A Journey to the Past

He had had the piece of paper for years. He now held it in his hand and read it yet again. It was a copy of a birth certificate for someone called Derek Alexander Clayton:

Born on 11^th August 1952 at 11.55pm. Only five minutes from being the 12^th of August then!

Mother’s name: Elizabeth Greenaway Hunter Rule or Clayton – wife of William Cecil Clayton, Sgt RAOC, to whom she was married 30^th January 1947 at Falkirk.

The birth had been registered on 2^nd September 1952, but alongside this date was a note: Adopted (England).

The place of birth was given as 136 Merchiston Avenue, Falkirk. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology he had visited the address several times before, via Google Maps, but today was different.

Today he was in Merchiston Avenue, standing across the street from number 136 and looking at the house in which he had been born more than 65 years before.

He could easily believe that not much had changed in Merchiston Avenue since that day in 1952. The properties consisted of semi-detached pebble-dashed blocks, with each semi comprising two flats, upstairs and downstairs, each with its own entrance door at the side of the building. The block in question had the numbers 140 and 138 on the left-hand side and 136 and 134 on the right-hand side, so he assumed that 136 would be the upper floor flat.

The street had every appearance of being part of a post-war council estate, and it looked to him as though a good proportion of the properties were still council owned, given the relatively small number that had had their appearance improved by former tenants who were now private owners.

Now that he had made the long journey north from his home in Leicestershire, he felt that he had accomplished something, although he was not quite sure what that was. This somewhat drab street in a Scottish town, with the noise of traffic from the nearby A9 forming a constant background hum, was where he had started his life, and knowing that was at least something. After all, he knew almost nothing else about his origins, other than what was printed on that piece of paper.

All he wanted to do now was take a photograph of the house and make his way back home again.

However, he had hardly had time to point his camera at the upper flat before he was aware that someone was trying to attract his attention by knocking at the window from inside.

A few seconds later a woman, a few years younger than himself, had opened her door and was now walking across to where he was.

“Hey you”, she said, “What’s your game? Why are you taking pictures of the flat? Are you from the Council?”

He put the camera down. “No”, he said, “I didn’t mean to cause any offence. I just wanted to take a shot of the house I was born in.”

The woman’s manner suddenly changed. It looked for a second as though she was the one who had been shot, and with something more lethal than a camera.

“What did you say?” she asked. “You were born here?”

“That’s right”, he said, and he showed the woman his birth certificate.

"You’d better come inside”, she said, and ushered him up the stairs of the flat that was 136 Merchiston Avenue.

“What shall I call you?” she asked.

“John”, he said.

“And how long have you known that you started life as Derek Clayton?”

“About thirty-five years”, he said. 

“And why have you only come to see us now?”

“That wasn’t my intention”, he said. “I only wanted to see the house. And what do you mean by ‘us’?”

“My name is Mary Frazer”, she said. “If I’ve got it right, I’m your sister. There’s somebody here you might like to meet. But be warned, she’s not as she once was.”

So saying, Mary ushered him into a room, in the corner of which sat a very old lady in a high-backed armchair. She did not look up as the two of them approached but continued to stare at a television that was showing a children’s cartoon show, but with the sound turned off.

She turned her head as Mary spoke to her.

“Mum”, Mary said, “There’s someone here to see you. His name is John, but he used to be called Derek.”

“Derek?” said the old woman, as though she was trying to recall a name from a long time ago. “Do I know anyone called Derek?”

“You did once”, said Mary. “You used to tell me about the baby you once lost, whose name was Derek. You used to cry yourself to sleep when I was a young girl, and I sometimes heard you in the night saying how much you missed your Derek.”

There was a sudden look of recognition on the old woman’s face.

“You’re right”, she said. “I remember now. My Derek was taken away and I never saw him again.”

“Well”, said Mary, “He’s here now. This is Derek”.

The old woman slowly moved her head to change her focus from Mary’s face to John’s. She stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Are you my Derek? You’ve grown a lot. How are you getting on at school?”

“He’s not at school, Mum,” Mary told her. “He left school at a long time ago.”

“I hope he was a good boy at school,” the old woman said, before turning back to look at him. “Do you play lots of games at school?”

Mary, with tears in her eyes, pulled John away and invited him to take a seat on the other side of the room. The old woman went back to staring at the cartoons on the television.

“If only you could have come here before”, Mary said. “She was such a lovely person to know in the old days. You would have made her so happy if she could have met you only as much as ten years ago, before the dementia got so bad.”

“Then I can only apologise”, John said. “I was always afraid that I would cause distress by turning up out of the blue, and maybe rekindle old hurts”.

“I’ll tell you the full story”, Mary said, “then you’ll understand things better. Mum and Bill Clayton did not have an easy marriage. To be frank, they had fallen out of love some time before you arrived on the scene. Bill had an eye for other women and he’d probably been unfaithful to Mum several times.

“Mum knew what he was like and she was no angel either. She didn’t see why she shouldn’t have other men in her life if he could have other women, but she also knew the value of having a husband who could provide a roof over her head. When she got pregnant she thought that that was just what she needed – she reckoned that Bill might change his ways if he had a family to care for. But she was wrong there.

“One night they had a terrible row, and Mum let slip that the baby wasn’t Bill’s. She just knew it, because Bill had been away with the Army at the time the baby must have been conceived.

“Bill was furious. He told Mum that she had a choice, because he was damned if he was going to bring up another man’s child. Either the baby went, or she did.

“Mum felt trapped. The prospect of being thrown out of her home, with a baby to look after, was one that she couldn’t face, so she agreed to have the kid adopted.

“But that wasn’t the end of it. Bill was such a hypocrite. He reckoned that she had ruined the marriage by getting pregnant by another man, and he wanted out. So he left home, found himself another woman, and started divorce proceedings. Mum was now on her own, having lost both her husband and her child.

“But along came Jimmy Frazer, who had been her friend for a number of years. He had known Bill Clayton from years before – they had been Army colleagues - and he knew what sort of man he was like. He was always there when Mum needed a shoulder to cry on, and it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that he was not only Mum’s true friend but also your father. Mum invited Jimmy to live with her in this flat, so he did. After the divorce from Bill, Jimmy and Mum got married and I am their daughter.

“That’s a sad story”, John said, “although it seems to have a happy ending. However, things don’t seem to have worked out so well for you, having to look after your Mum when she is in such a bad way.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad”, said Mary. “I have two other sisters and we take it in turns to give Dad our support.”

“So Jimmy’s still alive?”

“Oh yes – he’s over 90 but he’s still in quite good shape. In fact, I can hear him coming up the stairs now. He’s just been down to the shop to get a few things.”

As she spoke, the door opened and a tall elderly man entered the room. Although he was stooped over by the years there was still the trace of a military bearing about him. He was a little startled to see that Mary had company, but he then fixed his bright blue eyes on the stranger who was now standing up to be introduced to him.

Before Mary could speak Jimmy Frazer said just two words:

“Hello, son”.

© John Welford

The True Story of the Gunpowder Plot (maybe!)

Guy was quite enjoying his new job as a courier driver in London. He had only been doing the job for a week, but he found it quite exciting trundling his horse and cart around parts of London that were new to him, having only arrived from the country a month or so before. He had met lots of new people and had already earned several groats in tips from satisfied customers.

On the 5^th of November he got a message that he was to go to Eddie Towbar’s distribution depot in east London. He was told that he only needed to bring his horse because the wagon was already loaded and ready to go. 

He was greeted by the depot foreman when he arrived.

“Name?”

“Spoons. Guy Spoons.”

“OK, Spoons, your job is to deliver a wagonload of beer to the King’s Arms in Westminster. There are two carts out in the yard, both loaded with barrels, eleven of them on each. One cart is red and the other one is green. You want to hitch your horse to the red cart. Whatever you do, don’t take the green cart.”

The foreman’s assistant laughed out loud at this.

“Oh no”, he said, “you wouldn’t want to take the green cart. That would be a huge mistake.”

“It certainly would”, said the foreman. “An enormous mistake”. The two men carried on laughing as Guy made his way out to where the two carts were waiting.

“The red cart”, said Guy to himself, “not the green cart. Definitely not the green cart”.

So Guy hitched up the cart and set off through the streets of London. 

When Guy reached the King’s Arms he had to ask for directions as to where he would find the entrance to the cellars, which he presumed were somewhere round the back. The landlord explained that it was a bit complicated, because several roads had been cordoned off on account of the huge procession that was expected very soon. 

“It’s the state opening of Parliament”, said the landlord. “King James will be arriving, as will all the Members of Parliament, and security is understandably tight. Mind you, there’ll be lots of celebrating afterwards, which is why I’ve ordered all this extra beer.”

“So where do I go?” asked Guy.

“Take the first left, then the second right, then the second left. The cellar hatch is painted green – you can’t miss it.”

“Green, you say?”

“Oh yes, definitely green. Don’t go delivering my beer down anyone else’s hatch, painted any other colour, or my party definitely won’t go with a bang tonight!”

“How do you want me to stack your barrels?” asked Guy.

“There are several bays in the cellar”, said the landlord, “just go to the one at the far end and stack them up there.”

“No problem” said Guy.

Guy was about to set off with his cart when the landlord spoke to him again.

“Oh, just one thing,” he said. “Because of the royal procession there’s every chance that the roads will be completely blocked by the time you finish. I suggest that you stay down there with the barrels until the coast is clear. I’ll send one of my barmaids down with some food and plenty of candles, and I’ll make sure that you get a decent tip at the end of it all. You can rest assured that you’ll get much more than you were expecting.”

“First left, second right, second left, green hatch?”

“That’s right. There some red hatches in the neighbourhood, but only one green one. You wouldn’t want to deliver my beer down a red hatch!”

So off Guy trundled off with his cart and made his way along the route he had been told. 

“Left, right, left” he said to himself. “Now where’s the green hatch? Ah. There it is.”

He did wonder a bit why the cellar entrance appeared to be out of sight of the King’s Arms, but when he opened the hatch and looked inside he could see that a tunnel ran away into the distance, so it could easily, he thought, run underneath the pub.

Getting the barrels down the ramp into the cellar was easy enough, as was rolling them down the tunnel, which was lit with lanterns all the way along. It took some time, but eventually Guy was able to stack the eleventh and last barrel in the bay that was furthest from the entrance hatch.

There was plenty of noise coming from above his head – lots of shouting and sounds of many feet marching up and down. Maybe they were getting ready for the big party, which had to mean that somebody would be coming for the beer before too long. All he had to do was sit still and wait – at least the barmaid with the food should turn up soon.

After a short time there was a loud noise from the other end of the tunnel. There were bright lights and men tramping along the passageway. A troop of soldiers, armed with muskets, walked into the bay where Guy was sitting.

“Stand up”, a loud voice commanded. “You are under arrest for being right underneath the House of Lords surrounded by what look suspiciously like barrels of gunpowder. Put your hands where I can see them!”

Guy did exactly as he was told. It seemed to be the best plan, given that a dozen muskets were pointing at his face.

“What’s your name?” barked the sergeant in charge of the troop. Guy should probably have been completely open at this point, but for some reason he thought that subterfuge might be his best plan. 

“Forks”, he said, this being the only name he could think of that wasn’t Spoons. “Guy Forks”.

“How do you spell that?” asked the corporal who was taking notes of the proceedings.

“How the hell should I know?”, said Guy. “I never went to school. Write it how it sounds.”

So that is what the corporal did. And that is how the legend of Guy Fawkes was born. It was all down to the fact that the man who was supposed to deliver a load of beer for a celebration night at the King’s Arms suffered from red/green colour blindness and had a problem telling left from right. He simply delivered the wrong barrels to the wrong place - nothing more than that.

You see, there never was an actual Gunpowder Plot. All those stories about plotters being hanged, drawn and quartered were put about by the propaganda machine of the time to cover up the huge embarrassment of what really happened.

I refer, of course, to the terrible mistake made by the Royal Horse Artillery when they tried to fire a 21-gun salute for the King having primed each cannon with half a barrel of best bitter.

© John Welford

The Pockets of Power

Everything you came to love 
So freely bought and sold
An easy life, dependent on
A pocketful of gold

A world of privilege and greed

Was yours from earliest youth
You never knew the contents of
A pocketful of truth

You opened wide your gaping maw
From which came – no surprise –
The latest mad extraction from

Your pocketful of lies

You sought to foment seismic change 
And make your country great
But deeply thrust your hand inside
A pocketful of hate

What you dislike’s condemned as fake 
You guess this makes you strong
But only adds more substance to

Your pocketful of wrong

Your moral baseness further dips
With each offensive tweet
And yet more shame augments what’s in
Your pocket of deceit

All decent folk desire that you
Will not achieve your goals
Each decanted safely in
A pocketful of holes

© John Welford

The Island

The judge gave Prospero a stern look.

“Mr Prospero”, he said, “you have pleaded guilty to the charge of fraud, but perhaps you might like to give the court the full story of what happened so that I can decide on an appropriate sentence?”

“I am grateful to the court”, Prospero replied. “I shall therefore endeavour to do precisely that”.

“As you may recall, at the end of Act Five of The Tempest I abandoned my magic island and headed back home. But I soon got bored and wondered what I could do to pass the time and earn a bob or two while I was at it.

“Ferdinand and Miranda were very happy together and were soon producing a regular supply of grandchildren for me. This got me wondering whether I couldn’t use the island to give other young people the same opportunities. Suppose I set up some kind of community on the island where people could arrive as singles and leave as pairs? I even thought up a highly original name that I could give my new enterprise – can you guess what it was?”

“Actually,” said the judge, “I rather think I can. It wouldn’t be ‘Love Island’ by any chance, would it?”

Prospero looked distinctly disappointed at the news that his originality was maybe not as original as he had imagined.

“No matter”, he continued. “So I went back to the island and got some of my fellow characters to help get things started. I’ve always envied Hamlet his Elsinore Castle, with all its romantic turrets and spires, so I asked him to draw up plans for a hotel along the same lines. Unfortunately, this led to some delays.”

“So I can imagine”, said the judge, “it must have taken him for ever to decide how many towers to build.”

“It was worse than that,” said Prospero. “When writing the spec he discovered that he didn’t know to spell ‘abutment’ or ‘embrasure’. He went around for days muttering ‘two bs or not two bs’ to himself.”

“But the building did get underway eventually, presumably?” asked the judge.

“Oh yes”, said Prospero, “although I should never have invited Henry V to the island. Every time a length of wall got built he insisted in knocking a dirty great breach in it and making a stirring speech as he did so. I had to send him home.

“Worse problems arose after everything was ready and my guests had arrived, having already paid substantial deposits for their accommodation. You see, I thought I could raise some extra cash by running a casino in the hotel. I got Shylock to organize the financing of the enterprise, including issuing loans for those who needed them. Unfortunately, his repayment terms were ever so slightly excessive and I lost a number of guests who preferred to leave the island with all their body parts in the same place and condition as they had been when they arrived.

“Some of the guests preferred to drown their sorrows in the bar, but that wasn’t always possible because I had made the mistake of asking Sir John Falstaff to be my barman. It often happened that he had drunk the bar dry long before opening time, leaving none for the guests.”

“What about your catering arrangements?” asked the judge. “Surely you were able to offer your guests an appealing cuisine?”

“Well, I thought I would”, said Prospero, “which is why I was delighted when Macbeth said that he knew three very talented cooks from his neck of the woods who would be able to produce some highly original dishes based on the flora and fauna of the island. I thought he meant things like pineapples, rabbits and deer, but they had very different ideas. Not too many guests went for the armadillo on toast option at breakfast, but it might have been the iguana surprise that was the final straw.

“Having said that, I think the outbreak of food poisoning was more likely to have been caused by the personal hygiene of the ladies in question, or rather the complete lack of it.”

“But did you have any satisfied customers?” asked the judge. “Did you achieve your aim of pairing people up and sending them home happy?”

“Yes to the first aim, but probably no to the second”, said Prospero. “I just don’t think that there was much prospect of lasting happiness between Romeo and Lady Macbeth, or Desdemona and King Lear, but that was who they ended up with.”

“After which, presumably, everybody demanded their money back and your inability to satisfy them has landed you in trouble with this court”, said the judge. “What do you think was your biggest mistake in all this?”

“Well”, said Prospero, “You have to remember that I used to be a magician who ruled a magic island. At the end of the play I gave up all my magic and swore never to use it again. Not only did I lose my powers but so did the island. The guests of my Love Island may have expected to come away with a few love bites, but they got thousands of insect bites instead. It used to be an isle full of noises, now it’s full of mozzies.”

“And that reminds me of what would be the most suitable punishment for you”, said the judge. “You will return to the island where your only companions will be the mosquitos and the three lovely ladies that Macbeth recommended as your cooks. They will be under instruction not only to provide all your meals but to ensure that you watch every minute of this box set of DVDs that will be your only entertainment.”

“What is it?” asked Prospero.

“Can’t you guess?” said the judge. “It’s every episode ever made of Love Island. That should be punishment enough for anyone.”

© John Welford

Only in America

When Shylock presented himself at the Immigration desk on arrival at New York’s JFK Airport, the ensuing interview proved to be quite enlightening. 

“Where are you from?” asked the official in charge.

“Venice”, said Shylock.

“Is that Venice New York, Venice Florida or Venice California?”

“Venice Italy”, said Shylock.

“There’s a Venice in Italy?” said the official, clearly shocked by the news. “I never knew that”.

“It’s been there quite a long time”, said Shylock. “You’d like it. It’s full of canals and very old buildings.”

“We’ve got some old buildings here, you know,” said the official, defensively. There are some in New York that are over a hundred years old. Can you beat that in your Italy?”

“Just about”, said Shylock.

“Italy”, said the official, “that’s not the same as Iran, is it? They both begin with an I and I’m not allowed to admit anyone from Iran.”

“No”, said Shylock. “They’re very different places. Italy’s in Europe.”

“Europe”, said the official. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a big country near England, isn’t it?”

Shylock reckoned that trying to teach geography to an American was probably a complete waste of time, and was therefore very glad when the questioning turned to a different theme.

“Mr Shylock”, asked the official, “what is your purpose in coming to America?”

“I want to start a new business here”, said Shylock. “I’m a moneylender, and there are some people back home who don’t take too kindly to the ways in which I persuade people to pay me what they owe. They take the line that bodily mutilation is going too far.”

“Bodily mutilation?”

“Yes. I charge extortionate rates of interest and threaten to cut bits out of my customers if they don’t pay up.”

“That sounds enterprising”, said the official. “We tend to use guns rather than knives over here when wanting to stress a point, but apart from that it sounds like a reasonable enough business model. And I like the notion of getting rich quick by squeezing every last penny out of your victims. Very American in tone.”

“I gather that some of your leading citizens made their fortunes that way and then turned to politics”, said Shylock.

“That’s very true”, said the official. “Dodgy businessmen can go a long way up the political ladder if they want to. Even right to the very top.”

“Is that so?” Shylock asked. “Do you reckon I could do the same?”

“You mean become President of the United States?”

“That’s the idea”, said Shylock.

“Ah – you might have a small problem there”, said the official.

“Not dishonest enough, you mean?”

“No, it’s not that”, said the official. “In order to become President you must have been born in the United States, and I assume that doesn’t apply to you.”

“Indeed so”, said Shylock, “but that’s because I wasn’t born”.

“You weren’t born?”

“No. I was created”.

"Created?”

“Yes. By William Shakespeare. I’m one of his best-known characters – from The Merchant of Venice.”

“But that’s just great”, said the official.

“Is it?”

“But of course! America is jam-packed full of creationists! We’re very big on the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve and all that, so to have someone running for President who’s virtually Adam’s brother would be a dead cert to win, no problem at all!”

“Let’s get this straight,” said Shylock. “You’re saying that a low-down crook like me, with absolutely no sense of morality, who’s prepared to cheat his way to a fortune and doesn’t care who gets trampled in the mud as he does so, but who wasn’t actually born, could rise to the very top? Where in the world is that possible?”

“Only in America, Mr Shylock. Only in America.”

© John Welford

The MasterChef Witches

Heaven alone knows what possessed the BBC to allow Mabel, Doris and Alice – the exceptionally ugly weird sisters who were the residents of Blasted Heath Cottage – to take part in their MasterChef cookery show. Perhaps it was a misguided belief that any reference to the works of William Shakespeare would be good for the ratings, or maybe some magical and other-worldly influences had been brought to bear on the officials who decide these things.

Whatever the reason, the fact remained that the MasterChef kitchen, presided over by the revered John Torode and Gregg Wallace, found itself hosting some unexpected equipment in the shape of three enormous cauldrons as well as the usual cooking facilities. Questions were raised about the health and safety implications of allowing cooking to take place on open fires within the confined space of the MasterChef studio, but – once again – the people with the power to decide such matters seemed to become strangely willing to put aside any objections, and they were also persuaded to change the theme music for the series to “I put a spell on you”, which was appropriate if nothing else.

As the rounds progressed, the other entrants fell by the wayside one after the other. It might possibly have been that their dishes were considered too unoriginal by the judges when set against what Mabel, Doris and Alice had to offer. After all, none of them could compete with the delights of bat wing surprise or dog tongue upside down cake. Alice’s newt and lizard turnovers were declared the star dish of the third show, and nothing could compare with Mabel’s adder’s fork ice cream in the semi-final.

At least, everyone said that these entries were the best things they had ever tasted, and that included all the guest gourmets who came on to the show at various stages. Was any undue influence brought to bear on their judgments in the form of strange incantations uttered over the cauldrons just before the tastings took place? Who could possibly tell? 

The final was therefore fought out between the three witches, who now found themselves in competition with each other as opposed to cooperating to get rid of the other entrants. Sisterly love soon gave way to sibling rivalry and no tactics were considered too underhand to be attempted.

Of the three final dishes, Mabel’s was clearly not going to win. The added ingredients supplied by Doris and Alice, when Mabel’s back was turned, had a devastating effect on the BBC presenters when they passed by and sniffed at the cauldron – all John Torode’s hair fell out and Gregg Wallace suddenly found himself sporting a luxuriant set of dreadlocks that reached down to his waist. The make-up department had a terrible time getting the pair back to their usual appearance, and Mabel was promptly dismissed from the show.

Doris had prepared a new approach to brunch, which was to combine breakfast and lunch on the same plate, in the shape of fairly traditional muesli laced with strips of raw yak meat. Doris being Doris, the muesli had a few added ingredients in the shape of dragonfly wings and chopped hedgehog spines, but it was definitely the pieces of yak that made Doris’s dish stand out as the main contender for the top prize. As usual, John Torode questioned whether it was sufficiently seasoned, but that appeared to be the only objection.

Alice was incensed. After all the effort she had made to get the right rats for her take on ratatouille, she had no intention of seeing her sister steal what she saw as her rightful crown. Doris knew all about doctoring a rival’s entry, so there was no way she was going to allow Alice to get close to hers. Alice had no choice but to win by bribing the judges. 

And that was what she did. As mentioned above, Alice had come to the show with a consignment of rats, and not all of them had been used in her dish. Indeed, she discovered just before the broadcast that some of them had given birth to litters of baby rats and she therefore had considerably more than she started out with. Her rats were direct descendants of those that that caused such devastation by spreading the Black Death in the 14^th century, as were the fleas they carried that were the real culprits.

Alice had the very weapon she needed. If she was not given first prize by the judges, she only had to release her highly fertile vermin for Black Death Number Two to be let loose on to the streets of London. She therefore had a quiet word with John and Gregg, urging them to favour her ratatouille over Doris’s unusual brunch.  The words she actually used had seemingly been provided for that very purpose by William Shakespeare when he wrote Twelfth Night:

“If muesli beef’s the food you love, plague on!”

© John Welford

The Darkest Hour: a poem

It’s often said, maybe it could be true,

That just before the sky gives hint of blue

The night does all it can to fright and cower

It’s what is sometimes called the darkest hour.

The task undone, impending daily grind,

Is all that sleepless you can bring to mind,

As thoughts forbear to cease their surly dance

And time, it seems, refuses to advance.

All that is vile is ready to ensnare

But must you yet fall victim to despair?

Take heart, be hopeful for the coming morn -

The world is darkest just before the dawn.

© John Welford