Issue 387 15th May 2015

A Reminder From the Archives

Pictured

RBW in 2009 When the group was

already four years old and had become a

registered charity, published

workshop books and poetry collections.

18th May 2015

RBW is celebrating its

TENTH ANNIVERSARY

2

A clump of bulrushes in the field behind my house reminded me of the padded sticks used by the drum major, to play his big bass drum.

The heron, that most elegant of birds, which is so graceful in flight, has one of the most unmusical and raucous of calls. (Of the parallels between the railways and the church) Both had there heyday in the mid-nineteenth century, both own a great deal of Gothic-style architecture which is expensive to maintain, both are regularly as-sailed by critics, and both are firmly convinced that they are the best means of getting man to his ultimate destination. Reverend W. Awdry (1911-1997)

Random Words: twelve, green, fantasy, mean, charade, second,

hound, shield, innocence, trainee, mistake, oily

Assignment: tit for tat

Bored? COME to WORKSHOP ... Every Monday 1.30 start Rising Brook Library

Not on the 18th May — 10th Anniversary Lunch

Do you remember: Plant a Tree in 73 and Plant One More in 74?

Do you think some famous mid-20th century poets, if writing today, would be being pub-

lished? Their seemingly racist and blatant greater-than-thou verses do not make for a comfortable read.

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

The Future of Staffordshire Branch Libraries Update RISING BROOK BRANCH LIBRARY, HOME OF RBW FOR TEN YEARS, UNDER THREAT

So it begins: Local media are reporting that local groups, parish councils and voluntary organisations are being invited to take on management their local branch library. Groups have from May 11 to July 31 2015 to put

proposals forward to Staffordshire County Council. They must state their ideas for the branch library and how to involve more members of the public. The SCC say the move is part of the County Council's plan to keep

branch libraries running. Less than half of the council's 43 libraries will continue to be managed and staffed by the library service, while the remaining 23 will be „supported in the community‟. This means with unpaid volunteers not profes-

sional librarians: the inevitable job losses are not mentioned. Some community groups will take full responsibil-ity for managing a branch library. Others will go to a transitional stage where volunteers staff the library and

the library will be in a cluster which will have support from one member of library staff. Mike Lawrence, Staffordshire County Council's cabinet member responsible for libraries, has reportedly said:

"Part of this process is to understand each group's strengths and how their ideas will lead to a library, which will be responsive to the needs of the local community. Each community group will remain connected to the

county library service and have access to support over the coming years." The proposals caused outrage when announced last year. Penkridge Library campaigners launched a campaign

to keep their library fully council-run, which they won. Despite public opposition as expressed in the consulta-tion, assessment will begin in August, with recommendations in September and the first groups taking charge, if any such groups come forward, soon after. No information is being made available regarding insurance,

funding, training, building ownership and maintenance etc, nor what happens if no groups wish to take on the risk, or those who do so, then fail. Where volunteers took over in Trentham — previously a full library service

with It, Free Internet and Book Lending - was reduced to three hours a week in a corner of a Drs Waiting Room with a few hundred books for loan run by three public spirited senior citizens who were doing their best in difficult circumstances.

Information Available From The SCC Libraries Website: -

Community Managed Libraries Do you want to be more involved in running your local library? Community Managed Libraries are about creating sustainable local spaces that offer a quality library service and can also respond to

what local people want and need. In February 2015, a decision was made to reshape Staffordshire Library Service to be more sustain-

able and flexible to people’s needs. This included giving community groups in 23 areas* the opportunity to get more involved in lead-

ing and developing their local library.

Who can apply? From 11th May 2015, any community group interested in managing and delivering their library* will be able to apply by completing a

straightforward application form. We want to hear from groups that are interested in developing library spaces so that more people can

benefit and enjoy a local library, run by local people.

Do you have ideas for how you will provide a quality, flexible library service that gives people access to books, reading and information?

Do you have ideas for how the library space can be flexibly used? If so, then we want to hear from you.

Support To support you to manage and deliver your local library service, we are offering an excellent package of support.

This support will mean that you can concentrate on developing a community library that is more flexible.

I am interested - so what are my next steps? View the other pages in this section of our website and gain further insight into each library and the application process.

You can also gain inspiration here from case studies about Community Managed Libraries in other areas of the country

Attend the public drop in information event at County Buildings, Martin Street, Stafford on Monday 11th May 2015 from 2pm to

5pm . This event will give you the opportunity to find out more about the process of applying to manage and deliver your local library

service. Email connectedlibraries@staffordshire.gov.uk with any specific questions you may have. Please check our Frequently Asked

Questions section first Submit your application form by Friday 31st July 2015. Applications will be evaluated during August 2015

Libraries and communities included: *We are welcoming applications from community groups to help lead and develop the following libraries:

Audley, Barton Under Needwood, Baswich, Blythe Bridge, Brereton, Brewood, Cheslyn Hay, Heath Hayes, Hednesford, Holmcroft,

Glascote, Gnosall, Great Wyrley, Loggerheads, Norton Canes, Knutton, Kinver, Shenstone, Silverdale, Rising Brook, Talke, Wilnecote

and Werrington.

Patrick Chalmers 1872 -1942

Roundabouts and Swings

It was early last September nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea,

An' 'twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea,

An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane,

A Pharaoh with his wagons comin' jolt an' creak an' strain;

A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up,

An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup,

An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings

Was joggin' in the dust along 'is roundabouts and swings.

"Goo'-day," said 'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go,

An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?"

"I find," said 'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found,

For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round."

Said 'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were,

It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a 'are;

But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's,

What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!"

"Goo' luck," said 'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt;

An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out."

'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again

To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane;

An' the moon she climbed the 'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin

That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, 'is sooth of lose-and-win;

For "up an' down an' round," said 'e, "goes all appointed things,

An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"

Patrick Reginald Chalmers (1872–1942) was an Irish writer, who was employed as a banker. His first book was Green Days and Blue Days (1912), followed by A Peck of Malt (1915). His writings included topics of field sports, deerstalking and horse racing, as well biographies of Kenneth Gra-hame and J. M. Barrie. He was a contributor to Punch magazine and The Field, and editor of the hunting diaries of Edward VIII (as Prince of Wales). He also wrote poetry on war, dogs and cats, and Irish life, as well as hunt-ing and fishing. A line from this poem "Roundabouts and Swings" has passed into common parlance.

Random Words: Hungarian, esteem, pastiche, brilliance, optimist, turn, interpret, picture, spanner

Janos Bartha was a Hungarian artist held in high esteem in his own country, but little-known else-where. But he was an optimist and knew that one day; his fortunes would take a turn for the bet-ter. It was to come about when a famous British art critic travelled to Budapest, saw his work, recognized his brilliance and invited him to exhibit in London. “I fear they no understand my work”, Janos admitted, “my English it is not, how you say, comprehension”. “Don‟t worry. It will be fine,” the critic reassured him. The English press, public and reviewers were somewhat stumped. One picture in particular caused a lot of controversy, and was dubbed „a bag of spanners‟, until his champion, the critic pointed out that Bartha‟s art was based a pastiche of others‟ famous works, and the spanners in this particular piece represented the screaming figures in Picasso‟s work „Guernica‟. After that, Janos was a big hit. “Is good you there to interpret me”, he told the critic gratefully. Assignment : Ouija Board

One naughty boy excluded from school, Had a new teacher who he thought was cool. The referral centre would turn him around, His exam results would the world astound. This was the promise the headmaster made. “We‟re used to pupils who have strayed.” Miss Phillips got the unenviable job

Of trying to teach yet another yob. Miss Phillips was pretty, Miss Phillips was fit, Got his attention for a bit But then her instructions he ignored

And told her “Yo Miss! We ja bored!”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombing_of_Guernica

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guernica_%28painting%29

Painting Wikipedia: Guernica Picasso 1937 Museo Reina Sofia Madrid

5

Gardening Tips for May ... Frances Hartley

The weather is very changeable at the moment, but the frequent showers of rain are

very welcome as our water tubs were getting very low. We do not actually water the

garden except for newly planted things, some of the vegetables and of course the

tubs and baskets. This year we are using “Swell Gel,” more than ever before, espe-

cially after last year’s dry conditions. Swell Gel absorbs water and then slowly re-

leases the moisture as the compost becomes dry. Sometimes it goes under another

name, but is the same sort of thing and I think Swell Gel was the original name. I

have been using it for about 30 years now, but when I first tried it, it was only for

commercial use and then it became well known and was packeted for everyone to

use. We put it in the base of the Runner Bean trench, tubs, troughs and of course

hanging baskets. It is funny stuff to use, but do read the instructions on the packet

as a little bit will go a long way. In fact if you haven’t used the water retaining pow-

der before put a little bit on a saucer and add a little water and you will see how

much it swells. Afterwards you can put it out on the garden, or let it dry out and go

back into crystals so you can store it again until you want it. You shouldn’t really

put lots of chemicals in the garden, but we have even put some gel in one of our

very dry borders. After a prolonged dry spell, followed by a heavy shower, the

whole soil level in the border rises a couple of inches as the gel absorbs the water

and swells!

I am not planting so many tubs and troughs this year, only about four at the back

along with a two-tier stand. It gets a lot of sun, so they will be mostly Begonias

from corms in the hanging basket and Geraniums in the tubs that will stand the sun

and don’t mind drying out. There will be two tubs, three troughs and two stands at

the front where it is very cool and shady, so they will be mainly planted with bed-

ding Begonias and Busy Lizzies (Impatiens.)

It should be safe enough for all bedding plants to go out now I think. Some people

bought their Runner Beans too early and we saw several garden centres where the

beans had caught a chill, but they should be all right to put out now as well. When

growing runner Beans though it is a good idea to sink a pot 3 ½ or 4 inches into the

ground by each plant just leaving the top clear and when watering each day pour

the water into the pot so that it goes straight to the roots instead of all over the

ground. This stops the soil from packing down round the plants and encourages the

roots to go down for water. My son has buried some old plastic milk bottles instead.

Before being buried they were slashed with a knife to let the water out.

My son has just brought a lovely big head of Purple Sprouting Broccoli from his

allotment for lunch. He planted the young plants in the autumn along with Cab-

bages and Leeks. They have stood all the Winter weather has thrown at them and

we are getting the benefit now with some fresh, home grown, Spring vegetables

when most people are only just starting to plant up their gardens and allotments. By

the way the more Sweat Pea flowers you pick the more flowers you get and do re-

member to take the seed pods off all the time as they will stop them flowering if

they are left on.

Well that’s all for now. Cheerio.

Frances Hartley

Say Something Nice. (PMW)

One morning at around 8 am, I set out to do what I do every morning, come rain or shine, walk

my dog. I live in the middle of a single row of terraced railwaymen‟s cottages, built about 150 years ago. At the end of the row is a small shop, which sells just about everything. The shop is

popular with locals, and because it has easy access to the busy A34, also with passing trade. It is, as my mother would have said „a little gold mine‟. Behind the shop and houses, there are water meadows- a favourite spot for us dog-walkers.

As I walked down the street with my cocker spaniel, Millie, I noticed a man to my right. He looked as if he might be on his way to the shop, to buy his lunch. In appearance he was Indian,

stocky in build and dark. About fifty years old, I would say. He wore one of those high-visibility jackets, and I assumed he worked for British Telecom or maybe the Gas Board, as we often have both companies doing things and digging holes in our area. Or maybe he could have stepped out

of one of the several vehicles pulled up outside. He hailed me, as I passed by. “Good morning there!” and having noticed the dog at my heels added, “to you both! I do

hope you are both having a good day.” He sounded so bright and pleasant and up-beat, I was somewhat taken aback, with my Eng-

lish reserve. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. “Why thank you, and the same to you…. although it‟s a bit early in the day yet.” “Yes, of course. You don‟t know yet what the day holds”, he admitted, beaming.

“Still, it‟s very nice of you anyway, and I appreciate it,” I told him. And do you know, I did. That was the sum total of the conversation I had with that stranger, and yet it set me up for

the whole day. I went off down the road with a new spring in my step, and simply because some-one who I‟d never seen before, and most probably would never see again, had wished me well.

Why? He had no reason to speak. Everyone else just hurries by, caught up in their own thoughts and concerns. He just wanted to touch bases with a fellow human being, and spread some sun-shine. What a lesson he taught me! It didn‟t cost him anything, but it had an unbelievably positive

effect on me. I live alone, and my darling late husband, who was always cheerful and sociable, and couldn‟t

stand by someone at a bus stop without striking up a conversation, used to tell me “Remember, Pop, (his pet name for me) you might be the only person that poor soul has

spoken to today”.

Of course, he was right. And I was amazed just how powerful that short encounter and ex-change had been. All of us can take a leaf out of that Indian gentleman‟s book. It costs nothing to

spread a little happiness by acknowledging someone else‟s existence. I can hear my dear husband saying

“See Pop, I told you so!”

Just Thinking We speak our minds, discuss each

inner thought, Express ourselves, say what we feel is right.

Freedom of speech was battle bravely fought, We owe it all to those prepared

to fight. To use our vote, to choose those fit to rule,

We hope for laws which make our country strong,.

A health service, a place to work, good school, Help for the poor, can‟t

possibly be wrong. Each promise made must be upheld in faith,

That the bully and the cheat will be removed, And firmly pledge to keep

old people safe, Across the board poor services improved.

For the future, my confidence is low, I wonder to what depths

they‟ll have us go? Lin Priest

Random Words: - factor, phantasmagorical, hopeless, crying, villa, bodkin, official, Americanism John Bodkin Adams had something of the phantasmagorical about him. He was an Irish GP who was thought, like Dr Harold Shipman, to have been responsible for possibly as many as 160 patient deaths, but unlike Shipman, he got away with it. Adams lived in a fine villa in East-bourne. It is thought he had such leverage, to use an Americanism, with the Macmillan government and officials, and friends in high places, that the prosecution had a hopeless task to prove his guilt. Adams was later found guilty of prescription fraud and other mi-nor offences, and was removed from the Medical Register in 1957, but reinstated in 1961.The victims‟ families were therefore left crying out for justice, which most believe they never received. The judge‟s words that "the act of murder" had "to be proved by expert evidence were a factor in his subsequent acquittal. It was also described at the time as "unique” and established the doctrine of double effect, whereby a doc-tor giving treatment with the aim of relieving pain may, as an uninten-tional result, shorten life. Secondly, because of the publicity sur-rounding Adams's committal hearing, the law was changed to allow defendants to ask for such hearings to be held in private. Finally,

though a defendant had never been required to give evidence in his own defence the judge underlined in his summing-up that no prejudice should be attached by the jury to Adams not doing so.

Source research: http://

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/

John_Bodkin_Adams

John Bodkin Adams

(21 January 1899 –

4 July 1983)

Above

The Robert Peel Pub South Street

Right

The Station Hotel

Opposite the railway station

and the Park.

Assignment: It‟s all in the mind ...

“It‟s an outrage! It‟s a true fact,” said Jim red faced. “Upset me at the time, I was only a nipper.” “Mr Gilbert?” asked Dan. “I liked him. He were a good bloke.”

“He called you a twerp. Said for a goalie you couldn‟t catch a cold,” grinned Mike. “He was a good coach.” “He was right about your goal keeping an‟ all,” added Dan stirring his tea. “Anyway what‟s

brought this up?” “The election!”

“The what ... What the ...” “Haven‟t you noticed?” “Noticed what?”

“They‟ve moved the Polling Station.” All three workmen nodded. It were a bad do. For generations the village Polling Station had

been in the school hall and the kids enjoyed an extra holiday every time there was a day for voting. Then things changed. A portacabin, a „temporary‟ classroom, had been installed near the gate and

this had been designated as the Polling Station, so no more extra holiday for the kiddies. “No respect,” added Jim. “I don‟t suppose there‟s anyone still there who knew him, mate,” said Dan.

“There was a plaque,” Jim chipped in, piling another spoon of sugar into a mug of builders‟ tea.

Jim was right of course, they all knew there had been a whip round for a bronze plaque to their Mr Gilbert who had been killed in a traffic pile up on the M5 one foggy night when he‟d been

tanking it into school for a nativity play rehearsal. Not much left of him, or his mini-cooper, after smashing into the back of a cement lorry. But, there had been a plaque in the playground and a patch of ground, a conservation area ... well, weedy bank with a few shrubs ... called Mr Gilbert‟s.

“That garden was a special place, Mrs Morris said so.” “She‟s retired, mate. They‟ve all gone. It‟s thirty odd years ago.”

“They shouldn‟t have flattened the commemorative garden and they shouldn‟t have slapped a portacabin on top of it and they shouldn‟t have moved the Polling Station into it!” Rain was drumming on the corrugated roof of the road builders‟ hut in emphasis of perceived

injustice and lack of respect: Jim was welling up. Dan was in a brown study, he‟d liked Mr Gilbert as well, even if the coach had cuffed him more than once for having a crafty drag behind the bike

shed. Mike did the only thing he knew how to do well and refilled the kettle. Mr Gilbert, the best football coach their primary school had ever had, had passed into memory there was nothing any of

them could do about it. (SMS)

At one time cattle were always driven to market; some times miles away in the local town, and nearly every

house or cottage had a garden gate that could be shut as the cattle were herded by. Then from the market they were herded again to the slaughter house (although there was often a slaughter house adjoining the

sale yards) or out to whoever had purchased them if they were stores. Father recalled the time when he was driving a few bullocks into market, and whilst walking down a side street in town, ( Castle Town area if ya know Stafford) one bullock saw an open shop door, it decided

to hop up the step and went into a shop. Being only a very small shop there was nowhere to turn round as the counter formed a passage where the customers stood. The old lady behind the counter screamed with astonishment as the beast filled her shop, the bullock strug-

gled to turn round to make an escape, in doing so it pushed the counter and all things behind it across and up to the goods on display along the back wall. This trapped the shop keeper; the bullock did what came

natural and lifted its tail and plastered the counter and wall with muck then hopped out to continue its walk to market. In our village there were seven herds of cows that all travelled and walked out to distant pastures

each day and back for evening milking. The small holding with about twelve cows crossed the path of four herds, first he would if not careful he would travel along a hundred yards of road that the Yews farm cows

walked, then pass across the path of the Green Farm yard where there cows emerged, then past Church Farm (where I farmed at that time ) where both herds walk to the same lane, then at the ford those two herds crossed the path of Village Farm herd.

Three herds walked down the same cow lane branching off into there respective fields. The two herds at the other end of the village crossed paths and were walking the same two hundred yard stretch of road,

but in opposite directions, so a regular time for turning the cows out was most important. For some reason the Church Farm cows were very late on being

brought in for evening milking, and met with the smallholding cows com-ing out in the opposite direction down

a narrow stretch of road near the ford. Forty two cows heading south

and twelve cows heading north.

( Foot bridge and the ford at Seighford)

At the ford there is a narrow brick foot path bridge for pedestrians to cross, and the majority of cows pre-ferred to go over the bridge as the bottom of the ford is very stony and hard on their feet. The forty cows

(heading towards the church, Church Farm.)got strung out into a single line or as near as cows do, so the herd of twelve cows were walked steadily through in being tapped gently to remind then which direction they supposed to go and after about five minuets both herd continued on their way not having "lost" any to

the other herd. In the next village a farmer always went to Ireland to purchase fifty or more store bullocks each

spring, these came over on the ferry to Holly Head where they were loaded onto railway wagons. Cattle wagon on the railway were couple next to the steam locomotive, the wagons being loose coupled they sprung and slapped the buffer as the brakes were applied and when power was put on to start pulling. This

ricocheted down the length of the train, the smoothest ride was next to the engine. His cattle were unloaded at the station yard in the village (Great Bridgeford) until it was closed by Dr,

Beeching, (The government minister in charge of reforming the railways at that time, he cut off many branch lines and closed many local stations) then they had to unload further down the line at Stafford sta-tion in town. From there they were walked about six miles back to his farm, by this time they were tired and

hungry from the journey, so could be seen snatching grass as they passed through our village of Seigh-ford stopping for five minuets at the ford to water them.

So cattle droving did happen in England, but in a quite minuscule way compared to cattle drives over the pond in the USA.

This is a true story and we were lucky no cattle got killed on the main line. 1960 The trains were nearly all pulled by diesels a few goods trains were still steam. Two trains had al-ready stopped from north and two from south, ( It's 4 sets of rail tracks running through our fields between Stafford and Great Bridge-ford ) everyone stuck their heads out of the carriage windows to see what had halted their journey. The cattle were recovered from the opposite embankment between the four locomotives.

Cattle on the Railway Line.

One morning while milking cows, a phone call came from railway man,

It was the Bridgeford signal box, reported cattle onto line had ran, He put his signals onto caution, don't worry drivers on "visual", will run

We race off down the Moor Lane, to cattle grazing in the morning sun.

Two trains they had already halted, and two more rolling to a stop,

They left a gap through which to drive, cattle back to embankment top, Four *lengthsmen helped and a driver, and hundreds of people watched,

Three express trains and one commuter, why their journey scotched.

The cattle hopped cross four main lines, and back into the field, Embankment fire had burned a post; rail fell down a gap revealed,

We thanked the drivers and local men, for their quick advance,

Fast line trains do speed at seventy, cattle wouldn't stand a chance.

*Lengthsmen; railway workers, looked after length of track, usually 3-4 miles per group of six I must say that this is a very busy stretch of line, and is the main London to Scotland main line, the Royal Scot (1950s) steamed past at full speed very day at about three o'clock and back to return to London in the early hours of the morning. Many of the steam express trains were pulled by named

engines.

REFUGEES Clive Hewitt continues ....

The creaking of ropes and the chuckle of water near his head awoke him. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Anep,” Moab greeted him with something like a smile, “we thought that you'd

gone into the wilderness of the mind for a while. Should have known better!” “Where ...?” he began to say before Tao was at his side giving him weak, honeyed beer and bread laced with a little

salt. Looking around the beer jar, he found himself; dressed in Temple Guard clothing, sailing downstream as the sun rose. The boat didn't look to be the best kept of its kind, but it was dry and slid through the water like a greased eel.

“Two days ago.” Tao answered his unspoken query. “Not enough to drink and too much Sun we think,” she paused while Anep chewed and swallowed, “Moshe says another two or three days and we'll go ashore to start our new village. Won't that be fun?”

“Village? Wha' village ...” he managed to get out before the blackness claimed him again. It was fully dark when he returned to consciousness, with a full bladder claiming his immediate and urgent attention.

Snuggled down in the blanket beside him was a form he knew well. Tao was sound asleep as he wriggled out of her way and took care of his problem; she was awake when he returned.

“The day after this one and we can sleep in our own bed in our own house, Anep.” Tao whispered as she lay back against him.

“After we get the house built of course, Tao, after we get the house built. A new village you said so it's got to be then.” “Wait until you've spoken the Moshe. From what he says the houses are already built, when the army pulled out of the

area last wet season they just left them standing.” “You mean we're going to an abandoned fort? Ohh no! I don't like that one little bit, Tao; the army doesn't abandon them

for no reason and if there's anybody about the locals will have moved in by now.” “They have Anep; but they're Moshe's people and he's a prince amongst them, or so he says. We'll have to fit in with

their ways, and do some work on the buildings, but it will be safe for us and our child.” “Hmm...still. Child! What child? We don't have....ohh. When?” “Not sure, but about the start of planting Ruth and Meshab think.” “Well they ought to know.” He hugged Tao to him, but not too tightly, in his joy. Musing on names and listening to Tao's

soft, sleeping, breathing on the deck next to him, he dropped off to sleep.

*** “On your feet, soldier! On your feet, you lazy good for nothing.” The toe prodding him in the ribs brought Anep out from

under the blankets and into the early light of a new dawn. Moshe, Moab and the twins stood there, resplendent in their uniforms and cleanliness, grinning at him. “Wash, shave, get properly dressed and get some food down you,” Moab told him, “I want to see you at the back of this

boat before the sun has risen another hands breadth. Then we'll all go ashore and see if we can begin to get all of us to look like soldiers. Moshe has made me the Greatest of Fifty for our little band and it's up to me to do what I can remember it was all about when I was a lad.”

Most of that morning was instruction; often painfully driven in with stick or fist, on how to walk, stand, how and when to speak, wear clothing and weapons, carry things, and to sit, eat and drink like soldiers. In the end, Moab and Moshe agreed that, probably, we could get away with looking like soldiers but that we needed lots more practice.

In the presence of the grinning boat crew, Moshe told them later in the day, “You are now the Fifty of Builders, a new unit in the Army. There's only one unit of its kind and it's you. I know that there aren't fifty of us, but we're waiting for the rest of our soldiers to arrive so that we can teach them to be builders.

That's all you need to know to tell anyone who asks. Got that? Tell me!” “We're the Fifty of Builders, a new unit in the Army.” All the men, and most of the women and children, chanted. “We're

waiting for the rest of our soldiers to arrive so that we can teach them to be builders.” “Again!” “AGAIN!” By the end of the sixth time, it was word perfect. By the twentieth time, it was an accepted fact. That was when Anep noticed that Sek was missing from the company, fearing trouble he approached Moab. “Fifty, may

I ask you a question?” he began, remembering his lessons from earlier in the day. Moab nodded. “Where's Sek? I notice he's not on the boat.” Moab's face went blank as he answered, “We left him behind, Anep. He ran off when we got to the river and we couldn't

wait for him. The folks at the village said they'd keep an eye open for him. They also said that, as he didn't know his way around, the crocodiles or jackals would probably get him.”

Somehow, Anep had trouble believing the answer and asked the twins later. “Sort of, it's like Moab said”, was the reply, “the damned fool kid ran off, but the croc's won't get him; that's what we told

Meshab, and anyone else who asked. No, he ran straight into a caravan of slavers; Medes we think, and they snapped him up. They love fresh meat like that. By now he'll have been gelded and on his way to an auction block.”

Anep shuddered and nodded. The ways of slavers were well known to the people of the Blacklands. The army tried to keep them in check but there was so much desret, as the Medes called the red-lands, and so few patrols.

New village base.

The Fifty of Builders, 'the newest unit in the Army', left the boat at a well-built but somewhat untidy pier and proudly marched to their new base. This proved to be a partially empty fort of an ancient design in run-down condi-tion. Moab and Moshe looked around before they called all everyone to-gether. “We need to get this place in order. FAST.” Moab told them. “The women and children are to chase all the rats, spiders, snakes and scorpions out of the buildings we're going to live in while the men repair the gates and what we can of the walls before sundown. You know what to do now get to work all of you!” Enough was done to make the buildings habitable for the night and the gates would close. “There are only ten of us men and six of my people,” Moshe said, “between us we've got eight wives and twelve children to protect. With the walls in the condition that they are, that's not enough to keep this place safe. As yet, my people don‟t have the clothes, or the idea, of how to do anything; I'll change that as soon as I can. When it gets dark, the wives and bigger kids will have to pretend to be soldiers on the better wall sections, with four of us taking turns on the bad parts. All you can see in the dark is a helmet and shadow so it should work. Tomorrow we can do things.” Of course there were grumbles, particularly when he chose the women to walk the rear walls, Tao, Ruth and Meshab got given those, “No talking girls, not even a single word when you're on the walls. Sound carries at night and you can tell a woman's voice from a man's, even if you can't tell

what they're saying. So ... NOT … one ... single … word.” Moshe also put himself, Moab and Anep on the lower front walls, because, as he said, “We've all got something to prove if someone, or something, does try to come over the wall.” Moab added, “If that happens don't even think about trying to talk to them. A face full of spear, or a hack with that sword you're carrying, should do the job nicely. Scream and hack and once you've hacked, keep on hacking until they either run away or are definitely dead because you've cut their heads off or something.” Anep didn't think that Ruth or Meshab would have any problem with that, but he wasn't sure about Tao. She came from a village far from places that regularly saw trouble, but then he saw her grin and the way she handled her spear. That was his girl! The night was, thankfully, uneventful. At dawn the hunting cries of a pack of jackals disturbed the silence of the morning and kept them inside the fort. A kill cry, some distance away, told the sentries that it was safe to venture out. Moshe's people arrived with food for the new 'Fifty' and the rebuilding went ahead, it took two days of the hardest work they'd ever done to complete the repairs. “If we're going to be safe we need to patrol the area” Moshe told them, “and those jackals need to be thinned out and taught not to come too close. That means we hunt them down and use the skins for trade. Also, to look right, we need more people dressed as soldiers. I'm going to get some of my folks to join us here and Fifty Moab will get them to look like soldiers. They won't like it but we can knock them into shape easily enough. The elders may have to be told a few … ermm … untruths about … well ...!” Anep had a thought, “Moshe - sorry - Captain of the Troop, does this mean that we're going to be doing something like those folks at that village we stopped at on the way out of the valley? What did you call them something about...” “Being on a smugglers caravan route, you mean Soldier Anep? No. Not as such! We're in the wrong place for that. Yes, there will be people passing through here that won't seem to have a good reason to do so, or stay for long in your memo-ries. Boats that tie up late at night and are gone by dawn, a few men on camels or donkeys that leave very early the next morning, little things like that. Nothing to speak about, even amongst ourselves!” “But...” Anep couldn't stop himself. Moab hit him across the back of the head, “Just keep your trap shut, Anep. This place has got to look right and we've got to eat.” Turning to the group he explained, “This is how it works. Look like a soldier, act like a soldier, think like a soldier, do as

your told, when your told, and we'll have beer and bread to eat. Open your great mouth and we'll all end up on the end of a spear. Got it?” Anep nodded with the others, he wasn't happy about it, but he'd choose his time to, quietly, ask a few questions. Moshe hadn't finished. “The folks in the villages around here have their own god. Just a single god, and that god is noth-ing like the ones you worship. They have their own rules about eating and working and we have to respect those rules. Tomorrow, what they call Shabbat, their rules say that you may not work or light fires, although drawing water from the well or keeping a fire alight isn't counted as work. This means that the women are to bake enough bread today for us to eat to-morrow. We've our own well and enough beer and water so that won't be a problem. Nevertheless, although it's a rest day for the villagers that doesn't mean that we won't be keeping watch from the walls. Sentries will still be needed. I'll be avail-able if you want to talk to me, but that's all I can do from sun-up until sundown Anep thought, 'Good. I'll be able to ask some questions tomorrow.' To be continued ..... Photo credit P. Shilston

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimm’d with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see ‘t? Come, we’ll abroad: and let ‘s obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let ‘s go a-Maying. There ‘s not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth ere this is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatch’d their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept and woo’d, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given, Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love’s firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick’d: yet we’re not a-Maying!

Corinna’s Going a-Maying

Robert Herrick, 1648

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/

commons/3/3f/Ipolit_Strambu_-

_Femeie_cu_umbrela.jpg

Research by ACW

A Nation Only for

the Rich ACW

So the boredom of irritat-

ing politicking is over for

another 5 years.

The even greater boredom of an EU exit referendum might be next year or the year after, but

most of us will pay even less attention.

We can safely switch on the telly and mostly not see a politician from one day to the next, hap-

pily.

Now we have even worse of the same.

Continued and a raise in bedroom tax, social housing becoming a thing of the past.

Permanent sanctions even to those in low waged part-time jobs, that include housing benefit

and probably council tax support.

Taxing at source disability benefits and attendance allowance to the over 65s.

Carer's allowance lost to 40 per cent of claimants as only given to those eligible for Universal

Credit.

The complete social cleansing of London of entire social housing estates, to make way for the

rich to buy more luxury flats they will not live in. Rehousing such people as far north as Bir-

mingham and even Stoke-on-Trent, so losing their little jobs in London, to a place with few job

chances.

The end of care in the home for the disabled and the elderly, as councils get ever less money.

Libraries sold off to such as global coffee franchises.

Pension Credit (savings) lost for new claimants from next year.

Pension Guarantee Credit lost to many because of it becoming more complex and conditional

from next year, even eventually to the over 75s.

The guaranteed minimum pension rises for state pensions also lost next year.

And more business for Foodbanks from the current 1 million a year to a projected 2 million a

year and rising. From pregnant mothers to new mothers seeking baby milk formula onwards in

ages to over 60s through lost state pension by the rise in retirement age and the coming pension

changes of the flat rate pension.

Not more state pension, but as low as £38 per week with no tops after 45 years in work, or

even nil for life for new pensioners from 6 April 2016.

See why at: https://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/state-pension-at-60-now

17

One May morning two old men were sitting in deckchairs

overlooking a shallow, slow flowing river. A drake and a duck with a brood of ducklings were mooching about in the

rushes and a flat bottomed punt was heading their way very slowly, the boatman obviously over the limit.

“No good will come of it,” said Cyril. “Aye,” agreed Grenville. “Totally predictable.” “Of course, they should have seen it coming. We did.

Obvious.” He shook his head. “Would they have listened?”

“Nay. Too much heart, too little head. Always the same, split the left and the right comes storming through.” “Text book. Can‟t they read?”

“Single issue parties divide the left vote and then there‟s the Nationalists and those neo-brown-shorts.”

“Woodhouse‟s brown shorts ... He made me laugh, even though his grasp on some things was beyond my comprehension.”

“The brown shorts, black shirts, all the same. Confuse the uneducated with fear of anything for-eign and bang the drum of patriotism. And, what happens? The left vote is further split.” Grenville rooted in his pocket for a bag of stale bread. The drake wasn‟t interested, the duck had

found a tray of chips in the rushes and was teaching its brood the delights of takeaway. The boat was getting closer. He recognised the tousle-haired youth holding on to the pole.

“Bannerman, where‟s your essay?” The dishevelled, blond Adonis was wearing a crumpled frog suit with bowtie askew and lipstick

on his neck, “Morning Professor. Any day now.” The lolling girl holding the champagne flute, raised it in salute as the punt drifted by on the current more than by the efforts of Greg Bannerman, who both Dons expected would one day be in the Commons, or even the inner sanctum of the Cabinet.

“What essay?” asked Cyril. “Not the fall of Thatcher?” “Day of the long knives. Every budding politician needs to understand that particular lesson in

dynamics.” “The strong will always eat the weak, any sign of weakness in a leader is death.” “They can‟t help it though. It‟s inbred. Some of the population are bred to believe that only self-

interest matters. They have no understanding of “community or society”. To a third of the population their only interest is profit and the pound in their pocket.”

The duck had finished the soggy chips and was pushing the ducklings out into the main stream current. The stale bread was an easier choice than dabbling in weeds for filling the bellies of six duck-

lings. The drake tagged along. “It‟s getting the Bannermans of this generation to understand.” “What? Social justice? No chance. He learned survival of the fittest at his mother‟s breast.”

“I know. The only way to defeat the right is to unite and strengthen the left from the ranks of those lazy beggars who can‟t be bothered to vote.”

“Because ...” he asked, to avoid the I‟d have them whipped retort which was no doubt coming next. It was too early for a wander into ancient-Greek democratic practice, all that painted rope ma-

larkey. Might even have been Roman, oh he was getting old, the memory was definitely going. “Because, the right will always vote for the right. It‟s an instinct, leopards don‟t change their spots and neither do right wing voters. It‟s impossible to weaken the right, all a person of conscience

and conviction can do is strengthen the left.” “Will they ever learn this?”

“The right already know it. Why do you think they cover the old folks homes and get their vote out at all costs. It‟s the left, I despair for. Their integrity, their heart, is their weakness. They dream of fair play and justice.”

“Has there ever been fairness in politics?” The drake took the opportunity, grabbed the bag and took all the last of the crusts for itself.

Both men smiled, then laughed until tears ran down their grizzled cheeks. Fairness what a simplistic notion ...

Time to Go

An open door with time to look inside, Or call of name to stand up and take stock. A sign to greet, the windows open wide, No bolt on latch, the key is in the lock. Which way to go, it’s hard to make a choice, But strings are tight and pulling either way. The whispers clear, emotion in each voice, An answer looms, appears as clear as day. The strings release, release and fall to ground, Now free to move the future is ahead. A long straight road with no distracting sound, And waving hands no longer hold the thread. With one last look and bursting now with pride,

Through open door and slowly step inside.

Holly Threatened by mistakes Made by another's hand Her inner self is breaking Can no one understand? Seeing only skin And a smile across her face She has the trait of trickery As she fights to find her place Torn up deep inside Their words, they shatter all Her strength and Her confidence She needs to fool them all Sticks and stones, as they say But there's nothing left to break As holly hides in numbness No more can she take

Words are sharp and cold It's hollowed out her soul Bullies dragged and left her there In the darkest of all holes Cruelty has a price But they don't seem to care Breaking up a human being And burying her there Inside an empty house That's locked inside her mind Her soul is lost. Someplace else Where her body died

http://www.nationalbeatpoetryfestival.org/ This is new from the US. Venues in Liverpool and London for 2015.

FLASH FICTION

Peter by Lee Fones

Rain lashed against the window, day six, of the six week holidays. Peter’s face

looked solemn; his mum entered his dull room. “Peter what’s the matter?”

“Bored, want to go back to school.” Peter never had a TV, or play station, as they

didn’t appeal too him, he sat glaring out the window, writing creative articles.

He was forever getting published; his mind drifted like a floating ember upon a

gentle tide less sea. He’d no friends as such, he didn't have time for them, content

he was, content and happy, except for when it rained.

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