Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

  James! They’d kept his name. I couldn’t answer.

  Again he said “I’m James.” “Yes, yes,” I said. “James!”

  “Look” he said. “I know it must be a shock and maybe awkward, but I‘d really like to meet you. Can I phone again tomorrow, about this time? Would that be alright?” and before I could answer, he’d gone. I didn’t know what to do.

  Of course Andrew knew my history, that I’d given birth to a son as a young girl, but what would he make of the situation in real life. In a dream I gathered up my things. I had a classroom of children to face.

  I got through the day. I had always known this could happen, but James would be thirty seven, our own daughters were in their mid twenties. So many years had passed of straightforward, hum drum existence since that teenage pregnancy, but thoughts of James had been a perpetual background in my mind, accentuated at milestones. At the day’s end, working my way through exercise books, I wondered if he could possibly be aware how much attitudes had changed since he was born. Could he forgive being given away, and what sort of life had he had. I only knew he had gone to a childless couple so greatly wanted, if not by my family.

  I had been lucky that my parents, though shocked and saddened, had been supportive in that they had coped, cared for me almost uncritically, but with no thought that I would keep the baby, and I hadn’t wanted to until that moment after the birth, when I briefly saw him before he was taken away.

  My marking came to a halt, with that painful memory. I’d gone back to school and managed results good enough to get me to training college, but the vision of that tiny boy remained, came into my dreams, and took me through college a sober, hard working student, unwilling to risk a repetition of so much emotion and loss.

  I went home, missing out on the usual last-minute chat in the staff room, put a meal together, answered the phone to Mandy. What would the girls think of it all? They knew nothing of a half brother.

  Andrew was amazingly matter of fact.

  “You’ve always known he might get in touch. So you have to meet him. You owe him that. Ask him to come tomorrow evening. Relax! I’ll be home on time! It’s hard for him, you know. Judging by that very short conversation I’d say he is pretty nervous too. A chap wants his mother to be, well, fairly perfect. And it will give you a chance to tell him how you’ve grieved. Wonder if he’s tried to meet up with his father.”

  “With Tony? Why would he do that?”

  “Well, why is he looking for you now? He could have done this any time in the last twenty years. Maybe he’s married, got children, wants medical information. Hey! That would make you a granny.”

  I was amazed and slightly annoyed he could be that light-hearted, and also a bit comforted, so when the phone rang next morning I was able to respond.

  “ Yes, we are looking forward to meeting you. You know how to find us? Well how about this evening, about 7.30. Fine.”

  I got through the day in a state of excitement. Rushed home, changed, changed again. Andrew arrived, and we waited. When the bell rang we both jumped, and Andrew followed me to the door. I swung it open, stared. Heard Andrew’s “Doh”, as I blurted foolishly “But you can’t be my son.” and the tall, very good-looking, well dressed black man standing before me said “Your son! Why would I be? I’m Jacob Adobwe, your local Labour candidate. Can I rely on your support in the coming election?”

  We accepted his pamphlets, promised total commitment, and James, parking his car two minutes later, saw a couple on the steps so helpless with laughter, he could only smile too as he walked up the path, and the relationship started right there.

  I WISH I WERE A WIGGLY WORM

  by

  Jennife Budd

  Ow! The roof has lifted off and some of my friends have fallen off the ceiling. There is something bright and hot up there, I must find shelter lower – Ooh! What is this? Big knobbly things, small slimy bits, leaves, flowers. Food! We can all eat our fill. In one end, out the other, that’s the way to do it. This last lot has pushed me further down. Some of it is too fresh for my jaws, but if I go a bit deeper there is some lovely ripe stuff which has been around for a while, settling down nicely, blending in until it is one glorious, soft squidgy cake.

  All of my life I have been in this tower. I did try to go away once, when I got shaken off the roof, and tried life as an earthworm, but it was not like this in here. In here it is warm and dark and fragrant with wonderful scents of orange peel and cabbage leaves, melon rind, carrot, grass. It all comes from Above when the roof is lifted.

  We all have plenty to eat, plenty of room. We have to share with the slugs, which are gross, of course, and different in colour to us, but we leave them be and they leave us be. We eat as our kind do, in one end, out the other. I like to be about three worm lengths under the surface where there is good, ripe stuff. We are a happy brotherhood, doing our job, turning all this food into what? Something like earth, but better than earth, as is our destiny. Worm satisfaction is here in the Compost Tower

  TIME

  by

  Romayne Peters

  One rushes to beat it,

  One relaxes to enjoy it,

  Wonders where it goes to and

  Why there is never enough of it.

  Clock-watching does not help

  Clocks stopping can be hell,

  Then one is caught on the hop

  At the sound of the bell.

  There’s no particular reason and

  Perhaps no real rhyme, but

  The damned and the Godly are

  All governed by Time.

  EVE AND THE APPLE

  by

  Paul Young

  Now Eve took ear to hear her clamorous womb,

  Urgent, neglected and demanding proof.

  And the necessary knowledge hung just tempting by,

  So she plucked the Apple to inform dull Adam's youth

  Adam bit the Apple and grew cunning wise

  From wisdom's feast reserved the gleaming pips.

  He carried out of Eden Earth's best prize

  And grew up pippins to delight her lips

  Eve and the apple he saved from that fair garden's loss

  And built her bower in the spreading trees

  In Eden echoed orchards found an earthly bliss

  And got his children 'neath the eager bees.

  And not a son of all his sons but knows

  Beauty and wisdom in an orchard grows.

  FOOD

  by

  Louisa Boughton

  Food was different many years ago, in the days when everything was made at home. I can still think of the meals of a typical week.

  Always on Sunday we had a roast and with Mum and Dad and four children it had to be a large piece of meat. This was actually a good thing as it made meals for three days. The choice was beef, lamb or pork, and, as we kept chickens we would sometimes have a chicken. Most often we had a leg of lamb, not just a little shank but a whole leg. It was usual to have meat, roast potatoes, cabbage and carrots, the vegetables always fresh from the garden. We did sometimes have swede and onions, occasionally cauliflower, peas and runner beans in season. Home-made mint sauce, the gravy made in the meat tin with the juices and meaty particles, cornflower and then the gravy browning.

  On Monday Mum did the washing, rain or shine, so we knew it would be a cold meat day with fried up left-overs (bubble and squeak). A rice pudding would follow, cooked in the oven of the coal range.

  On Sunday, when making apple pie the pastry trimmings would be made into jam turnovers ready for next day along with some cold custard. Although Mum called it a scratch meal, it was good.

  Then it was Tuesday and the remains of the joint would be put into a very large saucepan, the two bones with some meat still hanging on them, onions and carrots added. Then Mum had a choice, either by adding lentils, pearl barley or split peas. This cooked slowly for hours on the range, which was always lit.

  Wednesday would be someth
ing different, pork chops, soaked peas were quite a favourite, they would have been soaking all night with a special tablet. When cooking, once they had come to the boil, they had to be simmered very gently or all the little skins came off and you were left with spoonfuls of shucks, as we called them. Most likely a steamed suet pudding would follow. Jam or golden syrup would be put in a pudding basin, the dough in on top of that and a cloth tied over the top. This would gently boil for a couple of hours, Mum making sure the saucepan didn’t boil dry. It was turned out onto a dish with the jam or syrup running down the sides of the pudding. Served with piping hot custard - delicious!

  By Thursday it was beef stew with lots of chunky vegetables in, probably followed by macaroni pudding and baked apples.

  Friday we had fish, not for any religious reason, just that Mum thought it was good for us. It was usually halibut but sometimes it was yellow smoked haddock, very tasty. The chips, home made, were cooked in a basket in deep fat in a large saucepan. In season, stewed raspberries, gooseberries or black currants(not very popular!), and either rice pudding or custard would follow.

  On Saturday Dad and my older brother had to work until 12.30 as part of the working week, so Mum would get the meal for one o’clock. Sausages and mash, cauliflower or cabbage with onion gravy. The sausages were thick, meaty and tasty. Even although they had been pricked with a fork they would split open and cook all nice and crisp. A chocolate blancmange made the night before in a mould would follow.

  And so the week passed. Mum worked hard and long to turn out appetising, healthy meals to keep the family fed and happy. We never left anything! I wonder if cooking is a lost art?

  ON PASSING MY OLD HOME IN THE RAIN

  by

  Paul Young

  Where once in youth I stood beside that window,

  And saw the rain, falling and falling from a summer’s sky,

  And smelt its swift, sweet restoration of the grass.

  There pushed my hand beyond the gutters reach.

  To take the summer’s softness as it passed,

  And turned toward the bed and you

  And thought how strange, how strange the body’s touch.

  The sudden hunger and the feast unplanned,

  The braided hair, now loosed for joy,

  The wide eyed girl, the breathless boy.

  Of all that passed I most recall that copper, tangled hair,

  That on the white linen framed your face about in fire,

  And offered such sweet restitution and redress

  To your denials past, your long demurring and delay.

  THINGS MY MOTHER SAID

  by

  Wilma Hayes

  One day when I was almost four years old

  in a pretty dress; my face all clean and bright

  to a birthday party where I didn’t know a soul

  I stood trembling on the steps, sick inside with fright

  And this is what she said:-

  Be sure you always wear clean knickers dear

  in case you fall or need to use the loo

  Use please to ask and thank you when you leave.

  Don’t cry dear, I’ll be back at half past two.

  When at last kindergarten days were o’er

  and I stood at the gates of education

  dreading it in my dress and pinafore

  I glared at the grey brick institution

  And this is what she said:-

  Be sure you always wear clean knickers dear.

  These are the best days of your life, you see, so

  smile when you speak, and always be sincere.

  Now, off you go dear. You’ll be home at half past three.

  One day a nice boy asked me for a date

  and as I told my mother what he’d said

  I saw her mind begin to formulate

  her brand new dress for the day when I was wed

  And this is what she said:-

  Be sure you always wear clean knickers dear

  and remember what I said about men.

  Find a rich one dear, a lord or a financier.

  In the meantime, be home by half past ten.

  Years later, in a rut and run aground

  with two little ones hanging on my hems

  I went to her for help. Instead I found

  her in a slinky dress, make up and gems

  And this is what she said:-

  Now then, forget about the stupid knickers dear

  They’re in the way and freedom’s a delight

  Oh look, my new friend Lord Eldon’s here. So

  don’t wait up. I may not be home tonight.

  FAMILY LIFE

  by

  Bronwen Wild

  First the egg cluster,

  Seed pearls

  In a leaf oyster,

  Soon the larval children

  Mince their vegetable home

  To lace,

  Grow fat, and suddenly retreat

  Pubescent, adolescent,

  Incommunicado.

  The mother waits, keeps faith.

  At length the pupal sheath

  Breaks open.

  At this she breathes a sigh,”Oh!

  My Painted Lady,

  My Imago!”

  COLLECTING THE MALE

  by

  Haydn Lloyd

  I would tell you of Miss Jones, in I hope quite gentle tones,

  Who would talk of her obsession now and then.

  ‘Twas not stamps, beer mats or coins that would stir her sturdy loins,

  Her abiding interest was - collecting men.

  She really loved them all, thin or short or fat or tall,

  The ones with ginger hair or dark brown stubble.

  Blonde giants with bright blue eyes, boffins with tu-whit tu-whoo eyes,

  Even Latin types with greased hair were no trouble.

  She liked no-men, she liked yes-men, soldiers, sailors, SAS men,

  And of course Tornado boys in Air Force Blue.

  She liked ‘pull yourself together men’, news announcers, TV weathermen

  Sound technicians, and the camera crew.

  Athletic types with discus, tired hippies with grey whiskers,

  And yellow jerseyed cyclists straight from France.

  Opera stars would baritone her, scientists would try to clone her,

  So that one of them might stand a better chance.

  She fancied old clinicians, like retired chest physicians,

  And house surgeons - who were virgins - by the score.

  She was seen in backs of cars with obstetric registrars,

  With most of them coming back for more.

  There were grocers, meat purveyors, farmers, architects, surveyors,

  Racing drivers, deep sea divers, men in yachts.

  Lifeboat crews would vie to woo her, football louts refuse to boo her.

  Serious gamblers even let her call the shots

  She knew by first initials all the government officials,

  Tories, Libs and Labs and all the T.U.C.

  Just like the politicians, she could vary her positions,

  When facing members of B.B.C.

  George Bush could not disarm her, though she’d flirted with Osama,

  And Don Rumsfeld fell completely for her charms,

  Though she’d briefly been insane about old Saddam Hussein,

  He forgave her and surrendered to her arms.

  She could activate the hormones of quite dedicated Mormons,

  In particular the young ones in blue suits.

  And she fancied mountain walkers, anoraks and deerstalkers.

  She was royally entertained on pheasant shoots

  Miss Jones chased and caught and kissed a very staid old Methodist,

  Neither Baptist nor Wee Frees did she pass by.

  They could be Black or Aryans, she loved any Presbyterians,

  Whilst a priest in any guise would catch her eye.

  She liked Rugby stars at
Twickers, and unmarried country vicars,

  There were Canons and Archdeacons in the throng.

  She was even know to hire a renowned Welsh male voice choir,

  And would later join them in a lively song.

  When a cute female reporter, young enough to be her daughter,

  Inquired just how she did it - in hushed tones.

  Miss Jones looked her in the eye and gave a straight reply.

  ‘It’s all to do, my dear, with pheromones.’

  So dear friends, in field or street, if Miss Jones you chance to meet,

  And you don’t wish to be whisked off in her car,

  Whether you be young or old, just be sure you’ve got a cold

  And your nose is rendered useless by catarrh!

  CROW

  by

  Peter Holliday

  The loud rude crow

  Skims the tiles of the house,

  Blocking the sun for a moment,

  Casting a black shadow.

  Bully-boy, road-hog, lout -

  Hoodie, with the hood pulled up

  So’s we can’t identify him -

  He’s first to the waste-bin and the dung-yard.

  He hangs round abattoirs and battlefields

  Looking for livers and eyeballs,

  And tears gobbets of offal from the road -

  The corpses of things we care nothing about.

  He knows we ought to reward him -

  Surly waiter, clearing up the mess we’ve made…

  If beaks could grin he’d grin -

  And I’ve seen him wink and chuckle.

  He thinks he owns the earth

  And I’m not sure he doesn’t.

  HAIKUS

  by

  John Wood

  Muse fallen silent, Inspiration lost today. Please speak tomorrow.

  Calm meditaion Assisted by self-knowledge, Or early slumber.

  Springing lambs gambol. Maturity mean mutton. Chop Time approaches.

  CALVUS ET CALVINESTA*