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I blame the man from the ‘Pru’ by Lyz Harvey

Dear Freda,
 I hope you haven’t dropped in a dead faint with surprise! Make sure you’ve got your feet up and a cuppa within reach – it’s going to be a long letter. As you’ll have noticed from the stamp, I’m writing to you from Swaziland. Mbabwe, to be precise, which is the capital. It’s in the atlas - sort of north east of South Africa, but you have to hunt for it – it looks quite small on paper, but like anything else, appearances can be deceptive and there are vast areas of wildlife parks. Mbabwe itself is like any other capital city – good and not so good, but now that I’ve been here almost four months I’ve become accustomed to it as my new home.

I expect you thought I was still in Australia visiting Celia. I haven’t been in touch with anyone – apart from Leonard. I let him know what was going on soon after I got here, but even now he doesn’t have my full address – just a P.O. box - didn’t want him turning up, attempting a rescue job, or anything embarrassing. But I’m ahead of myself, so I’ll go back to the beginning …

It all started that afternoon when I was just settling down to watch Countdown and see what dreadful frock Carole was wearing, when for something in an advert for the ‘Pru’ made me stop and think. I couldn’t get it out of my head. It might have been the phrase about not having anything to spare, or the bit where the son tells his mother it’s time she enjoyed herself (while she’s got the chance, it implied, I suppose), but anyway I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So I slept on it to see if I’d changed my mind. I hadn’t, so I phoned them – no harm in asking, I thought. Didn’t tell Leonard, of course – not at that stage. Well it all sounded very simple, just like the advert had said. Release some of the money tied up in my house, then I’d be able to have money to enjoy before it got too late. Being a normally cautious sort, I didn’t sign anything straight away, but had a few days planning what I could do.

Now the mother in the advert had this wonderfully understanding son who was even happy to look after her little dog while she was away, I told Leonard, when I eventually phoned. D’you know, he almost snarled at me down the phone! No, he wasn’t going to be like the advert – didn’t want to see his inheritance dwindling just so that I could visit my cousin in Australia, and he wouldn’t take care of anything while I was away, either.

You knew how upset I was, and how the more I thought about it the more I was determined to go. Within a week I’d done all my homework, been given the facts and figures, knew the cost of flights and how to get a passport.  Well, I thought – if you can do all that on your own, Elsie, who needs approval from an ungrateful son? Remember that quote from King Lear? That kept ringing in my head too - “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!” All those years of putting him first after his Dad died - I’ll show him, I thought – time for me now.

The weeks with Celia were wonderful and did me a power of good – so much so that I didn’t want to return home. I decided that I could really make it the trip of my lifetime and stop off in Africa to see things I’d always dreamed of. Celia helped me get that sorted out and off I flew to Jo’burg.

While seeing the sights there I met a really nice government official from Swaziland who advised me to avoid the main tourist wildlife parks and go ‘upcountry’ as they say here. It turned out he lived just outside Mbabwe with his family – wife, grownup children and grandchildren - and he invited me to stay with them. I threw caution to the winds and accepted. He had a lovely house and a responsible job and I was made to feel very welcome.

I did go on safari and it was everything I could have wished for – elephant, rhino, zebra, big cats – oh the photos I took! I found out that Graham, as he likes to be called officially, is really Ngrara, a tribal chief, and looked up to in the local community. After I’d been there several days I was getting really fond of some of his grandchildren – beautiful manners and they show real respect for older people.

Graham’s senior wife (he’s only got one now, the second wife died some years ago, but Akna is still called senior) and I had already become great friends as she’d spent hours telling me about many of their tribal customs. She wondered if they could request a favour. “Of course” I said – thinking it would be some way of repaying them for their hospitality.

“It’s the school” she said “they need a teacher, and you used to be one in England, so would you consider working here and maybe training the other teachers a little?” I tried to protest that all that was years ago and I was retired now, but she insisted it would make no difference.

I was overcome, as you can imagine – but at the same time I could see there was a need. I could see what a difference I might make – and above all, I would be appreciated in a way that I wasn’t in England. So I thought I’d stay for a while, see what happened and how I felt about things, and now I’ve definitely made up my mind to stay. Oh it’s so lovely to feel the sun every day and to have people bid me good morning and carry my things. I’m still staying with Graham and his family, but I shall soon move into the small bungalow next door. People are queuing up to ask to be my housekeeper, would you believe!

Eventually I’ll be back to deal with my house and put it on the market, so I’d be obliged if you’d carry on picking up the post for a few more weeks. I’ll be in touch again very soon. Must be off to work – I get called “Missy Else” would you believe – isn’t that sweet? Freda, I’d forgotten what it was like to be happy; is that selfish? Anyway – God bless, dear (and God bless the ‘Pru’, too!)

Your old friend Elsie xx

P.S. the BIG secret that not even Leonard must know about is another tribal custom – soon I’m to become Ngrara’s replacement second wife. It’s so nice to be appreciated!

 
They sit,
passing time.
 
White caps cap the waves  
and seagulls swoop for scattered crumbs
they neither queue, nor wait their turn.
Dad with kids and kids
with spades and buckets hurry by
with Mum behind, a pace or two.
Relishing the temporary
relief from the tie
she stops to stare, beyond the sea.
 
They sit,
passing time.
 
Youngsters canned on lager
mouth obscenities, their victims
turn away, averting eyes.
Girls as bad as boys
bring sad reactions and a yen
for yesterday, instead of now.
Apparent affluence
is somehow pitied and simplicity
seems good, compared to this.
 
They sit,
passing time.
 
Macs awaiting rain
are neatly folded once again
and placed in laps, with resting hands.
Smiles at secret thoughts
are quickly dropped by those alone
who turn to see, if they were seen.
Eyes that gladly stare
in ways thought rude when they were young
begin to close, before the sun.
 
They sit,
watching life
passing by.

A Ghost for Marian by Stan Bloxham

“Look Mummy there’s more bluebells over there!” Henry pointed deeper into the wood away from the perimeter fence.

“Alright chick, get me some more, but don’t go too far.”

Now it was darker; the trees were closing in. Some trees were broken, dead and scorched. Within them was a tangle of greying crumpled metal sheets and buckled girders, waving a little as if tumbling slowly through the burnt wood to the ground. At the top of this tortured pile, wedged into branches, was what Henry knew to be the rear turret of a bomber plane.

A cloud moved across the sun and it was now quite dark, but Henry could see two big guns pointing from the turret to the sky, and through the Perspex he saw a man; in his seat but twisted towards Henry, away from the guns. The palms of his hands, pressed against the see-through walls, were red with blood. Henry looked at his body. Half the flying suit was burned away. The man’s left side was raw and red; the skin burned off. His oxygen mask was hanging loose and Henry could see his blackened, blistered face. The man’s eyes looked ahead through the trees to where Henry’s mum was now standing, mouth open, eyes wide, very pale, very still.

“Daddy, its daddy!” cried Henry, dropping his bluebells to the earth.

“Yes.” said Mum, then, in a quiet, frightened voice,  “ Let’s go home now.”

As the young American airman strolled into the wood, he heard voices and scuffling. He knew it must be Marian and her boy. She had come as she had promised.

His excitement turned to a bewildered resentment as he caught sight of Marian’s back, her pale yellow dress disappearing between the trees. He shouted. “Marian, Hey!”

He looked around and saw the tangled wreckage with the rear turret sticking out of the trees. The guns were long gone, the Perspex smashed, the crumbling metal skeleton empty of life. His stomach lurched. His anger slowly left him as he began to understand.

A Clear Conscience ...?By Lyz Harvey

I mutter a curse under my breath. Why did the wretched phone have to ring now of all times – just when I’ve snuggled into my superheated cosy bed on a chilly night, looking forward to reading for half an hour before turning off the light. It’s a particularly good thriller by my favourite author, and there’s nothing like a good corpse or two to take my mind off my aches and pains, until I’m ready to close my eyes and sleep the untroubled sleep that a clear conscience brings. (Well, give or take a few tight-lipped episodes at the WI this month).

Should I rush to answer it or let the machine take a message? It’s a stupid time to phone – all my friends know I’m usually in bed by 10.30 and tonight I’d sat up watching that daft competition on the telly so it’s nearer 11 o’clock. I’ll never get to it in time, anyway – let the 1571 do what it’s supposed to do. One of these days I’ll get round to having a new one, with an extension to go on the bedside table. Oh, there we are – it’s stopped. Now for my book.

I’m soon immersed in the plot again; this is what retirement should be about – being able to please myself, and if I want to have an undisturbed evening I’m entitled to it. I’ve pushed the little niggle of anxiety about the call to the back of my mind, had another sip of my nightcap and returned to the chilling tale of bodies, blackmail and a handsome young detective.

Lying down now my eyelids have decided they’ve had enough, I switch off the blanket and the bedside light and tuck the duvet around my shoulders – but wouldn’t you know it - I’m instantly awake, fretting about the phone call. I look at the clock glowing in the darkness – almost midnight. What could I do about it now? They haven’t rung back, so it couldn’t have been important; it might have even been a wrong number. I turn over, tucking the duvet in again so that only my nose shows. “Go to sleep” I tell myself firmly.

The results of the day’s gardening and the effects of the large whisky took over. For a couple of hours ... now I’m wide awake again. It’s no use – I’ll never settle at this rate, so, putting on slippers and dressing gown I’ve resigned myself to the trip downstairs and while the kettle boils and I shiver, I pick up the receiver and dial 1571.

“You have one new message ... message received  26th February at 22.30 hours.” Pause, click. A faint voice seemed to struggle for breath.

“It’s an emergency ... please ... help me .....................”

Oh my goodness. Who was it? I can’t recognise the voice. I dialled 1471.

“You were called today at 22.30 hours ... the caller withheld their number.”

I play the message again – it sounds genuine enough but I still don’t recognise the voice. I rack my brains over who it might be – in any case, what can I do? At 2 in the morning I can hardly start ringing round all the numbers in my address book to see who was in trouble over three hours earlier. They’ll have sorted it out by now, I reassure myself and return to bed.

This evening I’ve watched the local TV news.

“He phoned in vain” said the reporter. “Police say they found him with the telephone clutched in his hand, apparently attempting to call for help as he died. What is happening to today’s society? What sort of callous person ...”  I’ve switched the set off.  

But I will get that new phone.