A lot of tinsel Kids wanting more Queues at the check-outs In every store What is the reason? Another season Another Christmas Dad is defensive He knows the sign It's all expensive, The gifts, the wine. But Mom's not stopping She's gone out shopping Another Christmas She's bought out Harrod's And M and S, She went through Wallmark Like an express So no one's missed out, She has her list out Another Christmas Dad has...
All the images of Christmas past run together like the mix for some sumptuous fruit cake, from which the crumbs will scatter memories, trivial and momentous, garnished by the flow of years. Each crumb falling, out of any natural sequence, so that youth overrides childhood, middle-age falls ahead of youth. Yet childhood remains forever the most crystal-clear of Christmas images, and are relived—and relived. As all the cake...
"Dad. how did you ask my mother for a first date?” I looked across the small self-laid patio at my daughter, Linda, sitting on the camping chair, regarding me with her mother’s deep brown eyes. At fourteen-years-old pushing fifteen, she was budding to emulate the beautiful bloom that was her mother. I was not surprised by the nature of her question. Nor the timing. Her mother was away shopping while her two elder brothers...
On Ploegsteert memorial in Belgium, no faces show. Only names carved on slabs Along curved walls of the imposing colonnade Impressive, the stone lions that guard. Eleven thousand names of the multi-ranked Casualties of war, who share this dubious banner NO KNOWN GRAVE. Consider these lives snatched into oblivion Ripped out of all existence, Yet, three kilometres north lies Ypres Once flattened by that same war Now risen l...
So deep within my heart When did that implant begin? That haunting smile On lips of such promise? Or the subtle depths Of those laughing dark brown eyes So sensual when the time was right? Maybe your mobility caught the eye The lilt and the sway. Of hip and thigh. Then add delicate gentility of touch When fingers first intertwined. While that lustrous raven black hair Swayed with every move. That early touch of lips on...
The next morning, over the cold porridge breakfast, no mention was made about the use of the belt. Not expecting any, Danny was subdued but not suppressed. Anger and resentment still burned inside him. He couldn’t bear to look at Albin Flint, half expecting to see a self-satisfied look on that sour face. As he entered the kitchen on his way out to school, Eliza Flint said coolly, “You know part of my husband’s job as over...
Danny Rogan slumped disconsolately on the edge of his bed. Just one more punishment. And for what? Lingering too long at the farm enjoying the sight of a newborn calf. Things were just getting worse and worse in this awful cottage. Being brave was one thing. No matter what his mother and father expected of him, being home was the only thing. He gazed out of the bay window to where the branches of the trees in the shadowy...
For Danny, it seemed that since his mother’s letter about being unable to visit for a while, the Flints’ attitude towards him had hardened. Albin Flint, in particular, became more involved, and not in a good way. Danny was sure that the man had declared his own personal war on him. Threats were constant. Flint was frequently warning Danny about staying away from the woods. Tempting as the sheltering branches of the trees...
Approaching the cottage from the long country lane, with the sunlight shining directly on it, it held so much promise. Behind it was an inviting deep wood, and in one corner of the garden hens strutted, clucked and pecked behind mesh. Across open fields, corn gold in the summer lay the farm where Frankie was staying. Rabbits appeared all the time, stoats and foxes could be seen from time to time, and birds, all kinds of b...
Danny Rogan, nine years and three months old, was sick of his life. Facing his second fight in a week, he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else, as long as it was home. Games were stopping around the village schoolyard, as boys, and a few girls edged towards them. Eyes hopeful, mouths gaping in anticipation. Max Hindley’s pudgy face was six inches higher than his own, pure sneering malice. Big, hard and round, Max wa...
Early 1940. Siren’s mournful wailing, signalling, Our first air raid. Fearfully looking at me, she switched off all the lights Then she came to hug me close, her body trembling. I’d never seen her like this, so full of fear and worry. “It’s all right,” I reassured her. A distant bang, surely approaching thunder “Oh, God.” Her voice displaying her terror. “Down the stairs,” she urged. The steps down from our flat were soli...
Standing at the school gate, Harry Connor cursed softly. Memory, you damned trickster. A tantalising image had shaped in the furred conduits of his ageing mind. A gem of reminiscence teasingly snatched away, evading his grasp. He had made this journey seeking to recall a special face. Now, the school’s soot-darkened bricks and stark arched windows had fleetingly evoked a significant moment, long forgotten. Bent against th...
I am so worried about Will. Such a disappointment. When I married John Shakespeare, we agreed that we wanted a large family. By the time Will was born in 1564 we had already had two daughters die in infancy. When it was clear that Will was going to survive, we were so relieved, and John used to say that Will became a symbol of love’s labour not being lost. When, at three-years-old, he disappeared into the woods, we were d...
It was a slow melancholy song in Harry Turner’s head. Uncle Joe was dying. A sad refrain that reminded Harry of the man he knew. He was a man full of good humour, activity, kindness and love for his family. Now he was dying. The dirge plagued Harry’s mind. He had arrived home from university that morning to find his father in a less than happy frame of mind. “Your Uncle Joe’s unlikely to get better. Your mother has stayed...
Friends in the local pub just couldn’t believe it. Even though, some of them had seen our actions with their own eyes. “Ben Coles in court?” they said, with some amazement, “Mr Easy-going. Mr Doormat. Never.” That, just about summed me up. I’d always hated any hassle and had avoided any confrontation. Couldn’t fight my way out of a meringue pie. Even with my dear lady, whenever a row was looking possible, I’d take off and...
