What If? ... by Irena Szirtes

What if Polish soldiers rescued a captive Syrian bear cub during WW2? What if the bear became playmate, protector, confidant and comrade in battle? Sometimes the strangest “what ifs” are true. Wojtek (pronounced Voytek) was real; you can read about him in the book “Wojtek the Bear” by  Aileen Orr. The following relates how I first heard about the soldier bear:

    My sister spied them from the landing window: great coats and helmets tramping the lane, forever seeking Dad and now his tiny daughters, for he was Polish, they were not. Boots on the stair, blanket snatched away, barrel of a sub-machine gun; and as they squeezed the trigger, I awoke.

    I didn’t tell my parents, or run to their room; I cradled myself in Yorkshire dark, let River Rawthey’s song wash fear away.  

     My sole encounters with WW2 were Dad’s army coat, spread across my blankets, and his eagle cap badge, gracing the photo frame between our bedroom doors. Yet I shared echoes of his post-traumatic stress, unseen and unnamed in the 1950s. I can’t explain how Nazi uniforms stalked my sleep, how terror at being the Hunted infiltrated my subconscious. I had no idea Dad’s own dreams were relentless circles of escape and pursuit. It was as if I shared shards of his memories.

  Shards were all I knew in the waking world, too. He hid WW2 from his smallest daughter, like the shrapnel in his knee, except the story of Wojtek.

  “We had a bear in the Polish Army,”  Dad told me, as we drank hot milk in robust firelight, “a big brown bear called Wojtek. His name means ‘Happy Warrior.’”

“A bear? How did you get him?”

“He was a little cub, and the soldiers felt sorry for him. His owners were cruel and wanted to make him dance. So they swapped some food to get  Wojtek.”

  I snuggled to Dad’s heartbeat, slid sticky fingers round our terrier Judy’s  ears, as she settled on his lap.

“What did Wojtek do? Did he grow big?”

“Oh yes, he grew very big. He loved to play. He wrestled with the men and  drank beer. Just like naughty bears in stories, he sometimes helped himself to jam and honey. One day he stole the lady-soldiers’ washing, in fact he stole the line as well.”

My mind jumped to Mum hanging out our smalls, fielding Judy’s attempts to drop her muddy ball into the basket.

“Did he steal... their knickers?”

“He stole all their knickers, wrapped the line around his head!”

“Knickers on his hea-ead, knickers on his head!”

Dad was eager party to my giggles and squeals. Our exclusive moments of naughtiness always felt special.

“But the best thing,” he went on, as we recovered ourselves, “was that if a soldier felt sad, Wojtek knew, and would go and sit beside him.”

  I pictured this, fingering the shirt cuff that often escaped Dad’s jumper, recalling Judy's interest in my grazed knees and salty tears.

“ Like our little Judy?”

“Like our little Judy and lots of dogs, like lots of animals. They are all very clever, you know. And Wojtek would have stayed in the army if...”

   The sadness that sometimes lingered behind his smile settled, and instinct shook its head at my asking more. I watched sputtering flames spit sparks as charred logs snapped, and Dad offered Judy the remaining milk from his cup. She lapped it up before turning her attention to my busy  fingers. Nightmares were far away. I felt safe in my childhood world, too young to comprehend how Dad’s had been swept away a  few short years before.

   Shrapnel hid quietly in Dad's knee until he was eighty, when it moved and he underwent surgery. Facing anaesthetic caused a shift of memory shards too. There was no doubt Dad swore the Resistance pledge with his whole heart, that love for Poland embroidered his being. But after he returned from hospital, he confessed he’d saved two enemy lives. One had been a wounded officer struggling under fire, the other, a  soldier Dad encountered during his flight to the Polish Second Corps. He was ashamed. He was afraid we too, would be ashamed of a man who'd had compassion on his enemy.

“What was in your mind on the battlefield?”  I asked.

“I didn’t see an enemy.  All I could see was another human being.”

“ And the soldier?”

“ He was young like me, said he’d been taught Poles were ugly, like pigs, sub-human. He was surprised my German was so good. I’d suggested  we stop trying to kill or capture each other, agree to let each other go.”

I told my father I felt no shame.  I was proud, far prouder than if he’d watched a man die in agony, or mown a boy down.

“How did the young soldier respond?”

 “He was afraid, and he agreed with me. And so I got to the Polish Army in the end.”

“And to Wojtek,” I added, seeking to keep him from memories so sharp, he would not permit me to follow. “Tell me about the time he stole the ladies washing! I want the full version – you know - how he ran off with the line on his head, how scared the ladies were, how they softened when the men took Wojtek to meet them afterwards.”

We laughed, raised our glasses to Wojtek, remembering how I first heard his  story over hot milk in flickering firelight.

“You never get tired of hearing that one, do you?”

“Too right, I never do! And you can bet I never will!” 

Read more about Wojtek

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.’

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.

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.

What is Love? by Marie Sever

What is Love?

The dictionaries provide various definitions of Love:

An intense feeling of deep affection for someone; a great interest and pleasure in something.

What do I love?

My family, who are wonderful most of the time and maddening at others. I’m sure they feel the same way about me.

My friends who, as many have experienced, can only be seen over Zoom at present, but were there for me when my first husband died, and helped my daughter and me through a dreadful period.

Giving presents to people, carefully thought through and hoping I got it right, and receiving presents, many of which I can’t use, but smiling, saying thank you and donating to a charity shop. Love is not wanting to hurt their feelings.

My various pets over the years, despite my dog once eating one of the leather boots that I had saved up for months after recently starting work; the beautiful Siamese cats – mother and son - who would yowl in the middle of the night until we let them in because they wanted to come into our bedroom to tell us how much they loved us; my tortoises who kept escaping, the female never to return, and the male, Kevin, who came out of hibernation two days ago and is mowing down my crocuses and snowdrops as he insisted on coming out from his heat lamp to wander the garden in the sun.

The winter sun on a cold day, warming my face and giving a hint of better weather to come.

The first yellow flowers on my Hamamelis – aka Witch Hazel – that started flowering before Christmas and can still be seen through the sitting room window, followed by early daffodils, snowdrops and crocus, all heralding Spring.

Rain after a long period of dry weather, meaning I don’t have to spend hours watering our sandy soil.

All these appear to be insular, however I love to read in the media of kindness delivered by strangers to strangers. I adhere to the Random Acts of Kindness concept, and have done so from time to time. That makes me happy.

Love and happiness should go hand in hand. Done right, love towards others will result in happiness on both sides.

(first published during the Covid Lockdown: 26th February 2021)

Christmas Long Ago by Jennie Hart

 This piece of writing first appeared on the blog in December 2022. 

I hear my grandson singing ‘Away in a Manger’ and I want to cry; those ancient long remembered tunes are full of nostalgia.

Early family Christmases were often spent with Grandma Verity in Hull. My Grandad was there too but quietly in the background. Christmas eve was exciting yet I was terrified of catching sight of Father Christmas who may not leave presents if I spotted him. As soon as I was tucked up in bed, Grandma would ring the tiny tinkling bell on her mantel piece a few times; I knew its tone because sometimes, she let me shake it but on Christmas Eve I would ignore the familiarity and believe it was the Christmas sleigh. If I heard a stealthy tread on the carpet, I buried myself beneath the covers until all was silent then slept till morning, dreaming of reindeers and walky-talky dolls. 

Christmas in my own home was hectic and exhausting. Dad was irritable and moody and we never knew if he would join us for dinner. He had a sitting room upstairs where he would play music on his radiogram, read ‘Tailor and Cutter’ and live like a hermit.

God Jul 2010 by Elizabeth Obadina

 This piece of writing first appeared on the blog in December 2022

The snow had fallen thickly overnight. All along the street the houses were draped in festive lights, twinkling LED icicles and sparkling stars. There was nothing gaudy, no blow-up Father Christmases, no Christmas strobes piercing the starlit sky, no pulsating light shows. Nothing like that for this was Norway where, at the beginning of December, most Norwegian homes hang a star-shaped lamp in their windows, called “Julestjerne” or “Adventsstjerne” to symbolise the Christmas star which had guided the three wise men to the baby Jesus. There were also red, wooden candelabras with seven electric candles placed in other windows  to provide comforting beacons of light throughout the long dark nights of the northern mid-winter. They are now quite common in the UK but not so in 2010 when we enjoyed our first everyone-together family Christmas in Norway.

On this Christmas morning our house was slowly waking up.  Although it was nearly 9am it was still pitch dark outside and our baby grandchildren had yet to reach the age of waking up in frenzied excitement early, early, oh SO early on Christmas morning to check whether Santa had paid them a visit. That joy was yet to come in future years – mainly in England. This year was a magical one: watching the two-year old’s wonder of all things Christmassy, enjoying the baby’s discovery of wrapping paper and most of all feeling so happy and contented as the littlest ones of our family basked in the love and attention of newly met uncles and aunts. We were all together, and later on that day our ranks would swell with the hustle and bustle of visiting Norwegian grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. But as we stood looking out of the window, cradling cups of breakfast tea and waiting for the sun to rise all was calm and very peaceful.

On cue, two deer walked sedately up the middle of the street. They left deep tracks in the freshly fallen snow.

Our First Christmas Day in Lagos - as told to our grandchildren when they were little - by Elizabeth Obadina

 This is the second part of our First Christmas in Lagos which first appeared on the blog in December 2020. You can read the first part below this published 23rd December.

 Listen carefully and today I will tell you the rest of the story of Granny and Grandad’s first Christmas Dinner in Nigeria.

One Christmas Eve, a very long time ago, before Big Sister was born, Granny and Grandad prepared a special Christmas Dinner for their friends who were invited over on Christmas Day. It was as close to an English Christmas Dinner as it could be - excepting that the turkey was missing. Great Grandma, Grandad’s mummy, had promised Granny and Grandad that the turkey which had visited their flat on Christmas Eve would be delivered on Christmas Morning, all ready to cook, in time for Christmas Dinner.

We were woken very, very early on Christmas Day by the dawn call to prayer from the mosque over the road. We were a bit tired and grumpy as the church next door had been loudly celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ since midnight and we woke up tired, with the cries of, ‘Praise the Lord!’ and ‘Hallelujah!’; super intense drumming; triangle playing and lastly a bugle clarion call welcoming in Christmas Day still hammering through our heads.  The congregation had only gone home a couple of hours earlier. They would be back later in the day. Meanwhile we got up, made some coffee and sat outside on the balcony to watch the sun rise.

It was a beautiful day. Chilly because of Harmattan but the haze, although quite thick, was somehow lying below us like a fog over nearby swampland. It was white, like snow, and, seeming to emerge from it, the sun was rising through an apricot sky. 

Our First Christmas Eve in Lagos - as told to our grandchildren when they were little - by Elizabeth Obadina

 This piece of writing first appeared on the blog in two parts in December 2020.

Listen carefully and today I will tell you the story of Granny and Grandad’s first Christmas Dinner in Nigeria.

    It was the Christmas before Big Sister was born and Granny and Grandad were young, younger even than your mummies and daddies are now! We hadn’t been very long in Lagos but had made lots of friends and lots of them were going to be in the city all by themselves on Christmas Day, so Granny and Grandad invited them for a real English Christmas Dinner. Great Grandma, Grandad’s mummy, planned to spend Christmas Day in church but had promised us a turkey for our special meal.

    We’d looked in the supermarkets but couldn’t find turkeys, we looked in the markets where most people bought meat and chicken, but we couldn’t find turkey so we were very happy when Great Grandma said she would find us a turkey for our Christmas Dinner.

    We bought everything else we needed: potatoes, carrots and cabbages – there were no Brussel sprouts in the Lagos markets.  We bought bacon and sausages from the supermarket and we bought sweet white Ghana bread from the girl who sold it outside our flat and we grated the sweet loaf into breadcrumbs for stuffings and breadcrumbs for bread sauce  made with powdered milk and a deep red onion studded with cloves. It was the first time we’d seen red onions. We bought extra tins of Nido milk powder so that we wouldn’t run out of milk for the custard and Christmas pudding we had brought from England. We decorated our flat with an artificial Christmas tree and tinsel decorations bought from street traders selling to drivers stuck in long, long traffic jams on the motorways. Nigerians called these traffic jams, go-slows and if you waited long enough you could buy almost anything you wanted from these traders – but we never saw a turkey for sale.

    Getting a turkey from Great Grandma was a very special present.

Writing on the theme of Cut ~ by Sue Akande

credit Sue Akande

It had seemed like a good idea at the time but now …

Every time she walked into the dining room it was there, in the corner, winking and twinkling at her, reminding her that time was running out! She had to take action; it had been there for far too long. Why hadn’t she started on it straight away, as soon as it had arrived? What was she afraid of? What was stopping her from making that first cut?

The highly coloured, heavily sequinned lace had arrived in plenty of time for her to make her wedding outfit - so what was it? Would her sewing machine be up to stitching all those sequins? Was it that she had no pattern for her wedding attire? She had sketched out her idea based on the traditional Yoruba buba (blouse) and iro (wrapper skirt). Other wedding guests were having their clothes made up in Lagos, had she taken on too much by saying she would make her own outfit? Maybe she had watched too many episodes of ‘Sewing Bee’!

She had made outfits like it before, many years ago though and never from such elaborate cloth. The material had been chosen by the bride’s family and following the Yoruba custom of Aso-Ebi or ‘family clothes’ the family and friends of the bride would all be wearing ensembles made from the same material.

She looked at the lace again – there was plenty of it so if she made a mistake, it surely wouldn’t be so disastrous, would it? She would start with the skirt – probably the most straight forward part of the outfit. Spreading the material out on the floor of the dining room she began to cut.

A Week of Halloween Writing from our 10th anniversary anthology 'Write On!'

Truth or Lie?  By Kay Yendole

It was 1966 at Mayfield Girls School.

At lunchtime the group of seven 5^th formers met in the Common Room to chat, play music, and on this occasion for fun, to dabble with the mystical oracle, a magical game of the material and the immaterial, a link between the known and the unknown, the Ouija Board.

Giggling and laughing at the answers it gave them clearly to questions about career choices, who they would marry, how many children would they have, would they travel, clues about the love of their life, where they would live and more superficial curiosities.

Diana was told she was pregnant which had us all falling around in stitches but we all knew she was in a relationship with an older man.

The laughter continued as the glass spelt out the name Colin as Kay’s intended as the only Colin they knew was some goofy boy from their primary school. Patti received career advice about art and books. Jeanne was not surprised to receive Mick in answer to her question; she’d been dating him since she was fourteen. Denise would be working in travel and Marianne was told she would go East. We were all laughing but Christine was alarmed when asking her question about how old would she live to as the glass started spinning round and round and spun right off the table smashing to smithereens on the floor.

Then entered the lofty Miss Greenfield their R.E. teacher, normally pleasant and mild mannered, taking in the scene with the letters and numbers and broken glass she shouted at them clearly furious at what they were doing.

“ You are inviting the devil into this room, opening the gates of hell, you foolish girls, clear it up immediately, you may no longer be trusted to use this room for the rest of term.’

Shocked at her reaction they were subdued and a little frightened at what she clearly thought to be an evil act.

By the end of term Diana confirmed she was pregnant, Jeanne was engaged to Mick, Denise got at job at British Airways, Patti became a librarian, Marianne got a job in a Japanese bank. But tragically Christine died in a car accident when her father had a heart attack at the wheel.

None of them ever dared mess with the Ouija Board again.

 Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8 

or

from Amazon price £8 

Write On!: A decade of stories and verse from Bridgnorth's High Town Writers: Amazon.co.uk: Bridgnorth, HTW: 9789403723792: Books

Wellies or Bellies by Irena Szirtes

I've only just discovered this little piece won a 100-word challenge, subject ‘Wellies or Bellies’, back in 2021! I attended a few zoom sessions with Wrekin Writers before they were able to resume face to face meets, and entered it then. I've sent for the anthology to see it printed in all its glory! It’s just a bit of fun with some personal memoir, and my ongoing obsession with boots!

Tourism, Addiction and the Dire Demise of Wellies

    City ladies? Absolutely! Still children, giggling at big-bottomed ski-pants on tottering stilettos, we relished knowing wellies worked best. Beguiled, still mud and cow-clap unaware, the ladies gifted sweeties; we told them where to find frogs.

    Soon stilettos stopped coming. Bobble hats and eye-goggling boots came instead. Walking boots! Besotted, boot-obsessed, I begged for some. Decades on, my wellies languish under boot heaps: fleece-topped, frivolous, zany and zipped, bejeweled, buckled or buttoned; laced velvet vintage, wet-look, western, red-leather-racy to soft-shell-snow-proof.

     But walking boots keep first place in my boot-a-holic’s hoard, and I can still tell you where to find frogs.

The Cut by Jennie Hart

 Cut feels like a sharp word; it is very short and literally, to the point.

‘To Cut’ can be a verb, meaning: ‘an incision or a wound from a sharp-edged object’. ‘Cut’ can also be a noun, meaning ‘a narrow incision in the skin caused by something sharp’.

If the letters are reversed, it becomes TUC, a popular, salty cracker available in every British supermarket; or, with the same three letters, it can stand for the TUC, an acronym for Trades Union Congress, a federation of trade unions. I knew and was an admirer of the deceased Lord Len Murray of Epping Forest, the President of the TUC until 1984. His son Stephen, the longest serving member of Epping Forest District Council, is still my good friend, and, like his kind and caring father, has a passion for equality. But ‘tuc’ is a diversion, and so I return to ‘cut’.

Recently in a Somerset pub I talked to a stranger, a young man called Ben who eventually told me he had a disability. Although it was a sultry, warm, summer’s day, he wore a brown cloth, trapper hat, which he removed to show me a deep indentation in his skull. He described how a heavy scaffolding pole had crashed on to his bare head with great force. He announced with pride that he had endured fifty stitches from neck to forehead. I confided that I too had needed sixty- five stitches transversely on my skull after the removal of a meningioma. We had both endured significant cuts which miraculously had ensured our present wellbeing.

‘The Cut’ is the name of a street south of the Thames near Waterloo Station with both the Old Vic and the Young Vic on either side. Leading from the Cut is Lower Marsh Street where there used to be a shop called Radio Days. After his death, I sold my father’s clothing to Radio Days, a vintage outlet. My dad was a bit of a ’clothes-horse’; he had grown up in an era when working class men would dress smartly and with pride on their day off, possibly emulating their bosses. Unlike most men, dad loved to shop and although a working-class man, he would buy high quality well-made clothing; bespoke suits, elegant bowler hats, soft felt trilbies, and spectacular ties and braces. Radio Days promptly made me an offer for his unique wardrobe although they were not over-generous. I was also glad to sell them several boxes of Playboy magazines which had once littered our home when I was a child. I had hated them.

I often listen to This Cultural Life on Radio Three and only this week heard Salman Rushdie speak about his life and the fatwa placed upon him by Ayatollah Khomeini in the nineteen seventies. Salman’s latest autobiography is titled The Knife and recalls the violent knife attack made upon him on August 12, 2022, by a would-be assassin. The black-clad stranger leapt out of the audience of a thousand devotees gathered to hear Salman give a lecture on safety in the public domain for well-known people; a terrible but ironic happening. I read a few reviews and learned it is a tale of many cuts. He was stabbed over and over again and describes how his eye lolled on his cheek like a large soft-boiled egg. The content sounds painful to read and tells of his slow recovery. One reputable review describes the work as a courageous attempt at free speech, but as being shot through with self-regard, making it a hard book to admire. Salman has made a remarkable recovery, not least because of the devotion of the medical profession, but to have endured such an attack and survived, should have made him very, very humble.

Cruel Cuts by Elizabeth Obadina

June 2024: Nigeria's First Lady leads the campaign against FGM 

My normally happy baby would not stop crying. She reached out to me from her grandmother’s arms. Her grandmother minutes before had asked me to do a stock check and I had left my daughter with her grand mother whilst I counted bales of newly imported cloth in the storeroom of my mother-in-law’s home. What had caused this sudden infant meltdown? More to the point, why were there threads of red cotton dripping with engine oil dangling from my four-month-old baby’s ears?

“You see, it’s nothing to worry about,” my mother-in-law sought to reassure me. “I took her to the clinic (next door) and had Obalende* do it.”

Cooking Smells - the smells of the week and 'Surprise Saturday' by Kay Yendole

My Mother was an extraordinary cook. When I say extraordinary, it does not mean wonderful, more unusual.

Her life was orderly and neat and whether it was due to post war rationing and availability or to her sense of order you could always tell the day of the week by the smells emanating from the kitchen.

Traditional roast on Sunday, cottage pie on Monday, liver and onions on Tuesday, Irish Stew on Wednesday, sausages on Thursday, fish on Friday and a surprise on Saturday.  Surprise Saturday was when Mother would cook something, different, something more exotic like a Bolognese or Goulash, it wasn’t always a success though. Her daily cooking comprised overcooked vegetables and very little seasoning other than salt pepper and a bay leaf.  The natural flavours of homegrown vegetables and good quality meats were her saving grace, not her culinary skills. But surprise Saturday brought out a completely different woman who would present to the table an exciting concoction of flavours and an irresistible smell of something foreign that lingered round the house for several days afterwards.

Nasi Goreng was a particularly remembered dish. The everlasting string of garlic was only used on Saturday and an array of bottles and tubs of spices would come out from the back of the pantry. Sambal Orek was one ingredient never forgotten, my curiosity curbed once after I sneeked a taste from the jar and fire hit my palette. Mother just laughed at the look on my face as this Indonesian spice imprinted its memory on me forever. It is a spice that needs to be cooked out for a few hours to really appreciate its true deep rich flavour but it is not finger licking good in its raw state.

The Saturday surprise seemed to take all day to cook, once early morning market shopping was out of the way a continuous stream of chopping and frying with each component of the dish was carefully done. Occasionally usually a birthday it would be twenty one different dishes, a Ristofel of which Nasi Goreng was only one dish. The smells and taste of each one was distinctly different and I was fascinated as a child to sit and watch this magical preparation of food take place. Gado was one of my favourite components where for once the life of the vegetable was not boiled out of its skin but simmered gently in a rich spicy peanut sauce.  We were also delighted  to have a choice for once as Mother never dished this meal up on a plate but presented each dish separately on its own little platter and you could help yourself  to what you liked but only one spoon of each.  To have more than one protein in a meal was in itself a treat, to have egg, meat and fish as well as an array of vegetables, pickles and rice were true smell and taste sensations, activated strongly, by the exotic different spices.

It wasn’t just our house the smells invaded but half way down the street I could swear I could smell it still. Even dessert was a surprise on Saturdays. Away from the bland bread and butter pudding and blancmanges we would have pineapple upside down cake or banana fritters with ice cream.  Also apart from rice pudding it was the only time we ate rice, sometimes white or yellow or even orange coloured and differently flavoured.

The only names I remember apart from Nasi Goreng, and Gado are Soto, Rendang the hottest one, Satay a peanut chicken dish. Such an explosion of smells and flavours; hot, warm, cold, crispy, crunchy and smooth textures; salty, sweet, tangy, sour, bitter and of different strengths. The array of spices carefully measured was astounding, all those colourful yellows, oranges, red powders and different fresh green herbs were such a contrast to the salt, pepper and a bay leaf regime Mother usually employed.  It was an assault on the senses, the colours, the smells, the tastes and how beautiful it all looked spread out on the table. Mother would even say she could hear the Roti Gambang bread when it was ready to take out the oven.

It was a lot of work but Mother would spend all day in the kitchen in its preparation and I loved to help. Marion and John kept well out the way and I felt privileged to be allowed to handle these precious spices and endlessly chop herbs. I was not allowed to chop the chillies though and again my curiosity taught me why when my eyes streamed after touching the seeds.

Later early in the sixties I remember the first local Chinese take away restaurant opening, my Mother was keen to try it but my Father said ‘I’m not eating foreign muck, making bullets for the yellow army”. But surprise Saturday never bothered him.

Dad's Summer Holiday by Jennie Hart

Throughout my life with my parents, I do not remember a family holiday. Mum owned a shop selling groceries and sweets, open every day of the year except Christmas Day. She was a hard worker and only when I was old enough to manage the shop in the school holidays, did mum take a break with her mother, my grandma.

My dad was not the kind of person who ever went on holiday; he was small in stature and elegant, a working-class man who also enjoyed life’s luxuries. He dressed in suits from Austin Reed and bought Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes with their dull black covering and exotic gold tips. He was especially fond of Glenfiddich scotch whiskey. Sometimes he told of memorable experiences when he was stationed in Gibraltar during the war. Once, having watched his army pals swim in the island’s harbour, he was envious of the fun they were having, so jumped in, off the harbour wall too. He couldn’t swim and nearly drowned but was fortunate to be rescued.

Throughout my life, dad was nervous and a little unworldly; he rarely travelled far from home. A day out for him was taking the bus or train to Kingston upon Hull, twenty miles away. It was therefore a surprise one particular summer when dad announced he would go on holiday to Coventry to stay with brother Cyril.

Water – A Monday Morning Memory by Elizabeth Obadina

Waiting for Water

 A morning breeze blew softly over the king size bed. On the one side her husband lay still in deep sleep on the other she stirred, yawned and stretched. It had been a sticky night. NEPA* had ‘taken light’** early the previous evening and the hours of darkness had been spent fitfully tossing and turning, praying to Shango***, the god of electricity, to restore power, power to the air conditioner, power to the fans, power to the computers, power to the fridge-freezers and power to the water pump. She prayed for power to return her life to the modern world, to 1992.

She stretched and reached for her watch. It would be so nice to find that it was earlier than she suspected, that she could roll over and catch another hour or two’s sleep in pleasant cool of dawn. Perhaps, had it been the weekend, but that was yesterday. Today it was Monday morning. She looked at her watch. A quarter past six already. There was just one thought on her mind. Water.

And then she smiled.

She remembered the barbecue yesterday at the Coca-Cola staff estate, the swimming pool, the pizza oven, the shady trees and the children showering in a hosepipe fight, hosepipes attached to taps, taps running with crystal-clear drinking water which was watering the plants, her children, her friend’s children, the ground - drinking water creating rainbows in the afternoon sunshine but more to the point, drinking water which had been transported twenty five miles back home and was now waiting in five, five-gallon, blue plastic jerry cans on the floor of her kitchen. Drinking water would be available for a few days at least. Drinking water from Coca-Cola’s very own water treatment plant. Pure, sweet and clean - just water – but treasure for her family. Water that was never going to be made into the Coco-Cola, Sprite or Fanta whose millions and millions of glass bottles formed the backdrop to every street scene and every social gathering in Lagos, indeed throughout Nigeria.

This Monday was starting well.

With a smile on her face she rolled out of bed and padded downstairs. Not only was there a power cut but the water had run short too. There was still just enough water stored in the bath of the downstairs bathroom for a few days personal washing. Laundry was going to be more of a problem. She quarter-filled four plastic buckets with water, iron-tinged from the storage tank, and cautiously carried them back upstairs. She was careful not to slop any on the terrazzo floors and staircase. She didn’t want Monday to begin with anyone slipping over onto cold, hard stone. She then repeated the procedure for the upstairs toilets. Partly filling the cisterns with the minimum amount needed to flush.

Her daughter was already awake, ready for a bucket wash, quick to get ready for school. Her sons were more difficult to rouse. She left them all upstairs sleepily getting up and headed back downstairs. She wouldn’t even complain if the boys claimed that thanks to all the swimming the previous day they didn’t need a morning wash – the water could be saved for the evening.

Shooting back the bolts on the heavy iron security doors, she swung open the front and back   doors and slid open the balcony windows to let the morning breeze blow cool air throughout the house. She left the iron-barred security gates padlocked shut on the front entrance and balcony but unlocked the padlocks on the kitchen bars and headed out into the compound to unlock the huge iron security gates so that Chris, her husband’s driver, could get in. He was already there.

“Morning Ma.”

“Morning Chris.”

He picked up a tin bucket from besides the old guard hut. They no longer had a night guard – but that’s different story.

“No point, Chris,” she said, “There’s still no water.”

Chris absent-mindedly turned the compound tap.

There was no water.

“No Ma,” he concurred, “I’ll just …” He took up the bucket and  drifted back into the street. She knew he was going to look for any puddle of water from the swamp at the bottom of the road, a swamp that was rapidly being drained and built over, a swamp with pools of filthy water where mosquitoes thrived. It offended Chris’ professional pride to drive out on a Monday morning in a dirty car. He would find some way of washing off the weekend’s dust and mud.

“OK,” she said and headed back to the kitchen. She knew Chris would be back in time for the school run.

Finding water in the swamps

Her house-help, Magdelene, had appeared from her quarters at the back of the house.

“Morning Ma. Still no water?”

“No, If NEPA doesn’t return, later today we’ll get the generator out and try to pump some up from the borehole and try to fill the water tank.”

Like everyone else in the road, the house had its own borehole, sunk down to the pure white sands underlying the swampy lagoons and low-lying islands of this huge metropolis. Until a new water works had opened last year, purifying the waters of the mighty River Ogun, there had been no government water and they had relied on their own water from their own borehole. Until last year the only water for this mega-city of millions and millions of people had been from an ancient waterworks, completed in 1910 to meet the needs of the small colonial community living in Ikoyi, Victoria and Lagos Islands.

The government water was pure, of international drinking water standard, allegedly, but its supply was erratic and dependent on the even more erratic supply of electricity, NEPA. of which there had been only sporadic bursts of power for weeks. These bursts, supplemented by bursts of power from a petrol generator had managed to keep the fridges and chest freezer cold. But petrol was also in short supply and generator bursts were rationed.

“Don’t open the freezer yet,” she said to Magdalene, “Use the Coca-Cola water for the children’s porridge.”

Magdalene beamed in delight at the sight of the five blue, plastic jerry cans obstructing easy passage around the kitchen. The immediate issue of drinking water was resolved.

“Yes Ma.”

Quaker Oats, highly compacted and vacuum sealed in cans and imported, had become the children’s staple breakfast diet since her daughter’s diagnosis with diabetes a year beforehand. And keeping supplies of insulin cool when there were constant power cuts was a delicate balancing act. It couldn’t go in the freezer and the fridge had to be packed with ice-blocks from the freezer to keep it cool, despite the added insulation offered by its tropical rating. Making ice to use where food was being stored meant using drinking water.

The usual morning routine was to boil water for at least a minute from either the household’s borehole supply or the government tap, preferably using an electric kettle but using the gas stove, and precious bottled gas, if not. The bubbling boiling water was then poured into the top of a gallon-capacity water filter which contained two sandstone water candles and left to drip through to the collecting drum below. Drinking water was then drawn from a tap at the bottom of the drum. Most of that drinking water was then frozen in jars, plastic tumblers or water bottles. The children’s school water bottles had been prepared on Friday and were waiting to be taken from the freezer. The thawing water would give them a cool drink for most of the school day. Meanwhile an insulated water dispenser would be loaded with tumbler blocks of frozen drinking water and left to thaw slowly throughout the day, providing the whole household with cool water to drink. Water for cups of tea and coffee would be drawn directly from the filter.

This Monday the Gods of Coca-Cola had blessed the household with drinking water. No boiling. No filtering. No worries. 

It was a good start to the week.

 

 

*Nigerian Electric Power Authority

**a power cut - usually referred to as 'taking light'.

*** Sango (pronounced Shango) is the Yoruba god of thunder and lightning who breathes fire, wields a double headed axe (magic wand) and exerts immense power.

His statue stands outside of the offices of the National Power Holding Company of Nigeria (formerly NEPA)

Sango sculpted in 1964 by Ben Enwonwu (1917-1994)