Eight pipers piping

(Just had a short time this morning so I thought I would write this. It was sort of inspired by a story told to me by a policeman many years ago and it also serves as a reflection on musical tastes.....)

Robert had been a police officer for nearly ten years and had seen a great deal.
In the early days he used to share much of his day with his wife. It seemed like a good form of therapy at first, then it became something of a burden for Helen, his wife. She began her career in nursing around the same time and their exchanges were good, but gradually they both began to hold back – sometimes it was just too much to explore over a quick pasta sauce and a bottle of Australian red.
Gradually, their exchanges became very selective. Humorous stories prevailed over the general tragedies of life on the front lines of society. Occasionally something hard had to be shared but for the most part, they both just got on with it.
A year after joining the CID Robert came home in a bit of a quandary. He had spent all day on a case that seemed quite straight forward. A man, he called him Joe, had killed his best mate (named Bill) and then walked into the station to confess. The outcome of the interview was both humorous and tragic. Robert didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Look,” he said to his wife, “you and your sister play practical jokes on each other and I must admit that some of them are quite funny, but these two guys had taken it to a different level altogether.”
They were eating a Chinese takeaway and drinking stubbies of French beer left over from a trip across the Channel earlier that week.
“I have watched you and your sister getting quite cross with each other but it doesn’t stop you. After this story, you might want to rethink how ‘practical’ these jokes really are.”
Helen waited with a little knowing smile as she refilled her bowl with rice and chicken with cashew nuts. Her and her sister Gail never really got very cross; they never took each other’s jokes that seriously.
“When I sat down to talk to this guy, Joe, I already knew that the duty sergeant had told a couple of the lads the top-line story and people were laughing about it. Silly tricks that grew out of hand ending up with one of them loosing it and killing the other over what might have seemed like a silly prank. To be quite honest, you know I have never really joined in on that sort of humour so it made me feel a little bit uneasy. I mean, you could hear laughter in the corridor and you could see that this guy Joe was in shock.”
“You shouldn’t have interviewed him, then.”
“No choice, really; I had to get his statement as close to the time of the incident as possible. You know how people’s minds instantly start re-working their stories subconsciously, editing out the harsher bits, building in better explanations and so on. Interview as early as possible, then get them help. In lots of cases, they really need to get it off their chest anyway.”
“OK.” Helen conceded.
“So he sits there and I do all the recording preliminaries and then the basic details and he starts to blurt it all out and I get him to calm down a bit and start from the beginning. I ask him to give me the whole story and so he does.”
“For five years now the two have been doing bigger and better jokes on each other. It started with Joe sending a strip-a-gram to his mate to deliver a birthday greeting, only the woman was also an ex-girlfriend of Bill’s and the restaurant she did it in was posh, which resulted in the management asking Bill, his guest and the stripper to leave. Now this would have been bad enough but Joe managed to time it so that it interrupted Bill while he was in the process of proposing marriage to his current girlfriend.”
“Did Joe want to deliberately break them up? Did he have something for Bill’s girlfriend?” asked Helen.
“I asked and no, it was just a silly prank. When you listen to him you begin to feel that there is something a little bit lacking in this guy’s store of empathy. Same goes for Bill as it panned out. After the shame of the ejection from the restaurant and the resultant rejection to his proposal of marriage, Bill resolved to get his revenge.”
“A series of tit for tat jokes began. Each one seemed to be both sillier and less funny than the previous one and some cost quite a bit of money and lots of bother, too.”
“Well, are you going to give me examples?” Robert was filling his bowl and had popped a large, batter-covered king prawn in his mouth which was slowing down his story.
“Only if you promise never to mimic these stupid pranks.”

“Of course!”
“Well the list was quite long but here are a few highlights. After Bill got Joe’s new car towed away, Joe managed to convince a locksmith that he was locked out of Bill’s house and had him change all of the locks. Then he went away on holiday leaving Bill to sort that out. So, after having a ton of soil, then a ton of manure tipped onto Joe’s front garden, Joe retaliated by booking a whole series of ‘therapists’ who turned up at Bill’s door one evening and then continued to turn up at his office, too.”
“Therapists?”
“Yeh, ranging from some traditional ones like psychotherapists, physiotherapists and osteopaths to the alternative ones such as acupuncture, Chinese medicine consultants, etc, through to more dubious ones like Swedish Masseuses, sex therapists, psychics and horoscope readers, etc. They were all expensive to hire and were very angry when they were told it was all some sort of practical joke.”
“Wow. One or two, yes, but that is excessive.”
“Please, don’t even go there. Then there were internet tricks, like putting various things of Joe’s on Ebay, like sending estate agents around to not just to Bill’s house but to his ageing parent’s house and various siblings. The water company dug up Joe’s front garden to plug a leak that wasn’t there and charged him for the privilege so Bill had an endless supply of people responding to his apparent adverts claiming that he wanted to fund new business ventures. Joe was set up as a new porn star with his own, mocked up web site which caused lots of problems not least because the pictures were all ‘borrowed’ from a website that did not take kindly to Joe using their material for his own personal gain.”
“Phew! Did they have any time or money to do anything with their lives, apart from playing tricks on each other?”
“I have no idea how they managed to finance these things. They both seem to have had relatively ordinary lives apart from their jokes.”
“And did they still regard the other as a friend?”
“Err, it seems so. They went out to the pub together, communicated regularly, shared other friends and seemed to be almost normal.”
“But the thing got worse?”
“Well, that was the rub. That was the problem. They had called a truce. They were starting a new life as non-competing, non-joker friends. They even signed a pact together.”
“A pact? What, like the North Atlantic Treaty? Did they have to sit down with lawyers and agree a form of words?” Helen was mildly amused as well as a little bit bemused.
“A mutual friend found some sort of agreement on the internet – apparently this is not a unique case and there is some sort of name for the ‘condition’ they were both ‘suffering’ from.”
“Practical joke-itus?”
“Something like Competitive, Compulsive Prank Disorder, I think he called it.”
After some laughter and further speculation Helen returned her husband to the situation. “So, what went wrong?”
“Well, everything seemed to be going really well. With the compulsion to beat each other up using practical jokes behind them, they both got on with life a bit more seriously, Joe found himself a girl that he wanted to marry and Bill started to see someone, too.”
“No tricks on their respective partners?”
“Not a sausage. In fact, Bill was the best man at Joe’s wedding and he didn’t even tell jokes about Joe that were particularly offensive or inappropriate.”
“And married bliss ensued until now?”
“Well, the wedding was yesterday. The bride and groom stayed at the Groves House Hotel last night after the celebrations.”
“Very posh, nice grounds!”
“Quite. And this morning they were due to go on their honeymoon but instead, Joe popped ‘round to Bill’s and bumped him off with a shotgun.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Joe and his wife, Maria’s flight was at eight thirty this morning and dear old Bill thought that a grand setting like the Groves called for a grand sort of wake up call. So this morning, at half past five, eight highland pipers dressed in Joe’s family tartan (the Magoo’s, apparently) piped him and his lady wife awake from the lawn of the hotel.”
“And Joe hated the pipes so much he blasted away his best mate?”
“Well, not quite. Bill had meant it as a good thing – Joe loves the pipes, or so he says - but Joe was convinced Bill was back to his old tricks again.”
“Why? What was so bad?”
“That’s just it. I asked him straight. I wanted to know what was so bad and he looked at me as if I was completely stupid. He said, ‘They woke us up and I knew then that Bill had it in for me. The pipers were standing there just outside our window and they were playing Mull of Kintire for God’s sake! And then, as I opened the window, they started playing Flower of Scotland. If I had my gun there I would have shot them all. Mull of Kintire AND bloody Flower of Scotland! What else could I do?”
Helen sat quietly stunned for a few minutes before popping the last of the spring roll in her mouth.
“I suppose you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.” She said as she opened another couple of bottles of beer.

Six geese a-laying

(Children’s stories are always fun to do. This is another one to read to children but I hope the adult reader can get something out of the story too!)

Long ago, on a small farm a young lad sat watching his geese, wondering what to do.
His mother had warned him, “Mark my words,” she had said, “if these geese don’t start laying soon you will have to take them to market and sell them.”
The young lad, whose name was Jack, was very sad; he had tried everything to get them to lay eggs but they just would not do it. He had six geese, his fine young ladies, and one gander called Goosie. He would call to them “Here Goosie Goosie gander! Here my fine young ladies!” and they would gather ‘round him looking for food. But no matter how happy, no matter how well fed, no matter how comfortable his geese were, not one of them ever thought it a good idea to give him even a small egg. He would sit down amongst them and talk to them. He would sing songs and tell them stories and he would take them for walks to the pond and back. He had tried every trick in the book, but not one egg appeared and his mother told him again and again, “We can’t afford to have geese that won’t lay. They must go. You must sell them at the market.”
So, Jack had gathered his flock together and he told them straight, “Girls, this is your last chance! If you do not lay any eggs by the morning we will have to set off for market and that will be that. Goosie, if you want to keep enjoying the good life get to work! Help these ladies NOW!”
In the morning he had looked everywhere but he could find no eggs.
“Good bye mother,” said Jack, “I have sixpence and a pack with some food. It takes three days to walk to market and three days to come home. Wish me luck!”
“Good luck!” she said, wiping a tear from her eye, “Be careful and remember, sell them for no less than sixpence each. They are fine looking birds, even if they can’t lay eggs...”
Jack wandered down the lanes and across the heath guiding his geese with his stick as he sang them his favourite songs. One was “Will the wind every stop blowing/” and another was, “Does my sweetheart know the colour of my eyes?” and his very best one was, “I walk the roads in springtime, and see all nature wake.” The geese seemed happy as they trotted and chattered and occasionally stopped to peck something interesting on the path.
The first night he found a small hollow up on the heathlands. The dip in the land was surrounded on three sides by gorse bushes so he led the geese into the sheltered area and slept across the entrance like a human gate, protecting all that was inside.
In the morning he opened his eyes and looked at his lovely geese. On the ground, in the little hollow, he could see that his birds had laid some eggs! He gathered them up and counted them. Seven fine eggs! One for his breakfast and six to keep!. He gently stored them in his pack and they set off again.
All day, the sun shone and the skylarks flew up either side of his path and hovered high in the air singing their shrill songs. He saw rabbits in the grass close by and ravens would sit in the branches of small trees watching them all go by.
Jack told the geese stories of the robber prince called Jackadoo and his merry gang of swashbucklers. He explained how the stars floated in the sky and why the grass was green and occasionally he would share a little joke with the birds or ask them a riddle or two to pass the time.
As the sun began to set Jack found an old house. It had no roof and holes for windows but it was shelter and inside the floor was covered in fine grass and soft moss. With a warm fire in the corner and an old board blocking the door, he settled down for the night with his little flock. “Good night my little beauties.” He called to them. Then he fell asleep and dreamed of sailing ships and pirate mice with eye patches.
In the morning he got up and began to laugh with joy.
There, scattered on the ground, were even more eggs! He counted thirteen this time! Twelve for his pack and one for his breakfast.
That day, as the breeze kept them cool despite the bright, hot sun, Jack entertained his geese with magic tricks and dances.
To the tunes from his little pipe he danced jigs and reels and showed the geese how to strip the willow and be as dashing as a white sergeant. He showed them courtly dances and demonstrated the way to lift your partner off her feet and spin her till her hair was wild and her cheeks were red. He then made little cloth flowers emerge from the backs of the heads of his birds and surprised them by making his pennies roll across his knuckles. He produced long lines of coloured silk hankies from his mouth and made them disappear from his nimble fingered hands.
That night, just a few miles from the market town, Jack saw a little island in the middle of the river and waded out to it with the geese swimming beside him. The place was sheltered and peaceful and the sound of the water was delightful. The moon’s reflection sparkled on the dark surface of the river and the other sounds around him settled his mind and calmed his tired geese.
Jack sang a series of lullabies to his geese and praised them for being such good and clever birds. “I will miss you all, my little lassies, and I will miss you too, Old Goosie!” Then he fell asleep and his mind wandered across a beautiful and mysterious landscape chasing dragons and rescuing maidens all through the night.
In the morning Jack lay with his eyes closed. “What will I see today?” He wondered.
Opening one eye he looked at the ground nearest to him. He started counting eggs, then thought he better open the other eye too because he needed both eyes to count so many eggs.
“You have been saving these up, haven’t you!” he laughed.
There were nineteen eggs lying around the island. One for his breakfast and eighteen for the pack. It was hard packing the eggs away as there was not much room and he wanted to make sure every egg would be safe.
“Three days and more than three dozen eggs! What shall I do?”
Jack wanted to go back home with his geese but knew his mother would not be happy. “They have been laying eggs on the way to the market but would they continue to lay eggs if I took them back home?”
Jack thought that it was probably best to take them to market so he walked on with them quietly humming his favourite tunes. By the time he had reached the entrance to the town he was happy again and playing lively dance tunes on his little tin whistle. In the market place people gathered around to listen to him play. They dropped coins at his feet and put money in his top pocket asking him to play their favourite tunes. Before he knew it, the afternoon was closing in and the market stalls were closing up.
“What shall I do now, my little lovelies? The market is closing and I still have not sold you! Oh dear, what will mother say?”
Then he sat down beside his birds and gathered up all of the coins. He pulled out the money from his top pocket, too and began to count.
“Even if I had sold each of you for a hundred pennies I still would not have made as much as I have here!” he shouted with glee. “Let’s go home my little friends and tell mother all about our adventures!”
As he stood up he saw a familiar face in the crowd. It was farmer Julius Macdingle with his bushy beard and his horse and cart.
“Hello Jack,” said the farmer, “I have not seen you at market before.”
“It’s my first time here.” Said Jack, “But now I must head back home!”
“Well now,” said the farmer, “I could give you and your lovely geese a lift in my cart if you want, but there would be a little matter of the fare.” Farmer Macdingle was always interested in making a little more moeney.
Jack thought for a moment and realised that he would be back home much quicker by cart.
“And what is your fare?” Asked Jack, knowing that he had enough money to pay for the journey.
“Well, I’m wondering,” said the farmer, “seeing your geese makes me think and I can think of nothing finer than a goose egg for breakfast. So if you have, say, half a dozen eggs to spare I would take you all the way to your home today.”
So Jack opened his pack and said, “Choose your six from this.” and farmer Macdingle whooped with delight.
“Lad,” he said, “you have been keeping these lovely geese secret! These are the finest eggs I have ever seen. When we get home I will place an order with you for a dozen eggs a week. Hop in board and let’s get going!”
So farmer Macdingle kept the horses going at a fair old pace as Jack told him stories and asked him riddles. He did some magic tricks and sang a couple of songs and the time passed so quickly they had hardly spent a minute of time wondering at the stars above or thinking about the road ahead.
And when they stopped by Jack’s gate they turned to the geese in the back and Jack said, “Well farmer Macdingle, there’s the other six eggs you wanted!” And sure enough, the six geese had been a laying as the wagon had bumped and rolled along the country roads.
So, Jack got to keep his geese, after all and they still lay their eggs for him. Six laying geese and their Goosie Goosie gander for company. And Jack goes to market every week now on a fine grey mare, and there he earns his money singing songs, playing tunes and doing magic tricks for the crowds.

Seven Swans a Swimming

(This is set in part of the French countryside Alison and I walked through. We walked for days through forests and even encountered a wild boar on one path. I gathered a whole load of stories in my mind and this just happens to be one of them....)

He had once read how people in the country used to sustain themselves across each year by working out on the land during the more kindly months then stayed in doors engaged in cottage industries during the colder periods. He had imagined something like that sort of pattern when he decided to live in this remote rural area. However, he was not particularly skilled in anything that could be bottled, boxed or wrapped and sold and he had discovered very early in his time here that there were no large farms or estates here requiring casual labour during the spring, summer or even autumn.
Not that he needed the money – it was just the boredom, really. He wanted things to do.
Then, in his second year in the place he had a sudden scare. It was something that both terrified him and gave him a new purpose.
He was just about to leave the little patisserie just off the market square one Friday morning when he saw two men climb back into an English Rangerover. They had been talking to Marcel in the local bar and he had given then the brush off. They were not looking too happy and Marcel was pretty pissed off by the look of it. He knew everyone’s routine and was aware that George was probably in the patisserie so, when the Rangerover was scuttling down the road away from the bar he looked across at the door George was standing at and nodded to him.
George stepped out and glanced down the road to the bottom of the town to see the brake lights of the big motor flash as it paused at the crossing down near the bridge. It then made a rapid turn to the left and headed west on the river road.
George crossed to the bar and exchanged a cautious greeting with Marcel. The Frenchman was at least ten years older than George but seemed even older today.
“They were not your friends, I trust.” He stated rather than asked.
“Never seen them before. What did they want?”
They were looking for someone like you.” Replied Marcel, his eyes watching George openly and carefully. “But I could not recall even you when I heard them speak.”
“Thank you. Nosey Englishmen are even worse than friendly ones. They would have expected me to help them even if I told them I was not interested.”
“Hmm. Probably true.” Marcel decided to shrug the whole thing off. “Want a coffee?”
“Just a small one, Marcel, I have lots to do today.”
George sat looking at the local paper, checking out the weather and the local sports section before looking at the headlines. He was looking at the paper but he was not reading much. Half his brain was on the question of “Who?” and the other half was engaged in looking and listening while pretending to relax.
As soon as seemed reasonable for someone who was in a hurry but really didn’t have that much going on in his life, he left the bar and strolled back to his car.
He lived about two miles out of the little town and often walked back and forth along a path through the woods following the river, but today he had really been thinking of doing some work on the property and he had been pondering that a couple of nice cakes would brighten up the weekend, so he had driven in. He was glad he had done this. He kept running the faces through his mental database but nothing was coming up. He knew the type, of course. They were big trouble for anyone who happened to be their target. The question was –were they after him? He felt that it was too close to home to think otherwise.
His conclusion was that he had become too complacent. Time to get himself sorted.
Well, he hoped he had enough time.
He parked the car in the small barn which was his garage and workshop and walked through a connecting door to the large barn, climbed to the hay loft he looked out through the holes in the old stone wall that passed for windows in this ancient structure. He could see down the valley from there. On an old stone shelf alcove carved into the wall he had a powerful set of binoculars. Carefully, he scanned the various places he had scoped out long ago as possible locations for observers and hostiles. You could not use such places as a guide for snipers – professional ones would make themselves invisible and would be impossible to detect in this sort of mixed woodland, farm and hedgerow landscape. But thugs with scoped rifles and observers preparing to do him harm would choose particular sites for the job. He had spent the first few months identifying them all and then another year adding to the list. Shame he had stopped doing his daily check up on these sites.
On the third sweep around the possibles he caught sight of what looked like the Rangerover as it drove along the valley in the opposite direction to the one it had taken out of town. Either they were doing a loop or they were surveying the place methodically, back and forth, criss-crossing the area. He watched as the vehicle slowed and turned into the sheltered lay-by he had earmarked as the most obvious stopping place. It was half way up the side of the valley, taking advantage of an old, tight bend in the road that was left there after they straightened and widened it. Much of it was hidden from the road by trees yet it held a commanding viewpoint over his property. If he had known about the place he would not have bought the property. But then, again, such an obvious place had its advantages. It was also easily observed from the barn and could be reached (unseen) by foot if you knew what you were doing.
George watched as the two oversized men rolled out of the car as if it was a mini. They stretched and casually strolled to the small wall by the edge of the lay-by. There was a steep drop from the old road down to the rocky river below and the trees were thin enough here, as a result of this, to open up the view down to George. The two men seemed to lean awkwardly against the wall which made George scoff. They were too tall to make that look even a little bit casual. They were casing his home and were leaning their arms on the wall so they would not accidentally point as they talked. They knew what they were doing and had obviously worked out that if they could see so clearly, they could also be clearly seen.
It was only ten in the morning and already it was too late to do anything much. It was obvious that they were coming for him soon.
He had to have a game plan – and fast!
Of course, he could ambush them when they arrived on his land. He had worked out a number of scenarios to do that.
Perhaps he could sneak up on them and drop them at the lay by? If they decided to set up camp there, or at any of the other sites, come to think of it, he might just give it a try.
Or he could lure them somewhere and ambush them. He had one possible scenario that might work if that was what was required.
He pulled up one of the old bar stools he had placed there last year and rested his feet as he quietly observed them. One was in his early thirties, blond cropped hair, very square head with difficult to distinguish features, his face was a bit like a boxer’s from here. Nothing fine or petite about even his face. The other had darker hair which looked like it was thicker and slicked back from his face. He was large but it looked like he had worked at getting a larger, fuller figure. Perhaps a chiselled face but a body pumped up with something more than just exercise, perhaps. Who was the senior member of the party? George was betting on the darker haired one but was not sure why. Perhaps there was some body language he was reading sub-consciously.
After another ten minutes or so the double act returned to their car and headed off up the road away from George’s property.
“They’ll be back!” he said.
He trotted back down and fished out the shotgun he kept hidden in the workshop and checked through the property carefully. He should have done this when he first arrived, which worried him a bit (“Am I going soft?” he wondered) but he was glad that he had seen the goons properly and had been able to assess the threat they presented. After satisfying himself that the property was clear and unsullied, he put his cakes in the fridge, his bread in the bin and settled down to checking his intruder alarm systems.
He had six carefully placed cameras covering the perimeter of the property and two more on obscure access points. There were two radio controlled cameras set up along the road leading either side of his turn-off and another two on the drive. He had not checked the batteries in the remotes for some time, but he had not turned them on either. He sent a signal to each one and they responded with clear images forming in their allotted squares on his large format screen. A system check told him the batteries were OK for the moment but he would need to change them by tomorrow if he ran them on a steady basis from now.
He set the system working at what the software called “Maximum Alert” and went to the kitchen for some coffee.
Every time a vehicle drove past the cameras on the road the system beeped and he looked into the study to see what sort of car it was. By lunch time the goons had driven past his drive three times.
Lunch was a simple affair – some cheeses and cold meats, bread, butter and fresh fruit juice. He sat eating while watching the little images on the screen. At one o clock the car passed again and he took his gun and fresh coffee up to the barn where he sat on the stool and surveyed the valley again. The two thugs were now in what he called the “woodland drive observation spot” which was easy to drive to but gave the observers better cover for their car and themselves. He had driven there on a number of occasions and believed that it was a good spot except when the hunting season was on – not that these guys would understand that. So now he knew that they were serious and were planning their moves carefully. Now he knew he would have to act quickly before they started calling the shots.
This was his territory – he should be able to do something!
Of course, he could get to that spot, too. And because of its position he could empty his shotgun into them and pile them in the back of their car, drive it even deeper into the forest and leave them. Perhaps if he did that and left the car doors open there would not be much of them left when they were eventually found....
It all seemed too messy. He knew the best place to dump them and he even had a half baked plan to get them there, too.
He sat ‘till almost three watching them and thinking about it. He was worried that the cat was already out of the bag. If they were on contract to a particular person they would probably have called him by now to say they had found Georgie-boy and were about to do the dirty deed. But, of course, they had not seen George in the flesh yet, so perhaps they would wait to get a proper confirmation first. Were they there to observe the house and catch a glimpse of him first?
George reckoned that they had shown his picture to a couple of people and that was why they were there. They must be pretty certain that their quarry is currently nestling cosily in the pretty little cottage next to the barn. They would spend the day working out the best possible scenario and then attack him – probably at some point during the night.
All this indecision was winding George up. He was beginning to sweat a little and his adrenalin level was gradually rising. He needed to act, he could not risk waiting until they dropped in on him.
He made his mind up and headed for the small barn. There, he put his shotgun, hunting rifle and some ammunition in the car. Plan A would be to get close and finish them ASAP and plan B would be to lure them to his favoured spot. Plan A or Plan B.... he ran back into the other barn and climbed to his observation spot. One last look then action time!
He got there just in time to see them move back to their 4 by 4 and climb in. Looks like plan B might be the one to go for. If they were going to hit him tonight they would be looking for some food and rations. The most logical place would be the Intermarche on the other side of town. They did not seem shy about driving past his place so the most likely route they would take would be straight into town past him then out the other side following the signs saying “Intermarche 5 minutes straight on” and the like.
He rushed to the car and drove it to the end of the drive and waited. When he saw the car coming down the hill towards him he put on his indicator showing that he was going to turn in the opposite direction to them and then, as they passed he made certain that they could see his face clearly. He looked straight at them as if he was just casually waiting for them to pass so he could carry on with his daily chores. He could see them clocking him and felt sure he had them hooked. So he drove off immediately they were passed him and saw the big car’s brake lights come on bright and hard. By the time he was at the top of the hill and turning along the ridge they were doing a quick three point turn. “Good,” he thought, “they have taken the bait. Let’s see if this works.” Then he burst out laughing. “If it doesn’t work I’ll be dead...or tied to a chair wishing that I was already dead!”
As he drove steadily on he kept thinking of making a run for it but knew it was too late for that. He could see the big car following at a careful distance away.
His plan was quite simple, really. He had scoured the local landscape for this place and had spent hours, even days, checking it out. It was isolated, infrequently visited and, best of all, had a large, deep pool of water conveniently situated at its heart. He drove steadily for another ten minutes then turned off onto a single lane of tarmac – what the locals called a piste. After a few minute’s drive into more and more dense woodland he turned onto an unmetalled road which wound up a small, heavily wooded hill. At the top he drove onto a wide clearing. From this spot you could look across a landscape of rolling hills covered in mixed deciduous forest but the edge of the clearing also looked over a large, gaping hole. This had been a working quarry until about twenty years , he knew, but the road to the bottom was now blocked off and the path was so overgrown it was not fun to walk along. George knew this because he had checked out the land below. Up here was a spot where hunters parked their cars because this whole area was great for hunting. The local “joke” was that sometimes poachers disappear here because when they drive up at night to do a bit of illegal hunting they sometimes end up driving off the edge of the cliff.
The cautionary tale had been an inspiration to George.
So he parked at the other side of the clearing, visible from the entrance but enough room for the other car to come in and block the exit. Then he quickly got out of the car, picked up his rifle and slung the shotgun over his shoulder and dashed into the woods. There was a path that took him just beyond the entrance. He then sat on a clump of stones behind a large bush and waited, listening to the 4 by 4 being inexpertly driven up the hill wondering why people drove cars they are incapable of controlling properly.
He heard the car stop half way up with its engine running and heard someone getting out of the car. So, they were not as stupid as he had hoped. One was going to come at him in the car while the other worked his way around to the other side of the clearing. They must have a detailed map of the area and the passenger had been checking out the place as they drove; smarter than the average heavies. George now worried that they might be ex-servicemen and rapidly ran through the options in his head.
The foot soldier would choose the path that swung around the side of the hill then basically emerged from the trees next to the path he had used from the car. From his memory of the map the path was clearly marked. He decided to wait until the car started up again before he returned along the path. Partly because he suspected that the foot soldier would signal to the car once he was in position and partly because the noise of the car would give him good sound cover which would allow him to move quite fast.
It took more than five minutes for the ambush to be set up. George heard the car engage gear and begin its slow climb and he trotted along the path keeping himself low and watching out for twigs and other dangers while also keeping an eye out for the thug ahead. He stopped just short of the clearing and watched the broad back of the dark haired man who was casually leaning against a tree watching George’s car.
The car stopped exactly where George had expected it to with the front half in the clearing and the back half still snuggled in the shadow of the path. The blond guy switched off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. He casually stretched and George noted the holster under the jacket and had no doubt the other one had something similar under his smart leather jacket, too. He was also sure that they had the skills to use their weapons effectively, too.
As the blond slowly walked across the clearing he swept the place with a calm, almost amused stare, looking for any anomalies or signs of movement in the dense undergrowth. He walked all the way to the car and looked in, tried the handle and opened the door. He looked in the glove compartment and released the catch for the boot. He then opened the boot and had a quick shuffle through the debris he found there. After closing the boot, he strolled to the edge of the clearing and looked down at the large pool below. Several white swans were moving around down there and as he began to count them one disappeared below the shiny blue surface and two others bobbed back up, hardly causing a ripple on the smooth surface.
He turned and walked casually towards the other man who then emerged into the sunlight. They were going to decide what to do next but George was there to make that decision for them. Helpfully, the blond man turned his back to the woods as he pointed towards the cliff with the pool at its bottom and George shot them both in the back with his hunting rifle and, just to make sure, put another bullet in the back of each man’s head.
He was going to go through their pockets but decided not to do that. He was already shaking from the shock and horror of what he had just done and he just wanted to finish the job and get the hell out of there. So he trotted over to the Rangerover and, after putting on a pair of old driver’s gloves, he climbed in and drove the car to the edge of the cliff. He dragged the men to the car one at a time and then spent almost half an hour struggling to get them into the car. At first he had thought that he would place them in the two front seats but that was just impossible to do. The easiest thing was to open the tailgate and bundle them in there.
Drenched in sweat and aching with the effort and shaking with the horror of it all he closed the tail gate and went back to the driver’s position. After a minute’s debate with himself, he climbed in and reversed the car about four or five feet. Luckily, the car was an automatic and much simpler than he had expected. He experimented with the gears and brakes, putting the car into drive with the hand brake on made the thing whine but it stayed where it was so he dropped it back into park and before stepping out he wound down the windows using a central block of switches next to the driver. He took a deep breath then leant forwards and moved the gearshift into drive then he grabbed the hand brake and pushed it down.
The car suddenly surged forwards and nearly took him with it. He threw himself back and landed with a bump on the ground. He lay there and watched, transfixed, as the big car seemed to drive out into empty space then disappear. He was getting up when he heard a nasty crunching sound then a great splash and a large number of white swans appeared before him as he stepped to the edge. They were flapping and looked quite put out by the sudden appearance of the car. He stood and watched the car burp and gurgle air as it disappeared below the surface. Interestingly, the swans were already starting to head back to their watery home.
He was about to turn away when his ‘phone began ringing. The sudden shock of it made his heart jump and he shook violently as he struggled to get the thing out of his pocket. What if it had done that just a short time before, when he was standing in the woods biding his time?
He looked at the number and answered it. It was a London number he recognised. The chief superintendant who had handled his case and had arranged for his new identity and “safe” location. “Damn,“ George thought to himself. “Perhaps I should have ‘phoned him first.” But then, what would the Metropolitan police have done? The danger was too imminent for them to have done anything themselves and the local police were really not the answer either. He had done the right thing to handle it himself. So he was partly worried and keen to keep this incident quiet and partly angry at having been exposed to immediate danger like that.
“Hello, sir,” Said George, hoping he sounded quite calm,” What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Mr er, Philips. This is just a quick courtesy call. Just to let you know I have sent down two of my men to check out your current circumstances. It is always worth doing a security check from time to time, try out the locals and see how they react to inquisitive strangers and so forth. I’ve asked them not to disturb you and my initial report from them has been pretty good. Seems like you’ve settled in there pretty well.”
George watched the last of the swans as they landed back on the water.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry, just distracted. Watching some swans swimming on a small lake.”
“How lovely. They said the area is quite attractive. Must say, I think they have enjoyed wandering around your patch but I didn’t want them causing you any upset. They’re quite harmless really, ha ha!”
“Well, er, thank you.” Answered George.
“OK, so as long as everything is fine with you I’ll give them another couple of days and then call them back.”
“Thank you for letting me know!” said George. “Good bye.” And then he switched off the phone and put it back in his pocket.
He counted seven swans swimming below him before he turned and walked back to his car.

Four Calling Birds

(OK, so this is not a story.... it is an accompaniment to a larger story I am writing at the moment. Alison and I walked from Walsingham to Santiago last year and I am still getting my head around the experience. This is one short reflection which touches on a much larger story. Hope you don’t mind!)

They were constantly being asked what it had been like to walk that far.
How do you begin to answer such a question? Each day had followed a similar routine, they had faced all sorts of road conditions and the weather had swung from one extreme to the other and back again as they had continued their journey.
After resisting the temptation to tell people that if they wanted to know, they should try it themselves, they sat down and tried to find a reasonable explanation that would do the trick.
What were the constants? What could it be reduced down to that would make sense?
One idea they had was to tell people about the way the landscape unfolded as they walked. The slow pace walkers enjoyed let them see things. In particular, there was the sky. They were constantly aware of the changes in the sky; the clouds took on momentous proportions at times and then the weather would change and everything would close down. You would be walking along a ridge, looking down across a wide valley and the sky would fill with grey clouds. You would watch as the rain moved across the landscape in squalls at first, then as a long wall heading for you. You would see the whole sky lower until what had been open and grand was now closed down and dark. Your world would shrink from the distant horizon to the edge of your hood or the brim of your hat.
Another way to think of it was the balance between the rituals of the day and the combination of uncertainty and limited expectations you experienced. Yes, you might have an idea of where you were going to stay that night, but even that knowledge could be limited. Places might be closed or full, they might be well equipped or barely habitable, they might be crowded or empty, there might be food available and sometimes there was nothing unless you had it with you.
So, your rituals became a constant in an unpredictable world... you focused on settling into your corner of the room/bunks; getting your clothes and yourself washed; you carried food with you and replenished it whenever possible; you dealt with your physical issues (mainly managing your feet and dealing with blisters, etc) and sorting out your kit; you kept a record of what you had done and you checked out the next day’s route along with places to stay; checked out the other pilgrims and updated your news.
This routine dealt with much more than just the immediate needs. You accepted the overcrowding and limited facilities, the lack of privacy or comfort and the associated effects of these (snoring through the night, people getting up an hour or two before anyone else); people messing about during the night; smells, noises, mess and inconsiderate behaviour; the simple fact that the closest thing to a comfortable seat was the bunk bed and wall you sat on or the park bench you had lunch on that day; lack of your own books, music and other comforts; almost no English language conversation beyond that between you and your partner; etc.. Much of this was just background to the routine and rituals you performed. It was the backdrop to the joy of the journey, the wonderful people and places and so on. It was not the stuff to dwell on and was hardly to be considered as difficult, never mind seen as hardships.
So each day was a new challenge with the unexpected always about to happen and with a guaranteed format to follow and an understanding that we could expect very little, so what we got was always enough.
But really, that didn’t seem to be enough to answer the question. It did not do the whole experience justice and made it sound harder than it was. In fact, it was continuously and relentlessly wonderful...
Listing why they did it, they discovered that the top of the list was crowded with things like, “because we wanted to do it”, “because we enjoy doing this sort of thing” “because we had the opportunity to do it” as well as other more esoteric things like, “because we felt called to or felt a need to do it” and “because we wanted to walk in solidarity with those who live their lives without a home and have no choice in the matter”.
They also compiled another list defining what they got out of it, which matched a lot of their reasons for doing it in the first place (so, they did it because they enjoy doing such things and they got a lot of enjoyment out of it.... no surprises then?). It also emphasised just how much they had enjoyed walking in each other’s company but that, in itself, does not describe what it was like.... This was all very reassuring but none was of it constituted an answer.
Then, one day, as they were walking along the Thames Path enjoying the feeling of taking that sort of journey again, even if it was only for a day, something occurred to them.
Part of that magical pattern that made up their way was punctuated by birdsong.
In the morning they recalled the echo of birdsong as it rang through the cobbled streets and across the urban landscapes they had walked. They would even hear it in the lulls between traffic sounds as they trudged down busy city roads and it would fill the hedgerows of country lanes and forests as they slipped out of small villages or packed their tent in some rural campsite. Birdsong from the common birds like the blackbird and thrush were their morning call and their companion as they began each day.
Then, during their days walking, the birds of the day kept pace with them. In the wide flat fields of Normandy, and even through Burgundy, the Berry, across les Landes and even on the steep slopes of the Navarre and across the high plains of Northern Spain they would hear the skylark as it skipped skyward to sing its wild, adrenalin filled song while flitting and hovering above the fields. That sound, carried in the wind, playing in variations across so many landscapes was as evocative of their walk as the morning songs.
Then, in the evening, as they dried their clothes and ate their early meals before settling for the night, there always seemed to be the sound of birds screaming and calling along the streets. From Northern France to Spain the birds like martins and swifts would emerge from their nests huddled under the eaves and shaded corners of barns to swoop and dive through the buildings and along the quiet lanes, catching their evening meals as they sang of the joy of being able to fly so fast and so wildly through human shaped landscapes.
The fourth sound was something that led to a little debate.
In Northern France, right through to Burgundy, the days were punctuated by the sounds of cuckoos calling from across rivers, valleys and fields. They were never closer and seemed to take pleasure in filling large empty spaces with their haunting, repetitive calls. Perhaps it was the change in seasons, rather than the location that brought about the silencing of their calls, but it was a sound that had not been heard in England and was their companion across the first half of France. Was this the other sound that would help to illustrate their experience?
If seasonality or location were not barriers then another candidate would be the nightingale who sang its incessantly virtuoso song in a tree above their tent one night in the Eure/Loire borders area in France. Or perhaps they should consider the wild and whacky sounds made by toads or frogs in the many ponds and rivers across France and Spain. At times they were more like gargled screams and in other places like mad whoops, but they were there like odd question-marks scattered across much of their walk. Not birdsong, admittedly, but there all the same.
Then, as they passed under one of the many bridges along the river on their walk, they heard a familiar sound. Pigeons were cooing and scuffling in the crowded shadows above their heads and they looked at each other and nodded in agreement.
From the start in the Norfolk countryside to the primitive, misty villages of Galicia there were pigeons. Whether it was the wild and throaty call of the ones in the woods or the feral, urban murmurs of their ragged cousins perched on gothic church facades and under thatch on half timbered farm houses, it was a sound that stayed with them all the way.
So now, when asked what it was like, they had an answer to accompany the many stories and commentaries.
Along with the landscape and the skies, keeping them company in every language, from morning ‘till the coming of the next day, through the ups and downs of social and culinary experience, between the discomfort and unexpected luxury they remembered birdsong, like brightly coloured threads traced across the tapestry of their journey. Four birds to encounter as they started out, walked through the day and rested in the evening.
Four birds calling to them across the continent, keeping pace with them and adding familiarity to the paths and places as they went. Four common birds for a simple pilgrimage – isn’t that enough?

Five gold rings

(Although I love science fiction I tend not to write much of it but I could not resist this. It started with the idea of being an open book and went on from there...)

They were sitting in a little bar in the space station waiting for their connecting flights. George was a Xenobiologist waiting for his connection back to earth and Maria, an old colleague, was waiting for the ship out to a new system that had just a bunch of letters and numbers defining it – the authorities were getting a bit edgy about giving out info on new habitable or exotic systems these days. There were too many freeloaders, pirates and voyeurs around and not enough virgin systems.
Maria was quizzing George on the places he had been and what he had discovered. Her favourite story from him so far was based on a massive habitable planet she had vaguely heard of. She wanted to know more about that and he promised to give her a summary of his findings and some video before they parted.
What she had been excited about was the potential for intelligent life and he had outlined just such potential.
“All life relies to some greater or lesser extent on its environment to ensure that intelligence develops and flourishes. You would think that language and the ability to record and share information would guarantee growth in development but this place proved that environment can play a huge role.”
“What we found were huge landmasses like great prairies but stretching right across the planet. Enough water for abundant life, lakes, rivers and so on but the ecosystem was dominated by a massive land creature that could grow to tens of kilometers across. They moved slowly across the landscape living for centuries, occasionally mating and, although we do not know the whole lifecycle, we know that they dominated the land in at least five different stages before the occasional one developed into this great behemoth.
“Ironically, these are not the creatures we grew interested in and became excited about. It was, in effect, the equivalent of fleas living on these creatures backs that caught us most. These life forms appeared, at first, to be very insectoid in nature. They have six legs and were dependent on the land-creatures for everything. Of course, when you are not more than 70 cms high and the creature you live on is about a kilometre high and presents you with a sheer cliff of shiny shell between its back and the ground you tend to stay on top. It appears that the gene pool is mixed when two or more land creatures join together to either mate or socialise. This only happens every few decades at best.”
“So these highly intelligent creatures live on the animals’ backs and the animals wander at random across the face of the planet. They are not seasonal creatures, so they do not migrate to the warm or the cold regions in any sort of regular pattern, they do not tend to travel in a particular direction and may drift for months in one steady direction then change or constantly waiver and move around at will.”
Why am I telling you this? Well consider the poor creatures on their backs. How may an intelligent being successfully make any order out of such chaos? Does the sun rise in the east and set in the west? Do the weather patterns have any pattern to them? What sort of long term vision can you have? What about the stars? There are hardly any mountains or landmarks... How easy is it to develop your rational picture of the world or bring order to it? How can you share this knowledge with those from the backs of other creatures? “
“Don’t get me wrong, they have tools, they mine the creatures for much of their nourishment and use the variety of other things that make up the beast’s back and even farm the flora and fauna that have adapted to the beast’s back. But it is limited and the results are a sort of developmental dead end – at least for now.”
“And what about this other being? Do you prefer it because it is slightly more humanoid in appearance or because it has more potential?” asked Maria as they sipped their third drinks.
“Well, I think I just like the poetic sense of them; they are just such wonderful beings to study. I just feel that their whole existence, although highly developed and sophisticated, is too fragile to be exposed to human nature. The thought sends shivers of fear down my spine.”
“We were in this fantastic system and, even although none of us were superstitious, it all just looked so good we knew we were onto a winner. I mean, the main, inhabited planet was so beautiful with its red, green and blue surface and the five gold rings turning around it! We were mainly studying another being on a neighbouring planet, one that seems to live and operate at more than twice our speed, by the way. The things we will learn from them will be extremely useful – even their experience of time and space will be extremely valuable, once we are able to contact and converse with them successfully. So, while I left behind some of the guys working on a sort of virtual reality based comms system we went as a team to check out the next planet.”
“All the reports were of a slower, more subtle being with a reasonably well developed society, some rudimentary social and civilised trappings and, what we would call, high level optomisational potential. The usual blurb indicating they could develop into a competing system eventually. We couldn’t wait to see what they were really like.”
“What we found was an amazing being with a complex life cycle and a truly ancient culture. Nothing suggested to me that they would be interested in developing further. I know that sounds arrogant and backward, possibly even containing culturally imperial overtones. No, I am not trying to impose some sort of black mark on their abilities or even suggest that they are incapable of going further. I just watched them, fell in love with them and could not see what their motivations for change would be if we did not go in there, interfere and destroy their current culture and well being.”
Maria was desperate to know why he felt that way. What made them so special.
“Oddly,” George began again, “it was their physical being that appeared to me to be their grace and potential downfall. Let me describe them. I will show you images later once you have heard my story.”
They live on a planet which has a year about half again longer than us and they tend to take about twenty years to reach puberty. After as much as another fifteen years they become mature adults and it can be another five to ten years before they bond and mate. They are roughly humanoid in shape but are closer to two and a half metres high, quite thin but robustly built with long heads that are wider at the bottom than at the top, they have three eyes, two for stereovision and one for close up, two ears roughly as we have and hardly any nose with self closing nostrils, and their limbs appear quite standard although they are long and have four, not five, digits including the opposing one.”
“They are quite colourfully skinned and, although they wear a small amount of clothing this is on their limbs, about the lower torso (yes, they have genitals that initially look quite odd and frightening but function similar to ours) and they have been known to wear various forms of head gear and decorations that are similar to jewellery. Their oddest feature by far is their torso; their upper torso to be specific.”
“Looking at them face on their body, roughly from shoulders to waist, is a sort of eighty centimetre wide, one metre tall rectangle of skin concave in shape and filled with what look like complex scars, tattoos and other markings. They look manufactured but naturally occur. To your right (their left) you will see a long straight ridge of what looks like bone but is, much like a rhino horn, made of hair. On the other side of the torso you will note a whole load of these ridges. They get more of them as they grow old – one for every year of their life, as far as we can make out.”
“We witnessed how they go from one side to the other too. At a certain point in the year they just start scratching and tugging at their chests and gradually the skin begins to detach. After a few days it comes completely loose and then they tug at the ridge until they manage to stretch the skin across the front of their torso leaving this great flap. What we saw next amazed us all. Once the ridge was in its new place on the other side of the torso the creature simply tucked the flap in between the end two ridges – the original ridge on their right and the new ridge they have just pulled over from the left.”
“That, in itself would be amazing but knowing that does not tell you enough.”
Pausing for effect, George swills down his drink and waves to the waiter for another for each of them.
“What do you think they do when they meet strangers or get together for special events, or when two decide to mate for life? They open themselves up to each other... literally! Yes, each being contains a complete book of its life as part of it. You can read them like books and as such. Each flap of skin between the ridges is a record of one year of their life and can be read by them like we would a set of personal files. As a result, they are the most honest creatures you would ever meet. Their lives, as humans often say but seldom mean literally, are open books.
“What’s more, violence is abhorrent to them. Imagine doing something that would risk destroying your life, your being, so totally. You see, not only are they open books, all their lives. When they die the book of their life is removed, the last year, or what is left of it becomes final page and the back skin becomes the cover of the book, and the whole thing is stored in the family library. The whole history of their world is written in and tied up in their books.”
“Wow,” said Maria in awe. “I would love to see them. Imagine studying them, how fascinating!”
“Which sums up my point exactly. We need to build a wall around them and protect them from us. Our curiosity and avarice, our desire to accumulate, collect and dissect would destroy them even if our culture and other aspects of our nature did not!”
Maria still looked wistfully at George. “A planet with five gold rings, you say?”
“Damn, me and my big mouth! Please Maria. Promise me, forget what I just said. Please, for pity sake, put it out of your mind!”

Ten Drummers Drumming

(I had lots of ideas for the drummers drumming but, when I starting writing this story of Mr Downing’s life it seemed the only way to use the drums – hope you think so too.)

Nobody really knew him.
He was a quiet man, a regular church goer who kept himself to himself.
A cliché of a widower whose family had all moved away.
He had one son in Australia who had three children but Mr Robert Downham had never seen any of his grandchildren in the flesh. It was a difficult fact for a loving son to have to face that his father was frightened of flying and could not come to visit them. Flying the whole family to England was too great an expense for the son. So, they kept in contact through letters and by telephone. The Australian family did most of the talking and writing.
Robert had not missed the irony in the fact that his sister, who lived in a remote village in France, had married a French airman. They had met and married a long time ago, in the sixties. The Frenchman, a Mr Chassain, had been almost twenty years older than her – and they had settled in France. She was now an odd, old lady living on a widow’s pension in a tiny little cottage overlooking the Creuse river. Apart from Christmas cards, they had enjoyed no contact for years.
His daily routine had seemed unremarkable to say the least. He was an early riser and would be seen walking down to church for early morning Mass, regardless of the weather. On his return, he would buy a paper and no doubt read it with his breakfast. He was of the old school; a Catholic who did not eat before taking Communion. But he had not been one of those people who hankered back to the “old days before Vatican II”, in fact in most ways, he seemed to be someone who liked the modern church. On Sundays he usually attended the liveliest Mass with lots of modern music and loads of families. But he always seemed a little remote.
During the week he would take a stroll to the pub for a pint, say hello to the person behind the bar and sit quietly in a corner reading his book for half an hour or so. He was so regular that the place he tended to sit in was unofficially “Bob’s seat” but he never minded if it was occupied and never realised that if anyone settled in that seat prior to twelve o clock a member of staff would often politely ask them to move.
The people in the local shops, library and doctor’s surgery all knew who he was and said hello. Neighbours were also happy to have him live nearby as he was quiet, polite and friendly without ever being a cause for concern.
Once a week he would travel on the bus to the cemetery where he would have a silent chat at his late wife’s grave side. Quietly, he would tell her all that had happened that week and find comfort in being connected with her in the peace of the moment. He still missed her and often wondered at the way cancer had so rapidly snatched her from him.
If you had been privileged to see the inside of his house you might have been surprised by the wide range of music CD’s he owned. He had been a keen musician for much of his life but arthritis and a deep shyness had combined to ensure that he could not practice anymore and that he would not share this enthusiasm with any other person. But it still gave him enormous pleasure to explore the rich world of music in the privacy of his own home.
Robert had a modest income but he spent carefully and was gradually saving up to pay for his son’s family to come over to visit him. It was one of the things that preoccupied his mind in quieter moments during his day.
Then, one Tuesday, while sitting reading Hemingway’s “Islands in the Stream” by a crackling fire in the pub with still half a pint of Bombardier in the pint glass he let out a loud sigh and never took another breath.
It took the barmaid a couple of minutes to realise what had happened. She was serving a customer and heard Bob sigh. She had even looked over towards him and had noticed a strange, serene look on his face but it was not until after serving another customer that it occurred to her that the same expression was still there and that he had not moved for some time.
When they started to sort out his affairs some interesting things began to emerge.
For a start, Robert had saved up enough for his son’s family to come over and they arrived well in time for the funeral.
The son, whose name was also Robert, but everyone called him Bobby, took over the arrangements and spent some time in conversation with the parish priest.
It turned out that his father had been quietly instrumental in getting all sorts of things done within the parish and, indeed, had been a quiet friend and supporter of many parishioners. The priest was unusually upset at Robert’s death. Bobby had not expected his father to be quite so popular with the priest and was still taking in the details when the funeral took place.
So, the quiet affair that Bobby had travelled across the world to share in turned out to be less quiet than expected.
To be fair, it was not just Bobby and the priest who were surprised.
As the crowd gathered in church to mourn Robert’s death and celebrate his life they discovered that he had not just touched their life in some quiet but significant way. He had touched so many people’s lives they could not get over it. One woman turned to her neighbour in the pew and discovered that Robert had helped both of them financially when their lives had seemed to be spiralling down into disaster. A young man discovered that he had been given the same sort of support and advice from Robert as his neighbour, despite the fact that the other man was almost twenty years his senior. So, Robert had been quietly helping people for a very long time. It just seemed like no one had been around to join the dots. Everyone had believed that they had been the only one; the only person that old Robert had helped.
Another thing that surprised them was the choice of the music and the service Robert had requested for his funeral. He had even put aside money for the occasion. In the choir loft there was a gospel choir who lifted the roof with their jubilant voices and the youth band played some very modern music from the front of the church close to his coffin. They thought it a little bit odd but were glad of the bequest in Robert’s will that was going to pay for a new sound mixer for them.
And then, there was the reception after the funeral which was going to be an international food feast! Who would have thought that he even knew the dishes and the people who had gladly agreed to make them but, of course, that was Robert for you.
But the really amazing thing; the one thing that Robert had stipulated as a must; the only thing that his will said must happen, even if it ended up using all of the money he had left, was his final send off from the church.
At the end of the service, as the pall bearers came to take up the coffin and as they carried it out of the church, Robert had paid for ten African drummers to play a particular piece... as close to the original as possible (he had specified the CD and track from his collection).
The drummers lined up as the pall bearers began to walk towards the coffin then they began to drum. Ten drummers beating out a complex and growing rhythm that caught everyone’s hearts. It was so powerful it lifted them up, gave them a new perspective on his life and a new hope in theirs that they would be able to take away with them. A dance of life beaten out on tight skins. A dance of joy celebrating Robert’s life that would send him off on a new adventure.
The common view had always been that no one knew Robert Downham.
After his death, everyone wished that they had done more to celebrate his life before he died.
“That,” the priest said, “is a feeling that I encounter a lot at funerals.”
Boom Boom

Nine Maids a Milking

(please expect more children's stories! Fun to write and an opportunity to be as silly as ever... well silly without being judged for it, perhaps!)


Mary lived on a dairy farm. Her dad looked after the cows and Mary and mum would milk them. She knew every cow by name and they all knew her.
She would pick up her stool and walk with her mum to the barn and say, “Hello Daisy.” And Daisy would flick her tail and say, “Moo!”
She would say, “Hello Buttercup.” And Buttercup would chew some hay then say “Moo!”
She would say, “Hello Tulip.” And Tulip would blink her big eyes and say, “Moo!”
She would say, “Hello Clover.” And Clover would twitch her ears and say, “Moo!”
Finally she would say, “Hello Marigold.” And Marigold would nod her head and say, “Moo!”
Five beautiful black and white cows to milk each day and then mum and dad would deliver the milk when Mary was at school.
But the village was growing, people were building new houses and the new folks said the milk was too expensive and any way, it was not like the super market milk. They asked for semi-skimmed and wanted it to be delivered before breakfast.
Dad said that they didn’t make enough milk to sell to the supermarkets and their milk was too good to be skimmed or semi-skimmed. “You can’t do that to my milk! Oh no you can’t.”
They only had enough room on the farm for five cows and that was that. If they couldn’t make a living with the farm they would have to stop and get office jobs. They would have to sell the cows.
So one Sunday afternoon, as Mary was walking through the woods near the farm thinking about the problem she stopped and let out a big sigh.
“What shall we do?” She said to herself.
“About what?” came a small, snappy voice.
“That’s funny,” She said, “I talk to myself a lot but I have never had any replies!”
“Don’t be silly,” said the voice, “you were talking to me.”
Mary looked down and saw a little pixie standing on a large stone. He looked crossly at her and said, “Well? Now that you’ve tricked me into speaking to you I will have to grant you a wish. Only one, mind you! You are not allowed to be greedy!”
“Wow!” Mary shouted, “How exciting! A real wish?”
“Of course,” grumbled the pixie who did not seem as keen on the idea as Mary was.
“No tricks?”
“No tricks, but you have to wish now. You cannot wait!”
Mary thought hard, she thought even harder, then she thought until she felt herself beginning to pop and realised she had been holding her breath.
“Phew! OK, I know what I want to wish for.!”
Alright, tell me.”
“Well, we have five cows and we milk them every day but they don’t produce enough, the milk is not the sort the people in the village want and they want to buy it at supermarket prices!”
“So what is your wish?”
“I want two cows to make skimmed, two to do semi-skimmed and one to make real milk and I want them to make lots and lots more milk than they do at the moment!”
“Hmm,” said the pixie, “that seems like a lot more than one wish to me.”
“No, it is only one wish but as it has to be done to a herd of cows it just seems like more.”
“OK.” Said the Pixie, “Inky binky tiddly winky, alakazam kazoo, all you’ve said in this long (but single) wish, it will soon come true.” Then he turned around three times and disappeared.
In the morning Mary got up and helped her mother milk the cows as usual.
“That’s funny,” said her mum, “Daisy’s milk is different.”
“That’s because Daisy and Marigold are giving us skimmed milk. Buttercup and Tulip will give us semi-skimmed and Clover will give us the best milk of all.”
“I know you told us that yesterday, Mary, but I never thought it would really happen!”
That day, they milked and milked, they filled every bottle and bowl, cup and tub, bath and jar and it still seemed to flow without a stop.
Dad said, we are going to need more help with this, so he got on the ‘phone and asked the Job Centre for milk maids. Then he spoke to the supermarket and agreed a price for the skimmed and semi-skimmed and even for his finest milk, too.
It was sad for mum and Mary when they agreed they should leave it up to the milk maids from now on. But it was exciting, too. And all through the day and all through the night as many as nine milk maids could be seen busy milking in a row.
Two milked Daisy and two milked Marigold and the skimmed milk never tasted so good.
Two milked Buttercup and two milked Tulip and the semi-skimmed shimmered in the light.
But only one was needed to milk lovely Clover as she produced only the finest milk, and the best milk always took longer to do.
One breakfast time, as mum and dad watched the morning milkmaids take over from the night shift ladies, Mary said, “Wishes are amazing, aren’t they?”
“Yes Mary, that is true.” said dad. “But wouldn’t it have been easier to wish for a bucket or a hose pipe that was always full of milk?”
“Yes, but then we would have sold our cows and we would not have been dairy farmers anymore!” replied Mary.
Which was true.