.

There was a man behind the bar, who I presumed might be Mackenzie, and two customers talking to each other at a small table in one corner. I asked the barman the obvious question, and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the duo in the corner.

I walked over. I felt it would be rude to butt into their conversation, so I waited for a suitable pause, which simply did not arrive. I coughed, gently. The two men stopped talking and slowly turned their heads in my direction, after which they stared straight at me, saying nothing.

“Are you Hamish?” I asked one of the heads.

A pause.

“Aye”, said the head.

“Are you the taxi driver?”

Another pause, slightly longer this time.

“Aye”.

“Can you drive me to Burnside Farm, please?”

The head named Hamish stared at me, unblinking.

“I could.”

But Hamish gave no indication that he was going to do anything further. He just sat there, motionless, for maybe half a minute. It was clearly up to me to move things further.

“Then might you …”

“If you would nae be so rude at interrupting a body in the middle of his sentence,” said Hamish with unexpected speed, “I was about to say that I could run ye t’ Burnside Farm were it not that I’ve just had five whiskies and am about to start on number six. You would nae want a drunk man behind the wheel of a taxi, now would ye?”

“No, I don’t suppose I would”, I said. “What should I do then?”

Hamish thought for quite a long time before giving his answer.

“At times like this,” he said eventually, “I call on a man I know called Dougal to help out. So maybe I’ll ask him.”

“I’d be grateful if you would”, I said. “Can you do so now, please?”

Hamish went back to staring at me.

“Ye Sassenachs are so impatient”, he said. “Wait till I’ve had me next whisky, then I’ll see about asking him.”

Hamish turned his head away. I noticed that the glass on the table in front of him was empty, but that he was not making any move that looked as though he was going to get it refilled. He stared silently at the glass for what could have been a whole minute.

“Would you like me to get you a whisky?” I asked, hoping that this might hurry things along.

“For a man who is so hasty in interrupting a fellow’s train of thought, you’re mighty slow at taking a hint”, Hamish said.

So, with Hamish now getting outside whisky number six, the time seemed right to broach the subject of contacting Dougal.

I coughed, even more gently than before. The two heads again swung in my direction.

“So … err … you were going to get in touch with Dougal”.

After the not unexpected pause, Hamish once more gave voice. “That I did”, he said, “and I always keep ma promises, don’t I, Dougal?” 

This last comment was asked of the second man, who had remained completely silent up till now.

“You do that”, said the man I now knew to be Dougal. “Ye may be a fearful sinner, Hamish, but ye have always been a man of your word, I will say that for ye.”

Eventually Hamish replied with, “Then would ye kindly do what this Englishman wants and drive him tae Burnside Farm?”

“Aye”, said Dougal, “That I will.”

And – much to my surprise – Dougal stood up. I noticed that the glass in front of this second man appeared to contain nothing more innocuous than water, which was a great relief. The prospect of being driven along a narrow, twisty Scottish lane by a man who’d been knocking back the hard stuff for hours in Mackenzie’s Bar was not one that I wished to contemplate.

We made our way outside to where a car stood at the kerbside. 

“Is this your taxi?” I asked.

“Aye”, said Dougal.

We got in.

“So do you often drive it for Hamish?” 

“I always drive it for Hamish,” said Dougal. “I am a member of the Kirk, with a mission to turn sinners like Hamish away from the Devil’s Brew, and I spend many an hour persuading him tae mend his ways, but I fear with little effect. He will surely roast in the fiery pits of Hell, but not for want of trying on my part.”

I had heard of people like Dougal before. He clearly belonged to the Free Presbyterian Church, known colloquially as the “Wee Frees”. I had heard them described as following a less jolly variety of Calvinism, with a strong aversion to sin in all its forms. I reckoned that doing nothing to offend Dougal would be in my best interests if I wanted to get to Burnside Farm.

I therefore said nothing when we sat in the car, doing nothing and going nowhere. Eventually, Dougal spoke up.

“Let us offer a prayer for our safety during this journey”, he said, and proceeded so to do.

The prayer was mercifully short at only five minutes, and did include a request to the Almighty to protect from sin the soul of the stranger – i.e. me – who was to be Dougal’s companion for however long this ride was going to take.

With the prayer over, I had assumed that we might actually get going, especially as it was now getting dark. But Dougal had other ideas.

“There is one thing I must do”, he said “Tarry a wee while, will ye? I’ll nae be long. There is a shop I must visit.”

So saying he stepped out of the car. When he came back I was amazed to see that he was carrying a large bottle of whisky. I did not dare to ask him why he was buying what appeared to be a particularly good brand of single malt, but fortunately he explained anyway.

“There is nae point in resisting temptation unless ye have temptation tae resist”, he said. “I like to keep a bottle of temptation in my house at all times, so I can practice resistance.”

I could not help but ask him why he needed to buy a bottle tonight. Surely he must already have one at home?

“I am sorry to say that my resistance was broken last night”, he said. “On numerous occasions”.

“And now”, he said, “the most important moment of all”.

“You mean we’re actually going to get going?” I asked.

“Not so hasty”, said Dougal. "I mean that I need to ask you to pay the taxi fare. I’ll be good tae ye, despite your impatience, by only charging you the minimum fee. I’ll trouble ye to pay me now, before we start, just in case you try to do a runner when we get there. Thirty pounds, please”.

Thirty pounds? That was half of all the cash I had on me for the week! However, I really had little choice if I was going to get to Burnside Farm tonight, so I duly paid up.

And then the miracle happened. Dougal started the engine, put the car into gear, and we began to move. The noise of the engine rose to a whine, and I fully expected Dougal to change into second gear. 

But he did not. Instead the engine noise, having reached a deafening peak, declined as the car slowed down and came to a halt. This was not what I had expected.

“Is there something wrong with the car?” I asked.

“There’s nae rang with the car”, Dougal said, and he pointed ahead to where the headlights picked out a board at the side of the road that read “Burnside Farm”.

We had travelled all of a hundred and fifty yards.

© John Welford

Dreaming David

David would have been the first to admit that he had some very odd dreams. He told me the other day about the one he had the night before he had to meet an important client. His boss had told them that the client was arriving a day early, due to a mix-up over his travel arrangements, and David was given the job of keeping him entertained for the day and ensuring that he was in a thoroughly good mood when the business meeting was held the following day and – all being well - a large contract signed.

Knowing just how much responsibility was being thrust on his shoulders, it took David a very long time to get to sleep and, when he did, that’s when the dream started.

It began with him meeting the client, who was a big man – very big. Actually - very, very big. 

He introduced himself as Mr Li’ath.

“That’s an unusual name”, said David, getting a crick in his neck as he strained upwards to look at the man’s face that was way above his. “How do you spell it?”

“L-I-A-T-H. With an apostrophe after the I.”

“Very unusual”, said David, still gazing skywards.

“It was my grandfather’s idea”, explained the voice from the heavens. “It used to De’Ath – with an apostrophe - but Grandad was sued by someone who accused him of being a liar during a business transaction and he thought it would be a good joke to say that if De’Ath lieth, than Li’Ath would be a good name for him”.

“I see”, said David, although he was not all that sure that he did.

“Not a very funny joke”, said the big guy. “But you can call me Jerry”.

“Jerry?”

“Yes. Short for Gerald.”

There was an awkward pause during which David was thinking that he had never seen anyone who looked less like somebody called Gerald.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Jerry asked.

David had it all worked out. He reckoned that his best move would be to show the company’s client the best that the capital city had to offer, beginning with a tour of the National Gallery.

However, it did not take long for David to realise that Jerry was not enjoying the experience of viewing some of the world’s greatest art treasures, so he cut it short.

“What’s going to happen this evening?” Jerry asked.

“We’ve got seats at a concert”. David said.

“That’s sounds OK”, said Jerry. “What’s the band?”

“Not a band,” said David. “An orchestra. The London Philharmonic, playing Beethoven and Schubert at the Royal Albert Hall.”

Jerry’s face fell. “I hate all that culture stuff”, he said. “I suppose you could call me a Philistine”.

David had a problem. How could he hope to win that contract tomorrow if Jerry hated everything he was doing to entertain him?

But Jerry then came to his rescue – sort of. As they walked along the street he spotted a poster for an event that was about to take place that very evening.

“That’s it”, said Jerry, “we’ll go to that!”

“That” turned out to be a cage-fighting tournament, which was something that David had only a vague idea about but Jerry seemed to be extremely excited by. 

The scene in David’s dream switched to the cage-fighting venue, which was full of thousands of screaming fans surrounding the cage in which two sweaty and well-muscled men were throwing each other around, with first one and then the other getting the other hand and beating seven kinds of brick dust out of their opponent.

Jerry was clearly loving what he was seeing, hollering and whooping with everyone else – with the sole exception of David – but merely being a spectator of the carnage was clearly not what he had in mind. Dragging David with him, he marched up to the organiser’s table and demanded to be allowed to go into the cage and take part in a fight.

The man in charge of the event – a bruiser who looked to be only slightly smaller than Jerry – seemed only too willing to agree with this idea. 

“You’ve fought before?” he asked.

“Many times”, said Jerry. “Back home I fight under my old family name, De’Ath, but I leave out the apostrophe.”

The man’s expression suddenly changed to one that could only be described as hero worship. “You mean to say you’re Dr Death? This is amazing. I’ve always wanted to meet you – you’re a legend. Two hundred fights and never a defeat – twenty opponents permanently paralysed. Of course you can fight here tonight.”

He turned to his public address system and announced to the crowd that the greatest cage fighter of all time, the one and only Dr Death, was going to get in the cage and show everyone how it was done. The crowd roared their appreciation.

The man produced a consent form for Jerry to sign. “Full name?” he asked.

“Gerald Oliphant Li’Ath”, said Jerry.

“Who are you going to fight?” asked the man.

“I’ve got my opponent right here”, said Jerry, picking David up and dropping him onto the table.

“Isn’t he a bit small?” said the man. “I can’t see him lasting five seconds against you, and the crowd are going to want their money’s worth.”

“Oh, I always come prepared”, said Jerry, and he produced an enormous syringe with a huge needle on it. 

“This stuff is the ultimate in steroids.”, he said. “Once I’ve injected him with this he’ll grow to three times the size with muscles he could never imagine. In no time at all he’ll be able to beat any man alive in a cage fight, with the sole exception of me, that is.”

As David watched, the syringe seemed to change colour and shape. It was now long and green, with purple stripes. The business end looked more and more like a snake, with deadly fangs, but was that really what they were? 

David shook with fear as he heard the hiss of the hypodermic needle, but that dreadful noise was drowned out by the roars of the crowd, calling his name in a chant – David, David, we want David – David, David, wake up, David.

Wake up?

So he did, to find his wife staring at him in alarm.

“You do say the most extraordinary things in your dreams”, she said. “I hope you’re going to be all right when you meet your client today.”

Fortunately, that turned out to be case, and the contract was duly signed the day afterwards. To celebrate the success, David was invited by his boss to join him in the company’s private box at the Royal Albert Hall, for a concert performance of Saul by George Frideric Handel.

“It features your namesake, David”, said his boss. “Just after you’ve defeated Goliath.”

He couldn’t understand why David declined the invitation.

© John Welford

Familiar Figure: a poem

In the doorway there stands a familiar figure

Nobody laugh, nobody snigger

Don’t stare for long, it’ll only get bigger

In the doorway there stands a familiar figure

A familiar figure is there in the doorway

Not in the passage, not in the hallway,

Is it imagined? I’m telling you no way

A familiar figure is there in the doorway

The familiar figure is standing just there

It seems I could touch it, did I but dare

Is it a threat, should I beware?

The familiar figure is standing just there

The familiar figure is there and it stands

Is it going to speak? It holds up its hands

What will it say? What are its demands?

The familiar figure is silent and stands

The figure I see is someone I know

What is its name? Why am I so slow?

If I turn around now, will it just go?

The figure I see is someone I know.

The figure, familiar, is something I see

But is it a doorway? Could it just be

I’ll be fully awake if I count up to three?

It’s only a mirror, that figure is me.

© John Welford

The Racing Puzzlers

This story was written to the following theme:

"The season of renewal had only just begun, but against all odds it had brought a sliver of hope with it."

********************************************************************
The staffroom at the University library was spacious and accommodating. It was where most members of the library staff, of all grades, took their meal and refreshment breaks and could chat with each other when off duty. It had all the usual facilities, such as fridges, microwave ovens, a water heater, a sink, and cupboards for storing the staff members’ coffee mugs. It also had plenty of seating and several large tables.

It had become customary for one of the tables to be set aside for a jigsaw puzzle. This was nearly always a massive 5,000 piece puzzle that needed a large surface – the sort that was not usually available in an average home for the length of time it would take to complete the puzzle. That was why staff members often brought in puzzles that had started off as well-meant Christmas presents but which were better suited for communal solving in the staffroom.

These puzzles were usually the sort that took a great deal of work. Not only were they enormous, but they included huge areas of sky or sea in which it was impossible to find features that helped one to match likely looking pieces to their neighbours. If you managed to fit just one piece during a coffee break you left feeling deeply satisfied.

Then came the day when two such puzzles turned up together. It must have been early in January, when the “what do I do with this” Christmas present crisis was at its height. They were both in the 5,000 piece category, and the pictures looked to be of similar difficulty.

One was a scene that consisted largely of trees bursting into leaf in Spring – masses of tree branches and tiny green leaves, topped with a cloudless evenly-coloured blue sky. It had the title “The Season of Renewal”.

The second puzzle was based on a Victorian painting of a shipwreck. A vessel had gone aground on rocks on one side of the picture, and on the other side there was a distant lighthouse and a small rowing boat that was heading towards the wreck with two people rowing through the raging sea. The bulk of the scene was that selfsame raging sea, all dark colours with lots of white crests, beneath a storm-tossed sky. It was almost certainly a depiction of Grace Darling and her father on their way to save the passengers and crew of the Forfarshire in 1838, and the artist had given it the title “A Sliver of Hope”.

The question was clearly, “which puzzle do we do first?” and then somebody came up with the bright idea of doing both of them at the same time, using tables at opposite ends of the staffroom. A further bright idea was to make a race out of it, with two teams pitted against each other.

As things turned out, the teams were based on the departments that the library staff worked in, with a general division between front-of-house and backroom staff. However, due to the fact that many staff members fulfilled both functions during the working day, this was by no means fixed and people tended to align themselves to the team that contained more of their close friends than the other. The numbers on each team were kept as equal as possible to make the challenge fair.

Team lists were drawn up, and only then was a coin tossed to decide which team would do which puzzle. There had to be a prize for winning the challenge, and it was settled that the losing team would take over the slots of the winning team on the tea-towel rota for the whole of the following term.

And so the race began!

At first everything was absolutely fine, with each team assiduously turning over all the pieces and finding those with straight edges for the frame. Naturally, people kept a weather eye on how the other team was progressing and noting if they appeared to be doing better or worse.

All would have been well if the spirit of professionalism had been maintained throughout the exercise, but unfortunately this was not the case. The opportunity to cheat was always going to be there, and some of the competitors found it hard to resist temptation.

It began with people stealing a few extra minutes in the staffroom, using the excuse, when arriving late back at their workstation, that they had been waylaid by a student who needed their help. It soon became noted, however, that student waylaying of staff when returning from their breaks had increased by approximately 250% in the time since the jigsaw competition had begun.

People then got sneaky and found that their travels around the library in the course of their work seemed to take them past the staffroom more often than not, and a quick minute on the puzzle could always be fitted in without anyone noticing.

However, as time went by it occurred to a few of them that the odd minute grabbed in this way could be spent more productively in direct sabotage of the other team’s puzzle rather than in hoping to find a piece that fitted in one’s own. The sabotage usually consisted in pieces that had already been fitted being unfitted, or of pieces being mysteriously knocked off the table and finding themselves wedged under a rug or a chair leg. This had to be subtle – just the odd piece every now and then – so as not to excite suspicion.

The cheating was relatively minor until the day when somebody had the not-so-bright idea of opening a book on the outcome and taking bets. The stakes were strictly limited, but it did mean that winners might expect to pocket around 20p – which was not to be sniffed at.

With the money incentive added to the mix, schemes for nobbling the opposition, and for guarding against being nobbled, reached what amounted to fever pitch in the environs of a University library.

The building attendants, whose job was to supervise students as they entered and left the library, and who patrolled the place to check that all the students were behaving as they should, found themselves being asked to report back on any unusual movements on the part of suspect library staff. The attendants could view virtually the whole library – but not the staffroom itself - via a system of CCTV cameras that relayed their pictures to a bank of small screens in the front-of-house area. These screens were now avidly watched by jigsaw team members, a number of whom had volunteered to do extra duties in this area for that sole purpose.

But things went too far on the day that a member of the cleaning staff, who was at work in the staffroom with only one other staff member present, was asked by that staff member to clean a mark on the floor underneath the table on which The Season of Renewal was progressing very nicely, unlike “A Sliver of Hope” which was presenting considerable problems with the raging sea section. For that reason, more neutrals were backing “Renewal” than “Hope”.

“You’ll have to lift one leg of the table to get at it properly”, said staff member X, who just happened to belong to the “Hope” team. The leg was duly lifted and a whole corner of the puzzle fell on to the floor.

“Oh no”, said staff member X, “Look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined the jigsaw!”

The cleaner was mortified and full of apologies. “I’m so sorry”, she said, “but don’t worry, most of it fell in one piece so it shouldn’t be too difficult to put it back where it came from”.

“I’ll help you”, said staff member X, diving to the floor to grab as much of the fallen section as he could. For reasons that were perfectly obvious to anyone who knew where staff member X’s allegiance lay, and who was also aware that he had placed a full 10p bet on “A Sliver of Hope”, the largest pieces that were still joined together were nothing like as closely acquainted with each other when he placed them back on the table, nowhere near where they had come from.

When the “accident” was reported to the team captains they decided that it would only be fair for the Renewal team to be allowed to restore their jigsaw before the competition continued. Staff member X was not too happy about this decision, but he reckoned that making his objection public might not be in his best interest, especially if anyone cared to track his movements at the time the disaster occurred.

However, the incident did have the effect of denting the morale of the Renewers while boosting that of the Hopers. Even though repairs to The Season of Renewal had only just begun, against all odds it had brought a sliver of hope with it to the “Sliver of Hope” team and their financial backers.

Indeed, the point was soon reached when both jigsaws were within fifty pieces of completion. Given all the shenanigans that everyone knew about but pretended not to know, a decision was made to end the competition in a sprit of friendship. All betting was cancelled and the stake money returned to the punters. There would be a time set aside for a final race to the line, both teams working at the same time and the winner declared by a neutral judge. To make life easier for everyone, only four members of each team would take part.

So that is what happened. The flag went down and the puzzlers went to work, each desperately trying not to get in each others’ way. The idea was that a hand would be raised when the final piece was pressed home and the judge would make sure that everything was above board.

What nobody expected was a dead heat, but that is exactly what happened. A Renewal hand shot up at precisely the same time as a Hope hand and the result was declared to be a draw, with the tea-towel rota staying as it was.

It was also decided that, in future, the staffroom would only play host to one giant jigsaw puzzle at a time!

©John Welford

Contracting a kidnap

As I discovered later, as soon as I was kidnapped my parents leapt into action. Actually, that is not quite true, because their actions had started some time before I found myself grabbed from behind as I walked towards home, a gag stuffed in my mouth, a hood thrust over my head, a rope tied round my chest and arms, and the whole of me bundled into the back seat of a car. 

Although I could neither speak nor see I could still hear, and the muffled voices that came through to me sounded vaguely familiar. I could have sworn that the man who said: “Why didn’t we shove him in the boot?” was Mr Phillips from number 35, and the woman who replied: “Because we put all the shopping in there, didn’t we?” was Mrs Phillips, also from number 35. It turned that there was a very good reason for my thinking what I thought, this being that my kidnappers were indeed Mr and Mrs Phillips from number 35. 

Naturally enough I began wondering why these two otherwise perfectly normal near-neighbours of ours, who regularly partnered my parents at contract bridge, had suddenly discovered a criminal tendency that had led them to seize a 30-year-old male off a suburban street and roar off into the sunset with him. 

Actually, “roar off” was a bit of an exaggeration. Mr Phillips never drove at more than 25 miles an hour at the best of times, and he was not inclined to break the habit of a lifetime on this occasion. 

My ordeal in the back of the car was not a long one, even at Mr Phillips’s gentle pace. We could only have been a couple of streets away from where we started, when the car pulled into a driveway. The doors opened and I was encouraged to get to my feet, but with the hood still over my head. A doorbell was rung, and when the house door opened a young man’s voice was heard, clearly in some alarm. 

“Bloody Hell, Dad, what have you got there?” 

“Sshh, David, keep your voice down, we don’t want all the neighbours to hear. We’re involved in a kidnap and we need you to be our safe house.” 

The young man was obviously as astonished by the proceedings as I was, but he assisted his parents in bundling me inside the house. He was about to take the hood off my head when he was stopped by Mrs Phillips. 

“No, David, wait until we’ve gone. He might recognise us, and it’s important that he doesn’t know who any of us are. Wait until we’re out of sight before you release him or take the hood off.” 

“And then,” said Mr Philips, “You must let him use your spare room, at least until Susan and the kids get back from Auntie Margaret’s next week. “Further instructions will then be given”. 

“Just what is going on?” David asked. “Have you two been overdosing on John Le Carré novels or something?” 

But no further explanation was forthcoming. The senior Phillips’s left, after which David did the decent thing and released me from my bonds. 

If Mr and Mrs Phillips had imagined for one second that their dastardly plot would work, on the basis that I would not have a clue as to who they were, or who my new jailer was, they were sadly mistaken. It had clearly slipped their minds that I had known David Phillips ever since we had been at school together. Not only that, but I had been David’s best man when he married Susan some ten years previously, and Mr and Mrs Phillips had pretended to laugh at all my terrible jokes when I made my speech at the reception. 

As I stood there in David’s front room, shaking my head to get my eyes into focus, I even recognised the IKEA furniture that I had helped David and Susan put together when they had moved into this house on Waterpark Road only three years previously. 

David was every bit as astonished as I was when he recognised who his parents’ kidnap victim was. 

“John!” he exclaimed. “What the hell is going on?” 

“I wish I knew”, I replied. “I can only imagine that your parents and mine have been playing some silly little game that they dreamed up at their last bridge evening. I’d better be getting off home.” 

And so I did, after David had kindly offered me a stiff whisky to get my brain back into gear, an offer that I was pleased to accept. 

But when I turned the corner of Laburnum Avenue, I could see that maybe going home would not be so easy. You remember I began by saying that my parents had leapt into action as soon as I had been kidnapped? The action they had taken was to order a man and a van to take all my belongings to a storage depot so they could rent out my room to a lodger, and the man was busy packing the van as I watched. 

All those hints about “didn’t I think it was about time I found a place of my own” and “all my friends got married and settled down long before they reached my age” suddenly made perfect sense. 

With better planning, and somewhat less hopeless accomplices than the Phillips’s, their plan might have worked. Actually, I had to admit that it did work, because I had now had no choice but to go back to David’s place for the night before working out a permanent arrangement. 

On the other hand, a large enough bribe would have done the trick just as well.

© John Welford