Museum Piece

 

I have always enjoyed visiting museums and re-connecting with the past by looking at objects that were made centuries ago. I have also long had an interest in ancient history, particularly that of Greece and Rome.

I was therefore very keen, during a recent visit to Berlin, to take in the magnificent Altes Museum which has one of the world’s best collections of classical antiquities. I am not sure that my friend Bernie was quite so excited by the prospect. I had made contact with Bernie when I knew that he was going to be in Berlin on business. He had a spare day and was happy enough to join me on a tour round Museum Island to drink in the culture.

It was not long before I was oohing and aahing at the items on display in the Altes Museum. I spent quite a long time gazing at the collection of sculptured heads of Roman Emperors and other prominent people from that era. As I pointed out to Bernie, many of the images you see in books of ancient history that cover the Roman Empire are photographs of these very pieces, which are either the originals or copies made shortly afterwards to satisfy Roman demands for heads to adorn temples where various Emperor worship cults were encouraged.

“Look!” I said. “There’s Tiberius! And that’s Trajan! And Caracalla!”

I was in something approaching Seventh Heaven, although I don’t think that Bernie had even reached First Heaven at this stage. He was far more interested in something else that was going on in the room, and, as things turned out, I should have been too.

As I learned later, a young mother had brought her 6-year-old son to the Museum, although the boy’s interest in ancient history was probably around the level of my friend Bernie’s. The kid had been happily riding his skateboard on the paths that crisscross the Lustgarten in front of the Museum and was not best pleased to be told that he had to stop whizzing up and down and be dragged round the Museum.

As applies to all visitors to the Museum, backpacks and other encumbrances have to be checked in at the Museum entrance before their owners are allowed through into the galleries. The mother had tucked the skateboard into a strap on the outside of her backpack and had put it on the floor while buying her tickets for the Museum.

This was just the opportunity that the youngster had been waiting for. It took no time at all for him to pull the skateboard out from its strap and set off into the Museum. These smooth floors were just ideal for skateboarding, especially as he could weave his way around the various plinths and display cases at high speed and have a whale of a time so doing.

What made the game even more exciting was that his mother and several museum attendants were soon in hot pursuit. This was the chase to which Bernie had had his attention drawn. He could see that he was in an excellent position to solve the problem, which he did by standing in front of the approaching skateboarder and forcing him to stop.

At least, the skateboard stopped but the boy did not. He continued to run the length of the gallery, as did his pursuers.

And what did I do while all this was happening? I was still lost in a world of my own, completely mesmerized by the dozens of carved heads displayed before me. I just did not hear any of the commotion going on behind me.

I took a step backwards to get an overall view of the full display. My right foot caught the edge of the stationary skateboard, causing me to lose my balance. I spun halfway round, so that my left foot landed plumb on top of the skateboard.

The stationary skateboard was stationary no longer. It shot away with me on top, although my skateboarding skills left a lot to be desired. The owner of the skateboard, who had now been apprehended and was being hauled back into the gallery, would probably have been glad to give me lots of tips to improve my technique, but I was definitely not in the mood to ask for any.

My journey was ungainly but short. It ended when I crashed into a plinth on which stood a statue of a Roman lady, possibly a relative or concubine of one of the Emperors whose heads I had just been admiring, posing as the goddess Venus.

I was not aware that I had been travelling at any great speed, but it was clearly enough to cause the tragedy that then ensued. The statue could not stay any longer on its plinth but toppled backwards with me desperately clutching on to it for support.

When the lady hit the floor there was a loud crack and I saw to my horror that her head was no longer on her shoulders. It was now rolling away towards those of the Emperors. Neither was one of her arms still where it should have been.

Given that the lady was pretending to be the goddess Venus she was not wearing much to get in the way of her highly feminine curves, and I was now lying on top of her with my hands where they should certainly not have been.

Had she not been a statue, and a decapitated one at that, there was every chance that she might have had a very good case against me for a serious sexual assault.

All the faces around me, bar one, displayed shock and horror. The one that did not was that of my friend Bernie, who seemed to have found something to laugh at.

“You know they say that you’re only as old as the woman you feel?” he asked. I did not answer.

“Well”, he continued, “According to this label that makes you approximately 1,764 years old.”

He hadn’t finished.

“And, going by your current salary, that is the age you’re likely to be when you’ve finished paying for the damage”.

© John Welford

Make 'Em Laugh: a story

William Shakespeare, having shuffled off his mortal coil, was stuck in Purgatory awaiting the final decision as to whether his soul should spend eternity upstairs or downstairs.  He was approached by one of the demons-in-charge with a job offer.

“Hi there, Will”, he said. “How’s things?”

“To be honest”, said the former Bard, “It’s getting a bit wearisome. Hanging around here for hundreds of years is – not to put too fine a point on it – dead boring.”

“Good point – well made”, said the demon, whose name was Bert. “And that’s why I’ve popped along to see you. You’ve got at least another 500 years to go, so you might like something to do to fill in the time.”

“You bet I would”, said Will. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well”, said Bert, “How would you like to write another play?”

“What’s the point of that?” Will asked. “Who’s going to perform it and who will watch it?”

Bert was happy to give him the lowdown.

“There’s a batch of souls just coming up for assessment. As you might expect, it’s an anxious time for them, not being sure how it will turn out, so I reckoned that it would be a nice gesture to put on a bit of entertainment for them the night before, and who better than you to do the honours? We’ve got hundreds of dead actors round here, so getting a cast together should be no problem at all. What do you reckon?”

“What sort of play did you have in mind?” Will asked. “I’m pretty versatile, you know.”

“I certainly do know”, said Bert. “I’ve seen all your plays.”

“You have?”

“But of course! There’s always a demon around at every stage performance. Whenever somebody fluffs a line or falls over the furniture that’s because one of us has been having a bit of a laugh. In your case, the demon was me.”

“I’m not sure if I should be grateful or not.” said Will. “But I still don’t know if you want me to write a comedy or a tragedy.”

“Oh, a comedy of course”, said Bert. “You gave me some great giggles when you were in your prime, and more of the same would be fantastic.”

“So which of my plays did you enjoy the most?” Will asked. “Was it, perhaps, ‘A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream?”

“On no”, said Bert. “All those daft fairies floating about? Far too soppy for me.”

“OK, so how about ‘All’s Well That End’s Well’? ‘As You Like It’? Twelfth Night’?”

“Not really my scene”, said Bert. “I can’t say I was convulsed with laughter at any of those.”

“So what did make you laugh, then?”

“I just loved it when that dopey git stuck his sword through the curtain and stabbed the wrong guy.”

“That”, said Will, “was in Hamlet – one of my tragedies.”

“But it was great”, said Bert. “The way he slowly went mad. I also loved it when that old codger went completely doolally and wandered over the heath saying stupid things. I creased up watching that.”

“You mean King Lear?”

“That’s the one. Pure comic genius!”

“Another tragedy, need I say? Did anything else take your fancy?”

“The Scottish play, of course – those witches had me rolling in the aisle, not to mention the Queen losing her marbles. Just brilliant!”

“I dread to think what you made of ‘Titus Andronicus’”.

“The best of the lot, my friend! Throats slit, hands cut off – and when the Queen of the Goths eats that pie with her sons baked inside it? The tears were rolling down my cheeks!”

“So you want me to write something along similar lines?”

“Absolutely!” Bert replied. “Some of those souls will need a good chuckle. They won’t get many where they’re going.”

“Yes”, said Will, “All that fire and brimstone doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“What do you mean?” said Bert. “I’m talking about the poor mutts who are forced to spend eternity in Heaven.  All that praying and genuflecting – not too much to amuse anyone there. On the other hand, Hell is a very jolly place, not to mention a darned sight warmer.”

“And where do you reckon that I’ll be sent to?”

“Hell, of course. No problem there. All playwrights and actors end up in Hell. They love it. Do you remember all those times people kept telling you to go to Hell? That was me and my fellow demons congratulating you for a job well done!”

© John Welford

Breaking the Silence

 

It was the first thing you saw when you walked into the library at Salisbury College of Technology – the word SILENCE in prominent black letters posted on the opposite wall. There were at least half a dozen similar signs at strategic locations around the library – they were impossible to miss.

The job of College Librarian was my third professional post and the first in which I was actually in charge of a library. The first thing I did after greeting my new colleagues on my first morning was to take down all those signs.

My predecessor had been very “old school” in his approach to librarianship, and had retired not long before. I, on the other hand, was only six years out of training college and full of bright ideas about how a modern college library should work for the benefit of students in the late 20^th century, who were certainly not going to be encouraged to use a library that resembled a Trappist monastery.

The library had - in my view – been badly neglected for years, being full of tired old stock that was seriously out of date and in no way suited to support students who needed to be supplied with the latest information.

I therefore spent the following years upgrading the library, negotiating ever larger budgets to buy in new stock and removing vast numbers of books that had long outlived their usefulness. I had the full support of the College Principal in making this happen.

However, after four years I felt it was time to move on. My personal circumstances had changed and I needed to find a post that paid me enough to consider re-marrying and setting up a new home. I therefore started applying for jobs that looked suitable, wherever they might be. The new love of my life had just finished teacher training and was free to find a job just about anywhere, which gave me quite a free hand.

Offers of interviews came in fairly frequently, and I was pleased to see that the ratio of interviews to job applications was quite high. It would appear that my experience and qualifications, plus the statements I made in my applications, were good enough to make potential employers think that I was worth talking to, which was very satisfactory.

However, the downside was that none of the interviews resulted in a job offer. Over the course of about twelve months I attended something like 25 interviews, all over the country, but got nowhere in terms of landing one. On one occasion I was interviewed in Coventry in the morning and Leeds in the afternoon, after a frantic drive up the M1 in my ancient VW Beetle, but neither interview got me anywhere.

I was beginning to wonder if I would ever find a new post when I had a piece of good luck. It was not a job offer, but a conversation with one of my interviewers after yet another failed bid. This was at a college in Derby, and I had recognized one of the interview panel as someone who had been on the staff of the College of Librarianship in Aberystwyth where I had gained my postgrad diploma. He had not actually taught me, but had clearly seen the link on my application form and decided, after the interview, to take me to one side for a quick word.

“Do you realise”, he said, “that you will never get a job with a reference like that? It’s very much against convention for me to be telling you this, but I thought I owed it to you as a personal favour. You should not use your College Principal as a referee if he is going to be saying things like that about you.”

This was an absolute bombshell. I had no idea that the Principal, with whom I was on generally good terms, had been queering my pitch behind my back. When I got back to Salisbury I made a few enquiries and the true situation emerged.

This was that the Principal was unpopular with many of the college staff, who held him in contempt for the way he behaved towards them. He held grudges against people who displeased him and had been known to stand at his office window, armed with a stopwatch, when certain individuals went out at lunchtime to ensure that they did not overstay their permitted time off the premises, thus giving him a reason for being even more unpleasant towards them.

He had installed a tracking system on the telephone switchboard so that he could be sent lists of all the phone numbers of outgoing calls, from which he could challenge people about making private calls at the College’s expense.

As one might imagine, when staff members who were in his crosshairs had the opportunity to leave for pastures new, this is what they did. This had been noted by the County authorities who were concerned that staff turnover was a lot higher at Salisbury than at the other colleges in Wiltshire, and the Principal had been spoken to about this.

He had therefore adopted a new policy, which was to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to leave, whether they were on his hitlist or not. When someone employed by a college makes a job application, one of the references they give is almost always that of their college Principal – the applicant could expect to be asked a few awkward questions if they did not. If the reference is a poor one, maybe containing a few downright lies about the person in question, then their chances of landing a new job can go straight down the pan.

This had been my fate for the best part of a year, and presumably it would have continued had I not had the good fortune to encounter someone on an interview panel who was prepared to break a golden rule and tell a candidate what was really happening.

My next move was therefore to give up on the idea of getting a new job and instead to apply for a Master’s course at my old training college in Aberystwyth. That was somewhere that had no need for a reference from my current employer, and I was duly accepted to join the next intake of students, after which I made a fresh start on my career as a librarian.

Sometimes it is really helpful when a person breaks a silence and tells the truth.

© John Welford

The Man With The Cart

Walter was a strong hulk of a man who was used to trundling his cart over the drawbridge and through the imposing entrance gate of the Tower of London, with the rotting heads of traitors looking down at him from the stakes on to which they had been thrust.

Walter regularly ferried provisions to the house of the Constable of the Tower, who since King Henry’s victory at the Battle of Bosworth in August 1485 was Sir John Vere, Earl of Oxford. Sir John was one of the highest-ranked men in the land, and was not often in residence at the Tower, but today, the 10th of January 1486, was an exception. Sir John welcomed Walter in person.

Walter was expecting this, because he had been visited late in the evening some weeks previously by a messenger from the Tower. Walter had followed his instructions to the letter, although he had no idea why he was been being asked to do what he was now doing.

It was a long-standing tradition that the Constable of the Tower was entitled to any horse, pig or sheep that fell into the Thames from London Bridge. One of Walter’s tasks, as a servant of the Tower, was to keep watch for any such incident and recover the body whether dead or alive, but usually the former. Fresh meat was always welcome at the Tower, which had many mouths to feed.

As Walter was well aware it was not only stray animals that occasionally fell from the bridge but people. They might be victims of violence or merely unfortunates who had missed their footing for one reason or another. It was the bodies of two such individuals, covered by a thick cloth, that were now in Walter’s cart as he made his way to the Constable’s house.

“Your timing could not have been better”, said Sir John when the two men were able to talk without fear of being overheard. “I was getting worried that it might be too late to do what I intend.”

“May I ask what that is, Sire?” Walter asked.

“I have to insist that you carry out my instructions in absolute secrecy”, said Sir John. “Not a word of this to anyone. I am about to show you something that very few people have seen and even fewer have suspected. Follow me”.

So saying, Sir John led the way to a room on the upper floor of the house. He pushed the door open a fraction and invited Walter to peer through the gap. Walter could see two young men playing chess. “Should I know these fellows?” Walter asked.

“You should not,” said Sir John, “because everyone believes them to have been dead for at least a year. They are the former King Edward V and his brother Richard.”

“I don’t understand”, said Walter.

“I am King Henry’s man to the core”, said Sir John, gently closing the door. “I fought for him at Bosworth and would gladly do so again on any battlefield in England or abroad. But he is now asking me to do something that I simply cannot do.”

Sir John ushered Walter back down the stairs to the main room of the house and sat him down with a glass of mead as he explained the situation further.

“As you might or might not know” he said, “King Richard seized the throne from his nephew, the late King Edward’s son, and sent young Edward and his brother Richard here, where they were placed in the care of my predecessor, who was killed at Bosworth. King Richard claimed that the boys were bastards, because their parents’ marriage was invalid. With that claim enshrined in law, his path to the throne was assured.

“However, King Richard died at Bosworth and Henry is now the King. In order to bring the warring Houses of York and Lancaster together, Henry has proposed marriage to Elizabeth, the sister of the two young men you saw upstairs.”

“The bastards, as you called them?”

“Exactly”, said Sir John. “And if they are bastards, Elizabeth, who very soon will become Queen of England, is also officially a bastard.”

“She can’t like that much.”

“Indeed so. And what is to stop her asking her new husband, the most powerful man in the land, to undo the attainder that declares her so? Should that happen, then the boys also become legitimate and their claims to be the rightful King and heir become valid once more.”

“Does that matter, if Henry has the throne anyway?”

“It does if you are Henry! What would happen if the boys were to escape from the Tower? It would not be long before a new rebellion was under way, based on the fact that King Edward’s legitimate heirs were alive and well.”

“So why are you telling me all this now?” Walter asked.

“Because Henry wants to do now what he has told everyone else that King Richard did years ago, namely murder the Princes. I now have my orders to do precisely that.”

Walter suddenly got wind of what Sir John had in mind. He stood up and glared angrily at Sir John.

“No!” he shouted. “I won’t do it. You can’t make me. I’m not a murderer. I know I have the strength to strangle two young men with my bare hands, but I don’t have the heart or soul for such an evil deed.”

“Calm yourself,” said Sir John, pouring Walter a fresh glass of mead. “That’s not what I mean at all. I have absolutely no intention of killing the Princes, because I also have a heart. Your task is to help them escape. Show me what you have in your cart.”

Walter took Sir John outside and showed him the bodies of two drowned young men, of roughly the same ages as the Princes upstairs.

“Perfect”, said Sir John. “At least they will get a decent burial, as opposed to floating down the river and being eaten by the fish. Please help me carry them to where their coffins are waiting.

“We won’t nail the lids down just yet, just in case King Henry sends a spy to check that the job has been done. The only person who really knows what the Princes look like is their sister, and she has long believed them to be dead. I’ll put the Princes’ rings on their fingers, which should be enough to convince anyone else.”

Sir John then went upstairs and brought the Princes down with him. He asked them to take off their outer clothes as well as their rings. When they realized that this was all being done in order to save their lives, they did so without much protest. They then climbed aboard Walter’s cart and were covered by the same cloth that had previously covered the corpses.

“What will happen to them now?” Walter asked Sir John, making sure that the boys couldn’t overhear.

“Take them to All Hallows Church”, said Sir John. “A priest will meet you and take the boys into his care. I have arranged for them to be taken to a monastery in Suffolk where they will be accepted as novices and may in time be accepted into the order.”

“Not quite the same as being royal princes”, said Walter.

“It’s a very wealthy monastery”, said Sir John. “Believe me, they’ll live like princes all right, with a few prayers thrown in, and they’ll have a much safer life than that lived by real kings and princes”.

“But how do I get them out?” Walter asked. “I always arrive with a full cart and leave with an empty one. Won’t having a load in the cart on the way out make somebody ask a few awkward questions?”

“Leave that to me”, said Sir John.

Before Walter had reached the gate, Sir John had called out “Guards! Guards! Prisoner escaping!”, while pointing in the opposite direction to where Walter was heading. It did the trick perfectly.

© John Welford

To WB, 1808: a villanelle

I much admire the words you write
In which you never cease to make
Strong armour for my mental fight

Clouds unfold and doubt takes flight
For green and pleasant England’s sake
I much admire the words you write

If conflict comes by day or night
Along with sleepless sword I’ll take
Strong armour for my mental fight

My golden bow is burning bright
To dreaming time from when I wake
I much admire the words you write

Desiring arrows set in flight
All inspired by what you spake
Strong armour for my mental fight

Your fiery chariot gives me might
To render void tormenting ache
I much admire the words you write
Strong armour for my mental fight

© John Welford

Paws For Thought: a silly poem

When your brain is in a fog
Can you remember types of dog?
You’re in luck – I will confide
To you my foolproof doggy guide.
This is all you’ll ever need
For right-on knowledge of the breed.
You’ll want to tell what’s good or trash
Before you part with hard-earned cash.
It’s black and white? Friendly? Jolly?
It well might be a Border Collie.
With loyalty that can’t get better
Could it be an English Setter?
Companionship? You can be sure
If you buy a Labrador.
A long-term friendship will ensue
With a handsome Kerry Blue.
You need a dog to reconnoitre?
It’s obvious – an English Pointer.
It comes up to a midget’s knees?
Possibly a Bichon Frise.
Sharp of bite and strong of muscle?
You’ve got yourself a fierce Jack Russell.
Its coat can be both light and dusky
I refer to the Alaskan Husky.
It looks ideal to mop the floor,
Hairy Hungarian Komondor.
A spotty dog is your fixation?
No choice other than Dalmatian.
It blocks the light and fills the lane?
Can only be a huge Great Dane.
You leap a burn or brook in one bound?
So does a feisty Irish Wolfhound.
A dog to run round any barrier?
Maybe a beagle or a harrier.
Is there one dog here or two -
The crazy mixed-up Cockapoo?
So there you are, a canine glut
From which to make your choice of mutt.
Now you know just where it’s at –
What do you mean, you want a cat? 

© John Welford

Lead Us Not: a story

I look forward to my visits to Mrs Perkins, who is a well-known local poet. She is now well over 80 and, although in reasonably good health, she is not as mobile as she once was and was very happy to accept my offer to take her dog Sylvia for a walk every morning.

Mrs Perkins is a late riser so I let myself in at about 9 o’clock to be greeted enthusiastically by Sylvia, her not-so-young weimaraner, who looks forward to being taken out bright and early. Being named after Sylvia Plath does not seem to have gone to her head.

The usual arrangement is that Mrs Perkins leaves notes on her kitchen blackboard if there is anything she needs, such as some simple shopping that can be done in town and for which she will pay me later. The dog walk can easily take us through the open-air market on certain days of the week, and so having Sylvia with me is not a problem on these occasions.

Last Friday was one such day, and Mrs Perkins had written “New lead” on her blackboard. We had talked about Sylvia’s dog lead some weeks previously, because it was getting a bit tatty and would need to be replaced at some time. Mrs Perkins clearly thought that that time had arrived.

There is a stall on the market that sells bits and pieces for dogs and other pets, so that was where we headed. The stallholder was delighted to show me a range of dog leads so I chose one that looked OK.

“How heavy is your dog?” The stallholder asked.

“I don’t know”, I said. “Does that matter?”

“It certainly does”, said the stallholder. “That lead is only suitable for dogs under 50 kilos. If your dog weighs more, you’ll need a heavy-duty lead.”

“I don’t know how much she weighs. She’s not my dog” I said.

This delay was a nuisance. It was starting to rain and I had no intention of spending any longer getting wet than was absolutely necessary. I could see that Sylvia was not too happy about the situation either. On the other hand I needed a new lead for her and it had to be the right one.

“You’ll have to get the dog weighed”, said the stallholder.

“How do I do that?” I asked.

“You take her to the vet’s place and put her on their scales. There’s no charge.”

“So where’s the vet’s place?”

The stallholder gave me directions. The vet’s surgery was more than a mile away and it was now beginning to rain more heavily. I did not fancy walking more than two miles in the rain just so that I could come back to where I was to buy a new dog lead. But I could see no alternative.

“Your dog’s going to get wet”, said the stallholder.

That was obvious, as was the fact that Sylvia was starting to shiver. Being short-haired and fine-boned she simply hated getting rained on. She did have quite a nice waterproof dog jacket, but course I had forgotten to put it on her before we left Mrs Perkins’s house.

“I’ve got a lovely dog jacket here”, said the stallholder. “It would fit your dog perfectly”.

I could see that it would. “How much?” I asked.

“Only £34.99”, said the stallholder.

“How much?” I said again, two octaves higher.

“You said this wasn’t your dog”, said the stallholder. “It would be terrible if she caught pneumonia because you couldn’t see your way to buying a lovely waterproof dog jacket. What would her owner have to say?”

So I bought the jacket, put it on Sylvia, and set off into the rain. We had only gone about a hundred yards when the rain stopped completely, the sun came out and Sylvia gave me a look that said: “please take this ridiculous thing off me before I boil”. So I did.

When we reached the vet’s getting Sylvia weighed was no trouble at all.

“Is she under 50 kilograms?” I asked the veterinary nurse.

“Of course she is”, the nurse laughed back at me. “Do you know what a 50 kilogram dog looks like? Your dog’s less than half that weight”.

When we got back to the market I told the stallholder that Sylvia only weighed 23 kilograms.

“Yes”, he said, “that’s what I thought, but it’s best to be on the safe side”.

A rough translation of that might be: “I know a right mug when I see one and a short sharp shower of rain gives me the perfect opportunity to sell not only a dog lead but a totally unnecessary overpriced dog jacket.”

Mrs Perkins had asked me to get a new dog lead, not a second dog jacket, so this was a cost I would have to take on myself. But at least I did have the lead, and I was sure that she would be very happy with that.

When we got back to the house Mrs Perkins was up and about.

“I’ve got the dog lead” I said, absolutely certain that Mrs Perkins would approve of my purchase.

But that was not her reaction at all.

“Dog lead?” she said. “I didn’t say anything about a dog lead.”

“But you wrote ‘New lead’ on the blackboard”, I said.

“Oh dear”, said Mrs Perkins. “That wasn’t what I meant at all.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. You see, I have always written my poems with a propelling pencil. I’m finding it all a bit too fiddly these days, so that was why I left my pencil on the kitchen table and wrote what I did on the blackboard. I wanted you to help me by fitting it with a new lead”.

© John Welford