Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

by Brian Smith

  Fat Lucy was calling up to him. She looked even wider from up here. He thought, “She wouldn’t be too bad if her eyes agreed which way they were looking.” Lucy stood feet wide apart on an old sheet heaped with green foliage and pearly white berries. She grinned holding a sprig of mistletoe above her head. There were lots of berries this year. What was it she used to call them? That was it - Tree Pearls. Emm had made herself a sticky necklace of mistletoe berries when they were small, threading them carefully on white cotton. She’d made him tie it round her neck. She’d wanted to be a fine lady.

  He stretched again. The sickle just touched the apple. It bobbed away out of reach and dropped to the ground. Lucy pounced and took a great bite.

  “Thank’ee kindly!”

  “Drat and damnation”

  He relaxed back into the trunk and brought the sickle down hard on a sappy green stem. The puff of green fell and Lucy caught it.

  “That be more like it Jacob! Keep goin now! Light’s fadin.”

  His arm ached. Well maybe one more tree and they could carry it all to the big house for decorating before the Christmas feast.

  Jacob felt wet running down his neck. The drizzle had turned to rain. He must be careful not to slip. He tugged his foot away from the trunk and moved along the branch. He threw the sickle down onto the tussock grass and held the higher branch with both hands. Now if he pushed his head between the twigs he could see the great brick house with its three rows of windows. Some were lit now. Ilchester Manor stood on a hillock and the fields and woods slid away all around like skirt until the hem rose to meet the Welsh Hills.

  He imagined Emm up there in those big rooms. She’d be dressed in silk (cast off from Milady), looking like a princess, lighting the candles. Two years ago it had been Emm not Lucy standing below catching the mistletoe. Emm not Lucy had given him his first kiss. He’d still got the little sprig of mistletoe she’d held above them in the pocket of his jacket, (the top pocket he never used save for a handkerchief on Sunday). He’d put it under his pillow and dreamt of Emm, but she’d gone away anyway. The twig had turned brown now and the berries had dissolved into the cloth, but somehow he couldn’t throw it away.

  The light was fading. The figures of the mistletoe pickers were drained of colour. Other lads were standing in the trees, two or three in some. They moved and chattered restlessly like roosting starlings. Jacob saw a cart. It was moving slowly, jerking and bumping through the sludge of mud on Cock-Pit Lane. It was old Davy in the driver’s seat. Jacob recognised him by the horse, a black and white dray, “Old Ale” He’d shoed him many a time. The old horse was straining. The cart would move a bit and then roll back, move a bit and roll back.

  There was a crack. A shout, a whinny. Girls and lads, all of a flurry, rushed to the top hedge. Jacob could hear anxious voices but not what they said.

  “They’s over!”

  “It’s old Davy.”

  “Its old Davy and Emm!”

  Old Davy staggered out from the broken timbers and boxes. Davy’s hair was plastered with clay. Blood stained his face. Mud dripped from his clothes. The horse stood in the ditch, its mouth wide open, it screamed in pain. A woman, muddied and torn, was helped, almost carried away from the cart. The crowd surrounded them. They released the whinnying horse from broken wood and chains, wiped blood from his flank and tied him to a hawthorn tree. The horse was quiet but trembling pitifully. Jacob scrambled and tumbled down the trunk and ran dodging between the black trees to the accident. They’d need him at the forge!

  It was a shock to see Emm. She was as white as flour, her eyes deep and dark like holes in a skull. The women were round her.

  “You awright Emm?”

  “Where you goin?”

  Old Davy answered.

  “She be needed at ‘ome, so she be!”

  Emm looked down at her muddied cloak, hands folded across her stomach. She did not look at Jacob.

  Old Davy stood between her and the crowd, brushed twigs and bits off her hair. Jacob saw she had been sprinkled with mistletoe berries, ‘tree pearls’ and that she’d begun to cry. He put his hand on her shaking shoulder.

  “Don’t take on Emm”

  Fat Lucy pulled at his jacket.

  “I’ve sommat to tell ee!”

  She dragged him away from the crowd, pushing him against a tree trunk. He was shocked, numb. Lucy had an eager look on her face. Her lips were wet.

  “She be disgraced! She be expecting!”

  “Liar Fat Lucy, You’s a liar!”

  “She’ve no call to be proud now!”

  He shoved her great bulk aside.

  “You's a fool Jacob Blunt! You's a big fat fool!”

  Energy drained down through his body. He shook. His hands slipped and scraped as he clambered over the stile. His boots sank in the cold mud. He heaved and strained with the lads and lifted the wheel onto the mistletoe sled. They began to pull it to the forge. He was numb as the horse that had collapsed stone dead in the ditch, pulling the hawthorn tree up by the roots. The weight of disappointment was far greater than the straining weight of the great wheel.

  With clanging and banging, sweat, sparks and fire, the wheel was fixed. Next day Davy and Emm would travel to the remote hills, to the farm where she was born. The parson was to put them up for the night. There were whispers again.

  “Mistress won’t have her in the ‘ouse”

  “Young Master! “

  “Not what I ’erd”

  Jacob did not go home to his old Father and the forge that night. He went to “Throne Farm’ so called as it sat on a high knoll with a view of the sea. The frosty cold was bitter. He sneaked into the animal warmth of the tithe barn. Alone and still, tears of disappointment and anger coursed down his cheeks. He took out the brown mistletoe twig from his pocket and flung it on the straw, then spent an age on hands and knees finding it again. Sniffing he kissed the little twig and replaced it in his top pocket. He slumped down onto the floor and wished for a mistletoe dream, a prophetic dream, to tell him what should be done. Exhausted he rolled his jacket up into a pillow and lay in the straw of the barn.

  He did not sleep much. There was a barn owl white as a ghost that flew silently in and out like a guardian angel. There was gnawing and squeaks and images of Emm, as always, dreams of Emm. When he did sleep he was in a high meadow above the coast, following a white chalk road to the sea and great red-sailed ships.

  The next morning he rose early, when just one star was left in the sky. He washed his boots, face and hands in the cattle trough. He walked off in the cold sunshine to the port, stopping at a tavern on the way, to eat steak and eggs, in return for chopping and carrying logs.

  He was not surprised to see a red-sailed boat in harbour and even less that the captain welcomed him aboard. He knew mistletoe dreams spoke true.

  “Come aboard landlubber! Work all the hours the Good Lord gives an' you is welcome.”

  Jacob did not think of home or tomorrow. He had no hopes or fears. As time and distance separated him from Emm, calm began to grow inside. He worked with rope and metal. He smelled the smells of tar and sea. He enjoyed his rum like any man. Only when they stopped in a port, with strange trees and fruits and stranger people, did he think of home.

  He saw seas as high as churches and heathens of every hue. His shoulders broadened. His skin tanned. His leg broke and was mended bent. Ten years on, as he climbed back up white road to the high meadow and Throne Farm, it would have been hard to recognise Jacob as the mistletoe picker.

  It was just before Christmas and cold. The tracks were hard, rutted, with white pools of ice between. It was dusk when he arrived in the village. Singing voices floated on the air. There was noise and three fires in the orchard. They were picking the mistletoe again! He walked along Cockpit Lane. Only one lad raised a hand to him.

  “God Speed Traveller!”

  He hurried on. He would see his old Father. “Please God, he was still in the world”

 
As he passed the church, streams of coloured-light from the stained glass window lit his path. There was a figure ahead, at the side of the road, pulling at the branches of an apple tree. Her long cloak had gathered frost on the hem. She swung the sickle and mistletoe fell, showering pearly berries onto her cloak and dark hair. She tried to pull down another branch but it sprung away, too strong for her. Jacob was now close by behind. He leant over her shoulder and held the tree steady. Both the woman and Jacob jumped in surprise and shock. A small girl ran out from the cloak. Light shone on the woman’s face. It was older now, lined and worn. Jacob picked up a handful of berries and held them out to her.

  “Tree pearls, some tree pearls for you, Emm!”

  REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL

  by

  Faith Bellamy

  First cuppa of the morning, restorative and warming,

  Gazing from the window at the rising sun.

  Here’s another new day, a sparkling gold and blue day,

  A day with opportunities for a mix of work and fun.

  Resting from my labours, chatting to the neighbours

  Juicy bits of gossip, laughingly relayed.

  Phone call from a grandson, happy that his team won,

  And telling in some detail just how well he played.

  Taking great delight in an unexpected sighting

  Of a splendid meteor shower, or a rainbow in the sky.

  Or verges bright with flowers, longer daylight hours,

  And a burgeoning dawn chorus showing winter has passed by.

  Out there picking cherries, hazel nuts and berries,

  Bearing home the harvest summer sun has blest.

  Followed by much baking, freezing and jam making,

  Chopping, stirring, swearing. I can only do my best.

  THE REVOLTING HOUSEWIFE (and her man)

  by

  Faith Bellamy

  She swept the stairs, she hoovered rooms,

  Polished windows to relieve the gloom.

  Removed all dog hairs with a broom.

  Sent flies and spiders to their doom.

  Threw soda down the sink.

  She dourly scrubbed the kitchen floor,

  Which she’d done many times before,

  Then thought with pleasure, she was sure

  'Twas time to have a drink.

  She found the brandy and the sherry,

  Added some port and with a merry

  Laugh imbibed this really very

  Highly alcoholic bevy.

  Liked it quite a lot.

  She rifled through the bottles gaily

  Drank Chardonnay and Chablis mainly,

  Found they hit the spot.

  And now for therapeutic shopping.

  There’s nothing like it when you’re dropping

  From hours of cheerful bottle popping,

  Knowing your sugar level’s whopping.

  So, first she bought some shoes.

  Then a large bag of crocodile,

  She’d wanted one for quite a while,

  Its very presence made her smile,

  It’d not been hard to choose.

  She added lingerie and belts,

  Bright scarves and garments which she felt

  Could only make her chic and svelte.

  Eventually, when fit to melt

  She halted for a Pimms.

  Then, refreshed, she took her homeward road.

  Cheerily toting her precious load

  Of bags and parcels. How she glowed!

  Till she got home to HIM !

  He’d found her bottles lying handy,

  Had mixed the sherry and the brandy

  The Chardonnay and Chablis and he

  Thought they’d make a pleasant shandy,

  So drank it, and passed out

  The rooms she’d left so neat and clean,

  Were now disgusting, and I mean

  AS foul as any rooms you’ve seen.

  Looked like there been a rout

  “Enough” she thought, and with the broom

  She removed the body from the room,

  And with the heavy hand of doom,

  And just a fleeting hint of gloom,

  Poured all the liquor down the sink.

  Then she dourly scrubbed the kitchen floor

  As she had done many times before

  And certainly, she was now quite sure

  They’d defeat the demon drink.

  But she probably wouldn’t give up shopping!

  AN ABSENT FRIEND

  by

  John Wood

  There’s a space by the fire where a warm body lay

  Twitching ears and grey tail at the end of each day.

  And we miss his bright eyes and the faint doggy smell,

  Even miss old chewed bones and the long hairs as well.

  Will we walk every day now we’ve lost our old chap?

  I suspect there’ll be nothing can fill this huge gap.

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  by

  Jennifer Budd

  From time to time my old school sends me glossy brochures. They tell me of former pupils who are now household names and beacons to be followed by the present pupils; they tell me of the new theatre and arts centre (to be opened to lesser mortals in the town of course) and suggest I may come to make a contribution and/or attend an event there. I reply in the negative.

  Never, since I left sixty years ago, have I been back to school, except once, when visiting the town with my children at half term. Finding the main door open, with no porter to repel boarders, we walked in, crossed the courtyard (that’s where Mummy used to park her bicycle) entered the main building, and walked up the black and white tiled Marble Corridor (no running, no talking). Not a soul did we meet. We looked into the Hall where we had Prayers and lectures and where I once appeared as a Theban elder in a Greek play (in Greek, with choruses set to music). We crossed the garden through the covered way to the “new” building where my school career started. I was seven, the building was a year old.

  It was a little eerie to be walking once more along those corridors, up and down those stairs and meeting nobody. No peremptory perfects - ”Quietly on the stairs, please” or “No running in the corridor”. Not a cleaner, porter or member of staff in sight, and no locked doors. Anybody could have walked in and vandalised the library or planted a bomb by the Dorothea Beale memorial and left, quietly and undiscovered, as we did, that long-ago day.

  “Back to school” was normal life in our family because my father was a schoolmaster, so we had three family holidays in a year. As soon as the term finished we would leave, bag, baggage and cat in a basket, for Devon. I was born a day or two after the end of the summer term which was good, in that the end-of-term stresses of writing reports and marking exam papers were over before I could disturb the peace with persistent crying (until the fierce nurse had me trained). Nevertheless my father would have been chafing to get to the sea and reluctant to leave in mid–September.

  We were in Devon when the war began. Suddenly everything changed, we went back to school in the middle of the holidays, but not to stay and we didn’t go back to our house there because something called “The Office of Works” had taken it away and were being horrid to our parents. We went back to our house in Devon and I went to a little school, which was fun. Only Daddy was not with us in the term time. When we went back to the old school at the end of the summer term it was different and we had to move to a new house, and I started at a big school, feeling very small.

  Why do I not go back to school now? I remember how we felt in our school days about the strange old biddies who turned up for speech days and I don’t want anybody feeling that about me. When I was at school I swore I would never send a child of mine there as a boarder, even if I could afford it. At the time I quite enjoyed it but after eleven years I had had enough. I had no wish to go to university; the school had no interest in guiding me in any other direction, so I went off to London to t
rain as a nurse at the best hospital in London. It was harder work at the Nightingale School but infinitely more satisfying.

  THE ARTIST'S HOUSE

  by

  Elizabeth Rumsey

  Caught in the half-light, the little house

  reveals its store.

  Tiny treasures trickle and twinkle

  along the shelves,

  while the wonder and agony of God

  glow from the walls.

  A sequin, caught on a golden thread,

  glitters from a scrap of gauze.

  Greed and grief and joy jostle with awe

  as faces form on the canvas

  and the beauty and frailty

  of a tiny child

  are caught in clay.

  Trapped on the studio wall

  the sturdy little legs forever climb

  the charcoal stairs.

  THE DREAMER

  by

  Jill Lawson

  I live a quiet and a sober life, in quiet and sober ways;

  I wash and iron, I cook and clean, that’s how I spend my days.

  I walk to fetch the Telegraph at Fred’s (the Village Stores)

  Try to complete the crossword before I start my chores.

  And later, if you’re passing, and pause to take a look,

  You might find me with my feet up, and my nose inside a book.

  Of course I need some exercise to maximise my strengths,

  So to the Leisure Club I go and swim my twenty lengths.

  I live a quiet and a sober life as I‘ve already said;

  The lively part will happen when I’m snuggled down in bed.

  For my dreams are quiet untrammelled, I can travel far and wide;

  And passport-less my flight is free, and wingless I can glide.

  Some nights I meet with royalty, Prince Charles once came to tea;

  (They value my opinions when they come and talk with me).

  And NOTHING is impossible; I cannot break the law;

  I’ve even given birth to twins although I’m seventy-four!

  I live a quiet and a sober life, at least that’s what it seems;

  You wouldn’t recognise me if you peeped into my dreams.

  TOO MUCH BLACK

  by

  Helen Beach