Friday, 9 May 2025

Hoods and Bots: Part Eleven by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes
 We’d pulled over on a snaking Lakeland road where silence was so thick, you felt you could reach out and grasp a big ball of it. Sheer, scree-scarred mountain menaced above, and dropped steeply below us. We stared in disbelief at the messages we'd received a few moments before. In a  different code for each of us, the meaning was clear: ‘No further route information to be transmitted. Mission aborted, return to base.’
 For a moment, none of us spoke. There could only be one explanation: security had been compromised. I knew there’d be another opportunity, but for now, the only sheep I’d see would be from the vehicle. I was about to say I’d appreciate taking a walk on my own, to drink in the scenery and make peace with this unexpected blow, when Roland spoke.
“So that’s it then. We return... to Gloucestershire.”
“Or do we?” Victor jumped out, and by the time he reached the front passenger door, he was pointing a smart weapon at Roland’s head. “Get out. It’s your turn to drive.” 
“Victor, what are you doing?”  I kept my voice steady, but feared I knew: Victor had discovered Roland’s Bot past. Radicals were adamant such backgrounds could not be tolerated, even in defectors.
“Roland’s defected, he’s done missions, he’s with us now, “ I went on. It sounded weak. Against reason, I hoped Victor didn’t know about the locket. Leadership had a plan, I told myself, Bhuresi told me so. We were to play along. Why should Victor be judge and jury? The anger that overwhelmed me at the ancient oak flaunted itself before me. I'd come close to being Radical myself that day, close to becoming the thing I hate.
“Shut the f*** up... this has nothing to do with you.” He bellowed at me, shocking the mute rocks in this vast, unsullied space.  “I told you, girl, you’re not supposed  to be here.” He flung a ‘bug’ – an explosive device operated by the setting on his smart gun – onto the back seat.
“I don’t have time for you or your scruples. Move one f****** muscle, there’ll be Imiołczyk scattered where it belongs - all over the hills you love.” 
“Or over this obsessively-clean vehicle,” I remember thinking. 
“Drive ,” he barked, looking at dashboard map, still keeping his weapon trained on Roland’s skull. 
  It probably didn’t take too long to reach the remote lake, though it seemed the longest journey of my life. I felt a growing tumour of dread deep inside. It  sapped my body strength, but my mind was energised, acrobating, rehearsing  every possible scenario, seeking a way out, as the bug kept clicking a reminder it was live and ready for detonation. 
 The handbrake engaged, and Roland turned to look at Victor.  
“What the hell... do you think.... you’re doing?”
Victor laughed.  “I don’t have to think, Bot.” His voice was quietly sinister  now. 
He clicked the gun and the ‘ready’ indicator flashed. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
My eyes instinctively screwed themselves shut, but instead of a shot, I heard Victor say, “I know who you are, Agent Jason Pargeter.”
The name Pargeter rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it. What came next beggared belief.  “You’re Benson Parry’s Spymaster Mars, are you not? Would you like to know who I am?”
Roland took a moment, perhaps playing for time, and I had to admire his cold, calm demeanour.
“t seems a good day... for introductions,” he said. 
“Then you’ll be delighted to know, Agent Pargeter, alias Mars, that I am... “ He paused a moment, as if to bring the revelation home. “I am Sully.”
My spine turned to splintering  ice. Sully: the legendary Radical every Bot feared! No one knew Sully’s identity, but Hood and Bot alike knew his reputation. He’d earned almost supernatural status among Bots, thanks to superior Resistance technology. He could appear undetected anywhere,  kill unheard and unseen.  Roland was doomed.
Terror sharpened my instincts, and I sensed it briefly wash over Roland, as he took a second or two to consider his answer. Did he protest he was a true defector, able to supply vital information from inside the Regime? Did he plead disillusion with Benson Parry, pledge loyalty to the Resistance, or beg for a chance to prove himself? Surely, he must!  
No. He said the last thing I expected.
“If I’m Mars and you’re...  Sully, then why the hell are you pointing that thing...  at me, instead of...  her?”
My jaw dropped. Nothing made any sense. If Roland was really Parry’s Spymaster, why would he say such a thing when confronted by the most feared Radical in Resistance history? 
“The same reason you’d be pointing it at me, Agent Pargeter, if you’d known who I was. There are rumours, always rumours: even about you. The barrel of a gun has a way of blasting rumour and getting to the truth.” 
He turned to look at me. “See how easy it is to kill Bots, Little Hood? You should try it sometime. But I only kill selected Bots. This one gave the right answer.”
   He turned back to Roland, leaving me more confused than ever. That Roland was undercover was no surprise, though he hardly fitted my concept of a Spymaster; that Victor was with the Regime seemed impossible.  If he was, why did he kill Bots? How could he serve Benson Parry, then go out murdering his henchmen? 
“I’m not wasting this opportunity, “ Victor went on, to Roland this time. “We’re within spitting distance of Resistance farms and bases. I’m near to completing the map. Let’s check in at some local HQ and see if we can get some intelligence  together.” 
“Agreed,” Roland replied, “but we have.. Hood.”
“Hood after a fashion. Hell, if they’d  just listened!” He turned to me again. “I told you not to come, didn’t I, girl?  Fortunately for you, I’m better than Bot. I don’t kill women for the hell of it.”  
I spat at him and missed, just as he added, 
 “Unless I really have to.”  With that he turned back to Roland. “Do we execute her now, or take her in?”
“No execution... yet. She’s wanted on account of her father, on account of her uncle, the one that tried to...  assassinate the cabinet. You know -  ‘All Imiołczyks to be apprehended as... enemies of the state.’ HQ will want... to question her.”
“What can she tell them we don’t know? She’s a waste of space, not important  enough to know anything.  We’ve lived on the base – bases in my case - long enough to tell them every f****** thing they need to know.”
“Speak for...  yourself.”
“Believe me, Agent Pargeter,  the map’s almost complete. I’ve a pay check coming, Resistance bases are doomed. So is she. Whether you proved loyal to Parry or not, she was always going to be unnecessary complication.”
I was still too confused and angry to speak, even when Victor finally deactivated the bug. As he handcuffed me, I spat in his face, but he simply wiped his cheek. 
 “And don’t even think about trying to run,” he added, “Agent Pargeter inherited all his mother’s skills.” He opened a locker behind the back seat, pulled out a fine automatic rifle, and handed it to Roland. 
   It was then realisation dawned: the sweet, elderly face in Roland’s locket was not his mother, and I realised I’d known all along deep down. But the connection I made with the name Pargeter beggared belief. Ellen Pargeter, who died of ovarian cancer around the time I was born, had fought WW3, long before heat-seeking weapons were standard issue. She was a Resistance heroine, a sniper whose daring choice of targets had shortened the war as she racked up more kills than Lyudmila Pavlichenko. Lyudmila's nickname was Lady Death, but Ellen’s was Death’s Face, a reference to the paleness of her skin, eyes and hair. Roland was certainly about the right age to be her son, and I remembered seeing images of her with a small, insignificant-looking boy. But that made less sense than ever. How might a Resistance heroine produce a Spymaster for Benson Parry? 
They swopped seats, and Victor took the wheel again, while Roland sat nursing the rifle, looking it up and down, checking out its features.
 “Good to handle...  one of these again,” he said. He glanced at me through the sun-shield mirror from time to time. 

Thursday, 8 May 2025

Hoods and Bots: Part Ten by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

    Our hostess welcomed us with hot coffee and friendly smiles. She lived in an aged terrace in Ann Street, not far from the reconstructed railway station, and a hill where locals believed Catherine Parr’s castle once stood. By the time we settled, it was early evening.  Victor and Roland decided to check out the town's drinking places, while I poured my life story out to Carla. She was the sort of person who drew it all from you without really trying. Soon I was in tears over Frank, something I’d declared would never happen again. Carla listened, then put a hand over mine.
“I know it feels impossible,” she said, “but believe me, these things have a way of working out. I’ve been through a messy divorce myself, so I know how bad it can feel. You’ll grow through it, and there’ll come a day you’ll see the best of your life is ahead of you, not behind.” 
“That’s almost what my mum told me,” I replied, wiping my eyes.
“You see? Mums know best.” 
    She showed me pictures of her son and daughter, who looked about my age, maybe a little older. Bubonic plague had almost taken her son, but it was losing intensity by the time it reached Cumbria, and vaccines and treatments, first researched after Covid in the 2020s, had become available. Carla lost an elderly Aunt, but her son had survived. Both her children were Hood, her daughter an innovative dog trainer at an underground base near Lancaster.
    It turned out Carla was a mobile hairdresser, and after a couple of glasses of wine, we decided a funky new haircut would be just the thing to combat any divorce-in-progress blues. We giggled our way through every snip, watching swathes of my once long hair drift into piles all around us. “Enough to stuff a cushion to smother Benson Parry with, ” Carla said, and we laughed all the more at such treasonable talk.
“But, being serious, if your mission works out, which I’m sure it will , you’ll be up this way again. Why don’t you re-activate this identity and stay with me? We'd have to run it past leadership, but I reckon they’ll agree if we present it with a bit of cunning.” 
She paused, looked at her handiwork in the mirror, and smiled.  “What do you think?” 
“Of my hair, or the plan?”
“Both!” 
“Love my hair, it’s brilliant! Just what I needed. The plan, well...”
“My doctor’s Hood, she’ll help. Strangely enough, she’s of Polish descent  like you  – Gosia Małych, Gosia Małych Sedgwick now. How about I ask her to record my condition as very delicate - well, that’s no exaggeration, really. Perhaps  she’d mention visits from ‘relatives’ should be allowed for the foreseeable future, just in case – well, you know. You could be my favourite  ‘niece’ -  I could ask her to sign you an open travel pass.” 
“But what about the danger? Keeping this identity could be far more dangerous for you, than if I assume a new one every time.”
“Danger? Sure, but I’ve lived with it for years. Why stop now? I looked it full in the face when my children were born. You don’t have children, do you Mia?” 
I shook my head.
“Well, when you find a partner, you think you know all there is to know about love, yes? But when the children come, you know you know – I mean, you know beyond doubt you’d die for them, without a second thought - yes, even kill for them -  I  tell you, it’s powerful. Back then, I seriously considered forgetting Resistance and towing the line. Wasn’t my duty, first and foremost, to protect my own children?  But conforming is no guarantee of safety, as we see again and again – not with a dictator as paranoid  as Benson Parry. And how could I deny my kids integrity, a sense of right and wrong? How could I look my children in the face, if they watched me walk with evil? Danger is always with us – better to court it with what’s  right, than with what’s wrong.”
“When you put it like that  - I mean, you could have chosen  to live as an ordinary citizen and keep your head down -  you’re one brave lady, Carla.”
Laughter danced in her eyes. “Agreed! Having kids is the bravest thing you’ll ever do! You never lose the conviction you’d die for them, but hell, they test you to the limit and back!”
We laughed before I said, “Well, it sounds like they turned out alright!”
“You haven’t met them yet!” 
We laughed again, and I knew Carla was happy with herself, and happy with her children. I found that compelling, with divorce pending, and feeling I wasn’t enough in so very many ways.
“Sometimes, Carla, I wish I was like you, first generation Hood. I’ve this awesome  heritage to live up to, past and present -  even my cousin Sophie has some amazing  undercover role, though I’m not sure what.  I just don’t feel – well, maybe I’m not what I ought to be, not like any of them.”
“I hope you’re not like any of them! I hope you’re like just one -  yourself. I used to be like you, worried I couldn’t please anyone. But then I got older and well – learned to embrace my own special brand of weirdness!  Look at you  –  hand-picked for this mission because, unlike anyone else on your base, you’re the one who’s researched livestock farming.”
“So you think my contribution, courier, general odd-jobber and livestock freak, is ok?”
“Of course it is, and don’t let anyone – especially those men -  tell you otherwise. That Victor’s a bit full of himself, isn’t he?” 
    We spent the rest of the evening sipping hot chocolate. It was laced with the bracing homemade alcohol Carla’s doctor had banned, and we drank a little too much while sharing extracts from comic holo-novels. We laughed ourselves silly.  I’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh until I cried.   We tried not to catch each other’s eye when the men returned stone faced and sober, because the merest look tipped us into laughter all over again.  The connection between us felt all the more delicious, because Victor and Roland sensed we shared a girl thing, in which they had no part.

Wednesday, 7 May 2025

Hoods and Bots: Part Nine by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes
     Victor strode toward us, every inch the officer in command. Early forties, ramrod straight, muscled and honed from runs and daily workouts, he might have looked sexy if his eyes hadn't cut like a blade, if his heart wasn't sheer as gun metal.
I climbed in the back of his new solar four-wheel drive all smiles.
“I don't want you on this trip, girl. I made it crystal to leadership, but they'd have none of it. Your choice, but you might as well know you’re not welcome.”
“Well, I'm not missing it, welcome or not, so it’s your problem, Victor.” 
I felt shaken, nonetheless. 
“Fine,” he retorted, and Roland cut in, “Leave her be.” 
The air trembled with obscenities, then Victor muttered, 
“Calls herself Hood? She’s Imiołczyk, hasn’t got the stomach for it.”
   Anger flared on behalf of my father and his predecessors, whose courage was legendary. Paweł was no exception, though Victor was doubtless being  disparaging about the German life he’d saved. I thought about Imiołczyk ladies, too, who’d joined the Polish Auxiliary Service for WW2, or served Intelligence here in WW3. But shame paraded the guard on the embankment before my eyes, and I wondered if Victor was right about me. Perhaps I wasn’t worthy of my name.
 Roland defending me was unexpected. His speech, quiet and halting as ever, somehow conveyed he might just be Victor’s equal. 
“This mission’s about...  negotiation, not battle with... the enemy.”
“She’ll complicate things. Any mission can mean battle with the enemy, you know that.”
“She knows about livestock...  there’s  a role for everyone, get off... her back.”
“Well, if we run into trouble, it’s on the record - I never wanted her here.” 
  He took one hand off the steering  wheel and waved it to end that particular conversation. They began comparing notes on combat techniques and tales of past action. Roland told stories of the non-Bot past Resistance experts had helped him create. It struck me I’d rarely heard a more accomplished liar: if I hadn’t been at Cameron's, I’d have swallowed every word. Perhaps I was surrounded by accomplished liars, and didn’t know it. I remembered Frank’s protestations of fidelity: do lies come as easily to us all? I feared they might. 
   When action tales failed, misogynistic jokes grew like warts, while Roland listened without comment.  Victor knew Imiołczyk tradition despised vulgarity in the presence of ladies, and that misogyny was unacceptable on base, but vomited filthy words which surely included every letter of the alphabet. Perhaps he hoped I’d demand he turn round and take me home. Then came vicious descriptions of pornographic holo-novels. I was surprised: Victor was respected for the way he’d raised the fitness and performance of our military units, on other bases, then on ours. He trained both men and women; I’d never heard women complain about misogyny, let alone violence. But I was well-used to ladies who could rival Victor’s colourful language.  Bhuresi could drink most men under the table, and could probably have taught Victor a few words of her own, though she rarely spoke that way in front of me. She'd honoured my parents’ wishes to avoid lewd language throughout my upbringing, and that had stuck.
   I decided to appear impassive, but made faces at Victor behind his back. Roland caught me through the sun-shield mirror, and something resembling amusement flittered across his face, though I swiftly righted mine. I was determined not to give Victor the power to phase me, or steal my jubilance about the mission I felt I'd been made for.
   We stopped at services on route, where Victor waved away the packed food and bought a large hot lunch for us all, complete with drinks and dessert. If he was addicted to violent porn, a furtive misogynistic git, he was a generous one when it suited him: the cost of food had rocketed as our economy flailed. We were returning  to the vehicle, when Roland surreptitiously pointed out two Greenshirts making right for us. “Get in,” Victor told us, “I’ll deal with this.”
     We watched him stride across and meet them half way. He briefly dipped his head then gave a military salute, and their body language softened. “Good thinking,” Roland said. “Show a bit of deference, and they’re... easier to fool.”
“Did that work for you then?” 
“Sometimes... often. Worked better than murderous looks...  anyway.” 
I smiled at his attempt at good-humoured ragging. It was odd to think Victor’s role was partly to protect me against whatever horror had broken open during Roland’s counselling sessions. Paradoxically, I was beginning to feel a little easier in his company, and perhaps, after hearing about the porn, preferred it to Victor’s, though that wasn’t saying much. I remembered my initial impression Roland was a groper, and wondered if I’d been wrong. By now I'd noticed his preference to keep some space between himself and others, whatever their sex. 
   We watched Victor hand over his phone with forged permission to travel and false identity. The Bots scanned his adapted chip and examined our cover plan, a visit to a lady in Kendal, Carla Braithwaite, who was recovering  from a heart attack. We were posing as Carla’s relatives and her home would be our temporary mission base. She’d been Hood most of her life and gladly volunteered, eager to be of use again following her illness. The Bots handed Victor his phone, and he held them in conversation a few more minutes, finishing with another salute.
“Another good move,” Roland said. “ Never appear in...  a hurry to get away.”
    As we approached Kendal junction, the Howgill Fells, suspended in  melting haze, rose humped and folded, scarred like sleeping dinosaurs. I was spellbound. Gloucestershire was beautiful even in its harried  state, but this spread of hills breathed mystery and majesty that conjured gasps of wonder. Something inside of me powered down as I gazed at the patchwork of colours and shifting cloud. I felt a connection I couldn’t explain, as if the hills were calling me home. 
“Awesome!” I exclaimed, leaning forward to look between Roland and Victor. Roland agreed with a barely perceptible nod; Victor ignored me. Then we took the junction,  and turned away from the Howgills toward Kendal.

Monday, 5 May 2025

All the Signs are There by Ruth Broome

I hear a humming.

Insects swarming.

I see the blossom

petals forming.

I feel a quickening.

Life.

Rushing in.

Nature responding

to the advent of Spring.


I know what she’s telling me.

I hear what she says.

Time to wake up now,

live life a new way.

Step into the light now,

lean into the Sun.

Daylight saving is over.

Winter is done.


@ruthiewrites

First Published in Poetic Reveries Literary Magazine (April 2025)

Saturday, 3 May 2025

I met my younger self for coffee by Michele Ross

Looking Back by Astrid Knudsen

The skinny girl in the corner

With short hair and deep eyes

Considers me with palpable

negative vibes.


Surely there is no good news

from the future.

Didn’t it all go wrong?


All the same,

there is hope

hiding there.


I know,

because it bubbles up in me,

still,

whatever happens.


I say to her:

Stick at it.

Be confident.

Aim for the best job,

the best house,

the best man.

Make the most of your youth.


Make time for family,

they will always be there.

And when you find a real friend

never let go.


You will stop feeling sad - eventually.


Finding your place in the world

will help,

And having a child of your own to love.

Make sure you do this, whatever happens.


And bad things will happen.

But you will survive them.

Don’t let your trust and love

be squashed.


I love you.

Many others will love you.


I am in you - and you in me.


There is a long life ahead of you,

And I don’t know the ending.


But everything changes.

Nothing - good or bad - lasts.


Live for each moment.

Be free.

Be you.


ANOTHER ME


When we met,

I hesitated.

Should I tell her

what I see?


How could I

withhold my guidance?

She should have

a better life than me.


Could I really let her:

stick with the wrong man,

live in dark for so long,

ignore potential death pain,

pick the wrong man again?


But then,

would she have a beautiful son,

And end up in this

friendly, tumbling town?


As I began to speak,

picking my way

through the minefield

of time travel,

I gradually faded away.

Thursday, 1 May 2025

Conversation With My Younger Self

 I remembered the gothic entrance and the huge black door that always creaked on its hinges, but once inside, I didn’t recognise anything at all. It was the annual Infant School open day and this was my first visit to my former primary school in over fifty years. Small rooms and narrow corridors had disappeared, creating a feeling of lightness and space, despite the building being early Victorian. I remembered the harsh stone floors, now smartly tiled in olive green and enhanced by brightly coloured children’s paintings displayed on pale ochre walls. There was still the recess opposite the reception class where our daily milk, not yet snatched by Mrs Thatcher, had been heated in tiny bottles to an insipid warmness, on blue-flamed gas burners. I once spit some out on my chair because I found it hard to swallow and told my teacher that another child had done it; a dishonest thing to do, but the culprit was never found!

  I crossed the Hall where we once sang hymns or played with hoops and skipping ropes and came to the old Junior Corridor and the top year classroom at the end. It hadn’t changed much. Mr Boyes had been my teacher there and I had loved him. That was the year I took my eleven plus, but in those days, we called it the Scholarship. Today the whole building housed infants only, so the grouped tables in shiny melamine, were infant-size, unlike the aged oak desks I remembered.

  I took a coffee from a staff member serving drinks and sat down at one of the mini tables opposite a girl who looked older than the little ones trailing round with their parents. I said ‘hello’ and sipped my coffee then couldn’t help briefly staring. I recognised the shiny straight fringe, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and when she opened her lips to sip her orange squash, I caught sight of her two quite large, front teeth, so familiar. I knew I was facing my eleven-year-old self who tentatively smiled at me. I smiled too and asked how she was, and she looked uncertain. Was she wondering who this stranger was or did she feel a familiarity too?   She could not know I was who she would become.

  She was wearing my favourite seersucker blouse, the one made by Auntie Joan; the white one with a Peter Pan collar and scattered blue spots. I noticed the little gilt brooch hiding her top button, the one with the capital ‘J’ in gold lettering on a black jet background; it dangled from the glossy framework. Should I refer to my younger self as ‘I’ or ‘She’? I wondered.

‘I love your pretty brooch,’ I said ‘What does the ‘J’ stand for?

‘My name’s Jennifer, but my mum was going to call me Christine; then she heard the name Jennifer on a programme on the wireless; you know, ‘Ray’s a Laugh.’

I did, and I remembered mum telling that tale. ‘I prefer the name Jennifer,’ I said, ‘And what a funny coincidence, my name’s Jennifer too, but I’m always called Jennie.’

‘That’s nice but I get called Kitty all the time; you see, my surname is Kitt. We have the shop down Riverhead called Kitt’s. We sell everything. It’s my mum’s shop.’

‘Is your mum here today?’ I asked and suddenly felt incredibly nervous; mum had died forty years ago and the thought of seeing her now was unimaginable.

‘No, mum has to be in the shop. I’m in the Juniors but have just been helping the infant teachers on the open day; washing up mugs and glasses, but we’re finished now; most mums and dads and children have had their drinks.

‘What about your dad, is he here today?’ I didn’t need to ask but wanted to hear her reply.

‘My dad? He never comes to anything; he goes to Hull on a Saturday.

‘How is your dad?’

‘Why, do you know him?’

‘I’m not sure, I might.’ I said.

‘Well, he didn’t like me coming to school today; you see, he thinks I should be helping mum in the shop, but mum didn’t mind me coming.’

‘Well, if he’s gone out for the day, why shouldn’t you?’

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders and looked blank and a little bit puzzled then said, ‘I’ve just got my scholarship and I’m going to Bridlington High School.’

‘You’re a clever girl then?’

‘Not really; my dad doesn’t know I’m going yet.’

Jennifer looked slightly anxious and I knew exactly how she felt, because she was me, the young me, and I knew her so well.

‘How do you mean?’ I tried to bring her out.

‘I daren’t tell him; he thinks school is a waste of time. Mum wants me to go to Brid High School but the uniform costs loads, and dad never pays for anything.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘If you go to the high school and pass your exams, you might become a teacher or a doctor and earn a lot of money; can’t you tell your dad that?’

‘I can’t tell him much.’

‘Perhaps you should tell him you don’t want to be a shopgirl.’

‘He’ll go into one of his black moods and won’t speak for days; it’s awful for mum.’

‘Can he be nice?’ Jennifer scowled and I absolutely knew why.

‘He’s kind sometimes; he bought one of my paintings once; it was of a tiger. Mostly, I don’t like him much, my heart sinks when he comes up the path’

Jennifer looked anxious and I reached out and took her hand.

‘What is it? ‘

She was very quiet, then she said, ‘He’s always touching me.’

‘Oh, ‘I said, ‘Can’t you tell mum?’ I knew I never had done.

Jennifer shook her head and drank her squash. My heart ached for my younger self. I felt her pain.

‘You must tell your mum; a dad shouldn’t do things like that.’ I thought of Childline; a life-line for young people; there was nothing like it when I was eleven.

‘Well, it’s not just him, it’s Uncle Cyril when he brings Grandma Kitt and comes to stay.’

‘Don’t you like Uncle Cyril?’

She gave a definite ‘No! He’s my dad’s brother and he creeps into my room at night and wakes me up. I hate it but am scared to tell my mum.’

I shuddered and remembered.

‘Oh my dear Jennifer, he really shouldn’t do that. Does he hurt you?’

She started to cry a little. ‘Not really; he touches my feet through the covers and then he tries to hold me, but …’

Jennifer didn’t need to finish; I knew it all; the same every time. ’There is so much ugliness in the world,’ he would say, ’I just want to hold something beautiful.’

Jennifer looked distressed as she realised she was confiding in a stranger. She would never understand who I was.  She finished her drink and pushed her chair back. ‘I’ve got to tell Miss Hairsine I’m going; mum will need me in the shop over teatime.’ She didn’t say goodbye, just spoke to the teacher and sped from the classroom. It was all over in a moment and there was so much more I wanted to ask.

And what more should I have said? Could I have changed the course of my life? Persuaded my young self to tell mum? Before mum died, I did tell her of my fear of Uncle Cyril, and she confided she used to dread Cyril coming too. He used to trap her in a corner, she said, and be indecent. She had never told dad or anyone.  

I eventually, told my husband of dad’s predatory behaviour, and later, one or two close friends. If I had spoken out, the course of my life might have changed, but in a strange way, I had loved my dad and could not have born his humiliation, nor my mother’s.

I read a quotation by E.F. Benson, a British writer from the late nineteenth century. It reflects my feelings:

‘The fear that takes hold in bright sunlight can be the deepest of all.’

Tuesday, 29 April 2025

Advice to My Younger Self by Fiona Carstairs


Dear younger self

This  advice I find hard to say

Because my young self

was born into the life of yesterday

 

Ideas and modes written

From a different text

No distractions like iPhones

Face Book or X

 

Our parents were our influencers

The friends at school or home

Our family would share and keep

Us safe, we had little chance to roam

 

There were even then things

To distract and entice

Like getting drunk with friends

Taking drugs!  Such  a vice!

 

But I managed to steer through

These pitfalls that suck

Some by good judgment

But mostly by luck

 

So what would I say now to this

Dear young friend

Be happy  and live healthy

It pays in the end

 

Don’t give your heart away too fast

Relationships can break

And leave a lifetime of regret

Strewn forever in it’s wake

 

Stand up for what you think is right

Don’t be afraid to disagree

Of that which goes against

Your conscience or your liberty

 

Be true only to yourself,

Others should not hold sway

Thank you for all you’ve  achieved

It made me the woman I am today

Sunday, 27 April 2025

A Toast to Yorkshire by Adam Rutter

credit: Adam Rutter/Gencraft

I walked along a quiet road, treading on the same path that I followed in my youth. The road cut through the Yorkshire Dales National Park, across The Pennines, and through three villages: Hetton, Rylstone and Cracoe. The road started in Gargrave, which is where I used to go on holiday in the 1990s. I returned to 2000, a year before the outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease. Rolling fields were gridded with drystone walls, lining the roadside. The constant sound of sheep bleating travelled through the air, mixed with the lapwing calling a tearful cry.

The skies were overcast, though the views of the surrounding countryside were still clear enough to see. Cracoe was visible from a distance. I stepped over wooden boards, spanning the level crossing. A film of lime traced alongside the single track after being deposited by a passing freight train. Hetton, the first village I arrived at had a pub standing above the roadside: The Angel Inn. Sat in the beer garden was a young man with light brown cropped hair, wearing a black tee-shirt showing the cast from Star Trek: Voyager. He was definitely in his early twenties. The last time that I was here, I was 22. That earlier part of my memory sent a shiver down my spine, making the skin tingle on my hands and face. The man looked distinctly like me. What gave the game away was his tee-shirt.

I wondered into the beer garden. Slowly, I moved closer to him. There was absolutely no doubt. He was a younger version of myself. He was sitting at a square wooden table. There were many like it outside the pub that were occupied by quite a few patrons. He did not have a pint on the table. Had he already bought a drink at the bar? Was he waiting to be served? I mean, he couldn’t take a drink outside himself, not without spilling it everywhere.

I walked gingerly towards his table. He had his back to me. I stopped a few paces from my younger self. I cleared my throat, and then I began.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

He looked round, wondering whether if I was addressing him. Concern and confusion were written on his face.

‘Pardon me for asking,’ he began, ‘but do I know you from somewhere?’

‘Here, there, everywhere,’ I said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh. Er, yes, you do know me.’

‘How do I know you?’

‘We were both born in the same place Adam.’

‘Wait a minute. How d’you know my name?’

‘Because that’s who I am.

‘What!’

‘That’s my name.’

‘But that still doesn’t explain how you know my name.’

‘Look! Can’t you see what I’m trying to tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’

Adam’s eyes blinked; the flush in his cheeks drained, turning pale.

‘My god. It can’t be,’ said Adam.

‘It is, Adam.’

‘How’s that possible?’

‘Time travel is possible. I mean, you said so yourself.’

‘Are you saying you’ve time travelled all the way here? In the dales?’

‘Of course.’

‘But, why here?’

‘I love the dales.’

‘When did you come?’

‘Today. May I join you?’

‘Eh. Oh, yes. Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

I sat opposite Adam, overlooking the views of green fields and pasture. A waiter came out with a notebook and pen.

‘Would you like me to get something for you gentlemen,’ the waiter asked.

‘Would you like a coffee Adam?’

‘Nah. Coke will do me.’

‘And what would you like, sir?’

‘Green tea, please.’

‘Green tea,’ asked Adam.

‘Yeah.’

‘What the hells that?’

‘It’s tea that’s not being properly fermented.’

‘Ah, would that be the same as Yorkshire Tea?’

‘Er, not quite.’

‘Would you like t’bite?’

‘You what now!’

‘Would you like a meal?’

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you.’

‘How about a ploughman’s?’

‘Well, we might as well plough our way through our time in the dales, now that we’re here.’

‘I see that my sense of humour doesn’t get any better.’

‘Does it ever?’

‘My humour...or, should it be our humour has always been uphill, down dale.’

‘You know, we should drink a pint of ale in the dale.’

‘I thought you were no good at poetry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Then how come you rhyme words?’

‘I’m not sure if I follow you.’

‘You were doing it.’

‘When?’

‘Just now.’

‘Was I?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What did I say?’

A tractor was chugging along, drowning out Adam’s voice. My nostrils drew in the exhaust fumes, making me cough and splutter.

‘Could you repeat that,’ I asked.

‘Repeat what?’

‘That rhyme.’

‘The rhyme?’

‘Yes.’

Adam’s face was blank, as though files had been deleted from his memory bank. There was silence between us, dragging on from seconds, into minutes. Not another word was spoken. The silence seemed to go on forever. I saw Adam smile in his eyes, like he had a eureka moment.

‘I remember what it was,’ said Adam.

‘So, it’s finally come back to you, has it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What was it?’

The rustic noises of the countryside swallowed up when a supersonic jet screeched overhead, cutting Adam off in mid-sentence. All I could see was his lips moving. It was like a loudspeaker being muted. The jet thundered in the distance, disappearing behind a peak.

‘Could you say that again,’ I asked.

‘Oh, I think it’s gone again.’

‘You’re telling me you’ve forgotten?’

‘Yeah. That’s exactly it.’

‘Your glass of coke would’ve lost it’s fizz by the time you remember.’

‘I think my rhyming has lost it’s fizz ’an all.’

‘Surely, it hasn’t.’

‘It has.’

‘The one way for rhyming to keep its fizz is to write more.’

‘I drink to that,’ said Adam, raising his glass before gulping his drink down him.

‘Hey,’ continued Adam. ‘Why don’t we propose a toast?’

‘To what?’

‘To Yorkshire.’

I lift my cup off the saucer. ‘Here’s to Yorkshire.’

‘To Yorkshire,’ said Adam, holding his glass like an Olympic torch.

The cup and glass clunk together.

Friday, 25 April 2025

I Smiled as I Walked In by Stuart Hough

Owl by Stuart Hough
I’d arranged to meet my younger self for a coffee. The absurdity of the situation was only compounded by the impossibility. I hoped my younger self wouldn’t come, but I knew I would. I was late. At least, my younger self was late. I was on time. I wasn’t surprised.

I remembered those days. I was always in a hurry, living a busy life at a frenetic pace. Most things were on the spur of the moment. I wouldn’t have a smartphone, a laptop or a PC. I couldn’t send or receive texts or messages from WhatsApp, Outlook or Messenger. I wouldn’t be distracted by Facebook, X, Instagram or TikTok. I didn’t need Google to find anything out or to find my way. Neither did anyone else, which was fortunate, as they didn’t exist for my younger self. If I was out of the house, then I was off the ‘phone. If I was in the car, I had a road atlas.

Most things were on the spur of the moment for my younger self. I missed him and his uncomplicated life. He wouldn’t see it like that. Maybe I’d been delayed by a long queue in my local bank, by writing cheques or trying to find a payphone that worked. Maybe I’d be posting letters or sales orders for work. I may be filing carbon copies into ever thickening foolscap folders. I may be caught in traffic. I may be sitting in my first company car. The Ford Escort that screamed of the build quality expected of a Friday afternoon on the Dagenham assembly line. I may be cursing the cassette player for eating yet another tape. I may be sitting there re-winding the tape with the Bic pen that I kept in that car, precisely for that purpose. I may have been delayed by an under appreciation of time and an over appreciation of my own ability. That was normal then. I may be returning my library books or hired videos, to avoid a fine. I maybe searching for an ATM that had cash and wasn’t “out of order”. I may have been delayed at home on a long conversation with her. I knew her too. She liked to talk. I smiled at the memory of the younger man I knew so well. I still wouldn’t have heard of a fax.

These days I seem to have more time. I don’t achieve any more or less than my younger self, but with age comes organisation. It doesn’t have to be much, but enough to relieve time pressure for my own future self. With age comes the ability to push back, the confidence to do so and the experience to know when. With age comes a certain ability to stretch time by living life on your own terms. An ability to say, “No. Thankyou”. An appreciation of when not to get sucked into the ever-decreasing circles that are some other people’s problem’s, which they wish to be yours. 

I’d seen everything he had. He had yet to see so much. He’d yet to develop the patience, or at least the laconic sarcasm of his older self. My younger self would still take challenges personally and allow his already limited time to be stretched even further. It wouldn’t really matter. I was young and wouldn’t know any better for years yet. These days I have thicker skin.

I still wasn’t there. What could he tell me that I didn’t know? I knew it all. At that age he thought he did also. All of the things that I should have said or done? Well, I didn’t. So why should he? We are the same. I’d already thought of the challenges that he had ahead of him. Would I tell him of marriages and divorce? Twice? Should I tell him of the children he doesn’t know yet? Will I tell him of the places around the world that he can only wonder about? Should I prepare him for the loss of his parents? Would I tell him of the unbelievable highs and of the crushing lows yet to come? How would I have coped knowing then what I know now? Probably not very well, knowing me. Did I have any regrets? Would I change anything? Or would I stick to my usual ‘another stitch in life’s rich tapestry’ nonsense rhetoric to whatever it was at the time, good or bad?

I smiled as I walked in. I was so predictable. A Polo Sport shirt and Levi’s 501’s. I’d bought them to impress when I had less sense and less money, to actually do so. The real irony was that I still had them.

“Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“I would and let me tell you, it doesn’t get any better. Anyway, this isn’t a good idea.”

“Maybe we’re not known for them?” He grinned.

“You have a good life.” I said, leaving the interpretation of a statement or an imperative hanging in the air. I knew he’d understand. “It’s not without its ups and downs. Enjoy it”.

“I didn’t expect it would be. Good to see you. You too.”

I sensed he detected a quieter “us”. One that had come to terms with what life had to throw at us and still had the conviction to strive to be happy. I opened the door and walked into the street.

Wednesday, 23 April 2025

I Met Myself for Coffee by Louise Lee

Flowers by Val Pedrick

 I heard a friend say that he sees his son as an idiot

Because he reminds him of himself at that age

And at that age, he was an idiot.

He wants him to grow up.


I met myself for coffee.

Is my myself my daughter?

The one I didn’t have?


Am I her mother?

The one I didn’t have.


She tells me about a course she’s doing

Another course.

She’s happy, she’s interested, she’s hopeful.

It will lead to a different career, respectful of her, worthy of her.


I listen and feel her pain.

I reflect her happiness, not the futility I’m feeling.

She appreciates my reflection and connection.

April 2025 Meeting

Minutes, HTW 22/04/25


Attendees: Irena (Chair), Michelle, Liz, John, Sue, Adam.

Apologies: Kath and Andy, Ruth, Louise, Suzie, Jennie, Fiona, Stuart, Ann and Marie. 

Thanks to those who were unable to attend, but sent in writing to be shared on the topic I met  my younger self for coffee.’


  Notices. 

1. See email forwarded from Kay, with details of upcoming events (about an hour's drive away). Ruth has volunteered to be a poetry judge; it was suggested we might like to attend Kay’s event on July 16th (Poetry Prose and Pimms). If you would like to go, please let Liz go asap, as Kay needs details for catering purposes. 
2. See email forwarded from Suzie if you would like to enter Yaffle ‘s poetry competition. The deadline has been extended till May 17th. There are entrance fees – details at www.yafflepress.co.uk
3. Workshop on Saturday July 12th 2-5pm. The topic will be poetry, and making the writing of poetry more accessible.  If you intend to be there, it would be helpful if you could inform Liz, as we must split the room hire cost between us. 

 

Our writing task was “What If?” The idea was to think about avoiding over-used words, phrases, plot devices or characters.

Our task for the month ahead continues this idea. The title is ‘An Unexpected Smile,’  emphasis on the unexpected!

Alternative homework could be developing what was began during the task.

  

After the task, we listened to each interpretation of ‘I met my younger self for coffee,’ including some of those from members who couldn’t attend. It was a privilege to hear such a wide range of interpretations. 


Next meeting: Tuesday 27th May at Peepos. 

Liz has volunteered to chair.

Sunday, 20 April 2025

The Rabbit by Fiona Carstairs


 Three days she lay in pain

Her back leg caught in a trap

Before the walker set her free

Bathed the wound and found a wrap

Laid her down to sleep

Next morning at the break of day

He found his friend had died

But not before delivering 

Three kits lying at her side

The sun quivered on the hill

His tears shed upon her fur

Defused her body shape

As she changed the space to fill

A nearby church its bells were rung

As pure light she had become

And with winged energy arose to meet the 

Rising Son

Saturday, 19 April 2025

The Cross by Fiona Carstairs


 The young man looked so out of place

On that avid materialistic stage

His hair was long and softly worn

His eyes held love and reverence

His manner kind benevolence

With every trite unwholesome word

Others tried to put him down

With bent head he just concurred

At last on roughly hewn cross 

They nailed him

The young man looked so out of place

Amongst the criminals left and right

But all he uttered at the last was

“God forgive them” 

REMINDER - APRIL MEETING on Tuesday 22nd April


 Next meeting : Tuesday 22nd April at 7pm

in Peepo's Spirit Room

Chair: Irena 

Writing task is: “I met my younger self for a coffee”

(it’s a current viral trend, but as usual, please interpret this prompt in whatever way speaks to you!)