The bits that are too long

Joe's story

2011-12-19T08:26:00.000-08:00

I was 12 and it was just another day. I was doing my paperround in the rain and I was soaking wet when one of the doors opened. A manasked me if I’d like to come in and have a cup of tea. I was glad of a warm. Ididn’t think anything about the bits in the cup at the end. It wasn’t until Iwas walking home and the lamp-posts started trying to bite me that I knew I’dhad mushroom tea.

Then I tried the bong and it was like nothing I’d donebefore. By the time I was 15 my mum and dad couldn’t take any more of me and Ilived on the streets for a while, taking all sorts. I moved back home and gotwork. I was earning more money than I was used to and I really hit the drugsand drink and was fighting all the time. I got cut up bad one day and when mymum called the doctor I lost it with him. I ended up in a mental hospital for 6months.

I came out of there to a hostel and met my first partner. Welost a baby and I couldn’t stop feeling it was down to me because of all thedrugs. I talked to my dad and we grew close like never before but then he diedand my world fell apart. I hit the drugs again bad.

Then my partner had a little girl. She was my world. When wehad a little boy my partner gave me an ultimatum: us or the drugs and fighting.I ignored her and kept doing what I was doing then I got home one day and she’dleft me. My mum begged me to stop too but I loved the drugs and the fighting.

I was out of control and when one of my dealers asked me todo a job for him I didn’t think nothing of it. All I had to do was ram someoneoff the road. I did it. 500 pills. Lovely.

Next day my kids’ mum phoned me asking me about my car.Turned out it was her cousin I’d put in hospital. I lied. Told her it wasn’tme. I told her I’d sold my car. I had to sell it quickly but when the police tracedthe car to the boy I’d sold it to I had to shut him up. I beat him up. That gotme 6 months in jail. That’s when I started to smoke the brown (heroin).

When I got out I moved into a flat with a new partner. Wehad a baby and for a while I gave up most of the drugs but we needed money so Iwent back to work on the doors. I was soon as bad as I’d been before. I thoughtI had it hidden but my partner found out and made me choose between her and thebaby and my work. I loved my job and the drugs too much so I moved out.

Then one night my head went like never before. I was out forblood. I went to see my mate and he started laughing at me. Bang, bang, I hadto knock him out. Bang, bang. I broke his nose and jaw. He started coming backfor more. I wasn’t taking any risks. Bang, bang, I couldn’t stop.

I put him in a coma.

I got 5 years IPP.

I was in prison and in a mess.

Then I met Lionel and started going to church. A man calledSteve came in to speak and he told us what his life had been like and how he’dlet the Lord into it. One of the church group prayed for me and it was like thebest high I ever had. I asked Jesus into my life and my life turned round forthe better.

My mum died last year before she had seen me beat the drugsbut I know my mum and dad are looking down on me. I never told my dad I lovedhim. Last week I phoned my sister and told her I loved her. She was suspicious,‘What you up to, Joe?’ but I understand now how much they mean to me. I knowwhat’s important. It was all about money before.

It’s been a hard journey. The hardest thing I’ve ever done.Soul-searching. I didn’t do emotions but I love myself now. Out of a really badsituation some good has come. I get laughed at on the wings but I don’t care. I’drather talk to someone now than fight them.

I’m hoping I’ll get into Teen Challenge when I get out. I’vegot so many plans. I want to help others meet Jesus. He’s my best mate, the onewho’s always there for me and who really does answer prayers.

For my little almost-English boy

2011-11-20T09:37:00.000-08:00

May you grow strong in body and mind.

May you abound in energy and enthusiasm.

May you sleep at peace with the world and may your dreams be limited only by your imagination.

May you stretch out your hand and reach for the trees and the sky, for rainbows and shooting stars.

May you walk the path God has laid before you, your eyes fixed on him.

May you relish challenge and find the strength and resources to face difficulties, resolve dilemmas and may you come through smiling and in good spirit.

May you see the miraculous in the mundane, wonder in the workaday.

May you seek truth, the truth that frees and enriches.

May your heart be for others; may you be an instrument for change.

May you experience passion and peace.

May you know the exhilaration of success and the refreshing of solitude.

May you have friends who support, love and admonish you.

May laughter be always near your eyes and a loving heart your constant companion.

And know this:

Wherever you go,

Whatever you do,

You are loved without condition

By your mum and dad,

And by your grandparents.

But great as our love for you is

It is nothing in comparison to the love the King of the universe has for you.

May you become the man God has created you to be, a man fulfilled, who knows what true wealth is and who can consider himself the richest man in the world.

The parable of the builder

2011-09-09T14:01:00.000-07:00

A builder was told to go to Swansea and build a new church. He was to spare no expense as it was to be a special church, the best church he could build. To start him off on his task his boss gave him a foundation stone made of pure gold.

When he arrived in Swansea the builder began to gather materials to build the church but instead of going to the usual merchants he trawled scrapyards, junk heaps and rubbish tips for damaged bricks, cracked glass and rotted wood. Other builders in Swansea who’d heard rumours about this new special church laughed at him but he just smiled and kept on collecting the bricks rejected by everyone else.

Then he began to build the church. First he put in place the foundation stone his boss had given him. Then he carefully laid down bricks cementing them together with patience; he glued the glass back together with care; and he repaired the wood with love.

As the church took on its shape the other builders laughed even more because from the outside it looked shabby and marred. But anyone who ventured inside found it to be more magnificent than the cathedrals of old, full of precious stones, diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, that sparkled and shone in the glow of the foundation stone.

The parable of the black sheep and the shepherd

2011-09-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

There was a flock of sheep. Most of them enjoyed life but not all of them were happy.

There was a black sheep. All the other sheep made fun of him because he was different.

An ugly sheep was fed up of being told by the other sheep that he was useless and good for nothing.

A sheep who’d spent most of his life in a pen struggled to fit in with the others. None of them trusted him and wouldn’t let him play with them.

A sheep who had been wounded couldn’t keep up with the other sheep and was always being left behind.

One of the sheep liked to travel from place to place. The other sheep thought he was mad and turned their backs on him whenever he turned up.

The shepherd didn’t give a monkeys about the sad sheep and the rejected sheep; he only cared about the size of his flock.

But one day another shepherd appeared and he knew the black sheep, the ugly sheep, the one who couldn’t fit in, the one who’d been hurt and the one who was only there sometimes and he called them by name.

And they left the flock and followed him to a place where the ground was level and all sheep were accepted.

Zac's psalm of gratitude

2011-07-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

Give thanks to the Lord for he is good.

His love endures forever.

His grace is more than we need.

He has saved us and promises us life eternal.

His love for us is unconditional, undeserving though we are.

He doesn’t ask or expect us to measure up to his standards

but with patience and understanding

he helps us through the struggles on our daily journey.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord

for Jesus, his son;

for the inspiration of John Smith and the ministry of Sean Stillman

through whom the community of Zac’s Place came into being;

for us, the ragamuffins, walking miracles testifying to the goodness of God.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord

for today, for the miracle of each new day,

for sunshine and for rain,

for the food we are going to eat,

for tea and biscuits,

for the wonder of new life,

for the best smile in Swansea,

for this our family and for on-going friendship.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord

who has chosen us and shown us his vision,

whose promises can be trusted,

who gives us our talents and the calling in which to use them,

who has provided us with a courageous spirit

that helps us to be open to new experiences,

who grants us peace during the hard times,

who makes his will known to us,

and who gives us the strength to accept that will.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord, the bringer of peace.

We are new creations, new once and for always.

We are recovering and recovered

and one day our recovery will be complete.

For this we thank you, Lord.

His love endures forever.

We eagerly anticipate the rest of the exciting journey

that will see your promises and plans for us fulfilled.

For freedom of choice, for individuality,

for a reason to go on living, we thank you, Lord,

His love endures forever.

Because you won’t take a day off from caring, we give you thanks.

Because you will blow away the smoke and all that blurs our senses,

we thank you Lord.

His love endures forever.

Prayer for the funeral

2011-06-15T06:56:00.000-07:00

If you want to see God you have only to look at Jesus. Standing at the graveside of his friend, Jesus wept. He understands what it is to experience the pain of loss. But in the words of Bruce Springsteen, love is a power greater than death. I'd like to pray using some of the words and ideas from the 23rd psalm that we've just heard.

To the Good Shepherd, you who promise to be close to the broken-hearted, I pray for the family here today for whom an irreplaceable person has gone.

God of love, who knows what it is to grieve, grant peace in the midst of pain and comfort in a time of need.

For Pop, when the emptiness becomes too hard to bear, I pray that you surround him with those who will support and encourage him, who will love him and hold him tight.

For Mike, Lynne and Angie, who've borne a heavy burden over the last months, I pray that the Good Shepherd will lead you to still waters, to green pastures, where you can find space to mourn and to heal, to remember your mother as she used to be before she became so ill.

For Becca, Dan, Ellie, Jo, Simon, Anna, Rob and Neil, I pray that, as you remember grandma, you find comfort in the knowledge that you meant everything to her. You and your children were her world.

For the extended family, for all of us who had the privilege of knowing Ivy, I pray that we will find inspiration in her memory.

Father God, I pray that your tender love will be a balm for spirits that are hurting so much now, that your compassion will bring about restoration of our souls.

And in the name of the Father who created us, and of his resurrected son, Jesus Christ who saves us, and of the Holy Spirit, who is with us and comforts us - may the peace of the living God be upon us - each one. Amen.

One Night

2011-06-08T00:53:00.000-07:00

Naomi

Oh Elimelech, what have I done? I have sent the girl to … to prostitute herself. For what else is it if she lies at a man’s feet and asks to share his bed? What would Mahlon say if he were here? But he’s not; like you he’s dead and gone and that is why we have to resort to these measures. How could God take you all from us? Why, God, why did you do it? Was it something I did? So bad that you chose to punish me by taking my husband and my sons? Oh Elimelech, I wish you were here now.

But have I done wrong again? By telling Ruth to go to Boaz have I sinned again? But what was I to do? We have nothing. It is by Boaz’s generosity that we are managing to live. He is a good man, honest and true. Unlike your cousin, who, I know, is our closest kinsman-redeemer. I hear nothing but bad about him in the town. Would you have Ruth tied up in marriage with him? Pah.

She will be all right with Boaz. She will be safe; he is not a man to take advantage of her. I would never forgive myself if I had sent her to your cousin and he had abused her. Every day I thank God for her and I am sorry it has come to this, to begging for help. But is it begging? We are only asking for what is lawful and expected. But it is much to ask of a man, to put his own estate at risk, his own name.

Yet Ruth is a prize worth having. She is a foreigner it’s true, and from Moab at that, but I have seen the way young men watch her as she walks down the road. She keeps her eyes averted and does nothing to draw attention to herself but still they watch and admire her. She will make him a good wife and bear him many children. If he will redeem our land.

Oh, Elimelech, have I done right?

Ruth

I cannot sleep. How can I when I lie, unbeknownst to him, at the feet of a man? If I did not know that Naomi is a good woman I would question her instructions. But I love her as my own mother. She would not send me into wrongdoing.

But to dress in my best clothes, to wash and perfume my body and then to lie next to a man – who is little more than a stranger to me – is alien to me. It goes against everything I have ever learned. But I trust Naomi. She knows what she is doing.

And Boaz is a good man. He has treated us well; he has been generous and kind. I need not fear him.

But yet, he is a man. Who is to say how a man may behave in any situation? He may wake and be angry. He may forbid me to glean in his fields. Or he may wake and not recognise me; he may think I am a prostitute for his pleasure. Oh Naomi, what have you sent me into?

But Boaz is a good man. I know that. I have heard them in the town talk of him with respect and he has treated me well. I do not need to be afraid.

But he is a man of wealth and position. He can take his choice of women to have as a wife. Why would he agree to marry me, a Moabite, a stranger? Are the laws of this land so binding that he would be obliged? And if he married me because he was forced to, what kind of marriage would that be? A marriage without love would be hard to bear.

And yet if that is what I must do to provide a home and a future for us then so be it. I will do it for Naomi.

And marriage to Boaz would not be too hard I am sure; he has shown himself to be gentle and honest.

I pray that morning comes soon and I will know what the future may hold. Mahlon, if you watch over me, keep close to me tonight.

Boaz

My God, she is so beautiful. When I woke to find her at my feet my heart raced. Would that morning come quickly so that I may know my fate. I cannot bear to see such a one as this married to that oaf of a cousin of mine; yet I must do what is right. I must choose my words carefully when I approach him.

People have said to me in the past, ‘Boaz, isn’t it time you took a wife? Think of your family name.’ And I’m sure some of the same people will say the same thing to me if God grants my request and I marry this girl.

So young, so loving, so good to Naomi. And so beautiful. What care I if she is from Moab? I have seen her work and humble herself – even to this, to lying at my feet and asking for marriage. How much must that have cost her? Her nobility of spirit becomes her well.

No! I must restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her hair. I can smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her body. I hear her soft breathing. I long to hold her close.

But am I an old fool? Would I be so willing to be Naomi’s kinsman redeemer if her daughter-in-law were ugly and vain? Am I just another whose head has been turned by a pretty girl? I cannot fool myself that she comes to me out of love – except for Naomi.

But maybe she will grow to love me. She is the one I have been waiting for. I think I knew that from the first moment I saw her.

God of my fathers, if this be your will let me be a good husband to Ruth and a good son-in-law to Naomi.

Morning cannot come soon enough.

The prayer of Judas

2011-04-22T05:50:00.000-07:00

Our Father in heaven

Have mercy on me, have pity on a poor sinner, oh, God have mercy on me.

Hallowed be your name,

You are the great and mighty God. You know what I’ve done, you know the secrets of my heart, God have mercy on me.

Your kingdom come,

That was all I ever wanted. You know that, don’t you? This wasn’t about me. You know that, don’t you, God? You know it wasn’t about me – or the money. The money, the money, 30 miserable pieces of silver, 30 denari. I sold my soul for 30 denarii. God have mercy on me for no-one else will. But you, you know why I did it. Oh God, you know. Let me know that you understand. God have mercy on my miserable soul.

Your will be done that’s what I was doing, that’s what I thought I was doing. Your will, I thought I was doing your will, wasn’t I obeying your will, God? Even Christ, he said, it. He told me to. He said, ‘go and do it quickly.’ He told me to. I took that to be his approval. I thought … I thought. God you alone know what I thought. Your kingdom come. Your kingdom come. All I ever wanted was to see your kingdom come here on earth as it is in heaven. Christ was supposed to be the messiah, the promised one, the king who would lead us to freedom, who’d set us free from the cursed Roman occupation. That was all I wanted. I thought I could help. That’s all I was doing, helping. You believe that, don’t you? You know this wasn’t what I intended, what I wanted. I never wanted to ... to see this. I sold my soul. Oh God have mercy on my miserable soul. God have pity.

Give us today our daily bread. God forgive me I sat at the table with him. I ate the bread he gave me his body; I drank his blood. Oh God what have I done? And he knew, he knew all along. He knew everything I’d done, everything I was going to do. I could see it in his eyes. His sorrow, his pain, his … fear. God, I’d been with him through it all. I’d seen love in action and I betrayed him as he knew I would. As he knew I must. Why didn’t he stop me? Why didn’t he tell the others? Why didn’t he insist they took me prisoner to stop me doing what he knew I was going to do. What I had to do. That’s what he should have done … but he didn’t. He let me get on with it. He told me to go and do it. And the others, why didn’t they work it out? He couldn’t have made it clearer that I was the betrayer if he’d pointed to me. There was no doubt who he meant. Why didn’t they stop me? Didn’t they see? Were they too blind or stupid? Were their eyes covered? They could have stopped me. It wasn’t all my fault; they should have realised. He told them. Oh God have mercy on us.

Forgive us our trespasses,

Oh, was there ever a greater trespass done? The worst of all, to betray the man who loved me. He did love me. I know it. I could see it in his eyes. Even at the end when I could hardly bear to look at his face, I could see the sorrow but I could see the love as well. He knew what I had to do. I was in the crowd as he passed. I was at the back amongst strangers. People who didn’t know me. Who didn’t point me out as the one who betrayed Jesus. But he saw me. He turned his head and looked straight at me. Just that one time he turned his head. He turned his head and looked at me. Looked at me through the crowd, through the heads and the faces he saw me. He knew I was there and he looked right at me. Oh God he looked at me. I tried to turn away. I didn’t want to look on his poor battered face. I didn’t want to see the hate and anger there. If I had been in his place I would have spat at me. But he didn’t. He looked at me and kept my gaze though I wanted to turn away. I wanted to run away and hide. But his face held no resentment, no anger, no hurt, just forgiveness. Forgiveness. As we also forgive those who have trespassed against us. God knows, I wanted to see forgiveness there. But I don’t believe what I saw. How could he forgive me? A wicked sinner.Oh God what have I done? Have mercy on me.

And what had he ever done to me? Nothing. Except love me. He loved me and that is how I repaid him. All he ever did was love me and respect me and value me. He trusted me. He put me in charge of the money. In charge of the money. He knew I was trustworthy. And I was. I was. I looked after it like it was my own. I was careful with it, yes, but what’s wrong with that? We needed money. We were going to fund a revolution. That took money. I was getting ready for that. That’s all I was doing. And I took no more than a fair pay for my work no matter what they say. That was all I did. I earned it. It was mine by right. It was only fair. My fair share. My fair share.

And lead us not into temptation,

It was all moving too slowly. I just wanted to speed things up. Speed things up, get things going. He couldn’t see the mood of the people; I could. They were ready for revolution. He only had to say the word. They’d have taken up arms. I thought they would have. I was sure they would have. They cheered him as he entered the city. They loved him. The sight of Roman soldiers taking their hero prisoner would have been too much for them, I was sure of it. They’d rise up in his defence, to free him and then the land and our people. We’d have been free again as you God intended. I could see that. Freedom. Just within reach. That’s why I did it. That’s why I did it. It wasn’t for the money; it was for the cause. God, you know I’m telling the truth here. Listen to me. You know my motives. Listen to me. You know my thoughts, before a word leaves my mouth you know it. You know I only wanted good. I was impatient. The time was right. We had the people on our side. I thought we had the people on our side. God forgive them for their treachery. How could they turn against the man who’d raised their dead, healed their sick, fed their hunger? God, how could they do it? Oh God, how could I do it? Why did I do it? Why oh why did I do it? God in heaven have mercy on my soul, Have mercy on my soul. forgive me.

And deliver us from the evil one.

From the evil one deliver me, deliver me. From evil. From evil deliver me. From all that is in my head deliver me. From the evil that I have done deliver me. From the evil that has possessed my soul, deliver me. From the pain that is in my heart deliver me. Take these tears and wash me clean. Take these tear and wash me whiter than snow. Whiter than snow. Can I never be clean again? Will I carry this burden to my grave? Oh God answer me! Have you forsaken me too? I can’t carry this load. I can’t bear this burden any longer.

My father in heaven, forgive me for what I have done, forgive me for what I am about to do. Have mercy on my soul.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness

2011-04-20T02:03:00.000-07:00

Good evening, sir. You look surprised. I can imagine I’m the last person you would have expected to see here. I’ll admit these aren’t the sort of surroundings in which we usually meet, but I’m not the woman you knew, not any more. Don’t look so worried, sit awhile with me and I’ll tell you my story. Come, you may as well sit, the teacher is resting and you’ll not get any closer to him in this crowd.

It’s two months now since I first heard the teacher speak. He spoke of many things that day, some of what he said I didn’t understand, and I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake coming to listen to him but then he started to speak of hope. That drew my attention. You see, I didn’t have any hope, no hope for now, no hope for ever, but he offered it to me, in his gentle assuring voice. There were hundreds of people there that day and I was right at the back of the crowd but I swear he was looking at me as he spoke of love and forgiveness.

I can see you’re thinking ‘what right has she to expect forgiveness?’ I didn’t. When you’ve lived my sort of life you soon learn that forgiveness is not for you, and as for love, well. The men who bought my body for their pleasure despised me as much as they needed me. They thought more of their donkeys than they did of me. You ask why I did it then? For money, of course. But do you think I had a choice? Do you think that’s the life I would have chosen? Of course not. But I had no choice — I was damaged goods. If I wanted to survive I needed money although there’ve been plenty of times when death seemed preferable. You’re a wealthy man, sir, respected by your peers, they seek your opinions, can you imagine what it’s like to be looked down upon by everyone? From your friends in high places who treated me as a commodity to be used and forgotten until the next time my services were required, to your servants who spat on me and shunned me. When I was pushed over on the street, not one person came to my aid or asked if I was all right. I believed there was no-one in this world who cared one jot for me, no-one who thought that I had any value or worth, except the going rate for today. And even that got less with the years. All I had to look forward to was the day when I would discover that I was truly worthless and I would have to resort to begging on the streets.

But the teacher told me something different. When he spoke of love, it was not just for everyone else but for me too. He promised me forgiveness. I could have sat and listened to him forever. But all too soon the darkness of the night came and the crowds began to disperse. I tried to make my way towards him but there were too many people all going the other way, and he had gone before I could reach him. I made up my mind then that some day I would tell him how his words had touched me, how I wanted to believe his promises.

Then a few weeks ago, a Pharisee came to our house to hire women to wait at table. He liked to hire the prettiest, the ones who would entertain his guests if they wanted. When I heard him say that the teacher would be at the banquet I quickly adjusted my dress, hurried over and gave the Pharisee my most alluring smile. He hired me on the spot.

I don’t earn much but over the years I’ve been working, I’ve saved some money, not a lot but I hoped it would help me when the time came that men would no longer pay me for their pleasure. I kept my bag of coins hidden away in my room. But on the day of the banquet I took it all and bought a jar of the best perfumed oil I could afford. I hid it under the robe I wore that night. All evening I served food, poured wine, and tried to avoid the hands that reached out to grab and stroke me. I didn’t want the teacher to see me in that way. And all the while I looked for my chance. At last it arrived. The teacher was lying on a couch and amidst the bustle I crept up and knelt at his feet. He looked down at me and I wanted to say something, to tell him what his words had meant to me, but I couldn’t speak. His face was full of love but there was a deep sorrow there too, and I suddenly thought of my mother. The last time I saw her, when I was just a small child, before I was taken away. She’d looked at me with that same mixture of love and sorrow. I began to cry. The tears fell from my eyes and dropped onto his feet. I was embarrassed to think that the dirt from me was running over him. I undid the braid and let my hair fall forward so I could dry his feet. Then I remembered the oil I had brought. I broke the bottle and let the oil flow over his skin while I rubbed it in with my hair. By now, of course, the room had gone silent and everyone was watching. Some people were laughing; some were angry; one exclaimed at the waste. The Pharisee was the last one to notice. As soon as he saw me he came rushing over and grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me to my feet. ‘I’m sorry, master,’ he said, ‘this girl should not be bothering you. I’ll send her away.’ ‘No, Simon,’ the teacher said. ‘She may sit at my feet as long as she wants.’ ‘Do you not know what she is, master?’ the Pharisee said, and the teacher said, ‘I know everything about her.’ Then he turned to me and he said, and you’ll find this hard to believe, he said, ‘Your sins are forgiven, go in peace.’

My sins are forgiven. Can you understand what those words meant to me? The years of shame and guilt that he was taking away. Have you ever sinned? No, of course not, you’re an upright honest citizen, a pillar of the community, you wouldn’t possibly understand the joy of being washed clean when you’re so dirty that you can’t remember what it was like to be clean.

I’ve been travelling with the teacher and his friends ever since. His mother found me some better clothes to wear and they all share their food with me. It doesn’t please everyone though. You see the one leaning over, whispering in the teacher’s ear, that’s Peter, oh, you know him, well, he doesn’t like me. He never speaks to me if he can help it and when it’s his turn to share out the food I always get a smaller portion than everyone else. But it doesn’t matter. As long as I can be near the teacher and hear his words. And be there when he walks by and puts his hand under my chin and says, ‘Lift up your head and look at me,’ and I can feel his purifying love pouring straight into my heart.

Look, the teacher is about to start again. And Peter has found a seat for you — well away from me. Go, listen, hear the teacher. Don’t look so worried, I won’t tell anyone where we met — I’ve already forgotten. Can you forget as easily?

Blessed are the peacemakers

2011-04-20T02:00:00.000-07:00

Are you a peacemaker?

If you are a child of God is it your duty to be a peacemaker?

a) a) Yes, of course it is.

b) b) No, I don’t think that’s what it says.

c) c) Maybe not obligatory but desirable.

Is peacemaking the same as peacekeeping?

a) a) No.

b) b) Yes, sort of.

c) c) It can be.

Can you make peace with a gun in your hand?

a) a) Never.

b) b) Sometimes you have to.

c) c) It’s probably not the best way.

Can you make peace for others if you yourself don’t have peace?

a) a) No, if you don’t know peace yourself you can’t impose it on others.

b) b) Yes, it’s easier to do it for others because you’re detached from the problem.

c) c) When I wear my mask I can do anything.

How did you do?

Mostly As: you see things clearly and can go to the heart of a problem and help resolve it. You are a good peacemaker.

Mostly Bs: You can see both sides of the argument and can help the protagonists to see it from the other’s viewpoint. You are a good peacemaker.

Mostly Cs: You’re probably me.

Blessed are the pure in heart

2011-04-13T01:50:00.001-07:00

The heart surgeon was operating on an old woman. When he opened up her chest everyone in the theatre gasped as a bright light appeared to shine from her heart. The glow didn’t dim as he operated and was still there when he sewed her back up.

A few days later he called in to the ward to see how she was progressing. He examined her and pronounced her to be doing well. ‘You should be able to go home in a day or two,’ he said. He was about to move on to the next patient when he stopped and sat down on the chair next to the woman’s bed.

‘We had a surprise when we cut you open,’ he said.

‘Oh dear,’ the old woman looked concerned.

‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,’ he reassured her, ‘but it was unusual. Your heart,’ he paused, trying to find the right words, ‘your heart appeared to be shining brightly.’

‘Ah, I see,’ the old woman smiled.

‘You don’t seem very surprised?’

‘Well, I’m a Christian, aren’t I?’

The surgeon laughed, ‘You must be a very good Christian then. I’ve never seen a glowing heart before.’

‘What? Never?’ The old woman sounded surprised.

The surgeon glanced at the nurse doing the rounds with him. He seemed reluctant to speak but finally he admitted, ‘I have seen it before on occasion but never shining as brightly as yours. Like I said, you must be a very good Christian.’

‘Me? A good Christian. Oh, no, I’m a very bad Christian.’

He looked at the kindly old woman lying on the bed before him and said, ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘In my life I’ve lied, I’ve gossiped, I’ve hurt people, I’ve made the wrong choices and done bad things. I’ve envied others and been jealous of what they have, I’ve cheated and been unwilling to forgive. Believe me, I’m a very bad Christian.’

The surgeon laughed again. ‘If you say so but how do you explain the shining heart then?’

‘Oh that’s not me, dear; that’s Jesus.’

Blessed are the merciful

2011-04-13T01:49:00.002-07:00

God, teach me mercy.

Show me others through your eyes.

Help me to see beneath the mask, the words, and the actions.

Let me see the person you created from the outpouring love of your heart.

God, teach me mercy.

Show me how to care, to forgive, to have patience, forbearance, tolerance, compassion.

God, teach me mercy.

Let me be slow to judge.

Let me be slow to anger.

Help me to not seek vengeance.

God, teach me mercy.

Help me to love my enemies.

Help me to acknowledge our differences without condemnation or compromise.

God, teach me mercy.

May I never forget the incredible mercy you have shown to me.

May I never take it for granted.

May my soul overflow with praise and gratitude.

May words of thankfulness and blessing be on my lips.

May your mercy and grace sustain me all of my days.

God, teach me mercy.

Blessed are the meek

2011-04-13T01:49:00.001-07:00

Gentle Jesus meek and mild

But was it a meek man who threw the traders out of the temple?

Was it showing meekness to compare the Pharisees with whitewashed tombs full of dead men’s bones?

Was it demonstrating submissiveness to break the law by forgiving sins, gathering food on the Sabbath, or mingling with sinners?

Was it meek to fight injustice, to stand up for the poor and disenfranchised?

Yet.

He was meek when they abused him, when they whipped him, when they led him to the cross. At this, the greatest injustice in history, the one man who had a right to say, ‘No, stop, this isn’t fair,’ took the punishment.

Not my will but yours

A rallying call to God’s children.

The meek fight battles for those who can’t

stand side by side with the outcast

wash the feet of the dirty

shed tears for the fatherless

defend the unlovely

care for the lost.

The meek are not downtrodden but strong

Not submissive but clear of vision

Not passive but passionate

The meek don’t take unfairness lying down

But take their stand with

Gentle Jesus meek and mild

Blessed are those who mourn

2011-04-13T01:48:00.001-07:00

Blessed

are those who

mourn for they know

what it is to love. They have trodden in the footsteps

of Christ.

Blessed are the poor in spirit

2011-04-13T01:46:00.000-07:00

I am spiritually bankrupt.

The store of good deeds I keep under the bed is all used up.

The brownie points in the safety deposit box have been declared null and void.

Even my secret numbered Swiss bank account, the repository for my gold stars, has been closed for lack of deposits.

I have nothing.

So I am blessed.

But even as I write this I wonder, do I really believe it?

That there is truly nothing I can do?

Isn’t there a bit of me that thinks surely the patience I used in my dealings with my boss must be rewarded?

God must be watching me when I insist on fairtrade tea.

My generosity must earn me a better seat at the feast.

It must.

And isn’t that easier to accept?

That I can earn if not my way then at least a trouble-free passage into heaven.

An ABC of boxes to tick.

Didn’t swear when provoked by a stupid man driver: tick.

Did make extra effort to deal gently with my mother-in-law: tick.

Did make time for a friend when I didn’t really have time: tick.

Didn’t feel proud of myself for that act of nobility: cross.

And I find myself again at the cross, aware that even these superficialities of behaviour don’t even scratch the surface of my sinful self.

And at the cross I kneel,

Head bowed, empty handed, acknowledging my need

Wanting to believe

Wanting to accept

Wanting to be accepted

Wondering why it’s so hard to

Believe

That I can be

Accepted

Forgiven

Loved.

Not through me

But through you

In whom my treasure lives.

For my rainbow child

2010-09-24T10:31:00.000-07:00

I pray that your life will be red.

That you will feel the warmth of the sun even on the darkest days because you will know you are loved.

That the heat of the love in which you’re enveloped will radiate out to those you meet.

That you will be cosseted against the storms as if wrapped in a duvet of the softest down.

That your heart – even though it may break – will never grow cold but will stay forever warm.

I pray that your life will be green.

That each day will be a fresh adventure for you.

That the world in all its aspects, from the smallest ant on a stone to huge breakers crashing on the shore, will never cease to be new and amazing to you.

That every morning for you will be the first day of spring.

I pray that your life will be purple.

That you will know passion that stretches and burns and aches and reaches for more.

That your heart will never be accepting of things that need to change.

That your spirit will rise to the challenges to be found by those who seek them.

That your soul will find fulfilment in the everyday, the ordinary.

That the ordinary will, to you and through you and with you, be extraordinary.

I pray that your life will be yellow.

That each day will be laughterday.

That you will find smiles in the small things, giggles in the silly and laughter in the foolish.

That your footprints will be inlaid with love and laughter so that whoever walks in them will feel better for having passed that way.

I pray that your life will be blue.

That you will know peace, the serenity of one who is loved.

That the reassurance that comes from that knowledge will allow you to love the unlovely.

That days of excitement will mingle easily with days of calm, when you return to the shelter of unconditional love to find waters to refresh your body, your heart and your spirit.

I pray that your life will be orange.

That your future will be brighter than you have ever dreamed.

That you’ll dare to dream ever bigger dreams, knowing that God is in them.

And with your hand in his I pray that you’ll stand on top of mountains and shout: I am loved.

For as sure as the rainbow is God’s promise to us so is the certainty that you are loved.

Twenty-second May, 2001

2010-07-13T09:37:00.000-07:00

My mother would have been eighty today.

I only realise this sitting in college listening to a reading.

The poet, a tiny American professor, is speaking

of her mother’s seventieth birthday.

I don’t recall the poem.

Earlier the same day my son calls.

His sister has told him to, he says.

She’s worried because I’m sad.

Tangled threads, twisted together.

Meaning and reason

hidden in a knot.

After the bubble burst, and the thick red liquid

flooded the rivers of your mind,

drowning your memories,

you said to me, ‘You’re not Peter, are you?

you look like Peter.’

You forgot my name.

And now I have forgotten you.

Did you prefer tea or coffee? Red wine or white?

What was your favourite colour? Or flower?

Did you still dream of could-have-beens or

glimpse happiness from the upstairs windows of buses?

You loved to garden, I remember that,

to nurture and to tend. To party.

Eighty is worth a party. Tonight

we would have celebrated and I’d have

watched you gathering my children around you,

your eyes full of pride and love.

No hint now of past illusions.

If I choose to tread thorny paths,

or return to unlit rooms

will I find out who you were or why I am?

But for now I’ll do as the professor says.

‘Do something with it,’ she says, ‘you must.’

Worship

2010-02-03T03:59:00.000-08:00

Wednesday

Got up. Made porridge and sandwiches. Dressed. Took children to school. Went to Sainsburys. Came home. Resisted temptation to leave shopping on kitchen floor and unpacked bag after bag after bag of shopping. Listened to the Archers. Walked the dog. Fetched children from school. Cooked dinner. Took son to football training. Fetched son from football training. Watched TV. Went to bed. Fell in gratefully, relieved to have got through another day. Thank God.

Thank God for his gift of the Holy Spirit who gave me the courage to get out of bed this morning.

Thank God for quashing the unknowable fears that overtake my mind at the prospect of a trip to the supermarket.

Thank Jesus that his name, silently mouthed in the frozen foods aisle, is a refuge from terror which threatens.

Thank God for the wonder of his creation and the dog whose need for exercise forces me to step out of myself.

Thank God today for the violets, fragile delicate blooms, not intimidated by more powerful neighbours and hard winter conditions. Against the odds, they return renewed and beautiful, time after time, a triumph of hope over reality.

Thank God for the victories of the day, small, insignificant though they appear, they made the difference.

This then is my life today.

So here's what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life — your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-round life — and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him.

This then is my offering, my worship.

A litany of fears and anxieties; a shambling, pathetic offering to God.

I stand before him, a shuffling cripple, and say, ‘Take me as I am, I can come no other way.’ Weak and helpless, I can do no more, or no less, than call on him.

And in response he walks beside me, he holds my hand, he carries me. He wipes my tears and understands my fears - fears I don’t understand myself.

And he is triumphant. He turns my weakness into his strength. He offers hope that things can change.

Then I will go to the altar of God, to God, my joy and my delight. I will praise you with the harp, O God, my God. Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my saviour and my God.

(Psalm 43:4-5)

(Romans 12:1 Therefore I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God – this is your spiritual act of worship)

Angel baby

2010-01-24T13:37:00.000-08:00

It was Tuesday the 14th of May. I know that for sure because I wrote it on the calendar. I’m not very good at remembering dates so I wrote it down. I knew that one day somebody would ask me, when did you meet the angel?

I knew somebody would ask that, the same way that I knew it was an angel. That’s another question people always ask, how did you know it was an angel? I just knew.

When I woke up that morning it was as if the sun was shining right into my bedroom, directly onto my face. At first I thought I must have forgotten to draw the curtains before I went to bed. But I always close the curtains. I don’t like the dark creeping in on me. The curtains in the bedroom are deep red velvet. The lady in the shop called them cochineal. Before I bought them, I held them up to the fluorescent light. They keep out all the dark.

But this morning, this Tuesday in May, the room was full of light, a warm, gentle light. I wasn’t frightened. I knew the man sitting at the end of my bed had to be an angel. He wasn’t a fierce sort of angel, although he looked as though he could be. He had very strong cheekbones and deep-set eyes, the colour of the writing on Mothercare bags. His hair was black – Labrador puppy black. And it was a bit straggly.

He was smiling at me, a wide lovely smile. I couldn’t help smiling back.
I said, “You’re an angel aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“I can’t see your wings,” I said.
“That’s because they’re folded up.” He turned round and showed me. They fitted neatly together like the wings of a butterfly that had just come out of a chrysalis.
“Can I fly with you?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said.

For a long time we just sat and looked at each other and smiled. At last I said, “Do you want something? Do you want a cup of tea or some toast?”
He said, “No, but I’d like to go for a walk.”

So we went to the park. I don’t know what time it was but it must have been early. The grass was dew-wet on my bare feet and there was no-one else around. Except for one old man sleeping on a bench. We crept past him so as not to wake him up. We went as far as the lake, not talking much, just smiling at each other, and watched the ducks.

The sun was rising higher in the sky. I said, “Have you been there?”
“Where? To the sun? No,” the angel said, “it’s much too hot. You wouldn’t want to go there. You’d burn.”
We watched a mother duck lead her babies into the water. There was one that was smaller than the rest and he was struggling to keep up. He was making a strange little squeaking sound, more like a mouse than a duckling. “Listen to him,” I said.
But then I began to hurt. I said, “Something hurts, it hurts here.” I held my hand to my belly. The angel picked me up, and ran. As he ran, his wings unfolded and carried us up above the houses.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I feel safe in your arms.” I did. They were strong, sturdy arms, covered in soft dark hairs. I drew patterns with my finger in the hairs and rested my head on his shoulder.
When we got home he lay me down gently on my bed. I was tired. I hadn’t been up long but I was very tired and I ached.
He said, “Go to sleep now.”
I said, “Will you be here when I wake up?”
He nodded and stroked my head.

I must have slept for a long time because when I woke I wasn’t in my bed. I wasn’t even in my own bedroom. I was in a small square room, with high walls the colour of wild primroses. There was one window in the room, a long thin window; and through it I could see another just the same, with the same rusty-white paint peeling off the metal frame. The sun must have gone behind the clouds because the air outside was grey.

I looked around the room. There was a small sink and mirror on the wall opposite the bed. The angel was sitting in the only chair. When he saw that I was awake, he stood up and smiled.
“Where am I?” I said.
“You’re in the best place,” he said.

It didn’t look like the best. The chair he had been sitting on was fraying round the edges. There was an old bruised-red stain in the middle of the seat. The material was paler around the edge of the stain as if someone had tried to scrub it clean.
“It’s the shape of Africa,” I said.
He followed my eyes, “Yes, you’re right, it is.”
“It still hurts,” I said.
“I expect it does,” the angel said, “but it won’t last for ever.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Because I’ve seen it before.”
“Will it be all right when it stops hurting?”
He looked sad and began to speak but the door of the room opened and he stopped.

“Ah, you’re awake.”
The two women who had come in weren’t at all alike. One was young with blonde unruly hair that peeped out at all angles from under her cap; the other was older and she had her hair tied back tightly in a bun, like a schoolmarm in a story.
“Let’s see what’s happening, shall we?” the schoolmarm said.
The young one moved the chair to beside my bed and sat down. She took my hand and smiled at me. “It’s going to be all right,” she said.
“What is?” I said.
She just kept on smiling. I looked from her face to that of the angel. He was standing behind her watching me, not smiling.
The schoolmarm lifted back the sheet. She said, “Hold your legs up a minute,” and she slid something underneath me. Then she put up a shield. When I tell people that, they say, ‘a shield? You mean a screen?’ They don’t understand. She didn’t want to look at my face. I looked at the blank white shield for a minute then I turned away. The young one patted my hand and kept smiling.

The angel said, “Don’t worry; I’ll be here, just over here.” He went and stood at the end of the bed behind the schoolmarm. As I watched him move, I caught a glimpse of the older woman’s face. She was frowning; her lips forming words, “It’s already coming away. It’s half out.”

I turned away and gripped the hand holding mine; it squeezed my fingers in return. I wanted to look at the angel but I didn’t want to see the woman at my feet so I stared at the young one. She had stopped smiling. She glanced towards her companion, then leaned and peered over the shield. Her face wrinkled and she bit the corner of her bottom lip. I wanted to say, “It’s all right, don’t worry,” but the words wouldn’t come out.

It was over. No time at all. The pain in my belly had gone. The woman took down her shield and pulled the sheets back into position. She tucked them in neatly. I looked beyond her direction. The angel’s head was bent over. He held something to his heart.

I said, “Is it all right?” He lifted his head. There were tears on his cheeks. He nodded.
The schoolmarm said, “Yes, everything’s fine now. Don’t worry. It’s all over. There’ll be other times, other chances.
I said, “I don’t want another chance, I want this time again.”
“Chin up,” she said, “someone will be around soon with dinner, I expect you’re hungry.”
“I’m empty,” I said.
“There you are then, soon be good as new,” she said.
The young one pushed back the chair. She was smiling again. “I’ll ask someone to bring you a cup of tea, shall I?” Then they were gone.

And it was just the angel, my baby and me.
The angel said, “I have to go now, will you be all right?”
“You know I will,” I said. I turned over so he wouldn’t see me cry. “You’ll take good care of my baby, won’t you?”

The clouds parted long enough to let a ray of light into the room. It was refracted off the mirror onto the bed. A fragment of rainbow lay just out of reach.

Zac’s psalm

2009-10-25T13:12:00.000-07:00

God, I am miserable and broken-hearted.
I want to get drunk.
My thoughts are racing.
I feel frustrated, confused and anxious.
I’m knackered and impatient.
Bollocks! I’m lost!

I want to find understanding
but I’m apathetic and skint.
I’m pondering, searching, wondering
where God is.

I’m hopeful … and sorrowful.
Have you forgiven me yet, God?
Where did it all go wrong?
Get me out of here!

Prove that you can make things real;
Prove that you are God.

Can you stop all war?
Can you take away all illness?
Can you give me back my Dad?
Can you make my little girl better?
Can your make your people as one?
Can you stop your church making people feel guilty?
Can you tell your church to accept everybody as they are?What right have we got to judge each other?

Sometimes it feels you’re there;
other times it doesn’t.
Sometimes I hear you clearly;
other times I don’t.

Which truth is truth?
Show me the way.
Jesus is the way.

I’m sorry, God.
Help me to forgive myself and others.
Thank you for your love and acceptance.
Thank you for not taking away my toys.

You’re not Santa Claus: what can I do for you, God?
Help me to do the right thing.
Help me to do what you want
rather than what I want.

Thank you for being there when I needed you;
thank you for my beautiful sunflower.
Give me peace, God.
Please answer my prayers.

Bathsheba: harlot or innocent?

2009-09-09T02:43:00.000-07:00

Harlot
My husband is dead.

Is there nothing the king will not do for me?

They say he died a hero’s death, at the head of his troops; they say I can be proud of him. Proud of him? Proud of that fool? Who preferred the company of his men to mine. Who has been oblivious to my needs. Others have noticed my loneliness. Many men have tried to seduce me with their sympathy and false words, but I had eyes for one prize only.

I will, of course, mourn my loss as a grieving widow should but when the due time has passed the king will take me as his own – his preferred – wife, and my child –our child – his son – for surely this is a son I carry in my womb – we will take our place at his side.

You look surprised. Surely you do not believe – as I feel sure the king does – that this story is of his making? As if a mere man can outwit or stand against the plans of woman. Was it coincidence did you think that the King should chance to see me bathing? Did you imagine that I had not watched him for long nights until I was sure that he would be on the roof when I took my bath? And did I not choose the perfect place where the light of the moon reflected giving my skin a honeyed glow, and my silhouette was crisp against the wall? As I brushed my hair, didn’t each long slow stroke draw him ever closer into my web?

Of course I resisted. When he sent for me I tarried and played the coy maiden. See, how easy it is with a sweep of my shawl to become demure. ‘What am I that your Lord should honour me thus?’ And when I succumbed - finally - and we fell into his bed, I sighed and moaned and said those things that men like to hear before I allowed my desire to be sated. Always allowing him to think that he is in control. That is the secret.

The king, of course, thought he could resolve the situation; he could solve ‘the problem’ by having Uriah brought home on a pretext. I hadn’t expected him to come up with that idea but Uriah was easily persuaded that a good soldier would not enjoy the pleasure of his wife while his men continued to suffer hardship on the battleground. The stupid fool. He could have saved his life he had but known.

But now the King has walked on the dark side. And only he and I know. He is mine. Our futures are linked irrevocably. And my child will be raised in the royal household as befits the king’s own, and I will teach him the ways of the world that he must understand so he can make real my - his - dream. For it will be to the child of mine that the kingdom of David will pass.

Innocent
My husband is dead. My husband is dead. Even though I am told it over and over again I cannot believe it. They say he died a hero’s death, on the front line. And I fear …

He was a fine warrior; so how then did he find himself at the front with no defence? He wouldn’t have been there unless he’d been ordered and who could have issued that order?

You are surprised. You don’t expect me to mourn for my husband? He may not have been the best but he was gentle and good. He deserved better. Better than this death. Better than me.

I see you look at me with doubtful eyes; you know the secrets of my heart; I cannot be false with you. So surely you will believe me when I say I mourn for his loss. And I am so fearful.
Fearful for what will become of me, of us, now that he is dead. Will I be left widowed and my unborn child shamed? Will he – the father of my child – help us? Or has he already done as much as he thinks needed?

But they say he is man after God’s own heart. Surely a man, a king such as he would not risk the damage to his soul, the price that playing with the life of another would cost. Yet are we not both guilty of breaking the laws laid down by God? If he would break one law, why baulk at another?

If I had known that first evening when he sent for me what would be the result … would I still have gone? For surely I was flattered by the attention of a man such as he. And my husband has given me little enough attention over the years. You know how lonely I have been. While he has been the perfect soldier, always thinking first of his men and later of me.

But he, he seemed to understand my yearning for a touch, to feel another’s skin upon my own. He who had brought a giant to his feet now knelt at my feet and stroked them, his fingers long and tender. He whispered and smiled at my shyness, bringing his hand up to raise my chin so that I was looking into his eyes, and seeing in them my own longing reflected back at me.

It wasn’t his good looks that softened my heart though doubtless many will say it was. No, it was the words that he spoke. Words of pure golden nectar that touched me deep in my soul. And the songs he sang as I sat back, eyes closed just so I could listen with my everything. So that when we finally lay together, just the touch of his fingertips alighted in me a flame of love so powerful that nothing or nobody could have kept us apart. Where I had been numb I was alive. I shiver with longing even now as I recall those precious moments when he and I were as one.

But now the shiver turns to one of fear and dread as I remember my dead husband and my unborn child. And I weep.

The Fish Supper

2009-06-10T02:59:00.001-07:00

For our fifteenth wedding anniversary, Hywel took me to a fish and chip shop.
As he held open the door for me, he beamed.
‘You should see your face — it’s a picture. You weren’t expecting this, were you?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘I thought it would be good to take a trip down memory lane, back to where it all began.’
I looked around Aberuffern Fish Restaurant, the scene of our first date. Only in those days it had been Bertorelli’s chip shop. The restaurant, such as it was, had been a small back room separated from the takeaway counter by a plywood partition. There were four, or maybe five, pale blue flecked formica tables, the sort that were fixed to the floor, with matching dark blue plastic-covered seating. Each table had its own mock-crystal salt, pepper and vinegar bottles. To eat in the restaurant, you queued up at the counter and ordered your food with the other customers, but when asked, you said, ‘eat in’ instead of ‘takeaway’, and then your food would be put on a paper plate instead of wrapped in newspaper.
The Bertorelli family consisted of one woman, aged somewhere between twenty and fifty, and two men. It was a threesome that caused much speculation and gossip when they first arrived in town. The only other Italians we knew were the Macaris who ran the ice cream parlour on the prom and they’d been here longer than anyone could remember. The day war ended, Mr Macari gave free ice cream to every child in the town. I wasn’t born then, of course, it was just one of those events you wonder if you’re destined to spend your life missing.
Today the Bertorellis have gone. They disappeared as mysteriously as they came and still no-one any the wiser about their relationship. The chip shop was taken over two years ago by Taffy’s, a national chain. They expanded the restaurant area and refurbished it in pine, with Welsh plaid woollen cushion covers. The walls are decorated with signed prints of much-capped rugby players alongside a bigger photo of the only player from Aberuffern to ever have played – once - for the national team. The waitresses wear pinnies and shawls, and bring your order to your table. The chain is proud of its Welshness, promoting Welsh sausages and Welsh lamb pies, and using only Welsh potatoes for their chips. They stop short of advertising Welsh fish.
‘I was lucky to get this table,’ Hywel said. ‘When I phoned to book, the manager said they had an important group booking tonight.’
Over his shoulder I could see a party of well-dressed men, mostly Japanese.
‘I read about them in the Western Mail,’ I said. ‘It’s the weekend of Welsh culture organised by the Chamber of Trade as part of the ‘sell Wales to the Japanese’ effort. Tomorrow they’re visiting the market for cockles and laverbread, then they’re going to the match.’
‘What? Aberuffern against Twllmawrddu. I fancied going to that. It’s always a hard game.’
‘Then, after all that excitement, the Gwrywllais Male Voice Choir is putting on a special concert in their honour. They’re singing hits from the shows of Andrew Lloyd Webber. According to the paper, the whole weekend is the brainchild of the chairman of the Chamber of Trade.’ I paused. ‘It didn’t say whether any of his committee questioned his idea of Welsh culture.’
‘Lloyd Webber? I like his music. I wonder if there are any tickets left. Where’s the concert?’
‘In the ex-workingman’s club.’
‘Remind me tomorrow.’
Hywel looked at the menu, encased in its shiny folder decorated with a fire-breathing dragon.
‘Nothing’s changed – it’s still chips with everything.’
He was satisfied.
And he was partly right about nothing changing: everything on the menu, with the exception of the Welsh chicken and the chips themselves, was wrapped in batter or pastry, and served with bread and butter and a cup of tea.
I could see one of the Japanese picking up a white triangle from his side plate. He studied it carefully, and finally took a bite. For a few moments his jaw moved slowly, thoughtfully, before he returned the remains of the bread to his plate.
‘I thought I was the luckiest man alive when you agreed to go out with me,’ Hywel said. ‘And I’d never been to Bertorelli’s restaurant before. I’d only ever had chips out of the paper.’
‘They use polystyrene trays now.’
‘Do you remember what you had?’
‘What, back then? I don’t know. Pie and chips?’
‘Scampi. You had scampi. I didn’t even know what scampi was.’
‘I remember. I’d never had it before but it sounded sophisticated and I wanted to impress you.’
‘Well, you succeeded. It was expensive though. I had to have a rissole because I couldn’t afford anything else.’
‘You should have said.’
A waitress walked past carrying two plates, one of fish and chips and another of pie, mushy peas and chips. She put them in front of two of the Japanese party.
‘I wonder what he’ll make of mushy peas.’
Hywel glanced around, following my gaze.
‘Probably think they’re some exotic vegetable.’
He reached out and took my hand.
‘They’ve been fifteen good years.’
He dropped my hand and sat back expectantly as he spotted the waitress bringing our order. He splashed vinegar on his fish and sprinkled salt lavishly over his chips.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that; too much salt isn’t good for you.’
Hywel was sceptical. ‘Huh, that’s what they say this week; next week it’ll be “eat more salt”.’
He tucked in enthusiastically. I stuck my fork in my chicken and watched the golden fat ooze out. I lifted the edge of the almost crisp skin and pulled it aside.
One of the Japanese had speared a piece of cod in batter and was turning the fork around in front of his face. He eventually popped the fish in his mouth. It must have tasted good because he nodded, said something to his neighbour and continued to eat.
‘It must be very different for them,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Those Japanese. They eat their fish raw, don’t they?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘If they open a factory here, there’ll be lots of new jobs. I thought I might apply for one.’
‘What do you want to work in a factory for?’
‘I didn’t mean in the factory, but they’re bound to want office staff, personnel, people like that.’
‘They’d want computer literate staff and, anyway, you’ve got a job already.’
‘Working part-time as a dentist’s receptionist isn’t very challenging.’
‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it, that’s what I say. We’re managing fine as it is.’
‘I thought I might do a course anyway.’
‘We’ll see. Excuse me,’ he caught the waitress’s attention, ‘could I have some more bread and butter, please?’
Through the bamboo partition separating the restaurant and take-away, a gang of boys was making slitty-eyed faces at the visitors. One of the hosts, an ex-prop forward by the look of him, spotted them. With a coal-face he excused himself from the table, collared the boys and manhandled them out of the chip shop. One of the other hosts, to divert attention I suppose, suddenly launched into an impromptu rendering of Bread of Heaven. His startled audience gave him a polite round of applause when he finished. I think he would have started on Land of My Fathers if his fellow Trader hadn’t returned and scowled at him.
‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ Hywel’s voice was peevish.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘You seemed to find it amusing when I said that Roger from Accounts insists on using the paper from the bottom of the pile.’
‘I wasn’t laughing at you, it was something else.’
‘It’s not that time of the month again, is it? You’re very distant tonight.’
‘Am I?’
‘I don’t think you’ve been listening to anything I’ve said.’
I looked at him. With his neatly flicked back hair and rosy cheeks, he would have passed for an earnest TV evangelist.
‘Things have changed, Hywel.’ I paused, watching him, wondering how to say it.
He pushed his few remaining chips around with his fork, wiping his plate clean of tomato sauce. ‘Not these chips. They’re still the best in town.’

Two weeks later, the Western Mail reported that the new Matsushito electronics factory was to be built in Newcastle.

Over the sea

2009-06-04T01:56:00.001-07:00

The man had borrowed the truck from his neighbour who used it to take vegetables to market. His neighbour had washed it for him. ‘You’ll want it clean for today,’ he’d said.
The man drove to the girl’s house. She was waiting outside. She called out, ‘I’m going now,’ before she climbed into the passenger seat. A woman in a widows-black dress came to the door and watched the truck drive off.
In the truck the man said, ‘You okay?’
The girl nodded, not looking at him.
‘You don’t have to come, you know. You could wait at home with your grandmother.’
‘I want to come.’
They drove in silence. It was fifteen miles to the airport and the roads were rough and dusty. The last part of their journey took them down the hill overlooking the airport.
‘I remember the last time I came here,’ the girl said. ‘I thought things were going to be different then.’
The man glanced across at her and nodded. There were two cars in the car park. He pulled the truck in alongside. He got out, walked round to the passenger door and opened it. The girl stared straight ahead. He held out his hand. Without looking at him, she climbed out of the truck. Together they walked into the main airport building. It was a large rectangular room with windows on three sides. On the fourth side were an office, toilets, a vending machine and posters listing forbidden goods and the penalties for smuggling. A mongrel was sleeping in one corner; in another a fan whirred constantly.
The man said, ‘Wait here.’ He went and knocked on the frosted glass door of the office. An airport official in his shirt sleeves opened the door.
‘Just to let you know, we’re here,’ the man said.
The official nodded. He looked over the man’s shoulder.
‘Is she all right?’ he asked.
‘She’ll be okay. I’ll look after her.’
The official nodded again. ‘A bad business.’
‘Yes. When will the plane arrive? Is it going to be on time?’
‘Soon, the plane will arrive soon. I’ll tell you when it’s coming.’
He went back into his office and closed the door.
The man stood outside the office for a moment. He clenched his fists then walked back to the girl who was standing staring out of the window.
‘When I was little I thought there was no other world but this,’ she said. She looked at him. ‘Have you seen all the world?’
‘No, I’ve seen a lot of it but there’s much more I want to see before ...’
He stopped.
‘Before you die?’ the girl said.
‘It’s only a saying.’
‘I know.’
The girl turned away. ‘Let’s sit,’ she said. She indicated a row of hard red plastic chairs. She sat upright, her hands in her lap. The man sat a seat away from her. He slouched and drummed his fingers on the chair next to him. He sat up again, ‘What is it with your people? Why can’t they answer simple questions? Why can’t he tell me if the plane’s going to be on time?’
She shrugged, ‘It’ll arrive when it gets here.’ She leaned back against her chair.
He stood up, paced across to the window and back. She watched him.
‘You should be used to our ways by now, ‘she said.
He sat down again and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
‘Your mother always kept me waiting,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t understand why it made me mad.’
‘But you waited anyway.’
‘Yes.’
He sat back in his chair. They were silent then the girl said, ‘I should have gone with her.’
The man looked at her. He leaned across, placed his hand on hers and squeezed it. ‘You know she didn’t want that, she wanted you at home with your grandmother.’
The girl moved her hand away. ‘Then you should have gone.’
He stared ahead again. ‘I wanted to but she asked me to stay here with you.’
‘She shouldn’t have gone.’
‘She thought there was a chance.’
‘Was there?’
He shrugged. ‘They said there was.’
He stood up again and walked to the window. The dog in the corner yawned. He sniffed the air, got up, stretched and walked across to the girl. She bent to stroke him.
The official came out of his office. ‘Twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘The plane will arrive. It was on my radio.’
‘Thank you,’ the man said.
The official raised his hands, ‘That’s okay.’ He went back into his office.
‘Did you hear what he said?’
The girl nodded.
‘Have you eaten?’
She shook her head.
The man went to the vending machine. He dug in his pocket for change. He fed coins into the machine and returned with a can of Coke and two chocolate bars. He gave one of the bars to the girl.
‘Here.’
She took the chocolate from him and tore open the wrapping. She broke off two chunks. She ate one and gave one to the dog who gulped it down and then sat looking up at her expectantly. She stroked his head, before saying something.
‘What did you say?’
The girl looked up. ‘I said did you love my mother.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you made her happy. My grandmother said my mother forgot how to laugh after my father died. You made her laugh again.’
‘She had an infectious laugh,’ he smiled. ‘You have the same laugh.’
The girl bent over the dog again, gave it another chunk of chocolate. The man watched her. ‘You’re very like her in lots of ways,’ he said.
A tear fell onto the dog’s tangled coat. There was silence for a few moments before the man spoke again. ‘Yes,’ he said. The girl raised her head. ‘The answer to your question,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I ever told her.’
The girl wiped her cheeks with her fingers and sniffed. For a moment they considered each other. Then she bent her head over the dog again.
The man walked to the window. He looked at his watch. ‘We should be able to see the plane soon.’
The sky over the sea was bright and clear. Aeroplanes, when they came, flew in to the runway like albatrosses.
The girl went to join the man. The dog followed her. She gave it the rest of the chocolate.
‘My grandfather used to tell me stories about the sea,’ she said. ‘My mother said that one day I would cross the sea for myself.’
They heard the noise of an engine.
‘Is that the plane?’ the girl peered into the sky. The man shook his head, ‘It’s the car outside, look.’ He pointed through the other window. A long black car had pulled into the car park. Four men in dark suits got out. Three of them leaned against the car. One took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around. The fourth made his way to the waiting room. When he saw the man and the girl he took off his hat and nodded. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead.
‘The plane’s not here yet?’ he asked.
‘No.’ The man looked at his watch. ‘Another five minutes maybe. We should be able to see it soon.’
‘Well, we’re out there when it arrives.’
‘You know what to do?’
‘Yes.’
He went and joined the others outside. The girl went back to staring at the sky. The dog nuzzled her hand.
‘I don’t have any more, I’m sorry,’ she said. She bent over and scratched his ear. The airport official came out of his office. He had straightened his tie and put on his jacket.
‘The plane is almost here,’ he said, pointing to the sky. The man and the girl both turned to look.
‘When it lands,’ he continued, ‘I will do what has to be done and then signal you to come out.’
‘Thank you,’ the man said.
They watched the plane land and the official hurry over. The men in the car park had put out their cigarettes and were standing ready. They had opened the back of the car.
The girl turned away from the window.
‘Will you go back to England after the funeral?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. One day maybe. Or I’ll go somewhere else. You could come with me if you wanted.’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘He’s calling us out. Are you ready for this?’
She nodded. She put her hand into his and they walked silently into the suffocating heat.

Dying Young

2009-05-27T03:50:00.001-07:00

Anne died on Christmas Eve. She had been ill for two years but had the sort of spirit that made you think that she couldn’t die, that she wouldn’t die.

As the illness took hold, everything that could go wrong went wrong for Anne but through it all she was able to find something to laugh about. I’m no Shakespeare or even Dylan Thomas, and I can’t capture in words the essence of Anne. She was special. At her funeral, the crowds in the church were matched only by the crowds outside, unable to get in. It was a privilege to know her.

So where was God in this? We’re supposed to be able to trust God to do the right things. Was it right to let a young mother die when he could have healed her? Nearly every part of me screams ‘No’, but somewhere deep inside is the knowledge, borne out by my own experience , that God can be trusted. More than that, he is the God who chose to let his own dearly loved son be tortured and killed for us, for me, for Anne, because he knew what the end result would be. I can’t begin to understand why tragedies like Anne’s are allowed to happen. I can only hang on to the thin thread if faith that God really does know what he’s doing. Without that, there’s really not much point in anything.

Anne would have been forty this year. Last summer while on holiday, camping under electricity pylons as only Anne could, she bought a rather expensive candle in the shape of the numbers 4 and 0, justifying it by saying, ‘If I make it to forty it will be worth celebrating.’ She didn’t and I miss her.

(Written in the spring of 1995)

The Three Young Men - a folk tale

2009-05-20T08:44:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a land which was ruled over by a great and mighty leader called The Iron Maiden. Now this land was divided into two unequal parts: the Northlands and the Southlands. In the Southlands the sun always shone, the women were beautiful and the men were rich; in the Northlands, it was always cold, the women were ugly and the men were mostly unemployed.

Then one day the people saw on their television screens news of a terrible disaster which had befallen a small mining village in the Northlands — a mine had flooded and twelve miners had been killed. On hearing of this tragedy the noble people of the Southlands immediately did what they thought would best help the distraught families: they sent money by the bucketload and having satisfied their consciences filed away the details and forgot about them.

Now among the beneficiaries of this remarkable generosity were three young men, sons of one of the miners killed. The money they received was more than they could hope to earn in a lifetime (which, admittedly, is not long for a miner) and they decided to leave the life they had always known and head south to the land of milk and honey.

Arriving in due course at the capital city of the Southlands, the first young man decided to buy a flat on the waterfront (they were shocked to discover the price of houses in the capital) and visit the local wine bar. “A pint of your best bitter, landlord,” he cried. A hush fell upon the room. Was this man from the Northlands or what? A journalist in the wine bar immediately began to question him about his roots. On discovering that not only was he from the Northlands, not only from the very village in which the terrible tragedy occurred, but that he was deeply involved with it, the journalist took him under his wing, drew out his most personal and intimate details and sold the story to a national newspaper. This new-found fame bought the young man many friends who danced and dined and drank with him until the money ran out. Then he discovered that the agreement he had signed for the flat was a tenancy agreement and not a purchase. Who would expect to get a flat for that sort of money? Finding that he had no money left to pay the rent, the kindly landlord gave him two hours to move out and the young man found himself on the street.

The second young man, walking through the gold-paved streets of the city, saw the Porsches and, being a well-read young man, realised that the only way to succeed in this life was to speculate. You have to speculate to accumulate. He booked into a smart hotel, read all the financial newspapers and started dealing. He quickly made new friends who offered him the chance to invest in their company, a surefire winner he was assured. The first he knew of the stock market crash was when he read about it in the daily newspaper delivered to his hotel room. His bank refused to honour his debt and he left the hotel in the middle of the night. Shares can go down as well as up.

The third young man took a job in a large department store, met and married a very nice young woman and settled down in a pleasant house on the edge of the city. When in time his two brothers turned up on his doorstep he was happy to give them accommodation because that’s what families are for. Then one day a letter arrived from the local council telling him that his home was to be demolished to make way for a new road. The young man and his wife and his brothers and many friends straightaway barricaded themselves in and refused to move. Hundreds of their supporters signed petitions, marched in protest and generally made nuisances of themselves until in the end, the council knocked the house down anyway. The brothers found new accommodation at Waterloo and filled their time selling The Big Issue to young executives with furrowed brows in fast cars.

And the Iron Maiden lived miserably forever.

Wednesday Writing

2009-05-13T05:48:00.001-07:00

I would reduce God to my size
A god of party tricks and pretty thoughts
My god, god-on-demand
Little visions, little dreams
Little god

But God breaks out of the shell in which I would encase him
The deep roars,
Heaven bursts open,
Stars erupt, dazzling and bemusing,
Rainbows adorn the skies
And my eyes are opened
To the hugeness
Of the One
I call
My God.

And dreams that now seem so tiny
Are given permission
To grow and take root and flourish.

And as we stand in Eden, God and I,
I see
God is not there for my purpose;
Rather I am here for his.

My dearest Mrs B

2009-05-06T03:57:00.000-07:00

My dearest Mrs B,
What a delight it was that you were able to
Join us for dinner this evening.
A shame you could not stay for long
But as you say the children must learn
That needs must where the devil drives
And early to rise necessitates early to bed.
Little Tommy is now quite settled and it is my earnest hope
That you will not hold against him his tears
(And screams) at your every appearance.
I assure you he does know who you are —
Every evening I point out to him Mama
In the photograph on the piano in the parlour.
And, may I just suggest that Hannah’s failure
To answer satisfactorily your questions on
Household budgeting could perhaps be put down to her
Lack of years and experience. At five I doubt if even you,
Dearest, were quite the competent you are today.
Our meal this evening was most
Charming — I can taste it even now.
Nothing surpasses good English food
And boiled tripe and onions always slips down so
Well, but, dearest, I wonder whether
The bread pudding was just a little on the heavy side?
Of course, you know your own business best,
And if you say that this is how it should be,
Far be it from me to criticise.
On a different note, I wonder, dearest,
If you might find time to have a word with the under housemaid.
She is most lackadaisical about her duties,
I even caught her sitting in the middle of the day.
I hope we shall meet in the office tomorrow
But, if not, I look forward to seeing you
At the dinner party for the Hatfields.
I remain, your devoted husband, Sam Beeton.
P.S. If you have your diary to hand,
And it’s not too much trouble,
I would be grateful if you could let me know
A time convenient to you
For me to make my monthly night-time visit.
I would hate a recurrence of last month.

Echo

2009-04-22T01:45:00.000-07:00

My mum died when I was nineteen but that wasn’t what did it.

My childless great-aunt who adored me and had wanted to adopt me (as my mum wasn’t married) was killed in the car crash we had on the way back from visiting my mum in hospital just before she died, but that wasn’t what did it.

My friend, the mother of four young children and aged just 39, died one Christmas Eve, but that wasn’t what did it either.

My closest cousin, in her forties, died believing God was going to heal her; I don’t know if that did it.

Echo
The resonance of sound, reverberating as it rebounds,
to return again again again.
Each word reflected, mirrored, echoing, echoing, echo.

Calling out to the heights,
your cry thrown back at you,
a hollow shadow, bereft of life.

And when your ears are ringing and
the mimicry becomes too much to bear,
what do you do?

When your questions meet a resounding wall of silence
and a jagged peace tears at your soul,
what do you do?

Turn off the tears, shut down the heart,
build a wall to keep out pain
that buffets and shakes and threatens to undermine.

Let your heartstrings be pulled by sentimental songs,
reminding you of who you once were
and how you used to feel
before.
Before you became an empty echo of yourself.

Heaven

2009-04-15T07:17:00.000-07:00

Heaven will smell like a wood full of bluebells or lilac in full bloom and open old-scented roses.
It will have the freedom of wide open spaces and the security of a snug white-walled cell.
It will be the tor where the cliffs drop away and the sea joins the sky.

In heaven I will be able to blog all day while receiving chatty emails from friends.
The beds will have the softness of feathers and the fires will blaze.
Chocolate will be slimming and hair won’t frizz in the rain.
There will be an endless supply of Harry Potter books and Wales will always beat England at rugby.
Post office counter assistants and doctors’ receptionists will be nice.
Mel Gibson won’t age and Paul McCartney will sing at my birthday party.
Computers won’t crash nor batteries go flat.
The people I like will be close to me, the people I don’t will be ... a bit further away.
I will have perfect hand eye co-ordination and be able to ride a bike.
My dog won’t steal food but will do as he's told.
My children will remember to close cupboards, switch off lights and not scrape crumbs in the butter.
Other people will notice before the toilet roll runs out and will not leave the empty roll on the floor.
It will only rain at night (except when I’m feeling miserable and a need a storm to walk in.)
In fact, heaven will be pretty much like life on earth with more of the good and less of the bad.

But what small visions, small dreams. Is heaven really only as wonderful as I will allow it to be, as good as the best I can conceive?

I would tie the creator down to niceness and neatness when he wants to show me mind-blowing wonders leaving me open-mouthed at their splendour. That’s what heaven must be, not pleasant afternoons in front of an old movie, but living out the thrill of discovery, where each day, for all eternity is unimaginably wonderful. Beyond words, beyond description. Where the only thing we know for sure is that Jesus is there. And he knows my name.

Mary's lament

2009-04-08T05:09:00.001-07:00

And now. Now my baby is a man. And I kneel at the foot of a cross and watch him die. My first-born, my joy and my blessing, whipped and tormented. A mother shouldn’t have to see this. The infant that played at my feet.

They said he would reign for ever. They – angels, shepherds, wise men – they all said he would be the hope and the saviour of his people. How can that be when he hangs limp and battered, dying a criminal’s death?

My hope has gone, crushed with my son. As his body is beaten and tortured so hope is cast out of my soul. As nails are hammered through his flesh, with each thud, my heart breaks a little more.

Blessed. The angel said I was blessed. Blessed to have found favour with God. And how does my blessing takes its form? It finds me at the foot of a cross as life drains from my son’s body. With each agonised breath he takes, I gasp for air for him. I call upon God to send his angels, to move heaven and earth to rescue his son – my son. I beat upon the ground and scream out to God, ‘For this? This is why he was born? No! Where are you?’

My son is dead.
And now words return to me, words spoken by an old man in a temple. A sword will pierce your soul. And as my soul screams, I can only trust and wait, and wonder – what was it all for?

First Blood

2009-04-01T05:47:00.000-07:00

‘Come on then, if you think you can take me, come on.’
He was taunting me. I don’t like being taunted. I lifted my arm five inches. The gun was pointing at his forehead now. I heard a step creaking behind me. I spun round and dropped to my knees. A bullet flew over my head. My aim was instinctive. I pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. My attacker collapsed and fell backwards down the stairs. I spun round again in time to register a dark shape about to bring a club down on me. I fired. He stumbled and blood oozed out of his chest. I rolled aside before he fell. I got to my feet, my gun aimed at his back. He lay still. I kicked him in the shoulder. He didn’t respond. I leaned down, grabbed him and pushed his lifeless body over. His eyes stared up at me; blood drooled from the corners of his mouth.

Karen put down the book, closed her eyes, pictured the scene. Replayed the action in her mind. Imagined herself in the role of paid killer, tried to smell the sweat and warm blood. She rolled over on the bed as she ducked to avoid the club being brought down on her, stretched out her arms, her hands together prayer-like, dhuw. One shot was all it took. Karen relaxed, sighed. She stretched across to her bedside cabinet, tugged on the drawer handle, remembered it was locked. She fumbled in her tight jeans pocket for the key. Small grey-metal key. She slipped it in the lock and turned it to the left. She pulled the drawer open and reached in, feeling her way gently. Her hand touched what she was after. She wrapped her fingers around the gun lying in the drawer on its bed of cotton wool. Her Glock 17 pistol. Her own shooter. She took it out, held it against her cheek and stroked it. She checked that the safety catch was on, put it back in its nest, relocked the drawer, and returned the key to her pocket. She lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

‘Hey, Sarge, have you seen this?’
‘What?’
‘In the Police Gazette. It says the Met’s recruiting marksmen again.’
‘What? For London?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘You don’t want to go there. Dirty old city, full of criminals.’ Her sergeant had laughed, ‘Naah, you’re much better off down here in the country. Fresh air, a quiet life. What more could you want, bach?’

A lot more. Karen wanted a lot more. A highly trained marksman, she could take out a sniper with just one bullet. But she was stuck in a permanently damp backwater, playing the role of community policeman, just because she’d admitted being able to speak the language.
‘We need to have a marksman on call in that area, preferably one who can speak Welsh.’
There weren’t many who met those criteria and it had seemed a good idea at the time. But that was before she knew how she’d be spending each day.
Today she’d been into the local comprehensive school to talk to year 10 about life in the police force. She’d held the kids’ attention, no doubt about that. They were fascinated to meet a trained police marksman, the only female marksman in the area at that. A bit more interesting than a florist or hairdresser or even computer programmer. Until the inevitable question, ‘How many people have you shot, Miss?’
‘None.’
‘What? Not one?’
Only in her dreams. There she’d tangled with mobsters, gun-runners, terrorists, the most evil of humanity, and she’d come out on top. Every one of them brought down by a single, perfectly aimed bullet. She’d enacted it countless times, each time, calm, poised, in total control because she knew she could do it. Given the chance, she could do it. She could make that instant decision, to pull the trigger and save her own life and the lives of others. She wouldn’t hesitate; she would know that the malignancy standing before her deserved to be dead.
But this was the wild west of Wales not the Bronx. Not a lot of opportunity to use her skills here.

It was late now. She stood up, went across to the window. From her small flat above the craft shop, she could see the length of the main street. The Chinese takeaway six doors down was just closing for the night and the street was empty apart from a solitary couple walking hand in hand. There was a sudden movement on the pavement behind them. A drunk stumbled out from a doorway onto the road before staggering past. Karen sighed. At least he wasn’t driving. She drew the curtains and switched on her bedside light. She took the key from her pocket, unlocked the drawer again, took out her gun and placed it under her pillow.

The next day’s duties included visiting a community centre that had been having trouble with vandals, calling into a housing office to give advice on securing their new computer system, and reassuring some pensioners that the mobile library wouldn’t be given a parking ticket if it stopped on their road.
She’d stopped at the sandwich bar to pick up some lunch when her radio crackled into life.
‘Get your arse over here, Davies, your skills are needed,’ a voice croaked out of the radio.
‘What is it, sarge? Can’t it wait? I’m starving.’ The things Sergeant Thomas, who was six months away from retiring, considered her ‘skills’ usually involved crying women and breaking bad news.
‘No, it can’t, get over here now!’
He was pacing up and down when she arrived back to the station.
‘Where the hell have you been? This is an emergency. I’ve got the Chief Constable on the line every two minutes asking where you are.’
He reached down behind the desk.
‘Right, Davies, this has been signed out ready for you. Let’s go.’
He handed her a 7.62 mm sniper rifle. She looked at him.
‘What’s this for, Sir?’
‘Didn’t I tell you, Davies, you’re the star turn at old age pensioners’ club this afternoon! What do you think it’s for? Get in the car and I’ll tell you on the way.’
While she drove — ‘Put the siren on, girl!’ — he explained the situation.
‘The Chief Constable’s been doing an informal tour of inspection. He’s supposed to be having lunch with the Mayor at 1 o’clock but he’s stuck in a traffic jam. A traffic jam that’s been caused by a rampant cow on the road.’
‘A rampant cow? You’re joking?’
‘It’s no joke, Davies. The farmer can’t do anything with the animal who’s behaving in a very peculiar and threatening way. And they can’t shift her off the road.’
‘Well, that’s a job for the vet, isn’t it?’
‘The vet’s been but he can’t get close enough, it’s too dangerous. So we’ve had our orders: you’ve got to shoot the animal. Now get your foot down.’
She glanced over her shoulder at the rifle on the back seat. Sergeant Thomas saw her.
‘You can do this all right, can you?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she said, ‘it’s what I’m trained for.’
‘You ever shot anything before?’
‘I told you, Sarge, it’s what I’m trained for.’
‘But you ever shot anything living before?’
‘It makes no difference. I just aim and fire. It’s okay, Sarge, I’m a good shot, top of my class.’
The traffic jam extended in both directions for just over a mile. They stopped the car, got out and made their way down the traffic-free side of the narrow country road. As they passed, car drivers opened their windows and grumbled.
‘What’s the hold-up?’
‘Here, what’s that gun for?’
‘You took your time.’
‘Who you going to shoot?’
‘How much longer have we got to wait?’
They marched on, politely acknowledging the remarks without giving anything away.
At the heart of the jam it was chaos. Cars were spread across the road, where the drivers had tried to manoeuvre around the animal and got stuck when she’d changed direction. The road was covered in cow shit and there was a fair amount splattered over bonnets and windscreens: the smell was pungent.
An irregular unbroken circle of cars surrounded the cow, which was chewing some grass from the hedgerow.
The two police officers looked at each other and at the cow.
‘Looks harmless enough,’ Karen said.
‘Yeah,’ the sergeant nodded.
A thickset man in wellington boots and an old grey duffel coat came up behind them.
‘About time. Where’s the marksman?’
‘I’m here.’
He looked Karen up and down.
‘You’re a woman.’
‘Yes.’
The farmer grunted, looked at Sergeant Thomas and said, ‘She’s a mad bugger.’
Karen turned and looked angrily at the farmer then she realised he meant the animal quietly watching them.
‘She doesn’t look very mad,’ she said.
‘Don’t let her fool you. She’s just having a rest. She’s a sick animal. Look at the sides of those cars.’
There were deep dents in the doors and on the wings of the cars closest to the circle.
Suddenly the cow threw back her head and mooed, a deep soulful song of the blues, before bending down and charging straight into the side of an almost new BMW. The whole car shuddered and the male driver cried out in terror, ‘Don’t just stand there, do something, can’t you?’ The cow was kicking and bucking like an unbroken colt.
‘Right, Davies, get on with it,’ Sergeant Thomas looked at his marksman. Her face was pale but composed.
She stepped forward and lifted the rifle. As she did so, the cow stopped in her tracks, turned round to face Karen. Lined herself up for her own execution. There were strands of grass dangling from the sides of her mouth and her jaws were moving slowly, methodically. Karen released the safety catch, steadied the barrel, took aim. The cow continued to study her.
She drew back the trigger and fired. The air was silent. The bullet crashed through the animal’s skull directly between its eyes. Her aim was perfect. The cow stood calmly before its legs crumbled and it fell to the ground.
Karen was aware of people getting out of cars, shouting, crying, Sergeant Thomas saying something to her but she couldn’t hear any of it. All she could hear was the whistle of the bullet and the shattering of bone.
She turned and pushed her way through the crowds of people rushing forwards. She started to run, oblivious to the shouts of gratitude and accusation that assailed her, and didn’t stop until she came to a gate into a field. She clambered over it and got behind the hedge just in time to throw up. She sank to her knees as her abdominal muscles contracted and she retched violently again and again. When there was nothing, not even bile, left she sat up. As she wiped her hand across her mouth, she realised she was still clutching the rifle. There were specks of vomit on the barrel. She took out her handkerchief and cleaned it carefully, checking that the safety catch was back on. She stood up, brushed down her uniform, started to walk towards the gate.
Later she’d remember eyes the colour of hot chocolate. For now it was enough that she’d killed; she was blooded.

Ice

2009-03-25T02:55:00.001-07:00

Every night Alice had the same dream.
In it a huge block of ice glided towards her, dragging with it all the things she knew and thought she loved. It stripped the valleys of her childhood of childish things; the meadows of her youth it raked bare, and the hills of her history it eroded, crushed and reshaped. Characters from her life story became brittle cracked sculptures of themselves. And all around the ice a hundred thousand prisms sucked in red and violet stars and blew out laser white rays.
In her dream Alice watched the approach of the mammoth with fascination. But, always, before the ice reached her, she awoke.
She told no-one about her dream, especially not her husband. His mind was crowded enough; the last thing he needed was her foolishness.
Then one morning, she overslept.
The glacier approached, as it always did, its speed increasing as it drew closer and closer. Like a spectator at the Coliseum, Alice watched. When it was within two feet of her she wondered if she should scream. She opened her mouth and a dagger of white air escaped. As it did, she realised that to scream now would defeat the object: she wanted to find out what would happen. She would not be afraid. This was only a dream; she could come to no harm.
The noise was deafening as photo frames and china dolls, beads and books, unable to resist its power, crumbled and were scooped up by the unstoppable ice block.
But when the glacier was just inches from her toes, another sound penetrated the whiteness. Her husband’s voice cut diamond sharp through her dream state. He would be late for work and it was her fault: she had forgotten to set the alarm.
When he had gone, Alice tried to go back to sleep, to return to the place she had left, but when she did at last doze, the glacier had retreated.
She told herself she was silly, paying such attention to a dream. She resolved to put it out of her mind and to concentrate on real things. And for a time it worked. She continued to have the dream but wouldn’t allow herself to think of it.
Then Alice’s husband had to go away with work. Just for one night. But one night was all she needed.
She went to bed early, switched off the alarm and slid between the crisp sheets. Without the warmth of her husband’s body, they were cold to the touch. She shivered and turned off the light. She fell asleep quickly but, for a long time, the glacier didn’t move. She feared, at first, it had come to a halt, that she was too late. But when it started to creak and scrape and scour its path towards her, building up its speed as it did, she knew there would be no stopping it. Now it came closer, faster than ever before.
Closer.
Closer.
She held out her arms to welcome it. Its glassy weight thrust against her. She thought she would be knocked flat but, where the ice touched her body, it melted and took her shape. The colder than breath air that surrounded her froze the water droplets and a new skin coated her.
Alice felt no fear. She felt nothing except relief: the weight of feeling had become a burden. But if she could have felt it, she would have been light-hearted.
She awoke the next morning to find herself encased in ice. Only a thin covering but strong and impenetrable. She smiled to herself as she glided through her daily chores wondering what her husband would say when he returned that evening.
But ice is notorious for catching people out. They don’t see it until it’s too late. In time he came to notice a change in her but couldn’t have said what that change was or when it had happened.
Alice no longer dreamed of icebergs; instead she dreamed of dark rooms peopled by grey men and women doing monochrome jobs. Joy and misery became strangers, leaving calling cards that she only glanced at before shredding. She watched others mourn through a frosted window, or, when required, carefully applied the make-up of happiness. If she saw a rainbow, she would remember a stirring of what might have been delight, but it was too insignificant to crack the ice.

A Proper Charlie

2009-03-18T02:33:00.000-07:00

“Are these yours?”

The stranger who had knocked on my door had just the hint of a smile about his face. When I looked down I realised why. In his outstretched hand he held a pair of knickers.

Quick thinking was called for; not only were they my knickers, they were my most sensible cover-all pair. I studied them intently.
“Nooo, I don’t recognise them. Mine are much silkier ... and smaller of course.”
I looked up to see the hint of a smile getting dangerously close to a smirk. Quick thinking was never my strong point.
“Just as a matter of interest, where did you find them?”
“Your dog presented me with them as I came through your gate.”
“My dog. I see. Well, why don’t I take them and try and find out who they belong to?” I said, my sweet smile hiding my evil intent: I was going to murder that animal. He had a thing about knickers. Maybe he’d had an unhappy puppyhood and they represented security to him, I don’t know, and at that moment I didn’t really care. I grabbed the offending object from my visitor’s hand and was about to shut the door when he said “I did have a reason for coming through your gate.”
“Oh, yes, of course, sorry, silly me.”

The knickers resisted my attempts to stuff them in my pocket so I threw them, casually, into the hall behind me.

“I wonder if I could use your telephone? I’m moving in next door and the solicitor, who was supposed to be dropping the keys off, hasn’t turned up. I managed to pack my mobile and I have some removals men getting irate out there.”

On the road outside I could see a removals van and some very grumpy looking men.
“Of course, come on in.”
The phone was in the hall as were my knickers. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, I hastily kicked them under the stairs.
“I’ll put the kettle on, I’m sure a cuppa all round will calm the situation.”

As I backed into the kitchen, grinning maniacally, I wondered why I was sounding like a character in an Aga saga. It just wasn’t every day that a good-looking man came through my door. In fact there hadn’t been a single one since Adam had walked out. Not that I regretted him going. Charlie and I were better off without someone who couldn’t cope with a little slobber on his trousers.

I heard the phone click and my neighbour-to-be tapped on the kitchen door. He looked with some surprise at the tray I was carrying. I had made six mugs of tea and another six of coffee.
“Please take one. Do you take sugar? No? What about a biscuit? They’re homemade, well, I didn’t make them, you understand, but I bought them at the WI market which is the next best thing.”
I was just making a mental note to stop reading Joanna Trollope when Charlie came in. Charlie is my dog, the one currently under a death threat. He’d been playing ‘nosey neighbour’ in the front garden watching every move the removals men made, but now bored with the lack of movement, he’d come looking for other diversions. Charlie is very friendly; he is also very big.

“Charlie NO. GET DOWN. Oh, I’m sorry, let me get you a cloth to wipe your jacket. He doesn’t mean any harm, he just wants to say hello. He’s really very ... oh, I’m sorry, that cloth must have had milk on it ... But he’s really very ... helpful.”

Charlie, realising he’d made a blunder, had gone to fetch a peace offering — my knickers from under the stairs. At that moment there was a screech of brakes outside.

“That must be my solicitor with the keys. Thank you for the use of your telephone. I’ll make sure I always carry mine in future.” He’d made a bolt for the door and was through the gate before I could ask him what his name was.

Peering from behind the bedroom curtains as the removals men got to work, I noticed that all the furniture had that stark bachelor-flat appearance, with not a flounce or frill to be seen. This was a good sign. Now that might smack of desperation but eligible men round me are as rare as a happy storyline in Eastenders. And the few I do meet never seem to hang around very long.

Over the next few weeks, working at home, I was able to keep a close eye on the comings and goings of Whatsisname, as I called him when talking to Charlie, drawing up intricate plans to accidentally bump into him. Unfortunately it looked as if he were drawing up equally intricate plans to avoid me. So it was with a sense of inevitability that I decided I needed to concentrate on some deadlines that were closing in on me. Housework was the main casualty.

So it was, dressed in a three-day-old t-shirt and mud-bespattered jeans, with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s chocolate chip ice cream in my hand, that I answered the door one morning only to come face to face with Whatsisname.
“Why aren’t you in work?”
It was out before I could stop myself.
“I mean you’re usually in work at this time of day. No, wait, I mean ... I’m usually in work at this time of the day. Yes, that’s right. Well, of course, I am in work, I work here. Ah,” I took a deep breath, “would you like a cup of coffee?”

I thought I covered my slip of the tongue quite well; Whatsisname looked slightly apprehensive. He said, “No, I don’t think so, thank you.”
“Oh, I know, you’re worried about Charlie,” I said. “There’s no need, he’s in the garden. In fact, it’s a wonder he hasn’t come round to greet you.”
“That’s why I’m here actually; he’s round the back. His head appears to be stuck in the hedge.”
“Oh, that Charlie,” I hissed through the gritted teeth lurking behind my smile. “He’s always sticking his nose where he shouldn’t.”

We hurried around to the back garden and there was Charlie’s bottom sticking out from the bushes. He wagged his tail enthusiastically when he heard us coming.
“Come on Charlie, get out of there. You’re making a big hole in this nice gentleman’s hedge.”
Charlie wagged even more boisterously but stayed put.
“Come on Charlie, stop being silly. I’ve got a doggy treat here for you,” I lied. My face was beginning to ache with the strain of smiling for so long.
“I wonder if he’s stuck,” Whatsisname suggested. “I’ll go round to my side and see if there’s something in his way.”

The moment he’d gone the real me emerged.
“Get out of there this minute, you stupid animal,” I whispered angrily. “I’m going to count to three and you’d better be out then or else. One......two......three. That does it; it’s bread and water for you.”

“Thank you very much but I’ve already had breakfast,” I could hear the smirk on his face even through the thick bushes. “I could do with a pair of shears though,” he continued.
“Pardon?”
“There’s a branch sticking into his chest,” he spoke through the hedge slowly and clearly. “If he tries to move, it could do some serious damage. We’ll have to cut it. I haven’t got round to buying garden tools yet so do you have any?”
“Oh yes, hang on a minute, I’ll go and find some.”

I said this with more optimism than I felt. I did have some shears, it was just that they were in the shed and my storage system was based on the ‘throw it in and close the door quickly’ school of thought. Ten minutes later I emerged triumphant if not slightly tattered and oiled. As I opened the shed door, two muddy paws were placed on my shoulders and I was covered in big sloppy kisses.
“It’s all right, Charlie, did you think I’d left home? CHARLIE! How did you get out?”
“I thought you’d left home so I broke the branch and freed him,” Whatsisname said. The smirk on his face was starting to get boring.
“Thank you so much for rescuing Charlie,” I said, sounding rather like Princess Anne on a bad day, “I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”
I did think about offering him coffee but decided to quit while I was ahead, or at least before I fell behind anymore.

One of our favourite walks is along the river path through the woods. In springtime it’s especially beautiful with the bluebells and primroses in full bloom but at any time of year it’s likely to be muddy. Charlie loves to swim in the river which washes off a lot of the mud but he still ends up bedraggled looking. In spite of what you’ve heard about him so far he’s quite well behaved, no, really, he is, so as we walk up the final stretch of road leading to our house I let him off his lead. There’s not much traffic and, as I said, he’s well-behaved. Except when he gets excited. And he gets excited if he sees someone he knows or he might know or if they’re just there really. So when he saw this female coming out of Whatsisname’s gate he had to go and say hello.
“CHARLIE NOOOOO!”

I was wasting my breath. He was determined and nothing was going to stop him giving his own distinctive greeting. Thoughts rushed through my mind. Was it too late to turn and run? What happens if you put your head in an electric oven? Is there a Society for the Protection of Dog Owners? And is this Whatsisname’s girlfriend?

For once luck seemed to be on our side — she appeared to like dogs.
“You must be Charlie,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you!”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I babbled “He’s usually so well-behaved. I don’t know what’s come over him. You must smell very nice to dogs.”
“Thank you, I think,” she smiled. “And you must be the girl with the knickers.”

At that I grabbed Charlie, put him on his lead and started to drag him away. Perhaps I’d put Charlie’s head in the oven first. Then just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse she called to me, “You must come in for coffee when I’ve moved in properly.”
“Thank you, yes, that would be lovely,” I shouted back, adding under my breath, “oh, no, no, no.”

That evening I needed comfort food. I made myself the biggest bowl of porridge you’ve ever seen. All my hopes for a future with Whatsisname were squashed. I admit there wasn’t a lot going for it but things can change. He might have grown to love Charlie and me. A girl has to dream. As they say in the song my mother used to sing to me when I was little, “You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream ...”

So that’s how I came to be waltzing round with Charlie and my bowl of porridge, singing at the top of my voice, when there was a knock at the door. I cha-cha-ed out to open it to find, inevitably, Whatsisname on the doorstep.

I was past caring. Everything he’d seen up till now must have convinced him that I was the biggest brazilnut in town. It was too late to remedy the situation so I gave it my all and a bit extra.
“Then you’ll never have a dream come truuuuuuuuuue.”

I threw out my chest, spread open my arms and spilled my porridge over his shoes. When it comes to food Charlie’s reactions are faster than Lewis Hamilton’s. One slurp and it was gone. Whatsisname and I raised our heads slowly and simultaneously and then he burst out laughing.
“Why didn’t the estate agent didn’t warn me about you!”
“I’m not usually like this” I said indignantly. “You just seem to bring out the worst in ... us.” I’d just realised Charlie had stuck his nose where well-mannered dogs aren’t supposed to stick their noses. Etiquette was never his strong point.
“Charlie, please, don’t do that.”

Whatsisname bent over and started to stroke Charlie’s head.
“My sister phoned,” he said. “She was worried that she might have upset you this afternoon. I said that seemed unlikely but she insisted that I come around and tell you she’s sorry she mentioned the knickers, sorry, I mean, the you-know-whats.” I was looking at him blankly. “You met her this afternoon, if you remember” he enunciated.
“Met her?” I said doubtfully, “Your sister?”
“Yeees. The one Charlie liked the smell of?”
“That was you sister? You mean the girl who was here this afternoon? She’s your sister? The one who’s moving in with you? She’s your sister?”
“Yes, her company has moved down here so it seemed sensible that she should stay with me for a while until she finds a place of her own.”

I was still saying “Your sister, well, well” and the grin was spreading all over my porridge-encrusted mouth when he said, “Look, we haven’t had the best of beginnings. What about us going out for a meal and starting again?”
“Go out for a meal? You and me?”
He laughed and said, “Well I’d prefer not to take Charlie!”

We arranged to go out the very next evening. Just as he was going through the gate I remembered “Oh, I don’t know your name.”

He turned, grinned and said hang-doggishly, “I’m afraid it’s Charles.”

The adulterous woman

2009-02-28T04:13:00.000-08:00

I was condemned. Found and condemned with no chance to explain. No chance to explain that it wasn’t my fault. That I’d been forced into marrying an older man. A man who didn’t love me or want me for what I was. His only use for me was as a woman; I could have been any woman I meant so little to him. A trophy to be worn on his arm.

But that’s no excuse I know; excuses are meaningless.

I could say that I suspected he visited the local women of the night; that he rarely shared my bed; that he often came home smelling of sickly perfume, not the perfume I used; that other women looked down on me pityingly. I could say all of that.

But I said I wasn’t going to make excuses.

I was guilty. Guilty of the crime.

How could I not be when they found me in the committing of it? When the door of my bedroom was kicked open and they burst in as I lay with my lover. I was guilty.

I grabbed the sheet and pulled it up around me but they tore it away and dragged me, screaming from the bed.

I feel the heat in my face now as I remember how they pulled me from the bed out of the house and into the street as I was. And they would have taken me through the town like that had not my maidservant run after us crying, ‘Let her have her wrap at least, spare her that!’

Begrudgingly they let me draw it around me, but they didn’t stop. As I glanced back at my house, I saw my husband on the roof, looking down on me. I screamed, ‘Husband, help me! For they will surely kill me!’ He didn’t move. He was smiling.

I fought against my captors as we continued the relentless journey to the edge of the town. I knew what would happen there: I would be stoned. It was written in the law of Moses.
I wriggled and squirmed desperately, tried to drag my feet, anything to slow them down, anything that might give me a chance to get free of them. In their hurry, I stumbled and tripped but they didn’t slow down or release their grip on my arms. As we passed through the town, people came out of their houses to watch. I saw women I used to meet in the marketplace. I no longer cared about the humiliation or my pride; I just wanted to live. ‘Ruth, Sarah, help me please, Martha, don’t let them take me, help me.’ But they all looked away.

My shoulders sagged; I ceased to struggle; it was all over. We were approaching the temple now. Were there more of them being summoned to condemn me? What did it matter? I would be dead soon.

Ahead I could see a crowd of people; I thought they were waiting for me and I began to scream and fight again. One of the men dragging me slapped me hard. He spat into my face, ‘Keep your mouth shut, whore.’ As we passed through the crowd, all faces turned to stare at me. I felt the fight leave me again, and when they threw me down, I dropped easily, almost grateful for the end that was coming. I curled up as small as I could and put my hands over my head. And I waited for the first stone. I wondered how long it would take; how much I would have to bear before I could die.

But nothing came. And I realised the crowd had gone silent while the men who had brought me muttered to each other. ‘Why doesn’t he answer?’ ‘What is he writing? I can’t see.’ ‘Why doesn’t he condemn her as the law says?’

I was confused; I didn’t understand why they weren’t throwing their stones. I moved my arm from before my eyes and peered out. The man in front of me was bending down, writing in the sand. Everyone else was watching him; they seemed to be waiting for something. I sat up a little and looked around some more. My guards still muttered to themselves as they stared at this man writing on the ground. Then he straightened up and spoke. ‘If you are without sin, throw your stone.’ Then he bent down and began to write again.

I buried my head down on my chest and brought up my arms around me, waiting for the stones that were sure to come now. This man, with whatever authority he had, had told them to throw their stones. I tried to say my prayers but how could God hear a sinner such as me? I couldn’t even cry. My tears had been used up; I had already wept too much over my sin for any more to be shed. Now I just waited and wished for it to be over. I thought of my child who would grow up without her mother. Of what they would tell her; how she would grow pretending that her mother had died of sickness, how she would live a life of fear and shame, never being allowed to forget what her mother had done. I thought of her smile as she runs to me, her laugh as I spin her round, the soft touch of her skin against mine, the smell of her hair in the breeze and her breath on my face. And I am smiling as I lift myself up. I cannot die bent over, humiliated; for my child, my death at least must be honourable.

I opened my eyes and looked around; I wanted to beg someone to tell my child that I love her. But there was no-one there. There was just me and the man.

He stood and he too looked around, as if surprised. ‘Where has everyone gone?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t anyone condemn you? Throw a stone?’

I shook my head.

‘Then neither do I condemn you,’ he said. ‘Go now. But,’ he held out his hands and took mine as I started to fall to my knees at his feet in thankfulness, ‘don’t sin any more.’

My husband is divorcing me. I am glad though it means I will not be able to see my child. I am alive and I have another chance. I am going to follow this man Jesus. There are men and women who travel with him; they have said I can go with them and learn all I need to know. And one day I will see my child again and I will tell her how my life was changed and maybe one day she will understand and I can make her proud of me.

Ziggy

2009-02-24T04:06:00.000-08:00

I remember the summer of the Carvers’ execution; it was the summer I met Ziggy. Two momentous things happened during those three short months, the first being that I fell in love.

The Carvers were husband and wife. They believed they had a God-given mission to purify American society. At the trial, in his defence against the charge of first degree murder, Jimmy claimed that an angel had appeared to him and told him to rid humanity of the scourge of homosexuality. To accomplish this, he would frequent downtown nightclubs and lure young men back to his fourth floor apartment where Nancy had prepared and left out poisoned wine. Having killed their victims — there was some doubt about how many — they got rid of the bagged bodies in their waste disposal. They were only discovered when one larger than usual victim became wedged in the shute. It was so simple, it’s only a surprise that more people haven’t tried it. Or maybe they have.

The judge sentenced them to death by electrocution. The electric chair. From the moment I heard of the judge’s pronouncement, it obsessed me, filled my brain. What does it feel like, I wondered, to die like that? Is there an instant, just before the power surges through the core of your being, when every nerve ending in your body tingles with unimaginable ecstasy? Or is it all over in a painless flash? These were my thoughts when I met Ziggy.

He took my breath away. Literally and figuratively. New York City was short of air that summer and I was meandering lethargically along the sidewalk, engrossed in the Tribune’s account of the verdict, when he emerged from the subway, jumping the steps two at a time. We collided. His greater momentum meant that I crashed onto the floor. Ziggy stopped, apologised, realised that I was struggling to get up and leant over to help me. I saw myself reflected in his hazel-brown eyes, and I couldn’t look away. It only needed an orchestral crescendo in the background for this to have been a bad Hollywood B-movie, and if I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have believed it either.

I tried to stand but the pain surprised me with its intensity and I grimaced and leaned against the railing. Ziggy couldn’t apologise enough. He insisted on calling a cab and taking me to the nearest hospital. The doctor declared my ankle, badly sprained but not broken, bound it tightly for me, and told me to ‘rest up’. I thanked Ziggy and assured him I would be fine now, but it wasn’t enough. He was, I was to discover, both a perfect gentleman, and an anglophile. On learning that I was visiting from England and staying in a cheap hotel in the village, he hailed another cab, accompanied me there and waited while I packed my things. He took me back to his penthouse apartment with its postcard-familiar views of the Manhattan skyline and installed me in the guest bedroom.

When at last I was able to walk without needing a stick, Ziggy took it upon himself to show me round his city. He let me see things through his eyes. Things looked very different from that perspective. From the top of the Statue of Liberty we looked out over the same seaway so many immigrants had crossed on their journey to the land of the free. Ziggy made a passionate speech about rights and justice. His eyes glistened as he spoke about the inhumanity of the few and the filth that had polluted the city he loved.

Each evening, we watched the television news, which was full of the Carvers and their forthcoming execution. It was a quiet summer for news, and the big channels vied with each other for increasingly unusual angles. Like every school kid in the city, we knew the exact voltage of the current that would pass through Jimmy and Nancy. There was to be no appeal, or rather the only appeal Jimmy made was that the end should be soon. They had completed their work on earth. Like children waiting for Christmas, they were impatient for their reward.

The sun shone on the day of death. Ziggy drew the blinds in his apartment, and draped the television with a black cloth. Then we sat, side by side on the sofa, and waited. The killing itself wasn’t televised; all we saw were the victims’ relatives, the protesters, the crowds baying for blood, and the priest and the condemned pair walking through the compound to the enclosed death cell. Tension radiated from the screen. Even the air-conditioned apartment felt claustrophobic.

When it was all over, Ziggy raised his glass.

‘They are martyrs,’ he said, his face wet with tears. ‘I salute you, Jimmy and Nancy. America needs more people like you.’

I thought briefly of what could have been, and watched as Ziggy drained the glass of wine I had poured for him. The whole momentous event took only a few minutes.

I left New York that afternoon.

At the airport, the customs officer said, ‘Hope you’ve enjoyed your stay over here, Mr Fielding.’ I formed my lips into a smile for him.

The Generation Gap Part 1

2008-11-06T04:53:00.000-08:00

These were written when daughter was about 16 and I felt about 127, and were published as part of a series of articles under the title 'The generation gap', in a woman's magazine.

Letters from the trenches
The mother's view
A battle is being waged in our house. Quite separate from the everyday rucks and mauls, this is a war of subtlety where the main tactic is Wearing Down the Resistance.

The first blow was struck a couple of years ago although at that stage I didn't realise it was a war. Anna wanted to have her ears pierced. I held out until I felt she was old enough to make such a decision and then quite happily accompanied her to the shop. In fact, I went one step further and had my own ears pierced as well!

So that was that I thought. But I hadn't taken fashion into account. Next it was "Mum, can I have another earring in the top of my ear." "No definitely not."

I honestly can't remember agreeing to it or even when it happened. It must have been battle fatigue numbing the brain. Suffice it to say, Anna now has a second earring in one ear - not that you can see it under her hair anyway.

So one boundary has been exceeded and a new one created.

"Can I have my nose pierced?" "Absolutely and positively NO!" The trouble is, I can't really think of a good reason why not. I only have the parent's favourite "Because I say so" to fall back on. Which brings me to today’s dilemma — to bleach or not to bleach? Anna has dark brown hair which she would love to transform to white. My gut reaction is that “It’ll ruin your hair and it will all fall out.” Of course, as I have no actual scientific backing I have to do a lot of waffling. I suspect a compromise is around the corner and that we will allow her to bleach some streaks before she sets off for Greenbelt otherwise I fear what she might take it into her head to do while there.

But now, of course, the cracks in Mum's armour have shown. It has been proved that I am quite likely to crumble under pressure. I've always tried to be consistent. If I said no I meant no.
Surely I'm not so weak that I can be bullied by my children not to mention the dog...or the cat?
Ah well, if all else fails, I'll have to call in the big guns...."Michael".

The daughter's view
“No!”

And so began the Bleach War.

Battles such as this, with my parents as the opposition, in the past have had a 50/50 success rate to either side. Admittedly, the Ear War in 93 (I wanted the top of one ear pierced) resulted in me being grounded when I won - they denied everything. That was my one proud win.
However, in 1995, the tables turned and I lost (for now). I am not having my nose pierced on the grounds of “I say so”; or at least not til I’m 18. I think they’re hoping that I’m going to turn into a boring sensible person overnight on my 18th. But you see it’s become principle now. Even if I do change my mind about having my nose pierced (and I haven’t yet) clearly, they’ve left me with no choice.

And now we’re into a new one. War III, thus smashing all world records. The chances on either side are equal....

The only reason I’m struggling on is that my parents have agreed to allow me to bleach streaks in my hair. What I’m hoping for is to bleach all of it. But I wouldn’t leave it white; that would look horrible. I want to dye it pink on top, so it comes out really bright. I’m going to a music festival, Greenbelt, and I need to be outrageous for it. It’ll be worth my hair falling out! (Which, by the way is my parents’ sole argument. My hair will fall out if I bleach it. Yeah.... right. Personally I think they’ll just be too embarrassed to have a daughter with pink hair). I’ve found the dye and rung the hairdressers about the bleaching - there’s only one problem to overcome.

The Other Side.

I tried the Mature Persuasive tactic, the calm, reasonable argument.

I used the Other Parents tactic (other-people-let-their-children-be-responsible-for-their-own-hair ).

I even resorted to the sulky “I’m doing it anyway” tactic, and the “what will you do if I do it?” and even foot-stamping in order to get my way. All plans to stay calm have flown the nest by this stage, and all the early childhood methods have come back into play. You see I’m very organised really. If all else fails, cry.
xx

A joy forever

2008-09-02T08:24:00.000-07:00

Aunt Maude kept a pianist in the conservatory. From early morning until late in the evening, he played beautiful music, music that drifted through the house, touching every room .

Today there’s no beautiful music. As soon as my mother and I are shown into the office, I look around for the pianist. I know he will be here. He is. Sitting at the end of the front row, staring straight ahead. I would sit next to him but there’s only one empty seat. My mother pulls me into a seat at the other end of the row, next to Uncle George and his wife.

There are twelve chairs set out in two rows, slightly arced around a huge dark oak desk. The row behind is filled by Uncle George’s daughters and their families. The children are restless, wriggling in their seats.

Uncle George’s wife pats my mother’s hand, makes whispered comments, ‘funeral went well, lovely spread, such a shame, George so busy, President of Rotary, couldn’t see her as much as would have liked’.

A side door opens and the solicitor strides in. A tall thin man, he stands behind his desk, glances around. He nods the briefest of greetings before he sits, places his briefcase on the desk and opens it. He takes out an assortment of papers and sorts through them. He is not in a hurry. Uncle George shifts his weight in his chair. He drums his fingers on his legs. His wife pats his hand. Yesterday, at the funeral, she patted mine.

I glance across at the pianist. He is still staring, apparently at the portrait of a judge on the wall behind the solicitor, but he is nodding almost imperceptibly. I know he is keeping time with the music he plays in his head. I wonder what it is and try to guess from the rhythm whether it is merry or mournful.

At last the solicitor adjusts his glasses and speaks. ‘Good morning. Thank you for coming.’

The pianist glances around, sees my mother and me and smiles. I smile back and then raise my finger to indicate that the solicitor has started to speak. The pianist and I both give him our full attention.

But I am not good at concentrating and soon my thoughts wander from this room to the conservatory.

The conservatory is full of light even though there are blinds drawn at each of the long windows. The rest of Aunt Maude’s home, a solid Victorian detached house in large grounds, is dark and rapidly deteriorating but the conservatory is wonderful. In the centre is the very grand piano at which the pianist sits. His name is Edward but no-one ever calls him that. He is always simply the pianist.

When Aunt Maude first bought the Steinway Baby Grand and declared her intention of keeping it in the conservatory my mother asked if it were wise, wouldn’t the fluctuating temperature affect the performance of the piano, even maybe damage it permanently. Aunt Maude had already considered this. The next day the builders moved in to repair the cracks in the window-frames before installing a thermostatically controlled heating and humidity system.

The pianist arrived the same day as the piano. He was installed in a guest bedroom and stayed there until the day Aunt Maude died. He insisted on moving out then, to a bed and breakfast place in town.

Uncle George is asking a question. ‘Which painting does the cleaning woman get, d’you say?’
The solicitor raises his eyes above his glasses. ‘The seascape by Gerald Richards.’
‘Which one’s that?’
‘You remember, dear, the one in the hall,’ his wife tells him.
‘I think you’ll find it above the fireplace in the dining room,’ the solicitor says to her.
‘Oh, that one, of course, yes, silly me.’ She pulls her handkerchief out of her handbag and dabs her cheeks.
Uncle George gives her a look and she shrinks back in her seat.

I only ever remember him coming to Aunt Maude’s house once. My mother and I visited her every Wednesday throughout my childhood, and then as she grew older, one or other of us would call in most days to see her. Her sight started deteriorating when she was in her eighties but rapidly worsened when she passed ninety. I was there one day when she tripped over a turned-up corner of a rug. I hurried to help her and realised she was crying, ‘Aunt Maude, have you hurt yourself?’ But it wasn’t pain that made her cry.

‘Damn, damn, damn. These blasted eyes of mine, letting me down when I need them. Stupid eyes, stupid, stupid.’ I helped her into a chair and went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. When I returned, she was sitting back in the chair, fingering her glasses. She leaned forward, waved her glasses at me, and said, ‘Right, Kathryn, I might be losing one sense but I still have the others. It’s time to put my grand plan into action.’

The grand plan was to compensate for the loss of one sense by lavishing treasures on the others. It was then that she bought the piano and began filling every room that she used in the house with highly scented lilies. Throughout the year she had a twice weekly delivery from the local florist.

It was a sensory experience to enter her home and I delighted in it. The music of the pianist distracted visitors from the shabby wallpaper and frayed carpets and the perfume of the lilies overpowered the decaying smell of the old house.

The time Uncle George came, he grumbled about the scent. ‘What’s that damn awful smell?’ He sneezed. In the background, the pianist had reached a particularly intricate section. ‘How d’you put up with that damn noise? Can’t hear yourself think.’

He didn’t stay long. ‘Meetings, you understand, vital. Get wife to call in. Make herself useful. Make a change.’

His wife now nods sagely as the solicitor continues to explain minor bequests. I look again at the pianist, longing to ask him what music he plays in his head so I can hear it too, instead of this legal talk.

I am so used to the house being filled with mazurkas and sonatas of Beethoven and Chopin that to enter it yesterday, before the crowds arrived, to silence made me cry, more than I had cried before. It was a silence so heavy that I could understand how the pianist must feel and I wondered if that was why he played so incessantly. To stop others from knowing the oppression his deafness brought on him. I was glad when the mourners arrived.

The pianist went for a walk during the funeral tea. I had hoped he would play but my mother said it would be unfair to ask that of him. So the only music that afternoon was the discordant tones of the whispered murmurings that grew louder as the afternoon went by.

I watched people, people I’d never seen, study the ornaments, touch and handle them, turn them over, looking for a hallmark or famous name. Some said loudly, ‘Maude always promised me this was to be mine after she was gone.’ They had short shrift from Uncle George, ‘It will be in her will then, won’t it?’ he’d say, returning the object to the wrong place on the shelf.

As it turned out it was a good thing the pianist wasn’t at the funeral tea as guests persisted in putting their cups and saucers on the closed lid of the piano. Between us, my mother and I kept guard, gathering up the dirty crockery instantly and polishing the lid with our sleeves.

Now the solicitor is saying something about the pianist and I listen properly. ‘For the immense pleasure his music has brought me over my last years, I leave him the piano, with my eternal thanks.’ Uncle George, his brow wrinkled, leans forward and grunts in the pianist’s direction. I imagine he is working out the value of the piano.

Meanwhile the solicitor begins to speak of Aunt Maude’s vast collection of books including some rare first editions. She has left her entire library to my mother and me ‘in the certain knowledge that it will bring them as much joy as it brought me.’

I can’t help smiling as I remember. When I was about seven, while her eyesight was still reasonably good, she led me into the hall one day and told me to stand on a chair. Then she pointed to a small embroidered wall-hanging. ‘Can you read what this says, Kathryn?’

I studied the words. The stitches were fancy and faded but I could just make it out. I nodded.
‘Then read it aloud to me,’ she said. ‘Can you do that?’
‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness;’ I stumbled over some of the words but Aunt Maude was nodding so I carried on. ‘but still will keep a bow-er quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.’
‘Now, Kathryn, that was written more than a hundred years ago by a man called John Keats. It is one of the truest things you will ever hear.’

She helped me down from the chair. ‘Love and beauty, Kathryn,’ she said. ‘Love and beauty are all that matter.’ She sighed, ‘I have been fortunate in my life to have known such love and beauty. And now that you have shown me what a good reader you are, it is time you helped your mother.’

Every week when we went to Aunt Maude’s house, after tea, we would sit in the parlour and my mother would read aloud to us. It was all her old comfy favourites in their worn covers that Aunt Maude preferred, the ones that would fall open at a beloved poem. She would often join in and recite those she knew by heart and my mother would stop reading, draw me close to her, and we’d sit back together and listen. From then on, my mother and I took it in turns to read aloud to Aunt Maude.

I put my arm through my mother’s then I realise she is crying. I rummage around in my pocket for a clean tissue but she finds one first and blows heartily.

The solicitor stops reading for a moment.
‘Shall I continue?’ he asks. ‘Or would you like a short break?’
‘Get on with it, man,’ Uncle George growls. ‘Haven’t got all day.’
The solicitor looks at my mother who nods her acquiescence.
‘Very well, there’s not much more. We now come to the remaining estate.’

Uncle George and his wife both lean forward in their seats, while their daughters loudly shush the children. Uncle George has, on his forehead, shiny globs of sweat. His lips are parted and his tongue darts in and out.

‘I wondered long and hard about this decision,’ the solicitor reads from Aunt Maude’s will, ‘and it is not one I have made lightly. I considered the pianist but decided it would be an unnecessary burden for an artist. Then I thought of my two dear girls who have read to me so faithfully — but for them also the responsibility would weigh heavy’

Uncle George’s wife pats my mother’s hand. ‘She did it for the best reasons, I’m sure, dear,’ she says.
The solicitor looks up, raises one eyebrow.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Uncle George’s wife purrs.
‘So, after much consideration, I am leaving my estate and my business affairs in the safe hands of my nephew, George, who will know how best to deal with it.’
There are a few more paragraphs in the same style before the solicitor puts down the will and takes off his glasses.

‘Can we go now?’ the youngest of Uncle George’s grandchildren begs. Her mother quietens her with promises of ice cream before she leans over and tells her parents that she will speak to them later. She congratulates them, which seems strange to me. They haven’t done anything. I begin to feel slightly resentful. I realise that I had been hoping the house would be left to my mother and that the pianist would be able to stay. We have a spare room in our house but I doubt if we’d get a grand piano in the dining room.

I notice the pianist has left. I am sorry that he didn’t say goodbye to us. I wonder if we will meet again. The general hum in the room lessens as the children are led away but it is necessary for the solicitor to almost shout to attract our attention.

‘There are a few more things that Maude wanted me to say while you were together,’ he says. ‘About the value of the estate.’

This seizes Uncle George’s attention and he shakes his wife’s hand off his arm as he re-arranges himself in the chair. By the time the solicitor finishes speaking of loans and debts and re-mortgaging, Uncle George is slumped back in his chair, his mouth hanging open. His wife fans herself with an estate agent’s brochure she has in her bag. My mother and I avoid each other’s eyes.

We thank the solicitor and leave. The pianist is waiting outside. ‘Did you know?’ my mother asks him.

He smiles.

We return to the house once more and the pianist plays. My mother and I lean on the piano and watch. My mother’s eyes are on his face but I watch his hands. I love to see his fingers fly over the keys. He begins to play a polka and I grab my mother’s hands. We dance around the conservatory.

Psalm 18

2008-08-12T04:17:00.000-07:00

Attending a writing course just after my husband had recovered from cancer, I was asked to rewrite a psalm. During his illness, psalm 18 had become my creed.

Psalm 18 Verses 1-19
I love you, O Lord, my strength.

Where would I be without you, Lord?
You’re the ground I stand on —
and more than that.
You build walls around me of pure granite,
walls to shelter and protect
and, as if that was not enough,
you place yourself between me and the world,
forestalling my enemies and safeguarding my path.

I remember a time, Lord,
when I cried out to you
and you rescued me.

It was a time when everything I hold dear was under threat,
when my enemy towered, leering, over me,
when malignancy, and death itself,
came creeping on its slimy belly
and wormed its way in,
gloating, hinting, tormenting.

What could I do but call out to you?
In the realms of heaven,
amongst the honeyed choruses of angels,
you somehow heard my puny cry.
It had no poetic beauty to move you;
others would have laughed at its lack of fluency.
But you moved heaven and earth to come to my aid.

I can see you now, the original braveheart,
leaping to your feet, arms raised, fists clenched,
your face gripped with righteous anger,
sweat and tears mingling as you storm,
roaring, from your throne room
and stride through eternity.
The forces of nature have seen this before
and cower, trembling, before your approach
but my enemy, oh foolish one, is too intent
on his own schemes to give heed to the signs.
And is caught unawares when you stamp on him.

You could have left it there, warrior king,
but no, with anger spent, there was another job for you.
You lifted me gently in your hand,
closed your fingers around me
and whispered oh such words,
words of reassurance and peace,
words without sound
which told of your joy in me.

Then you took me to a meadow which stretched
as far as I could see, a lush green pasture, and you told me
I was free.

The day we saw Elvis

2008-08-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

Mam was making chips when she burned down the house. It was the first time she’d made chips since Da had died eight years earlier. Before that she’d always made chips on Wednesdays. It’d been egg and chips for tea on Wednesdays for as long as I could remember. I suppose in the beginning it was because Da didn’t get paid until Thursday then it became habit. She stopped making chips when Da died. It was too much effort, I suppose, to make them just for her.

The firemen were packing up and Mam and me were standing in the back garden staring at the carbon-black skeleton of the house that had been her home for the last forty nine years when Howie arrived. He looked like a replica of Da walking up the path, his mouth opening and shutting as soundless words formed, making him look like a boxer who’s fought one too many fights.

He exploded as he reached us, ‘Bloody hell, Mam, how did you manage that?’
‘She was just making a few chips for tea,’ I said hurriedly. ‘It’s very common, the fireman told us most house fires start in chip pans.’
‘Start maybe, but most of them don’t get any further than the kitchen. What the hell were you doing, Mam, while the house was burning down?’
‘She was in the garden. It was a nice afternoon.’
‘It was a lovely afternoon before all those clouds came,’ Mam said. ‘Just enjoying a bit of sunshine I was when I spotted all those weeds in the flower bed. You know your Da hates weeds so I started pulling them up.’

She held out her muck-covered hands for inspection. In one were the remains of a stalk, all that was left after she’d picked all the leaves off. The rest of the weeds formed a trail on the grass at the edge of the flower bed.

The shock and frustration made Howie speak sharply. ‘Da’s dead, Mam, you know that. He’s been dead for eight years. For pete’s sake, didn’t you notice the smoke?’
‘The smoke?’ Mam looked puzzled.

Howie shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and turned to me. ‘Well, that settles it. We’ll have to do it now, what we talked about. She can’t stay on her own; she’s a danger to herself and everyone else.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Howie, I still don’t like the idea.’

The firemen were about to leave and one of them came over to us. ‘We’ll be off now, Mrs Jones,’ and then looking at me, he said, ‘she’ll be all right tonight won’t she? She’s got somewhere to go?’
‘Oh, yes, she’ll come home with me,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much for all your help.’
Howie started speaking at the same time as me, ‘Yes, it’s all sorted, I’ve been in touch with the authorities.’

I waited for the fireman to go before turning on Howie. ‘You’ve spoken to the authorities already?’
‘They’ve got a place in High View. We can take her straight there.’
‘What, right now?’
‘Yes, we’ve had a bit of luck: an old lady died yesterday.’
‘You can’t be serious. Mam’s had a dreadful shock, she could have been killed. We can’t put her in a home straightaway.’
‘She won’t even notice, look at her, in a world of her own. And you know what these places are like, spaces are like gold dust. If you take her home with you, even if it’s just for one night, the council will try and say that she doesn’t need the place, that she’s got family to look after her, and we’ve agreed that’s not a good idea, not with us all out at work all day.’ He softened his tone, ‘Mam always said she wanted to go in a home when the time came, didn’t she? And you know High View is one of the best ones, just like a home from home, and it’s handy for visiting. If we miss this chance, she might have to go into Riverside or one of the others on the other side of town.’

I knew what he was talking about when he said Mam wanted to go in a home. We’d been sitting round the dinner table, it was before either of us were married, and what Mam actually said was, ‘If I ever go doolally,’ and Howie had interrupted, ‘what do you mean “if”, you’re already there aren’t you?’, and she’d given him one of her looks, then continued, ‘no, seriously, I mean it, if I ever go doolally, put me in a home and forget about me.’ She’d been quiet ever since she’d come back from visiting great aunt Maud in the nursing home in Brynhyfryd, but now she said, ‘There’ll be no point coming to visit me because I won’t know you, or if I do, I’ll forget you’ve been ten minutes after you leave. So just book me in, make sure it’s a good one, mind, where I’ll be well looked after, and then forget about me. I would hate to become a burden to you.’
‘Don’t be silly Mam’ I’d said, ‘you’d never be a burden to us.’
‘Tell you what, Mam,’ Howie said, ‘to save the money, when you go doolally, I’ll just shoot you, shall I?’
‘Oh, you’re cheeky, you are,’ Mam smiled at him. ‘Now, who wants the skin off the rice pudding?’

But that was then; this was now. I looked at the frail woman standing before me. Wrapped in a blanket, she looked older than her years. She wasn’t listening to us but her face bore a slightly puzzled expression, as if there was something she needed to remember. Suddenly she smiled brightly as it came back to her.
‘It was smoke,’ she said, ‘not clouds. I am a silly so’n’so. I thought the smoke was clouds. I should have realised it was no good when Maggie Thatcher appeared.’ She pursed her face in disgust.

Howie looked at me as good as to say, ‘what’s she talking about now?’ but I knew. ‘The cloud pictures, Elvis and JFK, Johnny the chip shop, Winnie from the pub, you must remember’ I said. He looked baffled. I could almost see his mind leaping ahead to the day his sister went the same way as his mother. He looked as though he thought it wouldn’t be long.
‘Think,’ I said, ‘think about the castle field.’

After school or in the holidays, if the weather was nice, Mam would take us up to the castle field. First thing we’d do would be run up the side of the hill to the foot of the castle, then roll ourselves down. Roly poly, roly poly. Mam would join in too sometimes; she loved it in spite of the others looking at her as if she wasn’t all there. The best place was just before the bushes, where the hill was longest. If there weren’t too many people and we could roll from the top, we’d be dizzy by the time we reached the bottom.

Then when we’d had enough, Mam would take us up the hill on the other side. We’d go right to the top so we could see the bay. Mam had often told us stories about the Vikings and the Normans who built the castle and we’d imagine the longboats sailing in, or pretend we were soldiers defending our land, then we’d lie down in the grass and watch the clouds.

As they drifted past we’d try and work out what they looked like. Mam could always see faces, sometimes famous ones, sometimes family or locals from the village. Once she made a whole crowd of people lie down and look because she swore she could see Elvis. If Da was on the six till two shift at the steelworks, he’d come with us and he would always see Jaguars and big American cars. He used to say, “That’s what I’m going to get when my ship comes in” and when I saw big boats coming into the bay I used to wonder if it was Da’s ship, and if we’d get a big posh car like Auntie Connie who’d married a florist, instead of our fifth-hand Austin.

‘Danny Blanchflower.’ Howie interrupted my reverie. ‘I could only see Danny Blanchflower but Da reckoned he could see the whole Tottenham Hotspur team.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘Do you think he was lying?’

I grinned. ‘Probably, knowing Da, but it didn’t matter, did it? It was fun, that was all that mattered.’ I looked at Mam. ‘Being together, enjoying ourselves, and we did that all right.’

‘I’m hungry,’ Mam said. ‘Have I had tea?’
Howie and I smiled at her and at each other.
‘Come on, Mam, let’s go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll make us some chips for tea, shall I?’

The fatherless child

2008-06-17T04:01:00.000-07:00

I can call him Lord, God, faithful one, saviour, creator, anything, except Father. I can’t call him that.

I never knew my father. He disappeared before I was born. I can only assume he didn't think I’d be good enough to make hanging around worthwhile.When you’ve never known a father, it’s hard to accept a father’s love. When all you have is an empty space how can you relate to one others call father?

All the parables, all the stories in the world, don’t make it real, can’t fill a void, make known the unknown. You can say, ‘Our father, who art in heaven,’ without feeling a word of it.

And yet.

Most of my life, I’ve lived a half life. But now, I is becoming me. I’m learning how to uncover the person I was created to be.

Through my words, written and read, I’m discovering who I am. My writing is an extension of me, it makes me wholeThrough it my thoughts are given shape and substance. I have something worth saying, something worth hearing.

Through my writing I can view myself as valuable, worthy, not because I write or because of what I write but, by its very being, my writing earths my existence. My words are as much part of me as my eyes or my toes. Before finding them, I was missing an element as vital to my well-being as calcium is to my bones.

Releasing them allows me to be me, wholly me.

And the key to that release has been meeting God, being accepted into his family.So I live in that new life, no longer a fatherless child. Instead one whose family has demonstrated a father’s love and allowed me to experiment, learn, develop and build confidence without fear of being knocked back.

I used to think that growing up without a father was my loss but maybe it was his.I still can’t call God Father but one day, when we meet, it’ll be the only word I’ll need.

The wood for the trees

2008-05-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

I used to keep God in a box. Well, actually it was a tin, a Golden Virginia tobacco tin that my grandfather gave me. I kept the tin on the bookshelf in my bedroom next to Five Get Lost at Sea. Every night before I went to sleep, I’d take down the tin, open it and talk to God.
Then, one day, I caught chickenpox. I soon discovered how boring it was staying in and it made me wonder if God got bored in my tobacco tin so I put him in the pocket of my jacket with my Polos instead. That way he came everywhere I went and, as I kept my jacket in my wardrobe, I could still talk to him at night. He stopped smelling of tobacco and started smelling of mints.

But one day I was getting ready to go out and I couldn’t find my jacket. I said, ‘Mum, have you seen my denim jacket?’
She said, ‘That old thing? You’re getting too big for that. I thought I’d get you a new one for your birthday.’
‘But where is it?’ I said.
‘Oh, some people were collecting for starving children in Ethiopia so I gave it to them,’ she said.
‘What good’s my jacket to starving children? And how could you do that without asking me?’
‘Haven’t you got any homework to do?’ my mother said.

I found out which shop it had gone to and I went to get it back but they must have packed it up and sent it already because it wasn’t there. I was upset at first but then I thought God would probably be more use to a starving child than to me ‘cos I had plenty to eat and he was good at making food go round. And after a while I got used to it, not talking to God, I mean. I missed our chats at first but then I met Kevin and I forgot about God.

Then not that long ago I got friendly with a girl called Sue. One day we were having hot chocolate in Verdi’s when she suddenly looked at me, all intently. I thought I must have cream on my nose and I went to wipe it but she said, ‘I’ve got to ask you – have you met Jesus?’

I was about to say that I used to know his dad when she said, ‘only I’d love you to come to our church and I could introduce you to Jesus.’

I thought I might as well go so I did and Sue introduced me to lots of people but none of them was called Jesus. I thought perhaps he was using a different name so as not to stand out, so I sniffed a few just in case. But no-one smelled familiar.

I was a bit disappointed because I’d been looking forward to meeting Jesus, but I kept on going because they were nice people and I didn’t want to hurt Sue’s feelings. Then one day, the man at the front was talking about God being omnipresent. He said that means he’s everywhere, ‘in the sky, in the trees, in the clouds, in the wind,’ he said. ‘Mmm,’ I thought, and the next day I went for a walk around the cliffs. And, do you know, he was right. God was there. I could see him in the brightness of the sunlight; could hear him in the crashing of the waves; taste him in the salt of the spray; smell him in the coconut gorse; feel him in the wind on my face. He’d put poetry in my soul. It was bad poetry, but it was a start.

I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to tell Sue. I phoned her when I got home. ‘Sue, I’ve met God round the cliffs.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ she said.
‘And he smells of coconut.’
‘Oh,’ she said.

I kept going to church but I used to sit there feeling smug. All these people who’ve got it wrong I’d think. I wanted to tell them God wasn’t in church but round the cliffs, I could show them the exact spot, but I thought that was being a bit cheeky as I was a relative newcomer so I just sat there and hugged my secret to myself. It was a bit like having God in my tin again, just for me.

Then one day, a few weeks ago, I was in a meeting, and listening to someone speaking. Actually I was half listening because I was looking around at the same time. At the other side of the room I could see a man with a beard. He was making coffee for someone who’d just arrived late. Standing next to him was a man with a shaved head and lots of tattoos; I’d seen him deal gently with a drunk. Sitting at one side was a woman. You can see from her face that her life hasn’t been easy but her eyes were shining. Near her was another woman. Her eyes were closed but her skin that only months ago had been furrowed was smooth. Across from them were two lads who, despite having their own troubles, help others in charity shops. And then there was the man whose wife is seriously ill. And the girl whose intelligence and thoughtfulness can stay hidden unless it’s looked for. And the woman who doesn’t often speak but when she does, you want to listen. And the man and his dog who share everything. And the woman who’s come into the warm to sleep. Then I caught the eye of the speaker and he’s grinning as he talks over the snoring.

And suddenly I realised. I’d been looking so hard I couldn’t see.

God was in church, just as real-ly as he is out on the cliffs. And maybe he does smell of coconut or tobacco or mints - or alcohol.

Thomas the Doubter - my story

2008-04-29T02:15:00.000-07:00

Let me introduce myself. My name is Thomas. Better known to the world and its mother as Doubting Thomas. And for why? I’ll tell you for why. Because of one little thing I said. One little doubt I happened to mention. And suddenly I’m known from now to eternity as the Doubter.

I wasn’t the only one. No-one else gets mentioned by name but they had their doubts too. But no, it’s just me goes down in history.

Before it all happened I was just one of the boys. Nobody special. Nobody picked out by name. I was just one of the twelve disciples. I was with Jesus from the early days, almost right from the start when he started travelling and teaching. I was there through it all. I saw the miracles. I saw the dead brought back to life, the blind man made to see, the paralysed man made to walk again. I saw him feed thousands of people from just a few fishes and a bit of bread. And there was enough left over to keep us going for days. I was there through all of that. I saw him walk on water, heal lepers, quiet a storm.

And what’s more when he wanted to go where the crowds were out to get him I was the one who said, ‘come one, we’ll have to go and die with him, we can’t let him go alone.’

And I was there when they did come for him. When the soldiers arrested him, I was there. When he was brought before the crowds, I was there; when he was crucified I was there. At the foot of his cross I wept.

It wasn’t just him dying you see. It was everything. Everything I’d hoped was going to happen, the changes, the freedom, the man who was going to change the world was being killed by it. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. How was anything going to change if he was dead? He’d given us such hopes and now they’d come crashing down.

After it was all over, we – the boys – stuck together. We didn’t know what else to do. We just sat around like dummies, wondering what had gone wrong. In the end I couldn’t stand it any more and I took myself off for a long walk over the hills to try and clear my thoughts. Then when I got back the place was in uproar. ‘What’s going on?’ I said. I couldn’t get any sense out of them. They just kept saying, ‘He’s alive! He’s alive!’ When I finally got one of them to explain to me what had happened and he told me that Jesus wasn’t dead but had been with them, I laughed. I thought they’d been drinking too much. But they kept insisting, and that’s when I said those words that have got me marked down in history as doubting Thomas, ‘I’ll believe it when I can put my finger in the holes in his hands.’

You know the rest. Jesus came to us again and told me to put my fingers in his wounds. I didn’t need to. I fell to my knees and wept into his robe. I thought he was really mad at me but when I looked up he was smiling. He understood. As far as he was concerned I’d never said it, but try telling the others that.

Still it could be worse. I could be Peter. Now he really made a fool of himself. But I’d better let him tell you about that another time.

Black Marble (continued)

2007-10-10T15:00:00.000-07:00

Don’t you get cold, Tom asks. No, I say, I take a blanket to sit on and if it’s been raining I take a Sainsburys bag to put underneath. And the stone is never cold, it has its own warmth. As if it’s still fed by the earth. Black marble. Shining and bright and sparkling with atoms of life. Not like white marble. White should be the living colour, shouldn’t it? White and light and life. But it’s not, it’s flat and dead and ugly. Not like the black. I told Tom, I said, when I die will you bury me, not burn me, and make sure I have a headstone made of the finest black marble. He looked at me as if I were mad. I said, promise, will you promise, I don’t want white. He said, you’re spending too much time in the cemetery, it’s turning your mind. I said, no, you should come with me, it’s beautiful, so peaceful. Some of us have got jobs to go to, he said. Then he started on at me again about getting another job. He said we won’t be able to afford the mortgage on this place if you don’t get a job soon. I told him I’d tried.

It caused our first big row me losing my job. He said I should go to a tribunal, they can’t just sack you for no reason. They had a reason I said, they didn’t want me anymore. He said that wasn’t enough of a reason, I should fight it, get compensation. I wouldn’t because I knew I couldn’t. I understood why. He didn’t because I didn’t tell him. Papa, don’t preach, I said. He just looked at me.

That was one time I did talk to the angel. My stone is next to a huge square white tomb. Twice as big as any other and always with fresh flowers, whatever time of year it is. Sometimes I break off one head of a flower and hold it as I sit and think. I don’t think the dead would mind and I’m careful that I don’t spoil the arrangement. Rabaiotti, that’s the family name. Carlo and Maria and then Antonio, their son. They still run the ice cream parlour on the seafront.

At the head of the tomb is a tall angel with flowing hair and robes and wings, quite small wings. The angel isn’t doing anything, just looking up to heaven. I told her that I’d lost my job and that she would be seeing a lot more of me. I thought I saw a tear running down her face but when I looked closer I saw it was only bird poo. She didn’t tell me I should go to a tribunal. She just sang. She sings all the time. Madonna songs. She knows all of them but she has her favourites. She likes to sing Hanky Panky. I tell her she shouldn’t. I think perhaps she doesn’t know what it’s about and the fuss there was about it. I say, shhh, people will hear you and it’s not what you’d expect of an angel. But I join in when she sings Like a Prayer. Talking to the angel is the closest I come to praying.

There is one gravestone in the whole of the cemetery that faces the wrong direction. I asked one of the gardeners why. He said Samuel Roberts had killed himself and wasn’t allowed to be buried on hallowed ground but I don’t know if that was true. It seems unfair if it is. He must have been very sad to kill himself.

The gardeners all know me. They used to ask if I was all right but now they just ignore me. There’s one, younger than the rest, he chats to me sometimes but I close my eyes until he goes away. Only once they made me move. That was when there was a funeral. A grave was dug up near me and the man’s wife was buried with him. What if they never really got on, I wanted to say. Did anyone ask them if they wanted to be buried together? Or did their daughters just assume things. People make assumptions all the time. I assumed that the women at the graveside were the daughters of the dead woman because they cried most. Hanging onto their husbands (another assumption) they wept for their deceased mother. People assume that because I come to the cemetery I must be sad.

I watched the funeral from behind one of the yew trees. The cemetery lies along the bed of a valley that rises to a height at the far end. There is a path up the middle lined by yew trees all shaped into fir cones. When you stand at the gate, and stare straight ahead, you can’t see the graves only the path leading to heaven. A clean white path leading slightly uphill. A bit of an effort.

Some people walk their dogs here. Sometimes the dogs pee on the gravestones. One little dog, a spaniel, always comes and says hello to me. I don’t mind but his owner, a middle-aged woman in a waterproof jacket, calls her away. Come away from the lady, Sally, she says. Not, don’t bother the lady, but, come away, as if she might catch something.

Then there are joggers I see regularly. Two men and a girl. The men run together and talk as they run but the girl always listens to headphones. I wonder why she doesn’t listen to the angels singing. You have to listen to hear them. There are lots of angels in the cemetery because it’s a very old cemetery and it seems people in the past liked angels more. One of them only sings in Welsh, another sings Italian opera but I like mine best. She senses my mood and knows what to sing without me saying anything. Today she’s singing Cherish. You have to listen carefully, if you want to hear her.

Tom said, don’t you get bored sitting in the cemetery? I said, of course not, you should come with me. I know he won’t or I wouldn’t ask him. Grace Williams, her life a beautiful memory, her absence a silent grief. Is that how you’d feel about me, I asked him. You’re not a memory, he said, you’re here. He has no imagination, that’s his trouble.

I started coming here before I finished work. Sometimes in the office, my life was becoming not beautiful. I didn’t want it to be ugly, but my boss would shout in his stupid loud voice and I didn’t want to listen to him so I’d go away and listen to the angel.

I don’t sit here all the time. Sometimes I walk around and read the words on the tombs. Some of them are so sad I cry. Babies no more than two weeks old dying. Now where’s the point of that? And young husbands or wives. And soldiers. The lucky ones whose bodies were found and brought home. Welsh battalions going into battle. There’s even one old rugby player. It says he was famous but I’ve never heard of him. Memories don’t last long.

An old gentleman walked past me yesterday. He was carrying a large bunch of chrysanthemums. He raised his hat and said, good afternoon. He was wearing a fawn overcoat and his shoes were like shiny chestnuts. I watched him. He made his way to a grave not far from mine. It had a black marble stone. He bent over and plucked out the dead flowers. He lay them on the grass beside the grave then he picked up the vase and emptied out the remains of the water. He walked over to one of the taps near the wall around the cemetery and rinsed out the vase, before refilling it. He returned to the grave and replaced the vase in its holder, then he unwrapped the flowers he had brought with him and arranged them in the vase. When he’d finished he wrapped the dead flowers in the paper and stood up. He took off his hat and bowed his head for a few moments. Then he put his hat back on, picked up the dead flowers and started back along the path. I waited until I was sure that he had gone then I walked across to the grave he had visited. It said, In loving memory of Katherine Wallace, 1933-1982, wife of Edward, and their beloved daughter, Jennifer, 1957-1984. Peace, perfect peace. For whom, I wondered. For them maybe. Not for him. They’d left him. And he’d raised his hat to me. That wasn’t fair. My eyes ached. I picked out the chrysanths he’d arranged and took them back to my stone and pushed them in the vase. Richard and Mary never have flowers. I should get them more. Lots of the graves never have flowers on them. On the edge of the path is a rubbish tip where people can throw dead flowers but sometimes, I’ve noticed the flowers aren’t properly dead. I walked over to the tip and collected the best of the flowers. They were mostly chrysanthemums and some roses that had sharp thorns and I shared them out between some empty graves.

When I got home last night Tom had his dinner on a tray. I bought a curry on my way home, he said, I knew you wouldn’t have cooked anything. I was going to, I said. He was watching a sports quiz on television. There’s some left, he waved his fork at the kitchen. I’m not hungry, I think I’ll have a bath. Tom said, just a minute, did you go and see the doctor today? I forgot, I said. You promised, he said. I know, I’m sorry, I’ll go tomorrow. He looked at me and sighed, I’ve arranged to meet the lads down the pub later. That’s fine, I said. But you will go tomorrow, won’t you? Tom said, I really think you need to talk to someone. I nodded.

He had gone to work by the time I woke up this morning. He had left a note by the side of the bed. He’d written down the doctor’s telephone number. Ring him, the note screamed. It added to the rest of the noise in my head, such a lot of noise, a drilling and shrieking and howling noise all mixed up. I was thirsty but there wasn’t a clean cup so I used my hands to splash my face, then I came here. To escape the noise. It stayed with me until I passed the chapel, I thought it was going to go on for ever but it stopped as I came through the gate and began to walk up the path to my grave.