Apologies for Spillages

Her cup of coffee was delivered with a sachet of sugar. As the café’s sole employee plonked the cup down on the formica surface a slurp of brown liquid spilled on to the table. “Sorry”, said the greasy-haired waitress.

With nothing else to do the customer opened the sachet and let its grains spill out on to the table. She didn’t take sugar in coffee but opened the sachet anyway. “I’ve paid for it”, she said in a low mumble, not intending anyone to hear.

The grains scattered on the table and some were absorbed by the split coffee. Others fell to the floor, where the waitress’s feet cracked them like ants’ eggs as she passed by to wipe down a neighbouring table with her filthy dishcloth.

With only half her lukewarm coffee drunk, the customer rose and bumped into the waitress as she threw back her chair.

“Sorry” she said, not looking at her.

Outside the café a man sat in the doorway of a permanently closed shop, holding up a plastic coffee cup. “Spare change?” he muttered.

“Sorry”.

A mother with a young child on a bike with stabilisers came by. The child careered into the man, knocking his beaker of coins to the ground.

“Say sorry to the man”. But the child did not, and the mother did not insist.

It was bin day, and the men were pulling wheeled bins into place ready for the truck to come along. One of the men did not see the café customer as she walked past and he bumped into her.

“Sorry”.

She took offence and pushed over the bin that the man was wheeling. The lid fell open and the rubbish spilled into the road.

“Sorry”, she said.

It lifted her mood to see the anger of the bin man as he tried to push the detritus backed into the bin as the bin lorry approached. She stepped backwards into the road, paying no attention to what was behind her.

That was why she did not see the car that sped past the bin lorry, being driven by a young man who was high on drink and drugs. Her body was flung high into the air and landed on the road. What spilled on to the tarmac was the colour of neither sugar nor coffee.

The young man drove on, not aware of what he had done. He did not say Sorry, but would not have been alone that day in not meaning it had he done so.

© John Welford

The Old Man and the Mountain

The old man had lived on his own in the white-walled cottage on the side of the valley for as long as anyone could remember.

He was an artist, and in his younger days he had toured round the local countryside, painting pictures of local people as they were going about their business or enjoying themselves in the local taverns, playing cards or dancing to a gipsy violin. It was believed by some that he was quite famous and that his paintings fetched good prices when bought by rich people in the city, but nobody had ever seen much evidence of his wealth.

Latterly, most of his work was done on the verandah of his cottage, where he could be seen at his easel painting the scene that lay before him. It was said that he had painted the same panorama more than a hundred times, and that every painting was different.

Prominent in all these paintings was the mountain that rose above the far side of the valley. It was the only mountain of any size for miles around, although it was by no means difficult to climb. There were well-trodden paths that led all the way to the top and people said that there was a marvelous view from the summit.

As he painted, the old man was often greeted by tourists who were on their way to the mountain, equipped with walking poles and rucksacks.

People sometimes stopped and watched him at work, occasionally asking him what could be seen from the top of the mountain.

“I don’t know”, said the old man. “I’ve never been there”.

“Never been to the top?” would be the reply. “But surely you want to see what’s on the other side?”

“Perhaps I will”, he would say. “One fine day I’ll climb the mountain and see for myself”.

But he never did.

The locals were quite correct to think that the old man was widely respected in the artistic world, and he would sometimes be visited by other artists who wanted to learn from him and see for themselves where his inspiration lay.

From time to time an artist would follow the tourists to the mountain-top and then come back and tell the old man what they had seen.

“It’s a splendid view”, they would say. “You really should go and see it. It would give you a whole new focus for your work”.

“Who knows?” the old man would say. “One fine day I might just do that.”

But after his guests had left the old man would get his easel out and paint his mountain one more time.

The view he had from his cottage was perfect for him. As the seasons changed and the day flitted from dawn to dusk there were so many variations in the colours and shades that the scene presented to him, that he saw no need to be anywhere else.

And yet, at the back of his mind, there was always the lingering thought that he might – just once – give way to curiosity and climb the mountain to look at what lay on the other side. However, he also believed that this would not happen until he was ready to stop painting. Would the magic of his view of the mountain be lost for ever if that view changed? If he conquered the mountain, would the mountain have conquered him? If that happened, he knew that he could never paint again.

But maybe, just maybe, one fine day …

The day came when he was no longer to be seen on his verandah, painting at his easel. He was found lying on his bed, perfectly still and at peace. A note was found next to him. It read “Please scatter my ashes on the mountain. The day of my visit is long overdue.”

So that is what they did. Had the fine day eventually arrived? Not exactly. The day when his ashes were scattered was the only thoroughly wet one all that summer.

 © John Welford

Nautical Rainbows From a Long time Ago

After my mother’s funeral there was a cup of tea and a bun or two at the back of the church. While we chatted and renewed acquaintances with people we had not seen for a number of years, sometimes decades, a slideshow of thirty or forty old photos was projected in a continuous loop on a blank wall. These brought back a lot of memories, not only of my mother but of other family members.

One of them showed a long table on a stage at which sat a number of people, including a portly, middle-aged man wearing a chain of office, and his wife who was wearing an impressive hat and a somewhat less impressive chain that was a pale imitation of that worn by her husband. At one corner of the photo was a small boy in a sailor suit being directed on to the stage by a large hand on his shoulder.

That small boy was me. I could only have been four or five years old, but I remember the incident very well.

The photo had been taken only a few yards from the wall on which it was being projected. At that time the church held an annual bazaar in the halls just behind the church. This took place over two afternoons, and it was customary for the town mayor, or his deputy, to declare the event open on the first afternoon, which was always mid-week.

The bazaar always had a theme, and in the year in question it was named the Nautical Sale, which is why I was wearing a sailor suit.

My job was to present a large bouquet of flowers to the Lady Mayoress. I was simply told to walk on to the stage and give the flowers to the lady. Unfortunately, I was not told which lady that was, and there were several to choose from. I simply shoved the bouquet at the first lady I saw and ran back to safety as the hall erupted in laughter.

A year or two later I made another appearance on the same stage, but in a very different role. This time the bazaar was the Rainbow Fair, and on the Saturday afternoon the children of the Sunday School put on a short dramatic presentation before the buying and selling began.

My role was that of a grey cloud. I had to run round the stage in the company of a small girl who was dressed as a white cloud. After a few circuits we had to bump into each other and pretend to burst into tears. At this point another young thespian wearing a huge yellow disc appeared, closely followed by seven others, each wearing a different colour of the rainbow.

The costume mistress must have had a wonderful time getting everyone dressed, especially when it came to the kid playing the role of Indigo. I think a lot of crepe paper was used in the production.

Had I gone on in later life to become a famous actor, I would probably have recounted my portrayal of “grey cloud” as the first step on my path to greatness. Things did not quite work out that way, although I did take part in many dramatic productions during my time at school and university. The only claim to fame I can make as a stage performer is that I did once play opposite somebody who went on to achieve a certain amount of fame and fortune as an actor. I knew him as John Marshall but he later changed his name to John Sessions.

Perhaps my early childhood memories did teach me a couple of lessons for what life might throw at me. One of these was that giving expensive gifts to the wrong woman is never a wise move. The other was that crashing into strange women and making them cry is more likely to lead to assault charges than rainbows. 

© John Welford

Your Next Station Stop

I seem to have spent an awful lot of my life travelling on trains, and my journeys have not always gone according to plan. Odd things have happened from time to time, such as the time when I was returning from university in North Wales to the south of England on a particularly crowded train and I had left my suitcase in the only place it would go, which was not far from a doorway. As I glanced out of the window, just as the train was about to depart from its stop at Oxford, I spotted a suitcase standing on the platform that looked remarkably like mine. I was able to rescue it just in time.

Then there was the time when the guard made an announcement that a passenger who had left the train had forgotten his box of live snails, which he had placed underneath his seat. Would all passengers please check to see if their seat was the one in question? Needless to say, I was the snail guardian.

My first professional library post was in London, and my wife and I lived in a top-floor flat that overlooked the main line from Kings Cross to the North. This was also close to Harringay Station, so I had quite a straightforward journey to work.

At least, it was usually a straightforward journey, apart from the time when I was a bit late for my usual train and got on the one that was waiting at the platform I usually used, without checking where it was going to stop.

As a result, the train sailed through Harringay Station and did not stop until it reached Alexandra Palace, two stations up the line.

No problem, I thought, I’ll just get on the next one heading south, even if it means I have to go all the way back to King’s Cross. There was a train waiting on the adjoining platform, the sign on which read King’s Cross, so I promptly got on board.

However, when the train moved it headed north, not south. I had, naturally enough, relied on the sign that was telling me where the train had come from, not where it was going. This happened to be Hertford North, which, although some distance from where I wanted to be, was not a complete disaster as far as getting home in reasonable time was concerned. There were plenty of trains that went from Hertford North to Kings Cross, including many that stopped at Harringay. No problem.

At Hertford North, I saw a train that fitted the bill, standing at the platform for southbound trains. I got on board, confident that I could not possibly make the same mistake twice.

Of course I could. How was I to know that the platforms had been switched for operational reasons that week? Next stop Peterborough.

As I stood on the platform at Peterborough, 75 miles north of where I should have been, I realized that any further slip-ups could have much worse consequences, given that trains from here ran to York, Newcastle and Edinburgh. I therefore made absolutely certain that my next train would go south.

I now had two worries. One was what I was going to say to the ticket inspector when he questioned why I was on a train from Peterborough when my ticket only allowed me to travel as far north as Harringay. Fortunately, he was in a good mood that evening and let me get away with it.

My second concern was what my wife was going to say when I eventually got home. Had we had a dog, there would be little doubt that my dinner would now be inside it, but it was her withering stare and expressions of contempt that I was not looking forward to.

Oddly enough, the story I told went down quite well. I think she was happy to have an example of my monumental stupidity that could be stored away in the memory bank for use on some future occasion.

Needless to say, I did not make the same mistake again. Shortly after this, I switched from trains to buses as my means of getting to work.

© John Welford

RIP: a funeral and an ankle

“Requiescat in Pace”. May she rest in peace. That is what is said not only when the body in lying in a grave but when it has been cremated, which was the case with my mother on 19^th June 2019. Perhaps scattered ashes can be regarded as doing the same.

After a life of nearly 104 years that included very few episodes of pain or illness, and without the awful semi-death of dementia that plagues so many people in their final years, the funeral arrangements had an uplifting atmosphere throughout. We chose excerpts from Bach’s Brandenburg concertos to begin and end the Crematorium service, and sang stirring traditional hymns as part of the Thanksgiving Service that followed at Poole’s High Street Methodist church where Mother had worshipped all her life and where she had been christened and married.

I gave a “Reflection”, as it was termed on the Order of Service, which outlined a life that had indeed been a generally peaceful one.

However, she began her life during a war, namely World War One, when one of her earliest memories was of watching a parade of soldiers as they marched through Poole on their return in 1918. There was only one family loss during the war, namely a much older cousin whom she hardly knew.

Mother also had vivid memories of World War Two, particularly of the events surrounding D-Day when Poole Harbour, which had been filling steadily with small ships prior to the invasion, was found to be completely empty when the locals looked out over the water on the morning of 6^th June 1944. She remembered being kept awake in the night as hundreds of planes droned overhead as they towed gliders towards their landing in Normandy.

Poole, being a port, was always on the lookout for enemy action, particularly air raids, and the occasional bomb did fall on the town. Mother remembered the morning after a bomb fell in the High Street and she saw the terrible scene of limbs and torsos scattered across the street. She also remembered her immense relief when it was pointed out to her that the victims were mannequins blown out of the windows of the 50 Shilling Tailor’s shop.

Mother’s own life did include a certain amount of turmoil, of which the devasting experience of suffering two miscarriages must constitute a large proportion. This followed the very difficult birth of my sister, who was not expected to survive but fortunately did. The desire to have a second child was the reason why I was adopted a few years later.

Another less than peaceful time was when the young family had to give up their home and move to that of my father’s parents. Mother found herself being both a parent and a carer, her charges being two elderly and increasingly frail people. It was not long before another extra family member turned up – my father’s unmarried elder brother who lived on at the house, of which he was part-owner, until long after the parents had died.

I think it says a great deal for my mother’s character that she took all this in her stride.

We – by which I mean me, my wife Sue and son David, together with the dog – rented a small house in Poole’s Old Town for the nights before and after the day of the funeral. We were therefore able to take the dog for some quite long walks around the town and out onto the area called Baiter which is a large open space that was reclaimed some years ago on the edge of Poole Harbour. 

After the funeral was over, followed by much catching up with relatives and people I had known decades ago but never seen since, the dog had to be rescued from the house and given a very good session on Baiter. 

Sue has long suffered from a problem ankle – she has had all sorts of treatments and investigations, but nobody is really sure why it just flares up from time to time and makes her life uncomfortable. She can go for months with no trouble at all, but it can suddenly make life difficult with absolutely no warning. The day of the funeral, following the long dog-walk, was one such occasion.

Sue finds that using an ice pack offers very good relief, and this usually takes the form of sitting with her leg up, supported on a bag of frozen vegetables. However, we had not taken such a thing with us down to Poole, so we had to buy one. We needed in any case to buy a few things from the branch of Sainsbury’s Local just round the corner, so a small pack of frozen petits pois was added to the bill. It would easily stay cold for long enough to give Sue some welcome relief from the pain in her ankle.

We therefore spent the evening sitting in front of the TV without really watching it but reflecting on the events of the day as the ice pack worked its magic. 

I’m not one of these people who believe that people who have died in the recent past are looking down on their nearest and dearest and expressing their approval or disapproval of what they are doing. However, if that had been the case, I can imagine the gesture of up-rolled eyes that Mother would have given had she heard the appalling pun that was produced by my twisted mind.

So – Rest in Peace, Mother.

Rest on Peas, Sue’s ankle.

© John Welford

A Happy Tale's Best for Summer

Will Shakespeare was enjoying a third glass of mead after his opening night when there was a knock at the office door. He opened it to admit his agent, Cameron Overcoat, who was clearly in an excellent mood.

“That was brilliant”, he exuded, “An absolute triumph. The Winter’s Tale - one of your best yet. You had them rolling in the aisles.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be a rip-roaring comedy.” said Will “Have you forgotten Act II Scene 1 – ‘a sad tale’s best for winter’?”

“But nobody was bothered by that at the end”, said Cameron, “The scene with the bear chasing that bloke off stage. Brilliant gag – how you keep thinking them all up beats me. Mind you, your comic genius has been flagging a bit lately – there weren’t too many laughs in King Lear or Othello as I remember – but now’s the time to set that right.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” said Cameron, “The clue’s there in the title, isn’t it? The obvious sequel to The Winter’s Tale has to be The Summer’s Tale. You bring back all the same characters, with the obvious omission of the guy who was eaten by the bear, on a jolly romp with lots of fun and frolic in the sun, with maybe a bit of gratuitous sex thrown in for good measure. I’m telling you – it’s the future of entertainment.”

Will needed a bit of persuading, but he was prepared to let his agent say his piece and fill in a few details.

“So where do we set this play, then?” Will asked.

“How about that sea coast in Bohemia that you had in Act 3?”

“You know, I’m a bit worried about that”, said Will, “One of the critics has already pointed out to me that Bohemia doesn’t actually have a coast”.

“If you say it’s got a coast, Will, it’s got a coast. With gorgeous beaches of course, full of beautiful people doing naughty things.”

“If you say so”.

“I certainly do, and I’ve a great scene already mapped out.”

“You have?”

"Sure do. You know that bit in your play when the statue comes to life?”

“That’s right. Queen Hermione in Act 5.”

“Well, in The Summer’s Tale, this takes place on the beach, and she throws her arms wide open as she does so, causing her costume to burst open and show everything she’s got. That should get a huge laugh.”

Will wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure that the English theatre is really ready for that? This is the 17^th century after all – I can’t see that kind of carry on getting past the censor.”

"Don’t worry, Will,” said Cameron. “I know the guy – a few groats greasing the right palms will get over that obstacle. And I know just the actress for the role.”

“You do?”

“Sure. She was in The Merry Wives of Windsor – Barbara her name was, if I remember rightly.”

“Have you got any more bright ideas?”

“Well,” said Cameron, “seeing as it’s The Summer’s Tale, set on a beach in Bohemia, why don`t we actually stage it in Bohemia and take all our first night audience with us?”

“To Bohemia? How much will that cost?”

“Not much”, said Cameron. “I’ve got this mate called Ryan who arranges trips like this really cheaply.”

“Ryan?”

“Yup. Ryan Aire his name is. He’ll get you anywhere for next to nothing, as long as you don’t want to take any luggage or actually eat anything on the journey.”

“But all the way to Bohemia. It’ll take ages – it’s not as though we could actually fly there, is it? As I said before, this is the 17^th century.”

“Of course we won’t actually go to Bohemia,” said Cameron. “Southend-on-Sea will do perfectly well, given that nobody in England, including you, actually knows where Bohemia is.”

“I’m still not sure”, said Will.

“OK,” said Cameron. “How about Plan B? In your play you mention the Isle of Delphos. We could set The Summer’s Tale on this isle – Canvey Island would do as a substitute – and we have a cast of hunky men and gorgeous women, dressed in not very much, who all fall in love with each other – or at least they pretend to.”

“I don’t know”, said Will. “I can’t see myself being able to get much of a plot out of that scenario. I want kids in 400 years time to be studying my plays for GSCE and A-level, and they’ll need a bit more complexity than that.”

“OK”, said Cameron, “maybe we could tone it down a bit. Not so many raunchy encounters, maybe. But you like the idea of the island?”

“I think I do,” said Will.

“And you’ve no objection to young people falling in love in your plays?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Will. “It happens all the time, as you know full well - with a bit of magic thrown in from time to time, like in A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

“So there we have it”, said Cameron. “You’ve already done lovers in Summer, and magic, all you need to add is the island.”

“I’ll get writing straight away”, said Will. “But I won’t call it ‘The Summer’s Tale’. Given the state of the weather this summer so far, how does ‘The Tempest’ grab you?”

© John Welford

Last Day of the Month in Nohopia: a silly story

His Most Excellent Majesty King Magnifica, absolute ruler of Nohopia, had a great liking for neatness and order. This applied, in particular, to the means by which his subjects conducted their official and business affairs. Having noted that everyone got paid on the last working day of the month, which is an arrangement that is typical of many countries other than Nohopia, he did not see why the same rule should not be extended in many other directions.

In Nohopia, therefore, contracts could only be agreed and signed on the last day of the month. Postal deliveries were only made once a month, on the final day, and the same applied to collections. In effect, that meant that if you wanted to post a letter, or pay a bill by post, you had a wait a whole month between posting it and its arrival at its destination.

Shops and banks only opened on the last day of the month, which led to enormous queues. The same applied to railway and bus stations, although trains and buses were allowed to run on other days as long as they did not carry any passengers.

Nohopia had some excellent newspapers, although they only appeared on the last day of the month, and this was also true for TV and radio broadcasters who had to cram all their programming into a single day.

King Magnifica was especially proud of his policy as it applied to schools and colleges. Having not been all that good a school pupil himself, he was sure that everyone being educated would welcome having a whole month in which to do their homework and assignments, due to the establishments being closed on all days other than the last of the month.

Weddings and funerals all had to be delayed until the month was nearly over. King Magnifica was known to be working on a plan that ensured that babies were only born on the last day of the month, but this was proving difficult to arrange. There are some things that even kings have problems with, and this was one of them.

Everyone other than His Most Excellent Majesty was fully aware that this arrangement, despite its outwardly tidy appearance, presented huge problems to the social and economic life of Nohopia. 

It therefore came as a surprise to nobody, with one prominent exception, when the economy of the country came to a crashing halt.

Another of King Magnifica’s obsessions was the construction of huge statues of himself all over the country. Of course, he did not make these statues himself, but around half the working population of Nohopia was involved in the statue-building business in one capacity or another. This was never going to be an activity that contributed to the wealth of the nation, as no other country was ever likely to want to import a statue of His Most Excellent Majesty, so the wages paid to vast numbers of people could be nothing other than a huge drain on the economy.

On the 30^th day of May, the King’s private secretary felt compelled to tell him that all was not well.

“Your Most Excellent Majesty, it’s pay day tomorrow, the 31st”, she said, “and there’s no money left in the Treasury to pay the workers. What are we going to do?”

King Magnifica thought for a moment and then came up with the perfect solution, as he saw it.

“We only pay the workers on the last day of the month. Am I correct?”

“Indeed you are, Your Most Excellent Majesty. You are always correct about everything.”

“Exactly so.”, said the King, “In that case, we will declare that tomorrow is not the last day of the month. The day after tomorrow, which would have been the 1^st of June, will therefore be the 32^nd of May, and therefore the last day. Is that not a most excellent idea?”

“Of course it is, Your Most Excellent Majesty. Your ideas cannot be other than most excellent, as all your subjects know.”

So that is what happened. Unfortunately, no money flowed into the state coffers on either the 31^st or the 32^nd, so the following day had to be the 33^rd, followed by the 34^th, 35^th, and so on. It could not have been otherwise, given that no important decisions or business dealings could be concluded on any day other than the last of the month, and if that day was not allowed to arrive, then the situation could not possibly have been resolved.

This state of affairs was clearly completely crazy, and everybody realized this, apart, of course, from His Most Excellent Majesty King Magnifica, whose statues continued to be built despite the workers having to wait even longer to be paid.

There is no knowing how long this situation would have continued had not King Magnifica fallen ill. It was on the 142^nd day of the month that he took to his bed and the 145^th when he suffered a heart attack.

His private secretary was summoned to his bedside, where His Most Excellent Majesty was propped up on pillows and looking decidedly groggy.

“I don’t understand it,” said the King. “My doctors assured me that if I kept taking my medicine I would keep my blood pressure low and avoid any possibility of a heart attack. Can you explain it?”

“I think I can, Your Most Excellent Majesty. You see, your prescription could not be renewed, due to their being no end of the month, so when your pills ran out you were given a substitute.”

“A substitute? And do you mean that these other pills didn’t keep my blood pressure down?”

“Indeed so, Your Most Excellent Majesty”, said the private secretary. “For several weeks now you have been given sugar pills that look exactly like the real ones but have no medicinal content at all. The doctors say that another heart attack is likely to occur at any time, and when it does you will almost certainly die.”

“But I’m the King!” yelled King Magnifica. “I deserve the best treatment, because I’m always right and make the best decisions for the country!”

“Maybe not always, Your Most Abysmal Majesty”.

“What did you say?” shouted King Magnifica, going very red in the face.

“I’ll repeat it”, said the private secretary. “You are a terrible King who has the stupidest ideas, and when your next heart attack arrives, which will probably be within the next five minutes, we will get a new King who might just possibly do a far better job than you. Of course, if insanity runs in the family, we might not be so lucky.”

The private secretary was not quite correct, in that the fatal heart attack arrived well within the five minutes she had estimated, but it certainly signaled the beginning of a new era in Nohopia.

The day of King Magnifica’s death was immediately declared, by his successor, to be the last day of the month.

©John Welford