All Write

A Breath of Sea Air
Dead Letter
Last Waltz at the Riviera
Man on Wall

A Breath of Sea Air

Edith set out after lunch.  She had spent the morning packing her bag, putting things in and then changing her mind and taking them out again.  It was difficult to decide - in the end she took only what she really needed.  Travel light, Jim always said.  He'd laugh at her, taking everything but kitchen sink, he said.  But you never know what's going to come in handy, do you?

The old brown suitcase was light in her hand as she hurried down the drive towards the main road.  Low clouds scudded across the sky, the wind held a hint of rain.  The light was fading, draining colour from the scene to leave all grey.  Never mind, it would be warm and bright where she was going.  It was always sunny at the seaside.  At least - the roar of waves breaking over the sea wall filled her ears.   Mark and Annie were running ahead, dodging the spray which fell in shards of rainbow around them.  She called to them to be careful, but the gusting wind blew her words back down her throat, and she had to clutch at Jim's arm or be blown over  .  .  .  she set the case down while she caught her breath.  The sound of the waves faded, became the noise of lorries thundering past the narrow pavement. 

She reached the bus shelter and sank gratefully onto the bench, suitcase at her feet.  A chill wind blew last year's leaves round her ankles.  She shivered.  Maybe she should have put on her other coat?  No, she didn't want that heavy old thing, not on holiday.  The bus would be along soon.

The crying of gulls met her as she arrived. The colours were blue and white and gold, dazzling.  Everywhere - clean.  Before her stretched a wide avenue with an obelisk at the end.  Beyond that was only sky, and the dark line of the sea.  She walked towards it.

The children were yelling for ice creams, but Edith took no notice.  She wanted to reach the sea.  She crossed the wide promenade, the sun hot on her back, and sat on the low sea wall to remove her stockings, rolling them up to put in her pocket.  Then, shoes in hand, she set off.  Her feet sank ankle deep in the warm sand, but further out it was firm, planed smooth or corrugated with hard ripples which hurt her instep.  The children dashed past her, eager to reach the surf.  The sun sparkled on the water, blindingly bright, making her screw up her eyes as she splashed through shallow pools left by the retreating tide.  Then the first delicious shock of cold as she dipped her toes in the sea itself, and the wavelets washed over her feet.  It soon wore off.  Hitching her skirt higher she waded out till the water was almost up to her knees, then turned to look back.

It was all there: the sweep of the bay, the tree-covered headland, the pier stretching out with its copper-roofed pavilion on the end, the long line of hotels along the prom. Fluffy white clouds floated in a blue sky. The voices of children and seagulls, hardly distinguishable, mingling with the squawk of the Punch and Judy man and the music from the fun fair.  She breathed in the scent of seaweed and frying onions, letting her breath out in a deep sigh.  Yes, this was it. This was what she needed.

After, they ate candy floss, which made them very sticky, but never mind.  They were on holiday.  They strolled on the pier and dropped pennies in the slot machines.  They had a go on the bumping cars, she letting Mark drive while Jim took Annie.  In the fun fair the children wanted to try and win a goldfish, but she wouldn't let them, because how would they get it home?  Anyway, they always died.  Jim knocked over a pyramid of tin cans and won a stuffed rabbit.  And then they came to the Big Dipper.

No, she said, no, it's too high, I don't like it, but Mark and Annie kept on, oh, they could wheedle, those two, and Jim put his arm round her and said, I'll hold on to you.  So they went on and sat at the front of the car, and it climbed, up and up into the sky.  It paused at the top, and she looked straight down, impossibly far, and her eyes snapped tight shut as it dropped -

"Edith!  Wake up!"

She blinked, bemused, at the big black car stopped in front of the bus shelter, and at the woman with a jacket slung over her blue overall who was shaking her gently.

"M-Muriel?"

"You're freezing, you shouldn't be out this weather, we've been so worried."

The  car -  taxi?  They always had a taxi from the bus station, because of the luggage.

"Come on, let's get you back"  

She allowed herself to be helped into the car.

At the Home, Muriel helped her unpack the case, taking out her pillow to put back on the bed.  The single slipper joined its neighbour and the half eaten apple went in the bin.

"You're a very naughty girl, sneaking out when no-one's looking," she scolded.  "We'll have to put a collar and lead on you.  Mrs Arkwright's been having kittens.  Good thing we know where to find you. Any later and you'd have missed your tea."

In the dining-room, Edith sat in her usual chair  at her usual table.  It was ham and tomato sandwiches with fruit salad and evaporated milk to follow.  She surveyed the other residents with a touch of pride.

"I've been on my holidays," she said.

But no-one was listening

Dead Letter


It lay on the desk in front of her.  Edward’s desk.   She would not have dreamed of opening one of Edward’s letters when he was alive.  To do so now seemed like prying, and she never pried.
    Ruth picked up the photograph again.  The two faces smiled out at her, Edward looking impossibly young in an open necked shirt, his arm around a pretty girl in a tennis dress.  A very pretty girl.  She turned it over.  ‘Love you forever,  Daphne”.
    Yes, it was the same handwriting as on the envelope .  A bit shakier, but definitely the same.  She had the feeling she had seen it, not that long ago.  Within the last year.  Yet surely he would have mentioned if Daphne had written.
    Ruth studied the face of the girl Edward might have married.  Strange that he had kept this picture when he destroyed all the others.  She had found it tucked away, forgotten, at the back of a drawer.  She had known of Daphne, naturally.  She remembered asking her mother-in-law about her.
    “Lively, always gadding about.  Of course she was so young, they both were.  She was dreadfully upset when he decided to go in for the church.  Tried everything to change his mind, but once he had chosen his vocation  .  .  .  Still,”  the old lady patted Ruth on the hand,  “I’m glad things have worked out as they have.  She wasn’t right for him.”
    “What happened to her?”  Ruth wondered.
    “Well, we lost touch, but I think she married someone in the diplomatic service.  Yes, I’m sure she went abroad.”
    No, Ruth said inwardly to the smiling  face in the photo, I don’t see you as a vicar’s wife. Managing, organising, giving advice (only when asked).  Never, of course, interfering.  Whereas I was born to it.  Marrying Edward was simply moving from one parish to another.  And you would not have been content with forty years in a country rectory.  You’d have made sure he got on.  You’d have wanted him a bishop at least.  But would he have been happy?  Because we were.  We were, she repeated to herself.
    Then why don’t you open the letter, said the voice at the back of her mind.
    Because I trust him
    But there were other letters, you’re almost sure there were.  Why didn’t he say anything?
    I’m going to put the wretched thing in the fire and forget about it.
    Then you’ll never know  .  .  .
    Ruth turned the letter over and looked at the address on the back.  ‘If undelivered return to -”  Maybe there was another way.
   
    Mellingham Grange was a small country house in the Regency style, with later additions.  Ruth mounted the imposing flight of steps and rang the bell.  A young girl in a blue overall opened the door.
    “May I see Mrs Horwood, please?”  asked Ruth.
    The girl looked puzzled.
    “Mrs Daphne Horwood?”
    “Oh - Daphne!  Please come in.  She’ll be in the lounge.”
    Ruth followed the girl along a corridor and into a large sunny room. Chairs were ranged round the walls, their occupants drowned in sleep or staring vacantly into space.  A television burbled to itself in a corner.  It was warm.  The smell which Ruth had noticed as soon as she entered the house, a mixture of furniture polish and disinfectant with a faint underlying whiff of stale urine, was stronger here.
    “Wake up, Daphne, you’ve a visitor.”
    At least she was less decrepit than most of them.  Dressed in a powder blue skirt and jumper, hair neatly permed, a string of pearls at her neck, only the bedraggled slippers on her feat spoiled the effect.  She smiled, and Ruth caught a fleeting glimpse of the girl in the photograph.
    “How do you do?  How good of you to call.  Please, sit down.”
    There was nowhere to sit.  “We’ve never actually met, but you used to know my husband,”  Ruth began.
    “Did I?”
    “Edward Wilkes.  You wrote to him.”
    “I did?”
    “Don’t you remember?”
    An old man sitting nearby woke with a start.  “Where’s my drink?”  he roared.  “Lazy buggers!”
    “You be quiet, Fred,”  cried the girl in the blue overall.  “You’ll get it in a minute.”   She hurried out.
    “Arse on fire!”  shouted Fred after her.
    “Is there anywhere else?”  asked Ruth.  “Where we could talk privately?”
    “We could go to my room.  It will be nice and quiet there.”
    It was a pleasant room, if small.  All available surfaces were covered with knickknacks from every part of the world: ivory elephants, Russian dolls, brass from India and pottery from China.  Tucked behind the clock on the bedside table Ruth noticed a small stack of letters, all addressed in the now familiar hand.
    “This place is not quite - “  confided Daphne as they sat down,  “but it’s only for a few days, till Reggie can come for me.  He’s in Addis Ababa, you know.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “I was out there with him, but he insisted I came home.  He said Abyssinia was no place to have a child.  Though the Abyssinians manage well enough.”
    Ruth took a deep breath.  “My husband - “
    “Is he well?”
    “I’m afraid he - he died three months ago.”
    “Oh dear.  I am sorry.”
    Ruth swallowed.  “I thought I should tell you myself.  As you were so close once.  You sent him this.”
    She drew the letter from her bag.
    “That’s one of mine,”  said Daphne.  “Look, there’s my address on the back. I always write it on, to stop them going to the Dead Letter Office.  Sounds so final, don’t you think?”
    “Why were you writing to Edward?”
    Daphne frowned.  “I don’t know anyone called Edward.”
    “Yes you did.  I’ve a photo.  Look!”
    Daphne stared, then smiled brilliantly.  “But that’s Teddy and me,”  she cried.  “Why didn’t you say you meant Teddy?  Of course I remember.  The day he proposed.  It was  before he went up to Cambridge.  We’d been playing tennis at the Fothergill’s, and when the others went in to tea went down on his knees and wouldn’t get up till I promised to marry him.  So I had to.  He got his flannels dreadfully dirty.  Then we went in and told everyone, and somebody took a photo.
    “You can keep it, if you like,”  said Ruth gently.
    “Can I?  Thank you.  Dear Teddy, he was so funny, he could turn anything into a joke.  We never stopped laughing.  Only then he went away.”
    Ruth thought back to the serious-minded young curate who had come to assist her father, all those years ago.
    “He even promised to change his name,”  Daphne went on.  “Names are so important, don’t you think?  And Wilkes always made me think of whelks.  I couldn’t be Mrs Wilkes.”
    “I am Mrs Wilkes,”  said Ruth with a certain stiffness.
    “Are you?”  cried Daphne, delighted.  “What a coincidence!”
    Ruth rose to her feet.  Maybe it was the heat, or the airlessness, but she could not bear to be in that house a moment longer.
    “Oh, must you go?  Won’t you stay to lunch?”
    “No, thank you, I’m sorry, I must be on my way.”
    Daphne followed her out into the corridor.  As they walked down it a door at the end opened.  Framed in the doorway stood an old woman,  skirt hitched to her waist to reveal her skinny legs.  A pair of knickers enveloped her ankles.  Daphne stared, her blue eyes round with horror, and clutched at Ruth.
    “What kind of place is this?”  she whispered.
    A blue-coated care assistant appeared and took the woman’s arm.  “Come on, Alice, Let’s get you sorted.”  The door closed.
    “It - it’s a nursing home,” said Ruth.
    “Oh, yes,”  said Daphne, relieved.  “I’ve been ill, haven’t I?  But I’m going home soon.  I’m sorry Teddy wasn’t here to see you.  He’s my fiancé.  Have you met him?”
    “No,”  said Ruth.  “I don’t think I ever did.”

    She stood on the steps, as the heavy door slammed behind her.  The sun had vanished, and the air was cool and damp, heavy with the scents of autumn.  All the colours were muted, browns and yellows under a leaden sky.  She made her way down the drive, slippery with fallen leaves, towards the visitor’s car park by the main gate.  She realised she was still holding the letter. 
    She could open it, now it longer mattered.  She could see why Edward had never mentioned any other letters.  Some things are, well, private.  And the person to whom this was addressed had been dead far longer than three months.
    Across the lawn someone had lit a small bonfire, sending tendrils of blue smoke weaving through the trees.  Ruth walked slowly over the wet grass.  No-one was in sight.  She tore the letter across, again and again, then fed the pieces to the flames, watching as they twisted and blackened and turned to ash, while their smoke rose with the woodsmoke into the still air.




Last Waltz at the Riviera


Mattie saw the hole in the door on her way back from the off-licence.  She blinked, for a moment confused.  What was she doing here?  This wasn't the way home.  Must have been wandering, mind and body both.  Watch it, girl, she told herself, or they’ll be coming to take you away again.  And shivered.
    The Riviera Club had been boarded up for years.  A strip club it had ended up as, for furtive middle-aged men in macs.  Scraps of poster still clung to the board outside, faded into illegibility.  She could remember when it had been the Riviera Ballroom.  One of the planks across the door had been wrenched away, cavernous darkness behind.  She mounted the three shallow steps and peered in.
    They were supposed to be knocking it down, somebody’d said a while back   .   .   .   she forgot when.  Perhaps they’d forgotten.  She shifted her worn shopping bag, her supplies, from one hand to the other.  The two bottles clinked.  Whoever it was had made a big enough hole.  She could get in easy, if she wanted.
    She stood in the cramped foyer.  The old booking office was still there, where they’d queued on Saturday nights, girls in gangs or pairs, giggling, couples clamped together.  There were the steps to the dance floor, still covered in worn carpet.  Crimson, it had been, and thick, and velvet curtains framing the doorway.  No curtains now, only cobwebs.
     Mattie advanced across the floor, stumbling over empty bottles and crushed cans, old newspapers tangling between her legs.  Phew, what a stink.  Someone been here, for sure. 
    “Anyone there?”  she called.
    Silence.
    Could do with a sit down.  How long had she been walking?  A while, to have got up this end of town.  All little houses it had been once, back to back.  Sometimes in the holidays her dad had let her ride on the lorry with him. ‘Coal, coal,’ he’d shout, heaving the sacks onto his shoulders, coming home black as night.  Her too.  Mam had been livid.  
    The seats were till there, some of them.  Three rows of tip-up seats there had been, each side of the floor.  Front row for the wallflowers.  Back row was for when, after a dance, he said “Fancy sitting down for a bit?”.  And if you liked the look of him, why not?
    The seat felt damp, sticky, smelt of mould, but it was a relief to get the weight off her feet. The bottles clinked again as she set the bag down.  Wouldn’t mind a little drink.  She broke the seal and unscrewed the cap.  No glass.  Wouldn’t have done in the old days, drinking out of the bottle.  Not in the Riviera.  It wasn’t like those other places, the Roxy and the Palace.  The Riviera had class.  Cheap vodka burned the back of her throat, glowed in her stomach.  That’s better.
    It must be late.  Moonlight streamed through the upper windows, the curtains which used to hide them long mouldered away.  She wasn’t usually out this late. She should be in her chair in front of the telly, but she’d run out of supplies.  She brought out her packet of fags, lit up.  Had her first cigarette here.  Trying to be sophisticated.  “D’you smoke?”  “Oh yes,”  she’d lied, then spent ten minutes coughing and spluttering.  Soon got used to it though.
    Over by the door, under the balcony, that’s where the fellas used to stand, eyeing up the girls.  Her Bob would be there.  Not much of a dancer, Bob.  He’d tried, but there was only so much treading on a girl could take.  Didn’t mind her enjoying herself, though.  She’d loved dancing.  Proper dances, not the silly jigging about they do nowadays.  The quickstep, the fox-trot.  The velita.  And the waltz.  The last dance was always a waltz.  Whoever asked you for the last waltz got to walk you home after.  To stop for a kiss and a cuddle on the way.  And who knows what might come of that?
    Her Eric had come of a last waltz.
    Been a long time since she heard from him.  Not a one for writing much, but neither was she.  He used to want her to come out and visit.  How many kids now?  Two, or three?  Long way, Australia.
     Another drink.  She had been a looker, then.  So was he.  She remembered him walking past, as she sat on one of the front row seats.  She’d been wearing her black skirt, waist pulled tight with a patent leather belt, half a dozen starched lace petticoats underneath.  Frilly top, cut low.  He’d seen her, and stopped dead.  Come straight towards her.  It was like a film.
    “Would you like to dance?”
    He was a beautiful dancer.  She danced better with him than ever before in her life.  The light glanced from the great mirror globe as languorous saxophones swirled them around the floor.  The last waltz.
    Then she’d had to marry Bob.  She couldn’t complain, he’d been a good husband.  A steady worker.  But after Eric came there was no more dancing at the Riviera.  Or anywhere else.      She should be home, in her armchair with the telly on and a bottle of something on the small table beside her.  Not - where was she?  So tired, and her chest hurt.  Better sit still. Have another drink.  Feel better after a little drink.
    The burning fluid descended to meet the rising pain, and the bottle fell, its contents gurgling away.  Unnoticed, because he was advancing towards her, hand outstretched, smiling.
    “May I have this dance?”
    She rose, tall on stiletto heels, smoothing her skirt over stiff petticoats as she went to him, laying her head on his shoulder.  The music curled around them, piano and sax and muted trumpet, smoothly voluptuous, and the spotlight held them fast, as they danced the last waltz in the Riviera.  

Man on Wall

 

He was there when we came out of school at dinnertime. Lying stretched out on top of the wall, on Blakeney Street where it crosses the railway cutting. It isn't a very wide wall, he overlapped a bit at the side. We slowed down to look at him.
        'Is he dead?' Janey asked.
        'No, his fag's lit,' said Fred. A blue line rose into the air, as if drawn with a ruler.
        'I bet,' said Clive, 'if you crept up under him and went "boo!" he'd fall off.'
        'You can't do that,' said Sue, 'he'd land on the railway.'
        'An' a train would come and squash him flat,' said Fred. 'Go on, I dare you.'
        By this time we were nearly up to him. He was lying perfectly still, with his hands clasped in front of him and his bowler hat sitting on his chest. His feet pointed skywards as he puffed at his cigarette and stared up at the clouds. He'd left his brolly propped up against the wall, and his case on the pavement. It was like the sort carried by men who sell brushes and such like.
        'Hey mister' said Clive, 'why are you on a wall?'
        For a moment it looked like he was not going to answer, then he took the fag out of his mouth.
        'Better than the pavement,' he said. 'No dog shit.'
        Which was true. You wouldn't want to lie on the ground anywhere round here.
        I told my mam when I got home. 'There's a man lying on the wall in Blakeney Street.'
        'Whatever next,' she said. 'Do you want a jam butty?'
        He was still there when we went back after dinner, but by the time we came out of school he was gone.
        'P'raps he jumped,' said Clive.
        Fred shook his head. 'No, he'd have left his umbrella.'

The next time I saw him he was standing on the empty plinth outside the Town Hall. In was a Saturday afternoon, quite late and coming on to rain. There were two plinths, Alderman Earnshaw had one, but they'd never managed to decide who to put on the other. Or maybe someone ran off with the cash. Anyway, it had always been empty, till now. Not that anyone took on - afraid he'd try and sell them something, I suppose. Or talk about God. He didn't though, he just stood there. He made a good statue, with his umbrella held up before him like a spear. Never moved even when a pigeon crapped on his hat.
        It must have been some time after that we found his case. We used to play a lot on the waste ground behind the Cleveland Hotel. It was a good place, all hummocky and covered in willow herb and scrubby grass. We'd scoop out hollows in the sandy banks for dens, and have wars. The girls had tea parties. The case had been dumped, its catch broken, its contents spilling out, pages turned by the wind. Books they were, with soft, brightly coloured covers. And leaflets - 'Help your child to get on! The Universal Encyclopaedia, in 52 weekly parts!' But there was only Part Ones (Special Introductory Offer, One Shilling). I took one home, it wasn't bad. It had pictures of dinosaurs, and the Hoover Dam.

I saw him next when I was coming home along the cut (where I wasn't supposed to go, because of Bad Men and Falling In). He was sitting with his shoes off and his feet dangling in the water. I wished I could do the same, it was a warm evening. But me mam would have killed me. She'd have smelled the canal on me.
        'D'you want your bag back, mister?' I said. 'I know who's got it.'
        He looked up at me. His face was yellowish, his eyes dragged down so the lower rims showed red. He didn't speak for so long I started to wonder if he'd forgotten how.
        'No,' he said at last. He turned away, to stare at the scum on the water, burning green in the last rays of the sun. "Too many facts. All this knowledge. What's the use? No-one wants it.'
        I went home.

No one saw him for ages after that. Maybe he'd been Taken Away. Then, one afternoon in late summer, he was back on Blakeney Street. We saw him as we came out of the school gates. He was lying on top of the wall, like the first time. I remember the clock on the steeple behind him showing four o'clock as we started down the hill. Then a goods train went under the bridge, we could hear the clank and rattle of it, and a plume of steam came up and drifted over the wall. When it cleared, he wasn't there any more.
        His umbrella was still propped up against the wall. The next time we walked past that had gone as well.

The Spirits of Christmas
Charley's Choppers
Next to Godliness
The Woodby Authors' Erotic Writing Workshop
Bad Vibrations

Charley's Choppers



I’m sorry we didn’t make it to the wedding.  I was so disappointed.  We were all set to come, I’d bought myself a new hat and Charley’d had his suit cleaned specially.  And then we had a bit of an accident.
    Oh, we weren’t hurt or anything.  It wasn’t that sort of accident.  It’s a long story, I hardly know where to begin.  You may remember, Charley has always had problems with his teeth.  Fillings a that wouldn’t stay filled, crowns that kept coming uncrowned.  Anyway, about a year ago he decided to make a clean sweep.  Have all the front ones out and get some dentures.  I thought his troubles were over, but it turned out they were just beginning.
    He couldn’t seem to get the hang of them.  The dentist told him they would be uncomfortable at first and he’d have to persevere, but he would keep taking them out and putting them down wherever he happened to be.  Well, you know what Charley’s like about losing his glasses and his keys.  Now every time we went out it was  “Glad!  Glad, what did I do with me teeth?”  Nearly drove me round the bend.
    Then one bright sunny morning he was shaving with the bathroom window open, and he’d left his teeth on the window ledge.  All of a sudden a magpie swooped down and, before he knew what was happening, it had grabbed his top set and made off with them.  I was so upset.  He’d only had them a month, and they’re not cheap, are they?  Then there was the embarrassment of having to tell the dentist that a magpie had pinched his teeth.  And he looked so awful without them, I was ashamed to let him out of the house till the replacement set came.
    When they did come he had to break them in all over again.  They were fine as long as he didn’t attempt to eat with them.  I told him he’d never get used to them if he didn’t try, but he still kept sneaking them out when he thought I wasn’t looking.  There’s something about dentures, isn’t there?  That disembodied grin.  Not something you want to see while you’re having your dinner. One day we went for a meal out, with some friends, very nice place it was, candles on the tables and everything - and I happened to look over at him.  There they were, on the tablecloth next to his plate.  I didn’t know where to put myself, I was that mortified.
    Anyway, on the day of the wedding, I made sure he had them in and I told him that if he even thought of taking them out before we got home I’d leave him.  For dead.  I did think of keeping them in my handbag till we got to the church, but I was afraid I might forget about them in the excitement of meeting the family, and it would have looked a bit odd if I’d passed them to him during the service.  I wish I had, now.
    So there we were, waiting at the bus stop, all dressed in our best and Charley looking quite handsome for once.  They really were a lovely set, they took years off him.  But then, as the bus hove into view, he has to go and have one of his sneezes.  Of course, being Charley, he can’t have a quiet, restrained sort of sneeze, like other people.  No, it has to be a fifty megaton supersneeze.  If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times, one of these days you’ll blow the front of your face off!  Well, yesterday he did.
    Not his face, mind.  Just his teeth.
    They flew out of his mouth like bullets out of a gun.  It all happened so quick, I stood there frozen.  They landed in the road, just as the bus drew up.
    So there it is.  Please give our regards to the happy couple.  I’ll pop round to see you soon.  It’ll only be me, though.  Charley can’t go anywhere at the moment.  He’s waiting for his teeth.



Next to Godliness


                                 
Clean.  I love the sound of the word.  It makes me feel safe.  Washed.  Cleansed.  Immaculate.  A little island of purity in a sea of filth, that's what my house is.  It's not easy, of course, keeping up the proper standards.  I get up at five in the morning, and often I don't finish till near midnight. I go through the entire house, top to bottom, cleaning and polishing, floors and windows, paintwork, everything.  Wash all the bedding.  Beat the rugs on the line outside, like my mother always did.  We used to have fitted carpets, but how can you get them really clean?  Cedric offered to buy me one of those vacuums that suck everything up, but you can't be sure they've captured every particle of dirt.  It must sift down and collect underneath, and then there's mites living off it, breeding - ugh!  So I've got wooden floors now, not so warm, but at least I can mop them and polish them; and the rugs are synthetic, I pop them in the machine every day.
        I take after my mother.  Fastidious.  Her house was a wonder, everything shone.  You could have eaten off her floors (not that she would have allowed such a thing, think of the mess!).  "Cleanliness is next to godliness"  she used to say, and she was the godliest woman I ever knew.  She never let me have friends to play (they might have brought in dirt), or stay for school dinners, like the other kids. She said you could never be sure of what went on outside your own home.  I'm the same, I never liked eating out.
        Not that we do any more.  The last time was a few years ago on our anniversary. Cedric persuaded me against my better judgement.  It was not a success.  I'd taken along a packet to those microbial wipes to give the cutlery and glassware the once over, and he got all embarrassed and bothered that people were looking at me.  Then after the starters I went to the loo, and on the way back I noticed the door to the kitchens was open . . . I insisted on leaving, of course.  I'd read about the state of some of these places, but to have it confirmed by my own
eyes  . . . !
        You see, it's not the dirt you can see which is the real problem.  It's the invisible stuff, microbes and bacteria and suchlike, creeping up on you, proliferating, that's the danger.  That's why you can't let up for a moment. Cedric never understood.  "What are you washing that for?"  he'd say.  "It's clean enough already."  It wasn't, of course.
        He was no help. He would keep touching things.  Did you know that ninty per cent of household dirt is shed human skin?  I swear sometimes I could see it, wafting off him. I kept him out of the house as much as possible.  He'd got his garden, he spent most of his time there or in his shed, but he had to come in for meals, and at night.  I never knew such a messy eater, tea slopping in his saucer, drips of ketchup, crumbs everywhere, it took me hours to clean up after him.  Then one day he got something on his shoe.  Walked it everywhere.  The stink of it!  And he couldn't tell a thing was wrong, no sense of smell, you see.  I had to clean the house six times, right through, before I felt comfortable again.
        I had to do something, I couldn't live with the prospect of him doing something like that again, my nerves wouldn't stand it.  I had this new cleaning stuff under the sink, 'Cleans and Freshens Inside and Out' it said on the label.  I thought it was worth a  try.  He never noticed.  Ate up his rhubarb crumble and went back down the garden to his shed.  No sense of smell, as I mentioned.
        He hasn't come out.  It's a few weeks now.  There's a bit of a whiff if the wind's in the wrong direction, but not enough to bother me.  The shed was his sphere, the house is mine.  And it's a lot easier to keep clean now. 





The Woodby Authors' Erotic Writing Workshop                                                                                     


We got the idea from Harold.  He's also a member of Uppemarket Writer's Circle - they're more high powered than us, some of their members are actual published writers - they do a lot of talks, workshops, stuff like that.  Take themselves very seriously.  Anyway, Harry heard they'd booked one Edna Hooker (late of California, and authoress of 'Erotic Sea Stories', 'Erotic Animal Tales', 'Love among the Cowboys' etc) to give a workshop on Erotic Writing.  As it happened, we'd been contacted by Ms Hooker ourselves, and we wouldn't have minded having her (the erotic genre is on in which our expertise is somewhat limited) but her fees were rather more than we could afford.  So Harold gallantly agreed to attend the Uppemarket one on our behalf, and report back. 
    He came our next meeting after the workshop quite excited.  Full of it, he was.  Apparently, according to Erotic Edna, there is this enormous market for stories which are - well, a bit rude.  People can't get enough of it.  And it's not just man/woman either, you can have any combination you care to mention. Nothing crude, though.  It all has to be in the best possible taste.
    One of the things Edna made them do was an exercise.  Now don't be silly. It wasn't anything like that.  Everyone had to write down their favourite erotic fantasy, then they were all put into a hat and jiggled about a bit.  The pieces of paper, I mean.  After that, everyone took out a fantasy to write about.  The idea was, you wouldn't be embarrassed doing someone else's fantasy, like you would be about your own.  Harold thought, why couldn't we do something like that?  It'd be interesting. Get us out of our rut. If that Uppemarket lot could do it, so could Woodby Authors.
    Well, we're all adults, and we certainly don't think of ourselves as prudes, so we agreed to give it a go.  Found a free date in our calendar and pencilled it in.  I have to say, as the day approached I started to feel a touch nervous.  I don't have much experience in these things, and I wasn't sure if I could come up with a fantasy which was - ripe enough, so to speak.  I even thought of buying one of the magazines Erotic Edna had mentioned, to see if it gave be any ideas.  But they know me in the newsagents, they always save me a People's Friend; I couldn't reach the top shelf in WH Smith's.Still, I managed to come up with something eventually
    .  We gathered on the designated Wednesday, with some trepidation on my part at least.  We'd written out our fantasies beforehand (disguised handwriting of course).  We didn't have a hat, but Harold put them all in a Sainsbury's carrier bag and mixed them up, then we each took one out.  Luckily no-one got their own, or if they did they never said. 
    We had twenty minutes to write.  We'd decided there was no point in trying to do this bit anonymously - people could see who was doing what and anyway, we knew each other too well, it would be impossible not to guess.  So we all scribbled away.  I was slightly flummoxed by the one I'd got.  I mean - being stroked all over with a peacock feather?  What's erotic about that? Ticklish, I grant you.  I was never that keen on peacock feathers anyway.  Fine on peacocks, but my granny would never have them in the house.  Said they were unlucky.
    Then we had to read them out.
    Harold went first.  He'd got 'The secret agent seduces/seduced by the beautiful spy'.
   
    She sat on the other side of the terrace, drinking Manhatton through a straw.  Her dress was red PVC, poured over her and left to harden. Tits like torpedoes, nipples like chapel hat pegs.  She cast him a glance, sidelong, then looked away and sucked again, making a noise like scented bath water gurgling down a drain.
    Her eyes shouted 'Come!'.  A sense of danger set his nerves twanging, and he rose.  The comforting bulge in his trousers reminded him that his Walther automatic was, as ever, ready for action. He crossed to where she was sitting, and stood, erect, before her.  The words caught in his throat, but with a supreme effort he squeezed them out.
    'You up for it, then?'

    We all thought this was a very good example of the male erotic imagination.  The next one up was Pamela.  She has been married three times therefore is more experienced than the rest of us. Also she specialises in steamy novels about mature women carrying on with other people's husbands, so we expected great things from her.  We were not disappointed. I can't quite remember what her fantasy was, but it involved grapes in some way.

    It was a warm night.  The sticky heat made the thin silk of Desiree's night-gown cling to her body, as she sat before the mirror in her boudoir.  Her raven hair, loosed from its bonds, tumbled unrestrained to her bare shoulders.  She picked up a lipstick and slowly unscrewed the top then outlined her mouth in carmine, the red stick nuzzling against her lips.  When would he come?  Her heart beat in anticipation.
    At last!  The bell rang, followed by an impetuous banging on the door.
    'I'm coming!'  she cried, rushing to let him enter. 
    The stood on the threshold, tall against the night.  His shirt was open to the waist.  She could see the drops of sweat nestling among the dark hairs of his manly chest, and his musky, male odour almost overwhelmed her.  She seized him by the collar and dragged him in.
    Immediately his arms enfolded her, crushing her to him.  His lips met hers, she felt his manhood rise to the occasion.  At the point of asphyxiation they broke apart, gasping. 
    'Take me, take me,'  she gasped, pulling him to the floor.
    He ripped the transparent fabric from her body. She lay on the white goat-skin rug, naked, moist, aching for him, watching as he disrobed.  First his shirt was tossed into a corner, revealing his well-muscled torso, then ...

    At this point this point Pam's twenty minutes ran out.
    "But what about the grapes?" someone asked.
    "Oh sorry, I forgot about them."
    We passed on to Lynda.  I won't give hers, because although she got her couple into the bedroom, she became so carried away with describing the soft furnishings etc that her time ran out before they actually got to the sex.
    Then it was Bernard's turn.  Well!  He turned out to be a real dark horse.  Such a lovely man, he writes very nice poems and bakes the most beautiful cakes.  We never would have thought ... his fantasy was 'three in a bed' and granted, the rules never specified three what ... but all the same.  Talk about an eye-opener.  I'm not even sure if it was physically possible.  And I'm certainly not writing it down here!
    And now, I suppose you want to know what I wrote.  Well, it wasn't easy.  My first instinct would be to thump anyone who tried tickling me with feathers, but I suppose it takes all sorts. I did my best.
    Her breasts heaved as she lay, covered in a thin film of moisture, the coverlet clinging to her body.  He tore it from her and dropped to his knees, as his tongue gently caressed her flesh.
    'Wait,' she murmured sensuously.  'Stroke me - stroke me all over - with peacock feathers!'
     'Whatever you wish, my heart's delight.'
    He left her then, alone, dreaming.  She shivered, anticipating the sensation of feathers on her naked skin, a sensation which for  her was inextricably bound up with the satisfying of her innermost desires.
    At last it came. Starting at her throat, over her breasts, the nipples standing to attention, then further down, down, she shivered again, this time in ecstasy ...
    An appalling screech assaulted her ears, jerking her out of her erotic trance.  She sat bolt upright.
    'You - you idiot!'  she gasped.  'Not - with the peacock attached!'

    Everyone agreed the exercise had been a resounding success.  The 'Woodby Authors' Dirty Book' will be appearing later this year.  Copies may be ordered from the secretary, and will be dispatched, under plain cover, on receipt of adequate renumeration.  Thank you.





Bad Vibrations

                           
No, I will not plead guilty. I'm innocent. I didn't assault no-one. They assaulted me!
    I should have known something was up when she suggested I go down the pub. Said I needed a break, even gave me a tenner out of the housekeeping. When I told my mate Darren he said, "Bet you anything she's got a fella."  Nah, not my Trace. I mean, who'd look at her?  Though she has smartened herself up a bit lately.  I put it all down to that Martine woman she's taken up with, giving her ideas. Now there's a tart if ever I saw one. Well anyway, after a few jars me and Darren thought we'd go back to my place and see what was what.
    We heard the music the minute we turned into the street. She'd got the front curtains drawn and the music centre going full blast. We crept into to the house (though there was no need really, they wouldn't have heard an elephant barging in), flung open the sitting-room door - and stood dumbstruck.
    The room was full of women. Some where from round here, some I'd never seen before. Martine was there, and she was the only one with her clothes on. All the rest were in their undies - and I'm not  talking Marks and Sparks.  I've seen that sort of stuff in magazines (you know the ones I mean) but you don't expect it in your own front room.  On the coffee table there were these - things - all sizes and shapes and colours. Some of them were switched on, sitting there vibrating away. Disgusting. I stood there with my mouth open. Darren was no bloody use, he took one look and scarpered, the bastard. Then all hell broke loose. They all started squawking, like a lot of cats in a sack.
    Now I want to get a few things straight. I may have said what I shouldn't, in the heat of the moment, but I never grabbed Wendy Wrigley's tits. All I did was put my hand out to steady myself and they just happened to be in the way. I absolutely definitely did not tell her to get them out before they fell out.
     And I did not drop my trousers. They were forcibly removed. I mean, there was only one of me and more than a dozen of them. It was a nightmare, I was pinned down on the sofa by a load of half-naked women. And then my Trace grabbed the biggest of the things on the coffee table, switched it on, and started telling me where she was going to shove it.
     At this point the police arrived. I never though I'd be glad to see a blue light coming for me, but when that constable marched through the door I'm not kidding, I could have kissed him.
    You have to agree, I was the injured party. So why did he arrest me?




       
   

 
   

Old Bones
The Feline Conspiracy
Bye Bye Blackbird

The Feline Conspiracy

           
To: Tanya@outline.com
From: Jason@wizard.co.uk

Hi Tanya
How’s the novel going? I’ve started something new. I found this book at a boot sale the other day - one of those ‘Mysteries of the Ancients, Gods from Outer Space’ thingies - I thought it might come in useful. We fantasy writers are always on the look out for ideas. Well, it was fantasy all right, but not the honest, fictional kind. No, this was fantasy pretending to be true.
     I read it through in wonder and amazement. Did you know that the Knights Templars were really emissaries from an alien civilisation? No, neither did I.  People buy this drivel full-price and read it for fun. Someone published it. Someone got paid for writing it. For heaven’s sake, they even made a T.V series out of it!
    So I’ve decided. I’m going to give up fiction and write bollocks instead.
    First of all, I needed an subject.   It didn’t matter how outlandish as long as it was original. That stumped me for a while. It’s not easy finding something nobody else has done. Then the other night, while I was giving Tuck his tuna deluxe, it came to me.
            The world is run by, and for the benefit of, cats.
            It’s perfect.. It will appeal to the conspiracy theorists and the cat lovers. I shall call it The Feline Conspiracy. It might even be true. Someone must be running the show, and I’m damn sure it’s not us. It would explain that smug, all-knowing look they have. Take Friar Tuck, for example. I never advertised for a cat. He just walked in one day and took possession. He gets a roof over his head, three meals a day, unlimited tummy tickling, and what do I get? The dubious pleasure of his company.
            I’ll need to do some research, on Ancient Egypt, cat cults and so on, but I can start roughing out a proposal straight away.
Cheers
Jason
           
To: Tanya@outline.com
From: Jason@wizard.co.uk

Hi
Tuck has been behaving strangely of late. Normally he never takes any notice when I’m writing, but whenever I’m working on the book he won’t leave me alone. He keeps jumping on my knee, rubbing his head against my face, dabbing at the keyboard with his paw. Sometimes he even sits on it. Very odd.
            I’ve had a letter back from the publisher. He likes the idea, wants to see a synopsis and the first three chapters. I’ve done those already. At this rate I should be finished in a few weeks. Tuck permitting.
Be good
Jason

To: Tanya@outline.com
From: Jason@wizard.co.uk
 
Book’s still going well. It’s not difficult churning out this stuff. The basic technique is simple. You pick an undeniable fact, for example, that cats were sacred in Ancient Egypt. You then build some hypothesis on it - say, that the Egyptians recognised that cats were a superior species. Then you assume your hypothesis to be fact, and build another round of speculation on that . . . and so on. And on. You have to you keep saying you are going to prove this that and the other. Repeat this enough and you can move on to ‘as I have already shown’ without anyone noticing that you have not actually proved anything. Include quotations from esoteric journals (you can make them up, no-one will check), or ancient manuscripts, now unfortunately lost. And don’t forget to hint that the authorities know more than they are letting on. Remember the people who read this kind if thing are not very bright (if they were, they wouldn’t be reading it)
    Tuck is still being a nuisance. Last week he deleted three chapters. Luckily I save everything on floppy disc. Then yesterday he ate five pages of hard copy and was sick all over the keyboard. If I believed what I was writing I’d be thinking sabotage.      
           
To: Tanya  
From: Jason
 
The publishers written back to say they want the complete manuscript as soon as possible. Apparently they have a gap in their spring list. That’s really cheered me up, and I have to admit, I’m feeling a bit down this morning. I had this weird dream last night and I can’t get it out of my head.
            I dreamt I was lying in bed and Tuck was sitting on my chest breathing fish fumes into my face.
            ‘Nyuggh!’ I said.
            ‘We wanted a word with you,’ said Tuck.
            At this point I noticed the room was full of cats.
            ‘What?’ I croaked.
            ‘It’s about this book you’re writing. We want you to stop. It’s too dangerous.’
            ‘What do you mean - dangerous? It’s only a bit of fun. It’s not true.’
            Silence.
            ‘You can’t mean - it’s never - ‘
            ‘Not quite. Not exactly the way you’ve written it, but near enough.’
             I would have laughed if there hadn’t been several tons of cat squashing my diaphragm.
            ‘But no-one’s going to believe it!’
            ‘And what if someone did? Every time one of you has found out about us, the result has been persecution. Have you any idea how many cats were slaughtered in the middle ages?’
            ‘This is ridiculous,’ I protested. ‘I’ve put weeks of work into that book. I’m not going to give it up just because a load of moggies don’t like it.’
            I could sense tails twitching all around the room.
            ‘I told you this was a stupid idea,’ snapped the ginger tom from next door but one. ‘You can’t reason with monkeys.’
            Tuck quelled him with a glance. ‘Some of my friends wanted to proceed to extreme measures, but I managed to persuade them that a friendly warning would be enough for now. Just make sure you heed it.’
            ‘And if I don’t?’
            A dozen pairs of green eyes glared at me with unmistakeable menace.
            ‘Sssteps will be taken,’ hissed a Siamese.
            Tuck rose and began to walk down my body, every paw landing like a pile-drover.. At my feet he looked back.
            ‘Be a good lad. Just drop it. All right?’
            I sat up. ‘What makes you think you’re doing such a brilliant job running the world anyway,” I called after him. “Perhaps it’s time us monkeys had a go!’
            I know it was only a dream but it’s shaken me up a bit. It was so real. Still, enough of that. I must get on. I have a deadline to meet.
           
To: Tanya

 Well, I”ve finished the book at last. I must say, I am pleased with it, though it took me longer than I expected. I think it has exactly the right mix of plausability and insanity. After reading it, no-one will look at a cat in quite the same way. Tuck seemed to give up after that dream I had and finally stopped interfering. He’s been very aloof lately. I hope I haven’t offended him. He spends most of his time out hunting. He brings home dead mice all the time and leaves them around for me to find. There was a headless one on the keyboard this morning. Not funny.
            Anyway, I’m done. The book is all printed out and parcelled up, ready to send out. I’ll post it off in the morning. Tonight I’m going into town to get totally rat-arsed.
           
To: Tanya
 
I found this weird message on the screen when I got back. I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember it was morning and I was lying on the floor with a splitting headache. The words were still there. I dragged myself to the desk and waited for my eyes to focus.
            DRE JASON it said.YU SHOUD HAVE LISSEND. YOUU GOT IT ALL WRONG. ALL WEVE EVER DOBNE IS FIGHT YUR ENEMIS. I WARND YOU. TOO LATE NOW. YUOR PROTECTION HAS BEEN WITHDRAWN SORRRY TUCK
            It wasn’t there when I went out last night. Come to that, I left the computer switched off, I’m sure I did . I wish I could think straight. Cats don’t leave messages on computers. Cats don’t talk. Do they?
            I’m losing touch with reality.
            I want to throw up.
           
To: Tanya
  
Dear God. I’ve seen them. They’re out there, waiting for me. I opened the door and there they were, massing in the hall, bodies pressed together, a heaving grey horde with red eyes and naked pink tails. I slammed the door shut.
            What did the message say? ‘All we’ve ever done is fight your enemies’
            Rats.
    The real enemy. Cats have protected us from them throughout human history. Tuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. Come back. Please.
            I can hear noises from the other side of the door; claws scrabbling, rodent teeth gnawing. How long will it take a few hundred rats to chew through a door?
            Please, Tanya, help me. I left my phone in the kitchen. Call the Police. Call the Fire Brigade. Call Environmental Health.
            For heaven’s sake, look in your inbox.
            HELP!

Bye-bye Blackbird

It was an outrage. A diabolical liberty, that’s what it was. I mean, what had we ever done to them? We woke them up with the dawn chorus, every morning, never missed. We gave them a song in the evening as well. Many’s the time I saw the king take a break from reckoning up his tax yield, just to listen. The queen used to leave her crusts on the parlour window sill, after she’d finished stuffing herself with bread and honey. We thought they liked us.
        Our best friend, as we thought, was the laundry maid. Every morning she'd come into the palace yard to hang out the washing, and she’d have her pocket full of rye to scatter for us. We got to look for her. When she was due there’d be a crowd of us on the fence, not just blackbirds, but starlings, sparrows, chaffinches, even a robin or two, all sitting there with our beaks open.
        We knew there was a big feast planned for the king‘s birthday. We were looking forward to it. Whenever the court has a good blow-out, there's always be plenty of pickings left over for us. We little thought …    
        The big day dawned. We gave his Majesty a specially rousing chorus at 4.30am to mark the occasion. Then we went off to wait for the maid to bring us our breakfast. She must be feeling generous this morning, we thought, because she’d brought two pocketfuls of rye this time. She went in, and no sooner had we got properly stuck in -
        Someone went and dropped a bloody great net on us!
        You never heard such a screeching and a twittering and a chattering! A couple of nasty little boys started to disentangle us from the net - I’d have liked to say we got a few pecks in, but I think most of us were too scared to do anything. They let the sparrows and other riff-raff go, but all us blackbirds they put in a cage. Twenty-four of us they had in the end. They took us to the back door of the palace, and when one of the scullery maids answered, they said, ‘We got the blackbirds - where’s our sixpence?’
        Sixpence! That’s all we were worth to them. It was an insult. Didn’t they realise I’d won Bird Songster of the Year three times? That should have been good for a shilling, in itself. But worse was to come. As the girl carried us in we heard her shout, ‘Here they are, chef! The blackbirds for the pie.’
        Of course, we’d heard that in some countries they ate blackbirds, But we’d always thought it was a nasty foreign habit. Not British. What was the world coming to? Perhaps it had something to do with being in Europe now. We gave ourselves up for lost.
        I don’t know how long we waited before someone came and put us into a large pie dish. Next thing, the top was sealed with a great wodge of puff pastry, and we were shoved in the oven. Now, I’m not saying we were actually baked. We were only in long enough to brown the top a bit. But it got very hot and airless, not to mention dark and crowded, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the effect extreme terror has on the bowels. Suffice it to say, it was not pleasant in there. Not pleasant at all.
        After a while we felt the pie dish being moved, carried along then put down. We heard trumpets blaring faintly though the pie crust. Suddenly we could see light as a sword broke through the pastry, and there was the king staring down at us, looking ever so surprised.
        They said as the pie was opened we started singing. You must be bloody joking. We could barely croak. We got out of there fast enough, all the same.  We were all terribly bewildered and disorientated, we had a job finding our way out of the hall. One or two flew into the windows and stunned themselves, and one poor young bird, scarcely more than a fledgling, was so frightened she flopped on the floor and couldn’t move. I think the cat got her. Most of us made it out of the door in the end. Quite a few of the courtiers got strafed on the way, and I wouldn’t have fancied the sherry trifle, myself. I personally bombed the queen’s new dress, and from the look on her face, I don’t think the chef will be baking blackbird pie again soon.
        My nerves have recovered pretty well, considering, though I’ll never be the bird I was. I don’t go near the palace any more. Dawn chorus? They can stuff it! I did manage to get my own back on that laundry maid. As soon as I felt up to it I flew back and waited for her to come out with the washing. While she had her hands full, I swooped down and gave her a good peck on the nose. Some say now I pecked it right of, but that’s rubbish. I don’t have a big enough pecker. Still, she didn’t half squeal!
        But I haven’t been able to touch a grain of rye, since.
     

               

A Bride for the Sultan
Fishing for Nessie
Goosed
Violet sees Red
Bird Perfect

A Bride For The Sultan

The Little Brass Monkey

Once upon a time there was a little brass monkey.  He lived with his friends  China Dog and  Crystal Hedgehog, on a nice warm mantelpiece above the fire.

One morning Brass Monkey woke up, and the world outside the windows was different.  Everything was white.

“What is it?”  he cried.

China Dog, who was an antique and so had seen a few winters,  said, “It’s called snow.  It happens when the weather gets cold.  All the children go out to play in it.  They make snowmen, and throw snowballs, and slide on the ice.”

“That sounds fun,”  said Little Brass Monkey.  “I want to go out and play.”

“You can’t do that,” said Crystal Hedgehog.  “Don’t you know what happens to brass monkeys who go out in the cold?”

“No.  Do you?”

“Not exactly,”  admitted Hedgehog.  “But,”  she added in a whisper, “I’ve heard it’s something quite, quite dreadful.”

“I think you’re making it up,”  growled Brass Monkey.  “Are you coming?”

China Dog looked over the edge of the mantelpiece and shuddered.  “We can’t climb down there,”  he said.  “What if we slipped?  We’d break.”

“Suit yourself.”  Brass Monkey jumped from the mantelpiece, bounced three times on the hearthrug and stood up.

“Are you all right?”  called Hedgehog.

“Not a dent on me.”

Little Brass Monkey ran to the window, and began to climb up the curtain.  The small window at the top was slightly open.  He squeezed through and dropped down into the snow.

What fun he had!  He threw snowballs the size of peas at the children, but they never noticed.  He slid on their slide.  Wheeee!  It was cold, but he ran around to keep warm.

He bumped into a snowman.

“What are you doing out here?” asked the snowman.  “Don’t you know brass monkeys should stay where it’s warm, if they don’t want to risk losing their - ”

“Bollocks!”  said Little Brass Monkey.

“Exactly.”  said the snowman.

“You can’t scare me!” cried Monkey, and ran off again.

But it was starting to get dark in the garden, and the children had gone in for their tea.

Perhaps it is time I went back inside, thought Little Brass Monkey.

Only when he went back to the window, there was no curtain on the outside for him to climb up, and the wall was slick with ice.  He went to the back door, but it was shut tight.

He crouched on the step, shivering.  It grew colder and colder. After a while he could not feel himself at all.  Not his hands nor his feet, not his tail or  .  .  .  anything.  It was a very long night.

Eventually the sun heaved itself over the horizon, touching the snow with pink.  The house began to stir.  The door opened.

“What’s this?  Our brass monkey?  Who took him outside?”

Someone picked him up and carried him inside, while two tiny brass spheres gleamed unnoticed in the morning sun, soon to be kicked off the step to disappear into the snow.

Little Brass Monkey sat and shivered so hard the whole mantelpiece vibrated.  It was a long time before he thawed out enough to answer the enquiries of his friends.

“What happened to me?  I got locked out, that’s what happened,”  he squeaked at last.

“Your voice sounds strange,”  said Crystal Hedgehog.

“I think,”  said China Dog, “you’ve lost something.”

Little Brass Monkey looked down - and squealed a terrible squeal.

He recovered, up to a point, but he was never the monkey he had been.  So the moral of this tale is - if you are a brass monkey, stay in the warm, or you too may go out a baritone and come back a countertenor.

Fishing for Nessie



"Are ye awa' fishing the night?"
        "Och, aye,"  replied Angus McSporran.
        "Well, mind yersel', I hear Nessie's aboot,"  said Jock.
        "Dinna fash yersel', I'm no' feared o' yin."  Angus laughed and continued on his way.
        It was a braw bricht moonlicht nicht as Angus rowed his boat out onto the tranquil waters of the loch.  He baited his hook with an old sock and settled back to wait.  He had brought a large slab of his wife's home made Dundee cake in case he felt hungry, and a bottle of Old Macdonald to keep out the chill.  He whiled away the time by mentally reviewing his bank statements and playing the occasional tune on the bagpipes.
        After one particularly excruciating  squeal from the pipes, he stopped and listened.  Was that not an answering squawk from across the loch?  He played another wailing note.  There it was again!  And closer.  He noticed a V-shaped ripple heading at seed towards his boat.  Then the water boiled around him and a huge head popped out.
        "Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,"  murmured Angus.
        The beastie, though definitely sleeket, did not look very timorous, and the only one cowering was Angus.
        Luckily Nessie did not seem particularly interested in him.  All her attention was fixed on - the Dundee cake.
        Angus cut a slice and tossed it towards her.  Nessi caught it neatly, gulped, swallowed and sank like a stone into the waters of the loch.
        This was hardly surprising.  Mistress McSporran's Dundee cake would have sunk the Titanic.  Angus groaned.  If only he'd had his camera.  He could see the photos now, on the front page of the Daily Record.  They would have been worth millions!
        Perhaps not all was lost. With trembling hands he attached  the rest of the cake to his hook, moistening it for good measure with Old Macdonald.  He took a large dram himself, then cast his line.
        The bait was taken.  The line grew taut.  Angus pulled.  So did Nessie.  The boat began to move, faster and faster, its churning wake shining in the moonlight.
        They say if he had let go he would have been saved, but with £££ signs flashing before his eyes he held on.  A lonely ghillie on the hillside was the last to see him, arrowing across the loch like a water-skier, his boat left far behind.  Then Nessie dived.
        All they ever found was his sporran.

Goosed

One day Fred was walking past farmyard gate when a goose poked its head through the bars.
    'Pssst!' it said.
    'Waddya want?'
    'Get me out of here,' said the goose.  'It's nearly Christmas, and the farmer's wife has a glint in her eye.'
    'What's in it for me?'
    'Golden eggs.'
    'OK.'
    Fred picked up the goose, stuck it under his arm, and went home. He put it in the garden shed. His pa never did any gardening, so he reckoned it was safe enough. He fed it on all the scraps he could save from dinner, anything he could sneak into his pocket  when his ma wasn't looking.  Soon the goose was getting fat, while Fred started to look quite skinny.
    "What about these golden eggs, then?' he asked.
    'Patience,' said the goose. 'I'm working on it.'
    Finally, just before Christmas, Fred had enough.  He got himself a cleaver and went to the shed.
    'Right,' he said. 'I want my gold eggs.  Twenty-two carat. Now. Or else.'
    'Or else what?'
    Fred raised the cleaver. 'I'll make do with roast goose.'
    The goose reared up, hissing.  It was an extremely large goose.  Fred dropped the cleaver and turned to flee, but the goose knocked him flat. It stood on his chest, cackling with laughter.
    'Gold eggs?  You've been had, boy. Whoever heard of a goose laying gold eggs?'
    At the door of the shed it stopped and looked back.
    'Besides,' it said. 'I'm a gander.'



Violet sees Red

Violet was feeling very blue.  She had been in the pink, until she saw the letter.  It was addressed to her boyfriend, Matt White.  She had been going through the pockets of his new indigo jeans when she found it. It was from his secretary, Scarlett, her with the cornflower eyes and platinum hair. It declared, in purple prose, her undying love.
    Immediately the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head.  Now Violet knew why he'd been doing so much overtime!  But she rose to the occasion.  Her brow black as thunder, she stormed down to his office to confront them.
    They were in a clinch, but sprang apart when they saw her.  Scarlett's face turned ivory pale.  It was brown trouser time for Matt, who tried to escape.
    "Oh no you don't, you coward," gritted Violet, crimson with rage.  "I always knew you had a yellow streak!"
    She pulled out a gun.  "Don't mauve!"  she yelled.
    Matt turned puce.  "But honey, I never promised fidelity," he pleaded.  "At least, that's a bit of a grey area."
    This only made Violet madder.  "Not to me." she cried.  A streak of orange fire erupted from the muzzle as she pulled the trigger.
    Scarlett screamed, as blood splattered the beige carpet. "Call a ruddy copper!"
    "What have I done?" cried Violet.  "My only love!"
    She dashed out to her gold BMW, drove straight to the White Cliffs and over the edge.  A maroon summoned the lifeboat, but too late.  Even the Navy could not find her. She was lost in the depths of the azure sea.

A Bit Off Colour
Dogsbody
Thunderguts in Love
A Better Place?

Combat Ants



"Sonia, wake up," said the alarm clock.  "It's seven o'clock.  I have your tea ready."         
         She stirred, clinging to sleep, but the sweet insistent voice would not leave her alone.
         "Come along.  It's time to get up.  Your tea will be cold."
         Sonia sat up.  "I hadn't finished my dream." 
         She pulled the Dream-Net from her head, massaging her temples where the electrodes had rested.  She hated waking before the end, it left her disorientated all morning.  Also, this dream had been an expensive one, specially ordered.
        "I thought I told you half past seven."
         The alarm took no notice.  "Please drink your tea,"  it said.
         Sonia reached for the mug, sipped - and choked. 
         "You've put sugar in it!"
         "Sugar?  Surely not."
         "I can taste it."  She slammed the mug on the bedside console, spilling hot liquid on the surface.  "That is undrinkable."
         "I'm so sorry, I'll make you another."
         "Don't bother, I'll have breakfast instead." 
          It's going to be one of those days, she thought.  What can the stupid machines be thinking of?  I expect I'll find the kitchen has burned my toast next.
         Her breakfast waited as usual. She went to the table, was halfway across the floor before she saw them.  Hundreds of them, on the floor, the seats, even - horrors! - on the breakfast table.
        "Ants!"  Her voice rose to a squeak.  " Get rid of them."
        She fled to the living room, and sank into the comforting embrace of a flexiseat.
        "I need a drink."
        "Tea or coffee?"  asked the house.
        "I mean a proper drink, idiot.  Whisky will do."
        "Is that wise?  You have not eaten your breakfast."
        "Don't argue with me, house."
        Sonia sipped her whisky, as her heartbeat returned to normal.  Messages were flashing on her workstation.  She ignored them.
        "News,"  she ordered.
        Immediately a  holo formed in the middle of the room, of slender towers soaring into the sky, accompanied by the soothing voice of a newsbod.
        "  .  .  .  major malfunctions in Towercities 56 and 129 have been traced to the removal of microcomponents from the control systems.  Techrobs are dealing with the problem and normal conditions will be reestablished shortly.  However residents are asked not to leave there homes or attempt to use any lifesystem until the crisis is over.  Please stay tuned for further developments.
        "Although communications devices have not been affected, the number of emergency calls has led to a temporary overload.  Comnet have asked users to be patient until the jam clears.
        "Techmin has announced that the rumours of a connection between the recent troubles and the plagues of ants, which have been reported in various locations, are  unfounded  .  .  . "
        Sonia spilled her drink.  Ants?  She hurried back to the kitchen. At first she thought they had gone.  Her breakfast still lay on the table.
        "Take it away."
        "Shall I make you another?"  murmured the kitchen.
        "No."  She was no longer hungry.  Her eyes searched the floor for tiny scurrying bodies. There was one.  Another.  A line of them, stretching across the floor.  They each carried something.  Leaning down, Sonia made out flecks of white. Sugar?  She followed the line into the garden.  In the diffuse sunlight penetrating the UV filter she watched it continue, over the paving, past the tubs of permaflowers, and under the back gate.
        "Open,"  she cried.
        "I beg your pardon.  I am a security gate.  I must conduct a retinal scan.  Please step closer."
        Fuming with impatience Sonia waited while a pulse of laser light was shone in her eyes.  At last the gate opened.  She stepped outside, looking around her in amazement.  She had never been out here before.  The back way was only used by utility robots.  If she had thought about it at all she would have expected a properly surfaced area where they could wait until required.  Instead she found herself standing, not on the familiar smooth pastel shaded plasticon, but on a strange dark brown substance, cracked a little in places.  With a profound sense of shock Sonia realised she was looking at - bare earth.  Those green spindly things sticking out of it must be plants.  Free plants. What was it they were called?  She searched her memory for the archaic term.  Oh yes.  Weeds.  And trees - she had seen pictures of them.   She had never realised how tall they were.  Sunlight slanted through their leaves. To think all this existed on the other side of her garden wall.  She must inform the authorities and have it dealt with.
        First, though, the ants.  The procession stretched away into the - what was it? - the wood.  Sonia followed, trying not to brush against the weeds.  She had heard some attacked people, with thorns or poisonous stings.  Strange rustling noises surrounded her, and the air smelt wrong.  She knew how a wood was supposed to smell -   'Woodland Glade' was her favourite choice on the air synthesizer - and this was nothing like it. The undergrowth grew thicker, forcing her to forget her caution and push her way through. Then she stopped, staring.
        She was in a small clearing.  In front of her stood a tower, at least five metres high.  It reminded her of the Towercities on the holocast, except it was made of mud.  Walkways spiraled round it, leading to openings from which light shone.  Machinery hummed faintly.  Columns of ants converged on it, many carrying the white specks she had noticed earlier.
        Sonia knelt, screwing up one eye to activate her magnilens implant.  Now she could see what they carried.
        The ants were all clutching microchips.
        Something tickled her leg.  She jumped to her feet, brushing frantically.  The ants milled around, obviously agitated.  They knew she was there.
        Sonia fled through the undergrowth without thought of stings or thorns, not stopping till she was safely inside her own house.  The holocast  was still playing.  She recognised the thin face and fanatical stare of Elvin Starcrost, the leader of the Natural Party, or Earthworms, as they were vulgarly known.
        "  .  .  .  was simply a matter of time,"  he was saying.  "We have ravished Nature, distorted her, enslaved her, but we have never conquered her.  Now the natural world is taking its revenge.  If we ignore what is happening  .  .  . "
        "Off!"  she ordered and the voice died.  She hurried to her workstation.
        "I have a call from Gringas,"  said the house.
        "I'm not taking any calls.  Get me Pest Control."
        "He insists it is urgent."
        "Oh, very well."
         Gringas was in charge of maintaining the lifesystems of all the units in her sub-block.  His image in the holophone wavered, then firmed.  He looked strained, with dark circles under his eyes.
        "Sonia, are you all right?  Have you had any problems - with your house, I mean?"
        "Nothing important."  Sonia frowned, remembering sugar in her tea.
        "Thank Gates.  You still have some time.  Listen, you must get out of there.  Now.  Don't stop to pack, grab the basic necessities and go."
        "But I never leave my house."
        She could not remember when she had last had to go Outside.  She did her job at her workstation, shopped through the Comnet, for company she holophoned her friends or held a virtual party. She did not at present wish to reproduce.  Why go out?
        "Haven't you seen the news?  What's been happening in the Towers?"
        "I know there've been malfunctions - "
        "Families trapped in their units for weeks without food or water.  People boiled alive in their Jacuzzis.  Suffocated by their own beds.  Nothing's been on the news, they're trying to keep the lid on.  You must escape while you can.  It hasn't reached the suburbs yet."
        "I can't go out,"  wailed Sonia.  "If I do the ants will attack me."
        "Ants?  What ants?"
        "Behind my house - "
        "Of course,"  he said when she had finished.  "It all fits.  They must have been at it for months.  Years.  I suppose no-one noticed at first, with all the fail safes they had.  Now so many key components have been removed it's gone critical."
        "I can't go.  I must contact Pest Control."
        Gringas laughed.  "Pest Control crashed days ago.  You think you're the only one with problems?   I'm telling everyone to make for the disused shopping mall on the edge of town.  All its systems have been stripped out, so it should be okay, if anywhere is.  Hurry."
        "But it's not safe,"  whispered Sonia.  "They - they saw me. They know where I am."
        "Safer outside, I should think.  Please yourself, but whatever you do, don't - "  his voice cut off as he vanished in a storm of snow.
        Sonia cowered in her chair, staring at the walls, so long her protectors.  To go outside, to walk around in unfiltered sunlight (everyone knew how dangerous that was) with nothing above her but sky - unthinkable.
        She ran to the bedroom.  "Pack me a bag,"  she shouted.  "Warm clothes - no, light - oh, something of everything."
        All round the room doors opened to disgorge masses of clothing of all kinds, forming an untidy heap on the floor.
        "What are you doing?  That's not what I meant."  She sank with a moan of despair onto the bed, only to leap up as it started to fold.  "Stop being so horrid."
        Leaving the clothes where they lay she made for the front door, but instead of opening politely at her approach it remained firmly shut.  She beat on it with her fists.
        "Open!  Open you stupid door!"
        The back.  Try the back.  She turned -
        Seeping under the kitchen door they came.  Not a dozen, or a hundred.  No, millions.  A brown stain flowing towards her across the floor, slow, inexorable.  The ants.
        There must be a manual control. Her searching fingers found a small knob and twisted desperately.  At last, a faint click.  The door opened and she stumbled into the street.
        She raced to the nearest autocar and climbed in.  As the door hissed shut she looked back.  A tide of ants was already flowing from her front door.
        "Please state your destination,"  said the car.
        "Shopping mall,"  she gasped.  What was its name? Oh, yes.  "Riverbank."
        "Certainly, madam."
        She leaned back, relaxing, as the car purred through the empty streets.  Everywhere seemed normal. She caught a glimpse of the nearest Towercity in the distance, its top hidden by cloud (or was it smoke?).  Her destination came in sight, a stubby tower. Her autocar took its place in a steady stream of others, all converging upon it.  Yet something was wrong.  The place looked different  Surely they had never built malls out of - mud?.
       "Where are you going?  I told you - "
        The car did not answer.  She felt something crawling on her leg.  An ant.
        "Stop!  Let me out!"
        The car was picking up speed.  The tower loomed before her, a big brother to the one in the wood.  At its base tunnels led into darkness.  As they drew closer she could see the occupants of the other cars, screaming silently in their plastic bubbles, their terror mirroring her own. Her last coherent thought, as the hungry tunnel mouth swallowed her, was: I should have walked . . .




An Everlasting Cold



Of course, I should have known better. Not got my hopes up, imagining I'd find the answers to everything. But I always was curious. And I'd learnt reading from my ma, just as she learnt it from hers. In her day there was still some use in it. If you found a cache of tinned food, it helped to be able to make out the labels. Now they are pretty well all gone, you can't tell what you've got till you've hacked the tin open, but I still like to practice on any scrap of print I come across.
        So you can imagine how I felt when we broke into the Book Vault. Mind you, we were disappointed at first, bitterly disappointed. We'd staked everything on finding food. We'd left our old territory as it became worked out, following the Old Devil across the ice, looking for some other likely location. We hadn't much left in the way of provisions by the time we found one. You can tell where the Old Ones built by the humps and hollows in the snow. The Dowser found us a good place to dig (they can sense them somehow, as cavities underfoot), and we sank a shaft. Terrible hard work it was. The deeper you go the more compacted the snow gets, till at the finish it's like iron, but what choice did we have? It was dig or starve.
        When we finally broke through we thought we'd hit the jackpot. An echoing space filled with row after row of shelves, as far as the light from our flickering lamps could reach. We'd heard of such places, though not from anyone who'd seen them with their own eyes. Halls stuffed with treasures of all kinds, and enough food to keep the tribe going for years. Supermarkets, they were called.
        I was one of the first in. I remember going to the nearest shelf and taking down one of the objects I found there. I knew what it was, even though I'd never seen one before. Ma told me there'd been quite a few around when she was a girl, but they'd all been used up long ago.
        'What is it?' said Sher, coming up behind me.
        'A book.'
        The others were following behind, swarming down the rope, peering into the darkness. We fanned out, searching, the whole tribe, running up and down between the stacks, calling to each other. In the end we gathered back at our entry point. No-one had found anything to eat, only books. Thousands and thousands of books.
        It spelt the end for the Old Devil. A chief is only chief as long as he can keep the tribe fed. Soon after he joined the ancestors, and the White Devil ruled in his stead. Almost immediately the gods relented, for we unearthed a store of dried food, which only needed to be mixed with water. Of course, we had to melt the snow, but now we found that the discovery of the Book Vault was a blessing after all, for we had an almost inexhaustible supply of fuel.
        The tribe set up camp inside the Vault, safe from the blizzards of the surface. We cleared a space under the entry shaft, and built our fire there so the smoke would rise up through it. We sank other shafts. This whole area must have been a gathering place of the Old Ones, for it was full of the halls and dwelling places, nearly everywhere we dug we found food, or clothing, or strange artefacts from the Time Before. We settled in, and built our shrine to the great god, Tesco, and Asda his consort, and after a few weeks, the White Devil decreed that the tribe was secure enough to resume breeding.
        This was good news for Sher and me. We'd been paired three years, but you can't keep a child while the tribe's on the move, finding food for ourselves is hard enough. Two infants already we'd abandoned to the snows. Now we had a chance to rear one. We made our nest in a corner between the book stacks, and lined it with scraps of cloth we found in a nearby excavation. Sher grew sleek as she began to restore the layers of fat lost during our recent wanderings.
        The White Devil had big ideas. She set the strongest in the tribe to work, driving tunnels through the ice to other buried buildings, so we could move between them without having to cross the surface at all. That was where we were most vulnerable, not only to the cold, but also to other searchers. More than once we'd been driven from a find by stronger, more numerous tribes. This one, we intended to keep.
        One of my tasks, when I was not out foraging, was fetching books from the shelves to feed the fire. Some of them I held back from the flames for a while, to read. As I said before, my mother had taught me as a child, and the Old Devil had not discouraged me. Not all the places we had dug into in our travels were safe to enter, many a tribe had lost members by not heeding the word 'Danger'. The White Devil, I was not so sure of - she tended to undervalue skills she did not herself possess.
        Still, she did not forbid me. In fact, one night as we all sat around the fire after the evening meal, she saw me smile at the title of the book I had taken from the pile waiting to be burned, and called me to her.
        There was something about the White Devil which had always repelled me. Maybe it was her white hair and pale skin, or the little red eyes. She also was pregnant, and had replenished her fat stores so effectively that she was almost perfectly spherical.
        'What's the joke?' she grunted.
        I showed her the gold lettering on the spine of the book. 'It's called "The White Devil".'
        She laughed. 'Read me some.'
        I opened the book at random. 'I have caught,' I read.
        'An everlasting cold; I have lost my voice
        Most irrecoverably. Farewell glorious villains.
        This busy trade of life appears most vain,
        Since rest breeds rest, where all seek pain by pain '
        'And what does that mean?"
        'I haven't the faintest idea.'
        She took the book from me, flipped through it for a moment, then with a shrug tossed it into the fire. The pages flared, the odd words standing out before blackening, fading to nothing.
        'That's all books are good for,' she said.
        The trouble was, she was right. When I was a kid I used to dream of finding a book. I'd never seen a whole one. Occasionally a scrap of paper, a torn page, would turn up; a few word of print, an impossibly coloured picture. We know, from the stories passed down, that once there was a time, every year, when the snow went away and the ground turned green, the sky blue. When everywhere was warm. They called it 'summer'. Only the Old Ones sinned, and the world changed.
Long ago, in the time of ma's dad's father, the tribe found a man who had lived before the Change: the last of the Old Ones. He was ancient, near death.
        The Chief they had then asked him, 'What was it, the sin of the Old Ones? What did they do, to bring this on us?'
        He answered, 'They switched off the atlantic conveyer'.
        But no-one knew what he meant.
    When we found the books, all those books, I thought, at last! Somewhere in them, there must be an answer. But it was useless. It's not enough to be able to read the words, you have to know what they mean. And somehow, through the years, we had lost the clue. Most of what I read was gibberish - what did they mean, 'mutually assured destruction', 'gross national product'?
'Switched on'?
        Some of the books I could half understand, the ones with the large print and bright pictures. I did glean some information. For instance, this was not the first time the cold had come, so maybe one day if would go, and the summer would come back. But no hint of when. And none of them told me what I really wanted to know - what was the sin? Why are we being punished like this?
        The only one I found which gave any clue was a thin volume called 'Freeze for Immortality'. It spoke of people before the Change deliberately freezing themselves, so that could avoid death and live for ever. Could that be the answer? They had somehow frozen the world to ensure their own immortality? Could they be lying there still, somewhere hidden under the ice, waiting for the thaw? When I spoke of it to Sher she was not impressed.
        'If there are thousands of frozen people, why have we never found any?'
        'Perhaps they are all together, somewhere. Plenty of places never been searched ... '

We were coming back from a foraging trip, Sher and me. A hundred yards or so from the Vault entrance we sensed something wrong. The snow was all churned up, we could see splashed of red. As we fled a shot whined over our heads.
        'Yetis!'
        It was the worst possible thing that could have happened. The Yeti tribe was feared everywhere. At some time they'd dug into an arms cache, now they were the only ones around with weapons. We had thought ourselves well away from their territory.
        'They must have seen the smoke coming from the shaft.'
        I felt sick. It was evening, most of the tribe would have been underground. Trapped. Building our camp in the Book Vault had not been so clever after all. Sher stumbled and clung to my arm, panting.
        'You could go back,' I said. 'They'll not harm you.'
        I hoped it was true. A woman carrying a child is an asset to a tribe. Maybe.
        Sher shook her head. 'I stay with you.'
        We went on. Night was falling , and the wind was starting to rise, blowing ice crystals in our faces. How could we survive, without the tribe?
        We halted in the lee of a snow bank. I scooped out a hollow just big enough to hold us both, and we crept in.
        'We're going to die, aren't we?' said Sher.
        I held her close, and rested my hand on the mound of her belly.
        'No,' I said. 'We may freeze, but we won't die. The Old Ones knew the trick of it, they wrote it down in a book, they wouldn't have done that if it wasn't true. One day they will wake. They'll know what to do. Sleep now, till the thaw comes. The ice will keep us safe till Summer. Our baby will see grass and running water ... '
        She didn't answer, she was already asleep.
        So, Old Ones, when the ice melts, come and find us. We are counting on you.

                      


Adolf's Moustache   

                          

Dr Morton Callisto, head of the Department of Experimental History at the University of Northwest England, wiped the palms of his hands and considered taking another Cannabisan, but thought better of it.  One more happy pill might send him over the top, into inappropriate euphoria.  Today would be crucial, both for himself and the Department.  He needed a clear head.  He had not schemed for months just to slip up through some last minute carelessness. Too much was at stake, extra funding certainly; there had even been hints of the possibility of a Chair.  Professor of Experimental History.  He liked the sound of that.
     It was time he went down to join the rest of the welcoming party.  The royal visitor was almost due.  He glanced up at Ernst Goldblum, founder of the discipline, gazing benignly from his frame towards the portrait of the Queen-Empress on the opposite wall.
     'Wish me luck,'  he thought.

Fred Aiken stood panting heavily as the door of the Extrapolation Lab banged behind him.              
     "Lift out again?"  asked Ruby.
     He nodded.  "If the bloody government,"  he began when he had the breath, "had put money into research back in the seventies we could have had viable atomic energy by now - but oh no, too expensive.  So we're stuck with wind farms that don't work when there's no wind and solar panels that don't work if there's no sun  .  .  .  How they expect us to do any  decent work when the equipment's turned off half the time I don't know.   Any chance of a cuppa?"
     "Make it yourself, I'm busy."  Ruby adjusted one of the knobs on the Xpol-5.  "Damn focus keeps going.  Have you got time to brew up?"
     "Yeah, plenty."  Fred filled the kettle and placed it on the small Primus stove in the corner.  "They're feeding him tea and buns in the Senior Common Room first, then he's going to Simulation.  He won't be here for ages yet."
     "Well don't make a mess.  It took me hours to clear this place up."
     "Mm.  Thought it looked unnaturally tidy.  Come to that, so do you."
     Ruby patted her hair self-consciously.  "Someone has to make the effort."  She looked him up and down, specs glinting in disapproval.
  .  "You could have worn a suit."
     "I don't have a suit.  Where's Eustace?"
     "Simulation borrowed him, for the demo."
     "Useless?"
     Ruby shrugged.  "Dave rang in sick.  Don't worry, he can't do much harm there, and it gets him out from under our feet." 
 
Five floors below the royal visitor was being treated to a resume of the theory of Experimental History.  Callisto, nerves forgotten, was in full flow.
     "  .  .  .  and then in 1944 Professor Goldblum presented his paper on Alternative Causality, applying Saduvic's tensor equations for n-dimensional space-time to the world-line of a particle in curved hyperspace, thus laying the foundations of the science of Experimental History as we know it today."
     The visitor's eyes had begun to glaze over.  "Most interesting,"  he murmured.
     "Of course,"  Callisto continued hurriedly,  "there have been great advances in both interpretation and technique since those first crude approximations.  It is now possible, as you will see, Sir, when we visit the Simulation Laboratory, to display graphically the world-line of any space-time event, together with its more important shadows."
     "Shadows?"
     "Those are the alternate world-lines, Sir, which split off from the main one at every decisive event."
     "Thank you, Dr Hazzard."  Castillo took over again smoothly.  "Of course most follow the main line very closely - in fact it has been argued that the main line is composed of an infinite
number of almost identical alternates - but occasionally at a point we call a 'cusp' we get a very large deviation.  It is these deviations which form our main field of study.  By stimulating an alternate line - what we call in technical terms 'tweaking' - then following its development to the present day, it is possible to show what would have happened if, for instance, King Harold had won the Battle of Hastings or the Gunpowder Plot had not been foiled."
     "Fascinating,"  said the visitor.  "You know, one has sometimes wondered what might have happened if one's great-uncle had not abdicated  .  .  . "  
     "Funny you should mention that, Sir,"  broke in Hazzard.  "we ran that very experiment a few months ago."
     "Really?  And what difference did it make?"
     "Absolutely none whatsoever!"  beamed Hazzard.  Castillo shot him a look of pure hatred.
     "Perhaps, Dr Hazzard, you would go up to the lab, just to make sure everything is ready?"
     The visitor, who had looked a bit flattened, perked up.  "Ah yes, must get on.  Time is money, eh?  Or should that be, history is money?"
     Castillo laughed politely.

Up in Extrapolation, Ruby was still fiddling with the controls.
     "Blast the thing,"  she muttered.  "Has Eustace been messing with it?"
     "Not that I know of."  Fred wandered over to the window and set his mug down on the sill.  Outside the rain fell solidly, blotting out the distant Cumbrian hills.  A few bedraggled students still hung around by the main entrance, clutching their sodden banners, but most of the protesters had retreated indoors. 
     "Don't leave that there!"  snapped Ruby. 
     Guiltily Fred removed the mug.  "You can't blame Eustace for everything,"  he said.
     "Why not?  Simulation must be mad.  Eustace Hazzard may be a brilliant theoretician but I wouldn't let him near any sensitive apparatus.  Not after what he did to the coffee machine."
     "You don't forgive easily, do you?"
     "I forgive,"  said Ruby darkly, "but I never forget."

"And this, Sir, is our Simulation Laboratory, where our main research is conducted."
     The visitor stared round, bemused, at the banks of instruments and rows of monitors, focusing at last on the large screen which dominated the room, almost covering the far wall. It showed what at first sight appeared to be a great river with innumerable tributaries, or a massive taproot from which thousands of tiny rootlets sprouted.
     "The graphic display shows the last hundred years,"  went on Castillo.  "Notice the large cluster of shadow-lines in the period 1914-1918, representing the Great War.  The smaller clusters mark events such as Stalin's assassination, the Sino-Russian War of '51 and the Oil Wars in the seventies.   
     "The period we are interested in is the thirties and forties - could we have a close-up please? - which as you can see is clear of any major upheaval."  He paused impressively.  "But it might not have been so, as we shall demonstrate.
     "The real fascination of this work is its unpredictability.  In accordance with classical Chaos Theory -  for as I'm sure you know, Sir, temporal fluctuations are essentially chaotic - nothing can be exactly repeated, every alternate we produce is unique.  The consequences of the most minor deviation can be  immense, even world-shattering.  In our example, an unimportant
man performs an unimportant act and yet we shall show that if he had not done so the entire course of the twentieth century would have changed.  Imagine, if you will, a world in which the British Empire no longer existed!"
     The visitor looked as if he would rather not.  "It is -er - quite safe, I take it?"
     "Of course, Sir, of course.  It is merely a simulation.  The main line is inviolate - once fixed it cannot be changed.  The past, after all, is past." 
     "Not necessarily."  Eustace, who had been fine-tuning the controls on the main simulator, looked up from his monitor as they passed.  "Goldblum's equations don't actually forbid it -
but nobody's ever dared try."
     "Why, what would happen?"
     "Well, theoretically it could induce a tau-wave, that's a temporal probability wave, which would sweep along the main world-line, changing all before it."
     "Dear me,"  said the visitor.
     Castillo bared his teeth.  "Dr Hazzard produces science fiction.  In his spare time.  Believe me, the past cannot be changed because it has not been changed!"
     "How would we know?"  murmured Eustace.

"It's no use!"  Ruby thumped the grey metal casing in frustration.  "This bloody things clapped out.  It should have been replaced years ago."
     Fred strolled over and cast his eye over the readings. 
     "You're right at the limit of its range, no wonder you're not getting anything.  Pull in closer."
     "But nothing ever happens round here.  I wanted to show him the result of the 3.30 at Kendal, ten minutes before it happened!  That would really have made him sit up and take notice."
    "Maybe, but you'd better start recallibrating, or there'll be nothing to show him at all.  They'll be here soon."
     Ruby sighed.  
     "Never mind, love.  If Castillo works things right we might all get new equipment.  As long as Eustace doesn't muck up the demo,"  he added.
     "Huh!  Castillo's not a scientist, he's a historian."  Her voice quivered with disgust.  "He'll pay out for that stupid great display screen while the real work has to scrape by on a pittance. D'you know, in Bern they can extrapolate a full forty-five minutes ahead?  And I've heard the new Series 7 can do up to an hour.  If we had that sort of range  .  .  .  I mean ten minutes is nothing.  Even if you spot a cusp coming, by the time you get a proper fix and run the evaluation the damn thing's past.  But if you could catch it while it's still far a enough away - work out its potential - tweak if before it arrives if you have to - that's where the real challenge lies!  Not with a lot of historians, poncing around in their alternate pasts."
     "You'd better set something up then, if you want to impress H.R.H.  Show him his next ten minutes.  That always goes down well, no matter how dull it is."

"The man we are interested in,"  said Castillo,  " was a total nonentity.  An Austrian painter of little talent and less success, totally unknown to history."
     The visitor coughed.  "If he's unknown, how can you tell he's one of these cusp thingummies?"
     Castillo floundered for a moment.  Intelligent questions were not part of the script.  "Er, yes.  Well.  You see that huge cluster of shadow-lines at the end of the thirties?  Nothing in the main line to cause them but if you trace them back you will see that they all converge on a single strand.  Where it leaves the main line, there's your cusp.
     "So, our man  wandered around Germany in the nineteen-twenties, settling nowhere for long, until one day he took a fancy to the daughter of the inn where he happened to be staying.  She agreed to go out with him, on one condition - that he shaved off his moustache.  A few months later they married, rather hurriedly.  Our young man had been involved in politics of the more extreme variety, but of course with a wife, and a child on the way, he had to give all that up. 
His father-in-law, who owned a brewery as well as the inn, would not have approved. 
     "Well, he worked for many years in the brewery, finally inheriting it.  He, and his business, prospered.  He took up politics again in middle age, eventually becoming Burgomaster, and died in the sixties, a respected citizen.
     "And now - if you are ready, Dr Hazzard - we would like to show you what would have happened if our young man - Adolf, I think he was called - had decided not to shave off his moustache."

"Fred!" 
     Ruby's voice sounded strange.  Fred swung round to see her staring fixedly at her monitor screen.
     "What is it?"
     "It's a cusp.  But it's huge.  It's gigantic!  I - I've never seen anything this big."
     "Have you got a fix?  Where is it?  How long have we got?"
     "It's here.  Now!"
     "Here?"  He looked around wildly.  "But nothing's happening here.  What could possibly - ?"
     Their eyes met in dawning apprehension.
     "Eustace!"

Oblivious of the dignitaries crowding around him, Eustace concentrated on the monitor screen, searching for the one strand he needed among dozens of tightly packed alternates.  With one hand he adjusted the tuner, while the other held the tweaker button, ready to deliver a measured pulse of energy.
     The door banged open.  Startled, Eustace swung round, his hand jerking.
     "STOP!"  Fred stood in the doorway, Ruby just behind him.  "Eustace!  Whatever you're doing, stop it!"
     A confused babble of voices broke out, gradually dying away as people looked up and began to take in what was happening on the main screen.
     A horrified whisper broke the silence.
     "Oh my God.  He's tweaked the main line!"
     "Do something!"  screamed Castillo.  "Tweak it back!"
     "Can't,"  Eustace replied flatly.  "It's a chaotic system.  You never get the same result twice."
     They watched, fascinated.  The main line writhed like a snake, clusters of alternates flowering and dying as the wave-front surged along its length.  1932.  1936.  Fred found he was
holding Ruby by the hand.
     "I'm frightened,"  she whispered.
     !940, '41.  Throughout the world, millions of people ceased to be, instantly replaced by other millions whose conception had just become possible. The room seemed to shimmer.  Fred looked round.  Surely there were fewer people here than there had been a moment ago?
     "I say.  Can't someone tell me what's - "
     1943.  Professor Ernst Goldblum, distinguished physicist and founder of the science of Experimental History starved to death in  Birkenau concentration camp, and instantly the Simulation Laboratory, the Department, indeed the entire University, had never existed.

                *  *  *
 
Evan Hazzard, arriving for the afternoon shift, noticed the crowd by the main gate.  Some were waving flags, others placards.  Of course, he remembered now.  Some kind of royal visit.  Nothing to do with him, thank goodness.  A thin line of blue kept the flag and placard-wavers apart.  Evan had a brief glimpse of ‘skull and crossbones' motifs and 'BAN NUCLEAR ENERGY'.  Idiots.  What did they think they could use instead?  Windmills?
     He waited in line at the barrier.  The rain fell, battering the roof of the car, but it could not dowse his good humour.  Only that morning he had had a story, his first, accepted by a leading science fiction magazine.  The letter nestled now in his breast pocket, like a talisman.  He was hoping for a quiet, routine shift.  Somehow he felt his mind might not be entirely on the job today.  Grinning cheerfully at the guard who waved him on, he drove past the barrier and the gates of Sellafield closed behind him.