“I’m sure that you will all have read and no doubt marvelled at the account of his remarkable bravery as recorded in our excellent local newspaper and so, without further ado, it is my proud privilege to introduce... MISTER JOE BATES!”
The crowd roared their approval as Joe, looking as though this was the very last place on earth that he wanted to be, was escorted onto the stage by two aldermen, one of whom carried a large scroll of rolled vellum that he handed to the mayor.
“Mister Bates... Joe. In recognition of your outstanding heroism and the shining example that it sets to us all, it gives me the greatest of pleasure to grant to you...” he paused for greater effect. “THE FREEDOM OF THE ANCIENT TOWN OF HASTINGS!”
Another thunderous roar arose from the assembled masses.
The mayor shook Joe vigorously by the hand, handed him the scroll and, considering his civic duties completed, moved away from the microphone, allowing himself plenty of room to stretch out his arms and display the dainty froths of lace that spilled from his embroidered cuffs.
Joe appeared unsure as to what he was supposed to do next. He looked around in a vacant puzzled sort of way, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then, perhaps feeling that he ought to do something, he raised the scroll, carefully unrolled it, moved to the microphone and proceeded to read.
“It says I am a hero.”
“Heeeero! Heeeero! Heeeero!” chanted the crowd.
“It also says here...” said Joe. “That I’m an extra special sort of person.”
“Extra Speshall! Extra Speshall!” echoed the mob.
“Would that be right, sir?” Joe turned to the mayor who, showing no further interest in the proceedings, was busy performing a series of slow pirouettes, finishing each with an elegant toss of the head to show off the bouncing white plumes to their best advantage. Obviously annoyed at the interruption, he stomped back to the microphone.
“Yes! Yes!” he snapped. “Heroic, brave, extra special, whatever! Look, you’ve got your scroll. No need for you to hang around any longer. Why not go home and... stick it up on the wall or something!”
This ill-tempered response drew a low, ominous rumble of disquiet from the crowd, who seemed to be growing quite fond of Joe and ever more irritated by the mayor.
Joe returned to his reading. “Just one more thing, if you don’t mind. It also says I’m granted ‘freedom of the town.’ Does that mean I can sort of wander about and do anything I want?”
“Yes! Yes!” snarled the mayor. “For heaven’s sakes, man! Go! Wander! The town’s yours. Do whatever you want. Just get off the stage and go and do it!”
“But, what if I decided I wanted to be someone different? Suppose I wanted to be a postman? Can I be a postman? Or maybe a tailor? Or a man who sells wet fish?”
The mayor’s face had taken on a distinctly purple hue which clashed dreadfully with the colour of his jacket. YEEEESS!” he screamed. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. MAN IN THE DAMNED MOON. I - DON’T - CARE! - JUST - GET - OFF - THIS - STAGE!”
This outburst provoked an angry response from the assembled masses. There was loud booing, a shaking of fists and a shower of miscellaneous missiles clattered onto the stage.
Joe stepped forward and raised his hands. The crowd hushed. He looked out across the heaving, swaying mob. At the uniforms, the jangling medals, the robes, the regalia, the bright shining instruments of the town band and his usual look of mild bewilderment was slowly replaced by a new, unfamiliar expression of self-assured confidence.
He pulled himself up to his full height, threw back his shoulders and puffed out his chest.
“Up ‘til now, I’ve always thought I was an ordinary sort of bloke, but...” Joe held up his scroll. “I’M NOT! I’M A HERO! This here piece of paper says so, so it must be true... I’m an extra special person who can do what he likes and be whoever he wants to be. AND SO - I”VE DECIDED - I WANT TO BE MAYOR!”
“NO! NO! NOOO!” screamed Reginald Crumley.
“YES! YES! YES!” roared the crowd. “JOE FOR MAYOR - JOE FOR MAYOR!”
They surged forward and some in the front row began to clamber up and onto the stage. The frantic efforts of the aldermen failed to hold them back and the mayor was grabbed by a dozen or more pairs of none too gentle hands, speedily relieved of his finery and stripped down to his underwear. (Underwear that bore witness to the fact that while his wife’s wardrobe may have been securely locked, her chest of drawers was obviously not.)
The fine, embroidered coat was flung around Joe’s shoulders and the hat with its fur trim and fancy plumes was rammed onto his head. He was lifted shoulder high and carried in procession, through the cheering crowds, around the square to the gilded coach while the brass band boomed and blared a military march. The coachman cracked his whip and the coach rattled away, carrying the now decidedly ‘extra-ordinary’ Mr Joe Bates off to the town hall to begin his new life as ‘Lord Mayor of Hastings.’
*
Despite a lack of either education or experience, Joe Bates proved himself to be a surprisingly good mayor, diligently fulfilling the various duties of his office while gaining the respect of councillors and townspeople alike. Recognising the value and importance of good publicity, he courted and eventually married Penny Snippet, who was by then (after a remarkable spate of unfortunate office accidents,) the editor of ‘The Hastings Gossip’ and to the very best of my knowledge, if I may be excused a dreadful cliché, they both lived happily ever after.
Conflict of the Heart
by William J. Stevens
This is the first love story that I have written. I set it during the Second World War when so many peoples’ lives were thrown into turmoil.
Night fell over Hastings; no lights shone from any windows as the town awaited yet another air raid.
War had reared its ugly head and shown its faceless contempt for all humanity.
I am Corporal John Stevens and serve with the Royal Engineer Corps based at Hastings, as I await further orders that will eventually post me overseas.
My duties involve manning a barge along with another five Corps members.
Adapted for spotlight reconnaissance, the barge has an anti-aircraft gun mounted on the deck. We use the spotlights to pin-point enemy aircraft as they approach over the coastline and the gun to bring them down.
This night was cloudy, with light rain and no moon.
My sergeant, ‘Taffy’ Wilson was a Welshman. A strong upright man, he stood no fooling around.
We sat on our benches talking quietly of our hopes and the lives we had lead before the war.
“What the hell is that?” the sergeant shouted.
A dark shape, darker than the sea, rocked up and down on the waves. It looked like a boat, though it was hard to tell if anyone was on board.
“Corporal, get some of the other lads. Bring your guns and some torches. It may be a trap.”
We used our dinghies and slowly rowed our way towards the drifting boat.
As we drew near, it was obvious that this was an inshore rowing boat and that two people were on board.
We raised our guns in case there was any retaliation, but they just sat there with no response. It was not until they were prodded with our guns that they made any attempt to move.
I shouted instructions and, at gunpoint, the boat was roped to the dingy and towed back to the barge where Captain Smythe would question the occupants.
As I went to have a mug of tea, one of the squaddies put his head around the door.
“’Ere corp. guess what? The two we picked up in the boat are women.”
I thought I’d better go along and keep the sarge’ and the captain happy. I picked up my gun, made myself presentable and went to join the interrogation party. The two women sat with their heads bowed.
There was silence as we awaited the arrival of Captain Smythe. Then the sergeant shouted, “OFFICER PRESENT. ATTENTION.”
Captain Smythe walked in. “Ladies, I am Captain Smythe.
Now, I’m sure you have a reasonable explanation for being out at sea at night in a rowing boat. I hope that we can sort this matter out and get you both to somewhere safe and warm.
“You have been brought in front of me to explain why you were, during the hours of darkness, alone in a small craft without the use of any navigational aids or essential equipment, thereby causing a danger to shipping in and around the area of Hastings shoreline.”
Both the women had their heads covered under the hoods of their dark duffle coats.
It was then that the younger of the girls spoke nervously to the captain. “Please sir, my name is Becky and I am the carer and nurse of Susan, the girl sitting here. She has complete amnesia and for two years now has lost all her memory.
Two years ago she was found off the Bulverhythe by some local fishermen. She was delivering a plane when she was shot down. Since then, all the hospital can get out of her is that she keeps repeating that she must ‘deliver the plane.’ She’s always escaping from the hospital.”
Captain Smythe listened and took notes. “Very well Becky, thank you for your account. I shall now make some further enquiries. I would appreciate it if you could remove the hoods around your heads, please.”
As the girls drew back their hoods, I had the most terrible shock.
In front of me stood my wife, Susan. She still wore her wedding ring.
Two years ago, the Home Office had sent me a telegram informing me that she was reported missing, believed dead. A year later, I had met and married Mary who was now bearing my child.
I felt very alone and lost. I had to speak to someone.
When sergeant ‘Taffy’ Wilson returned from billeting the girls, I took him to one side and explained my dilemma. He made us both a mug of tea and listened.
When I had finished, he sat for a while and then said, “I will speak with Captain Smythe. Hopefully we can arrange for you to get compassionate leave. If I was you, boyo, I would go and discuss this with a chaplain. Take your wife Mary along, but make sure you tell her everything first.”
Two days later, I was called in front of the captain, who questioned me, made notes and duly granted me fourteen days leave.
I telegrammed Mary and we agreed to meet at London Charing Cross Station.
Boarding the train at Warrior Square Station in St Leonards, I found it crowded with troops, some wounded, who mixed with the daily travellers.
On arriving in London, I met Mary and we went to the Lyons Corner House.
Fortunately, when we first met, I had told Mary what had happened to Susan. Mary took her sudden reappearance very well and being her usual practical self, suggested that we see our local church minister. We left Lyons and caught the bus home to Kennington. I was so happy to be on leave and to be able to spend time with Mary, but these precious days were going to be difficult.
A few days later we met with the minister. He suggested that no contact should be made with my first wife, Susan and that I should concentrate on my life with Mary and look forward to the birth of our new child.
As he spoke, I glanced at Mary.
It was obvious that the minister spoke the words that she wanted to hear and she held my hand tightly and kept saying that she could not live without me and that all she wanted was for us to be able to spend the rest of our lives together.
The next few days at home were so happy. Though the happiness clouded when a letter of apology came from the Home Office admitting their mistake over Susan. They suggested that it was up to me to decide what I thought to be the right thing to do as they now considered the matter closed. By the same post, another letter came that informed me of my posting overseas. Until the day of the posting, I was to remain with the Royal Engineer Corps at Hastings.
Leave ended and after a tearful farewell with Mary, I returned to Hastings and my duties on the barge.
Sergeant Wilson was the first to welcome me back. “How did things go for you, boyo? Did your wife understand the situation?”
I told him about everything that had happened.
Sergeant Wilson nodded. “Well, I’d say it’s for the best. You have to think about your future. I know it’ll be hard, but the hospital will look after Mary. She might never come out of that condition, but they can help her through the amnesia. You’re still a young man with a good life in front of you and, you know, this war isn’t going to last for ever.”
I thanked him and returned to my duties. He was right of course, but it nagged at me that Susan still lived, even though she never recognised me that night we plucked her out of the sea.
On my second night back, German bombers came across the Channel. Often they passed to the east or to the west of Hastings, but tonight they came right overhead. Flack from the anti-aircraft guns lit up the sky.
Search lights criss-crossed in solid beams of light and the barrage balloons drifted on their moorings. Then, from behind the cliffs, I heard the full-throttled drone as our Spitfires attacked.
Tracer bullets lit up the night sky, engines screamed as planes plummeted into the sea and into the ground. Bombs exploded all over St Leonards.
As day dawned, the destruction was terrible to see. The worst sight was seeing the smoking ruins of the hospital where they had cared for Susan. No one had survived the direct hit.
I cried and prayed and cried again.
I was never posted overseas. I spent my war in Hastings. Afterwards, I returned to London to celebrate Hitler’s downfall with Mary and our new born daughter, Megan. Sergeant ‘Taffy’ Wilson was delighted to be her godfather.
Once a year, on the anniversary of her death, I spend a few moments in silence to think about Susan. Did she ever remember anything of her past life before she died? If she did, I hoped it was of happier times.
The Man who was Robbed
by Melvyn Grant
There once was a man with a very long jacket
With pockets so deep that he couldn’t get at it.
So he asked a good friend to reach for his money,
But all that they found were toffees and honey. “Well...
Bless me!” said the man. “I think I’ve been robbed.”
So he stood upside-down with his hands on the ground
And looked around sharply to see what was found,
But all that he saw were pebbles and fluff.
So he stood back on his feet and walked off in a huff. “Well...
Bless me!” he said. “I’m a man who’s been robbed.”
Oh, he was in a bad mood and he was in a state,
And to catch this villain, he just couldn’t wait.
So he thought with a smile that he’d set up a trap
And catch this bold thief and give him a slap. “Well...
Who’d blame me!” he said. “I’m a man who’s been robbed.”
So he got a snap-trap and he pulled back the spring
And clipped on the catch that loaded the thing,
Then he pulled back the cloth and opened his pocket
And dropped the trap in and promptly forgot it. “Well...
Who’d blame me,” he thought. “I’m a man who’s been robbed.”
All of that day he spent looking for traces
Following up clues in likely places,
But of this bold thief he found not a hair,
It was like looking for a ghost who’d never been there. “Well...
What can I say,” he thought... scratching his head and pulling his ear.
Oh dear, he was worn out when he got back home
‘Cause he’d looked everywhere from Sydney to Rome
His shoulders had drooped and his feet were all swollen,
But he’d not found a sign of the thief who had stolen. “Well...
Poor me,” he sobbed. “I’m just a man who’s been robbed.”
He flopped in his chair and poured in his cup
The tea he was sipping just as he looked up
And there on the mantelpiece he suddenly saw
/> All of the cash that he’d been looking for. “Well...
Bless me!” he said. “I haven’t been robbed.”
He stood up all smiles and picked up his money
And said, “You know, this is all very funny.”
Then still with a smile shoved his hand in his pocket
And snap went the trap ‘cause you know he’d forgot it. “Well...
Owww!” he said as his poor finger throbbed. “I’m a forgetful man who never was robbed.”
Cargo
by James Betts
The story ‘Cargo’ comes from the contrasting nature of all medium sized towns where, in addition to the hustle and bustle on the surface, there are always darker undertones and all is not necessarily what it seems to be.
‘Bob the Beachcomber’ strode along the tideline in the wintery sunshine, his black leather trench coat streaming out behind him in the stiff sea breeze. His leather field boots crunched the shingle as he listened to the sucking sound of the receding tide on the pebbles. A collecting satchel was slung across his chest and on his head a black beanie hat was pulled well down.
His gimlet gaze sought out anything of interest deposited at the last high tide; tackle from the local fishing boats, cuttlefish bones and plastic detritus from the holiday makers. Sometimes, the sea threw up items which he then sold to one or other of the knick-knack shops which were sprinkled along the sea front.
One of the dishevelled alcoholics who sat in the niches under St Leonards Promenade called to him. “Hey Bob! Found something for you.”
It was Charlie with Jimmy and another semi-comatose member of ‘The St Leonards Drinking Society.’ They met daily with their ration of Tennant’s lager or strong cider and found items from the shoreline to pass on to him.
A grizzled grey haired veteran of the ‘Society’ wearing a black woolly hat, a scruffy soiled grey zipper jacket and faded jeans held out his grimy brown hand with his latest find.
Bob kept upwind of Charlie whose clothes were stained, frayed and had a strong odour of stale beer and urine. “What have you got for me, Charlie?”
Charlie’s sharp little brown eyes narrowed. “Found it ‘s morning under the pier. Dunno if there’s anyfing in it ‘cos the caps stuck tight. Thought that you might be able to do somefing wiv’ it.”
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