Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

by Brian Smith

  Eventually we all moved to the edge of the Black Country, where the work was. We found a house on the ridge between Dudley and Wolverhampton at a place called Sedgley, a village where a famous author once lived, who wrote “The House Under the Water”, a description of the creation of Lake Vyrnwy where a whole village was inundated under a reservoir to provide water for Liverpool and a new village built down-Dam, so to speak.

  The final item in this story: the house we bought had a view eastward over the northern part of the Black Country but to the west? Soon after settling in, there was the most wonderful sunset to the west seen from from the garden - and guess what? In the far distance – well over fifty miles away - Cader Idris reared its topmost peak to stand out against the dying light. My life was complete.

  SLOW-MOVING HEREFORD

  by

  John Wood

  There are few things more pathetic than a city glued in gridlock,

  With traffic stopped on Whitecross Road, at Belmont, Aylestone Hill,

  Cars queueing down at Redhill, and at Edgar Street a roadblock.

  The problem’s been discussed for years – the jams are with us still.

  Around the ancient City Walls the Wye flows west to east

  Spanned by one narrow ancient bridge and a single busy road.

  But one modern crossing’s one too few – there’s need for two at least

  With a north-south road to ease the jams, reduce the excess load.

  We must address this crisis and express our indignation,

  Else trade will go to other towns where movement’s less impeded

  While countless hours in Hereford are wasted with frustration.

  So please insist to those with power, repeat until we’re heeded -

  “If you want to be remembered for one single worthy deed,

  A bypass round this city is our first and foremost need.”

  A HOOT OF HATE or MY UNFAVOURITE THINGS

  by

  John Wood

  Drivers despicable, drivers demented,

  Drivers too reckless in cars badly dented,

  Drivers of sports teams in vans they have rented,

  Drivers with slogans some fool has invented.

  Drivers with dangly things blocking their vision,

  How can they see to prevent a collision?

  There are other road hogs whom I hate in addition.

  I wish they’d drive off down the road to perdition.

  Drivers who cannot remember their names

  Needing labels like Sharon or Kevin or James,

  Drivers of bangers that belch smoke and flames,

  Drivers who play stupid motorway games.

  The Birmingham driver so rude and so grumpy,

  The muck-cart that leaves the road smelly and bumpy,

  The learner proceeding so slowly and jumpy,

  The reckless young oaf with his head full of scrumpy.

  Long distance lorries that drive to intimidate,

  Drivers that cannot be bothered to indicate,

  The old Morris Minor that’s flat out at twenty-eight

  These are a few of the things that I hate!

  Drivers despicable, drivers demented,

  Drivers deplorable, brains long fermented,

  I hope they feel crushed now my fury’s been vented,

  But I fear they’re too thick to hear what I’ve commented.

  When the car hoots,

  When the tyre blows,

  When I’m feeling mad,

  I try not to remember these horrible drivers,

  And then I don’t feel quite so bad.

  A MOST UNUSUAL WOMAN

  by

  Ann Foley

  Geraldine’s mother used to say that life was like a box of chocolates, you never knew what was there until you bit into it. What had Geraldine’s life been like before her mother’s death? I think it must have been a bit like an aniseed ball, hard throughout, sickly sweet overall and rather boring.

  She was a dutiful daughter, always had been, and in the last five years of her mother’s cancer, had looked after her mother herself. It had been her pleasure, she told me. When the bathing, lifting and bedpans had become too much, Geraldine had found carers who were kind to both of them. Only the last year of her mother’s illness had she needed the carers. Her mother’s balance wasn’t good and Geraldine had to continue with her job at the “Cardiff Herald and Gazette”. Anyone would have said she had a beastly job. She didn’t look like she fitted in with a busy provincial newspaper – a busy provincial Welsh newspaper at that. She must have been like a torch amongst all those dark-haired, touchy Welsh. She had copper curly hair, rather thick glasses, home-made cardigans and she was of above average height. She must have been a beacon for that paper. But she worked on the Classified Advertisements. If you looked at the Cardiff Herald, you would see that there was precious little news and mostly classifieds.

  Geraldine had an Engineering and Mechanics Degree from Aberystwyth University. She really bought and sold cars for her paper and ran the Motor side of the Classified Ads. She dealt with Dealerships and must have told them when they were pushing a series of unsaleable cars too hard. She dealt with young people who had just passed their tests, spivs who were trying to sell heaps of metal, and old ladies who were looking for something reliable. She dealt with them all. It was an unfeminine job for a woman, but cars lit up Geraldine. The girls in the office giggled when she was on the phone, but she never appeared to notice. When she was out of the room, they would shake up her can of Coke in her lunch box and dissolve into laughter when she tried to have her lunch. She never went out to lunch and endured this teasing without comment, checking over the copy for next week’s motor classifieds.

  And how did I get to know her? Well, I’d heard that there was this helpful lady from the local paper who knew a thing or two about cars. Being a quiet sort of chap, I was a bit suspicious and I didn’t have just any car. I owned a 1937 Riley. Not just any Riley but a 16/4 Blue Streak Kestrel that I rescued from a field. I restored the chassis but was getting a bit bogged down with the rest of the car. I wanted to talk to someone local but outside the Riley Club. I wanted to find out where I could go from here with this, and to see what it would make at auction.

  When I made that phone call, I could hear that Miss Llewellyn was interested. I told her I had paid £5,000 for it and she told me it could make as much as £15,000 as it was now, but could she come to see it?

  I was surprised when she turned up at my house. She was driving a Ford Popular, a black and ugly car to me that I had not seen on the road for a long time. She had an interesting face, not beautiful, but when she looked at my Riley a soft radiance shone from it, and she talked something about her mother’s chocolates . . .

  “I beg your pardon” I said, “did you say something about chocolates.”

  “Yes, I did, I’m sorry. The girls in the office think I’m a bit potty, quite rightly, but my mother, who died recently, used to say that life was like a box of chocolates and you never knew what you were getting until you bit into it.”

  I looked a bit puzzled. She went on “I get some extraordinary phone calls about cars, and I have to admit I don’t know a great deal about Rileys but I have been swotting up on them since your ‘phone call.”

  She had a charming smile and I watched her long eager fingers moving about my car. We put the car up on the ramp in my garage and she got her torch out and scrutinised every inch of the underside. I knew it was a bit of a wreck.

  She said “If you want to sell it, I will buy it for £12,000 from you, as I think that is what it is worth at the moment. But I will work on the engine, and find the parts and make it into a completely new car. I think it is a wonderful, beautiful car and I will enjoy doing it. Yes, I know its odd, but I’m an engineer, and this car inspires me. I need this at the moment.”

  Of course, I couldn’t refuse. I was glad the car had affected her so much, but doubted her abilities. I said th
at the car came with an original 16/4 block and crankcase and I would hand those over too. She smiled. I told her I would get in touch with the Riley Classic Car Club and tell them about this new lady member who was also a mechanic.

  She raised her eyebrows and was gone.

  I didn’t see Geraldine Llewellyn again for at least a year and a half, and then extraordinarily I came across her at a chateau outside Caen in Normandy! But there she was gleaming, leaning against a spanking 1937 Riley painted dark blue, holding a glass of champagne! She was surrounded by people and I went up to her and inquired about her car.

  “I’m so glad you like it, but you know I couldn’t find a 16/4 unit, so I built a Riley RM series 2.5 litre engine in the absence of a 16/4 unit. This is a logical choice as it is a direct development of the original twin-cam hemi-head engine.” Her copper curls bobbed and her pale face was alight and she was talking my language . . .

  She went on. “It’s also by good fortune a bit more powerful, and it mated readily to the original three-speed plus overdrive gearbox. I felt I needed a 4-seater sports-tourer in the style of the March Specials which Rileys made in the 1930’s. You know Riley’s made only one other tourer in the 1930’s on the 16/4 chassis?” She raised her eyebrows. I was overwhelmed. What a woman!

  She told me life had changed for her since she became a member of the Riley Classic Car Club. She had been an interested member of the Ford Popular Car Club but it wasn’t quite the same . . . No one answered her letters. She enjoyed the trips with the Riley Club. She hadn’t been to France since she was a girl.

  I showed her my 1935 Riley Kestrel 22T Series with red upholstery. I could see she was impressed. “I’m not quite as dextrous as you under the bonnet, but the engine has undergone a rebuild which included high profile cams, pistons, lightened flywheel, and fitment of double-valve springs. I’m sure you would describe the performance as ‘extremely brisk’!” I could see she was entranced. “I have also got the comprehensive documentation and Buff Log Book dating back to 1947.”

  Her mouth made an O.

  “Now that is special, my car doesn’t have a Log Book, as you know.” She appeared crestfallen.

  “But you have the original block and crankcase, and we can always try and find the logbook. Do you know Robin Lawton? He’s in Liphook, we could try and find it. But let me drive you somewhere this evening. You could try my car, and I will take you out for dinner.” Her mouth made another O.

  Now you know my interest in this story, and you will be glad to hear that I have let my glorious girl carry on driving me and my cars ever since.

  RAINBOW IN THE SKY

  by

  Romayne Peters

  The other side of darkness

  Is not always light

  The other side of darkness

  Is that paler shade of night.

  Like happiness imagined

  Which will never come to pass

  To wait for things imagined

  Is to tread on splintered glass.

  Life’s pattern leaves open spaces

  Pauses left to fill,

  Good fortune bringing pleasure or

  Anxieties to still.

  Questions there are many. Always asking why?

  Then the parting of the storm clouds and a rainbow in the sky.

  TWO UMBRELLAS

  by

  Paul Young

  Two umbrellas drip together

  Side by side in the darkened hall,

  High above there is music playing

  Quiet music of sweet recall.

  Gently, gently the lovers touching

  Uncaring, uncaring of virtue’s fall.

  A TALE OF OLD HEREFORDSHIRE

  by

  Faith Bellamy

  Sir Edvyn Ralph rose with the dawn

  Gazed at his wife quite sadly.

  “Dulas” he cried, “Wye must I fight

  When I love you so deeply, madley?

  He bockleton his spurs and sword,

  Put on his almeley bright.

  Fair Rosemaund with loving eye,

  Smiled at her gallant Knight.

  “On, on to the chase” she cheered her Lord,

  “Leave here e’er Mortimer’s cross.

  Ride by ford, broad heath and old garway

  On your gallant steed Black Ross.

  “Go well,” she cried. “and pencombe back

  I would be mordiford

  If any doward caused you harm,

  My staunton, loving Lord.”

  The abbey dore was open wide,

  Where her palfrey, Turnastone

  Thoughtfully grazed upon the hay,

  While tethered there alone.

  Sir Edvyn mounted and rode away

  With much marcle and elan.

  Rosemaund patted her wig more smooth,

  And waved a loving hand.

  How caple he is.” she quietly sighed,

  “But if he does meet Sir Mansell Gamage

  I’ll hope and pray the livelong day

  He’ll not cause my darling damage.

  Then propped up against a wall she saw

  Her Lord had left his lance.

  “Yarpole” she shouted anxiously,

  For without that he’d have no chance.

  But Sir Edvyn had galloped far away

  Across the good rich soil.

  Brave Rosemaund leapt to her pony’s back,

  Bearing the heavy foil.

  Fownhope she held that she could catch

  Sir Edvyn and entourage,

  For 'er wood and glew stone they had fled

  In their speedy, headlong charge.

  Rosemaund rode or cop and moor,

  And her lance she tightly clutched on

  But her good horse tripped then stumbled

  As they galloped into Lucton.

  T’is now we near the dreadful end

  Of this medieval tale

  For Rosemaund tumbled from her horse

  And was on the lance impaled.

  And it slowly dawned on Sir Edvyn he

  Was up the Lugg without his pike.

  He tried evading cruel Mansell G

  But they clashed on Offa’s Dyke.

  “Hoarwithy” cried evil Sir G

  Stansbatch” Sir Edvyn answered

  And bac ton fro the battle raged

  Until our hero was fatally lanced.

  His final word was “Rosemaund”,

  While she called for her mother,

  The gracious lady Stoke Edith

  To bryngwyn some aid or other.

  So much young blood was lett on that day

  It flowed like some ghastly river.

  Till, at peace at last, the young couple lyde

  In each other’s arms for ever.

  Great was the grief at these tragic deaths

  And all were weobley with shock as

  They laid the pair to their final rest

  In the dewy churchyard at Moccas.

  SALAD DAYS

  by

  Jennifer Budd

  Do you remember ”Salad Days” Julian Slade’s tuneful light-hearted musical? It opened in Bristol and transferred to the Strand Theatre in London in the summer of 1954, the year of my twenty-first birthday and my own salad days.

  Nearly halfway through my four years at St. Thomas’s I was growing up. I had never been to boarding school and had to get used to communal living, to being independent, to using telephones (my father would not have one in the house), catching trains and hailing taxis. We lived in various Nurse’s Homes and were delivered by ‘bus to the hospital each day for breakfast and taken back at night. There were “Home Sisters” and their assistants to observe our comings and goings and to repel any male visitors, and we had to be in by 10.30 pm unless we got late leave.

  Despite these wise restrictions we continued to have a busy social life outside our working hours, 7.30 am to 9pm. We had about three hours off either in the morning or the afternoon, tim
e to nip to Oxford Street to the shops – you could spend hours in HMV listening to records - or meet a friend for coffee

  I always meant to go to the British Museum, the V&A, or the National History Museum, but never did. The Tate Gallery was a favourite, open on Sunday afternoons and warm. There were often free tickets to the theatres available, or tickets for “trade showings“ of new films. These were great when one was on night duty because they were morning shows. The stars and the critics would be there and one could still get back at the night nurses' home for the 12.30 curfew to get a good sleep before going on duty.

  There were aunts and cousins who would give me a bed for the night or a meal or a hug when life was being unkind.

  My years at the hospital were, on the whole, very happy, very busy undoubtedly! I did some foolish things, burnt the candle at both ends, scurried up and down the wards and corridors of the hospital, ate ravenously, drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of cigarettes. I enjoyed it all for four busy years, left for a year, and went back as a charge nurse. It was a joy to go back and be part of St. Thomas's once more but my salad days were over.

  “Salad Days “? A boyfriend took me to see the show as a twenty-first birthday present. I bought a new dress the day before and after the show he took me to dine and dance at the Café de Paris. I had worked all day and was on duty again in the morning - my diary records that I had lost my voice! I loved that show; it brought back very happy memories of my (relatively) carefree Salad days and that old romance.

  A MIRROR

  by

  Romayne Peters

  An ornamental mirror

  Not baroque,

  More mock,

  Yet nonetheless effective.

  Standing above the mantel

  Inviting one’s reflection.

  The face composes

  Though barely smiles

  For mirrors see

  What one does not,

  The truth.

  The truth’s no laughing matter

  For what is real is difficult

  To alter,

  Far easier to gaze

  And see the imagined beauty

  In the eye