Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

by Brian Smith

  And Senior Railcard's another perk

  While the pension means that I needn’t work .

  But the best discovery I know is I don’t have to go where I don’t want to go.

  (I’ve discovered the art of saying “No” )

  The Surgery’s walking distance for me,

  And my monthly prescriptions are thankfully free.

  I have nice large numbers on my phone,

  And the Council takes tax off for living alone.

  There’s not much to watch on TV

  But another bonus, the licence is free.

  So do I long to be young again

  With all the pleasure and all the pain?

  There are compensations I could mention;

  From the family, loving attention.

  And grandchildren, eight, the greatest joy.

  From an eighteen year old to a five year old boy.

  Albums record the passing years, so much laughter, not many tears

  Music and reading are still a delight,

  Painting too, if it’s warm and bright.

  I’ll live and love another day, and count my blessings while I may.

  SALAD DAYS

  by

  Jill Lawson

  Those Salad Days when I was young,

  You would not recognise me:

  The things I’ve seen, the places been,

  Not much would now surprise me.

  A convent girl I was, no less

  Three sisters, father, mother;

  I didn't know what boys were like,

  I never had a brother.

  But in my dreams, I reached so far

  To touch the skies above me.

  How could I find a man to love,

  And would he ever love me?

  I would not, could not, dare not,

  Tread out that path again;

  The crippling self consciousness,

  The clumsiness and pain.

  The seeing others’ confidence,

  Their worldliness and poise:

  I had my group of three school friends,

  And none of them were boys.

  But teenage years do pass at last,

  As did the world at war;

  My first prized pair of nylons,

  And what was lipstick for?

  My father bought a schooner

  In nineteen forty five

  We sailed to Belgium, Holland, France

  And managed to survive.

  Later, he bought a larger boat,

  As his ambitions grew;

  Too big for his four daughters

  To handle as a crew

  A new decade, was then begun,

  As various young men

  Recieved an invitation,

  At first for the weekend.

  We saw them at close quarters,

  Unshaven and unkempt;

  We noticed how they tackled chores,

  Yes, that’s the way it went!

  This helped us make our choices,

  It worked so well for me;

  And all the Harrison girls were wed

  To those they’d known at sea.

  LATE SUMMER SUN.

  By

  Jennifer Budd.

  Gathering blackberries

  On a September day

  I spied, on a cluster of fruit

  A butterfly. Bright copper wings

  Opening and closing, as he,

  One of the August brood, enjoyed

  The unaccustomed warmth.

  I watched and felt with him

  The deep pleasure of the sun

  Beaming down upon our backs

  After a grey and rainy summer.

  THE KINDNESS OF SERGEANTS

  by

  Jim Valdez

  The four-ton army truck rattled and bounced along the narrow Welsh lane; to its right ranged the bare hulking bulk of the Black Mountains swept clean by low scudding clouds. The truck stopped with the squeal of brakes, a door slammed and a Corporal wearing the SAS beige beret walked to the back. He looked at his roster and called out my name; I got up and shuffled to the tailgate. No one spoke amongst the dozen or so passengers, just a few pats of encouragement; a tangible nervous tension filled the truck.

  The Cpl. weighed my pack, it was forty pounds; he checked my rifle and compass then plucked a blade of grass. It was still wet from the morning dew, with the thin end he pointed to where we were on the map. Then he gave me a six-figure grid reference. “That is your first checkpoint. It’s about five miles away.... any questions?” he asked. I shook my head and studied my map, when I looked up the truck was gone. I was on my own.

  It was the end of the second week of the three-weeks SAS selection course. The last seven days had been spent criss-crossing the rugged Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains. Each day the routes became longer and my backpack heavier; each day I struggled alone against the mountains and fought a relentless mental battle not to abandon the course. The previous day had been another physically draining day and I had limped in with blisters on both feet - overnight the blisters had burst.

  I dressed my blisters with Elastoplasts; and worked out a compass bearing to the first checkpoint, which was straight over the high ground to my front. I shouldered my pack, balanced my rifle in my right hand and chose a reference point up on the high ground. I bowed my head and murmured, “Now let the heart aches begin.” The words were the ignition that fired my legs and I began to trudge up the steep slope. My blisters began to chafe and sting but they were soon forgotten as my lungs gasped for air and my thighs and legs became leaden with pain. I trudged on upward, slowly, ten paces at a time; resting, gulping air then painfully moving ever upward. Halfway up the slope I barely noticed the panoramic view spread out below me; above me the bulging ground described a perfect parabola towards the low black clouds. I leant on my rifle painfully filling my lungs, massaging my thighs; feeling vulnerable and alone, like a flea stuck on the bloated flanks of a dead horse. Once again I bowed my head and intoned my mantra; I was now down to four or five steps at a time and using my rifle like a walking stick.

  I was limping badly when I came to the first checkpoint; after checking in I changed my Elastoplasts. The pain was bearable for a couple of miles before I had to change them again. My heels were now rubbed red raw. I knew at this rate I would be lucky to last another day. I was busy changing the Elastoplasts for the fifth time, when a voice said.

  “What are you doing young ‘un?” It was Bernie, the SAS sergeant, who was running the course.

  “I’m just changing my Elastoplasts.” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

  He looked at my feet and the blood-soaked socks and plasters.

  “That looks bad, young ‘un. Really bad, do you want to call it a day now?” I shook my head; a lump had formed in my throat.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded, and started peeling new strips of plaster. He snapped his fingers.

  “Hang on,” he said. “What size boots do you take?”

  “Size tens, Sergeant.” I had found my voice again.

  “My name’s Bernie,” he said gruffly. He opened his pack and drew out a pair of rubber soled boots. They were only issued to paratroopers.

  “Now try these on, it will be your lucky day if they fit.....and another tip. If you have a thin pair of socks, put them on first over the plaster, then your army socks over that.”

  I did as I was told; the boots were a perfect fit with bearable discomfort to my damaged feet. I turned to thank him but he waved me off and wished me luck.

  Wearing a parachutist’s boots seemed to release some chemicals in my brain and made me impervious to the agony of my feet. After the initial discomfort of the first few hundred metres my legs began to adjust and I was soon striding like Mercury road-testing a brand new pair of winged sandals. I only stopped twice more to renew my plasters that day.

  There was no turning back after that and exactly a week later twenty-fou
r of us set off at five in the morning; each was carrying a fifty pound pack and we had to walk fifty miles in 24 hours.

  I staggered in to the last check point, in a quarry, at one a.m. the next morning; when the R.V. closed at five a.m. only ten men had checked in. One hundred and twenty assorted soldiers, sailors and airmen had started the course three weeks previously, in front of eight four-ton trucks. Thanks to Bernie’s airborne boots I was able to sneak a place on the last truck standing, and irrevocably change the course of my life.

  Some forty years later I am still receiving e-mails from Bernie - demanding I return one item, namely: “Boots, Troops Airborne, for the use of. One Pair.”

  IN MEMORIAM

  by

  John Wood

  And when I’m gone I hope it may be said

  His wife was happy and his children fed.

  And when it happens, may she find a man

  To make her laugh and love again – our little span

  Is far too short to gloom alone

  Communing through a mobile phone -

  No substitute for proper company.

  Hers:-

  And if the twig beneath me breaks

  How will he cope, no veg., no cakes?

  He cannot iron, untidy too

  I can’t imagine what he’ll do.

  His cooking’s poor, his sense of dress,

  He’ll go out looking such a mess,

  With tattered cuffs, with holey socks

  Unshaven chin and tangled locks.

  I’ll be ashamed when, peering down,

  I see him wander through the town!

  But who on earth would take him in hand?

  TREE OF DELIGHTS

  by

  Ann Foley

  The tree is always left to me at Christmas. I choose the tree, transport it in my car, manhandle it into the garage where it waits in a bucket of water, and then at a suitable time for me and with much grunting and groaning, John and I unpack the beautiful creature from its string bag and it stands in our living room, a wild thing, rather incongruous at first sight in its greeness but quite perfect. Every year we have the perfect tree.

  This is my 35th Christmas tree. I am reminded of my first tree when I open our battered box of Christmas decorations. Our first Christmas tree was a plastic one, bought in a market in Kowloon. You couldn’t buy a real tree in those days in Hong Kong and I remember it all slotted together, and we still have some of the decorations. The thin glass balls have an attractive bloom on them now and I am reminded of the market where I bought them, and how expensive I thought they were. I didn’t buy too many balls as they were sure to break, so I bought some pretty decorations made of foil in different colours. They are still with me and defy the words, ‘made in Hong Kong’ which stood for everything cheap and tacky. We felt very grown up owning a plastic Christmas tree and a set of Christmas lights.

  I pull out more boxes. Our big box says ‘Xmas Decs’ scribbled on it by a young Batman who helped us in the house about 20 years ago. I wonder where Corporal O’Regan is now. At the top of the box is the large precious Waterford ball that daughter Annabel was given when she worked at House and Garden. It is a large silver ball larger than any of the others, but definitely an aristocrat amongst the decorations. I put this on a branch in the middle but to the right. Then I find the decorations that I bought from Harrods when I tried to raise the tone of my tree. Foolish me! I only came away with two decorations, as again they were far too expensive, but they are made of glass and look like stained glass windows. One is a toy soldier and the other a house. Two important things in my life.

  Then I pull out my Berlin decorations. Oh what fun we had! Did I really get up at five o’clock in the morning before Christmas and go down to the Flomarkt, and come away with all these treasures. Five little angels made of combed jute with intricate diadems in their hair, how fine they are. And look at these carved round wooden decorations, so delicately painted, each one with a different animal inside. There is a fox, a hare, and a deer all running, suspended. They were made in East Germany. And do look at these light bulb decorations. They came from a light bulb factory in East Berlin and have transferred snowy scenes on them. Ahh East Berlin, I wonder how they really are there.

  Then we come to these bright, pretty felt decorations. Truly, made of felt. They were made by the wives of the American Embassy staff. Now, they really know how to do Christmas. I remember going to their Christmas Charity FAYRE in London, a highlight in the seasonal calendar. The decorations those wives had dreamed up were out of this world - and all hand made. Wonderful decorative fruity concoctions for the centre of the table and nutty decorations were designed to festoon over the walls. The ladies had made Christmas Cakes, decorated iced biscuits which could be bought in pretty ribboned boxes in all shapes and sizes. Someone had a jewelled coloured stall glowing with bottled fruits and vegetables, and then all these wonderful tree decorations, all made by hand. We had just done 18 months in Londonderry and I was impressed. I remember feeling proud I was half-American, proud that America could put on such a show, at rather a bleak time for us.

  Those quilted decorations were made by the helpers and nurses at the home for unmarried mothers. That was 15 years ago when we went back to Hong Kong. Now what was the name of the house all those babies lived in, something quite unexpected off Magazine Gap Road? Annabel and Joanna used to go off on a Saturday in the holidays and help bathe and feed the babies. I remember they came back feeling quite worn out!

  Oh, these are so pretty. They are crocheted snowflakes with a little bead in the centre. They were sent to me by the wife of the British High Commissioner in Katmandu, when John was the General in Hong Kong and we lived in a grand house on the Peak. These were made by Gurkha wives out of white, green and red string. That poor country! I wonder what has happened to the ladies who made these, and where is the High Commissioner’s wife now?

  Now this decoration stands on its own. It is a lace Angel and comes from Guernsey. Some clever person made it and starched it, and there it is, wings, halo and billowing dress. Something to do with their Breton ancestry made the Guernsey ladies good at lace-making. I love this decoration.

  The tree is done. All those memories. But my memory is not so good. Why did I not remember the Cat! Just when the tree is perfect, the lights perfect, he decides to make an assault. I am stirring the supper, but he wants to be the Fairy at the top of the tree!

  Crash, tinkle, tinkle, phut! Oh no! Don’t you remember, he did this last year too?! There is a scene of devastation and Jason scurries away with his ears looking like a Spanish policeman’s hat!

  I start again, I must remember next year, but the pleasure is still there.

  THE WIND!

  by

  Jill Lawson

  Moaning on mountains

  And cutting through crags.

  Tossing the dead leaves

  And old plastic bags.

  Ruffling lake surface

  And bending the willows.

  Changing still waters to fierce crashing billows.

  THE WIND!

  Keening through keyholes

  And grasping at gutters

  Tugging at roof tiles

  And shaking the shutters,

  Calling down chimneys

  And loosening the soot-fall;

  Muffling the music

  After drowning the footfall.

  THE WIND!

  Stirring and rippling the waves of the wheat

  Swirling the grey smoke and slanting the sleet,

  Whispering Whitsun wind, winnow our apathy,

  Pentecost fire-flame, blaze through our lethargy.

  Wind of the spirit, blow life into our days,

  Kindle my tiny flame into a blaze.

  MISSING FROM THE TOP DRAWER

  or

  ONE OF LIFE'S DEEPEST MYSTERIES

  by

  John Wood

  I buy my hose with care each time

  From Ch
adds* or M and S,

  On many days one goes astray -

  So choice gets less and less.

  Now every chap confirms this fact -

  The mystery is weird,

  We men have stocks of single socks,

  Their partners disappeared.

  Lone sock, where is your sibling now -

  Oh drawer, your hidden loot?

  Stands there a thief with one peg leg

  My stocking on his foot?

  The lady boss suggests the loss

  May happen during laundering.

  She scorns my own hypothesis -

  That specs and socks like wandering.

  My wife declares I must wear pairs,

  Sartorially correct.

  My birthday isn’t far away -

  I know what I’ll expect.

  * (Chadds was an old established department store in Hereford – now deceased.)

  HOME

  by

  Jill Lawson

  This is my house,

  My kingdom, my realm, the place where I reign.

  This is my home

  To which I return again and again.

  Here, I can kick off my shoes

  Do what I choose, escape from the rain.

  Escape from the snow

  The harsh winds that blow. I am free to be me.

  Decide what I most

  Need is some toast to have with my tea.

  Here I can find

  Peace for my mind, a favourite seat.

  Flowers and beauty, music and warmth

  Almost complete my list of needs.

  I never hoped that I could have coped

  With living alone;

  Solitude can be a joy, music a balm

  In this beloved home.

  I mustn’t forget friendships more precious

  If it’s a while since we last met.

  So let’s make a date before it’s too late

  Come, be my guest, that both may be blest.

  MIXED EMOTIONS

  by

  Faith Bellamy

  I was just leaving when the phone rang. “Mrs. Cordell?” I didn’t know the voice. “Mrs. Sandra Cordell?” “Yes.” “Sorry to spring this on you.” The voice sounded diffident, unsure. “Can I ask? Were you once Sandra Evans, lived near Norwich? Oh, let’s get it over with. I’m James Evans, born on 4th March, 1970. I think I’m probably your son.”