Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

  by

  Paul Young

  When youth was hot and the blood ran high,

  When passion was spent and the tide gone by,

  She would ruffle my hair in salutation

  For those ardent efforts best not to mention;

  Yes, I was young and in my prime,

  And I got my hair ruffled from time to time,

  But now I am old, on the bedside ledge,

  She keeps a duster and a can of Pledge.

  *”Bald, and a Calvinist” - William, Prince of Orange in later years.

  THE NAME

  by

  Ann Foley

  Your name is etched on the polished stone,

  Like the magic spell of an ancient rune.

  It stings my eyes, and it hurts my heart,

  But my fingers caress the line deep cut

  By an unknown carver who never knew

  That wonderful man who once was you.

  It's only a name on a granite slab,

  That I had come so far to find,

  With hundreds of others above and below,

  But only one could affect me so,

  Half a century gone, and now

  Just a name on a wall is left for me.

  And a memory.

  REMEMBRANCE

  by

  Ann Foley

  Yes, in remembrance, the trouble is remembering. It was all so long ago. So much has happened to me since I was married to my first husband, and I can hardly remember what he looked like or what he sounded like. But I must remember him. He is well worthy of being remembered, though we were married such a short time before he died.

  We both went into separate Prisoner of War Camps in Hong Kong, me with our baby of only two months old and he went into the Civilian and Soldiers Camp for Men at Sham Shui Po. I didn’t realise that he was dead by the time I was repatriated to the United States. I was only in prison camp for six months before I was back in San Francisco with my baby and waiting for news.

  Terrible news came. He was missing, believed dead. I received the dreaded telegram of his possible death when he and the rest of the ship he was on was torpedoed on their way from Hong Kong to Japan. The tragedy was that his ship was torpedoed by ‘friendly fire’. The US, incensed by the attack on Pearl Harbour, bombed his ship as it was flying the Japanese flag. The Americans did not know that it was a prison ship with mostly Europeans on board. I remember meeting some of the survivors later, and they said that they had seen Jimmy in the water. He was a wonderful swimmer. I do remember that. But there were sharks around . . . and the Japanese had locked the holds where they had shackled their prisoners. Only about ten men managed to get away and they swam to an island, where fishermen looked after them. Jimmy was not amongst them. I was in a state of shock with that first telegram. I was so young, you see, with that conviction of youth that nothing would happen to me. Our baby was a fine boy, beautiful and sturdy. I was staying with my married sister in San Francisco and I wanted to get away somewhere peaceful with lots of fresh air. So me and baby Jonathan, went off to a log cabin in Canada. It was blissful for a while, but then my little boy toddled off one day and fell into the stream that sparkled near our cabin. I hadn’t missed him, but when guests arrived for lunch, I suddenly knew something terrible had happened. So much tragedy in such a short time. Again you don’t really remember what happened that horrible day. You protect yourself and put it away from you.

  After his little funeral, I was alone. I knew I had to get back to the War effort and do something for my country. I went to Washington to the State Department who I had worked for in Hong Kong before the War had really got started. They took me back and taught me how to decode messages. Would I like to travel, they asked me. Oh yes, I said, please send me somewhere really busy, where I wouldn’t have to think about what happened to me. I was in a black well of deep sadness.

  I pulled myself out eventually. I met lots of women in the same position as me, with lots of despair. I was put on a ship to Cairo which left New York on D-Day, and from there I would fly to Karachi and then Bombay. We were in a big convoy and I was interested in all the messages that were being flashed between the ships. I was told that the flashing messages concerned the legs of the ladies on board our ship! I had to laugh! There was a whole world out there.

  I met my second husband 4 days after I arrived in Bombay. He was on his way to England for his ‘long leave’ which lasted 3 months. He wrote to me and asked me to wait for him. I still have the letter. No promises were made but lots of hope on both sides.

  We were married five months later. Marriages were quick in wartime. I never regretted my decision. John was a wonderful man and so good looking, and such fun to be with. Another Englishman. He told me he would make me happy for ever after, and make me laugh always. Because of him I put my first marriage away from my memory. I did not want to dwell on what had been. I even wrote to his family to tell them I would not be contacting them any more, and to please understand my decision.

  So when forty years later John and I were wandering through the cloisters of Pembroke College, Cambridge, and we came upon the second World War Memorial to the fallen, Jimmy’s name was not there. I did feel a constriction in my heart. This was his old college but Jimmy’s name was not on the plaque. I said nothing, but I remembered.

  Years later, I wondered whether Jimmy’s name was on the War Memorial in Hong Kong. I wanted to tidy up this early part of my life. I had to know that he really had existed. My darling John was dead and I was clearing up his affairs and Jimmy was also due this respect. I encouraged my elder sister Alma to come on a cruise with me, one that would stop in Hong Kong. I made arrangements.

  Two members of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission met us off the cruise ship. One who was Chinese and wearing a uniform was carrying a wreath, the other was British and wearing a suit. He came and shook our hand. Alma and I were very impressed. We were driven off in a special car to the War Memorial. I would never have found it myself. They were so kind and made me feel so glad I had come.

  Then we were there. Sai Wan Cemetary has hundreds of British and Chinese graves but at one end is a huge monolithic white stone with hundreds of names engraved on it. I had to find Jimmy’s name. I was so glad the others were there, as there were so many names and it took a while to find. I remember I was left alone with my thoughts in front of his name carved on the stone. Then the young Chinese soldier saluted and passed me the wreath. I laid it there below his name Second Lieutenant James P. Whitham. All so, so long ago. I had a lump in my throat but my tears had all dried up. So much had happened to me, I wonder if he ever knew . . . Alma wrote a poem. She writes poems when she is moved.

  An easier journey was to Pembroke College after I wrote to the Master Sir Richard Dearlove. He would make arrangements for Jimmy’s name to be inscribed on the War Memorial for World War II. I took my daughter and son-in-law who knew Sir Richard and we were all invited to lunch with the Master. I tried to imagine Jimmy there, but there were so many new glass and steel buildings.

  I did watch on television the Ceremony of Remembrance on Sunday with the Queen. I think it gets better and better every year, all those wonderful men and women. I watch closely every face. We all look at those faces. I don’t know what we are looking for, but I do know how proud we feel. I’m ninety-four now, perhaps they might wait for me if I march with them next year!

  OVERBOARD

  by

  John Wood

  Poor humble infantry, we march straight forward, unrenowned.

  Always best in echelon, combining well to left and right.

  We who reach the furthest rank are suddenly empowered and crowned,

  Noble extra powers so gained will help to win our gallant fight -

  Striving on this chequered site, coloured either black or white.

  LATE AUTUMN SONNET

  by

  Jill Lawson

  I had a haircut booked today,

  So off
I went to drive to Hay,

  And I was busy - couldn’t stay,

  But what a glory on the way.

  The river Wye was double size.

  The better to reflect the skies,

  With, such a gladness to the eyes,

  A rainbow all transcendent!

  The purple clouds a perfect scene

  For foreground decked with brown and green

  And larches with a golden gleam

  Were fragile and resplendent.

  And, I am glad for eyes to see

  The wonder this day brought me.

  THE PATHS OF LOVE

  by

  Romayne Peters

  In waywardness let’s take the path to Love,

  Escape those bonds which stifle and restrain.

  Make mention of nought else save sheer desire,

  Delight in bursting joy, exult, catch fire.

  Why bow to lumpen laws, grey-suited men?

  Live life with colour, let all nature smile.

  In grassy fields embrace; kiss buttercups,

  Think not of winter’s clouds nor darkening skies,

  Indulge in stormy passion, pleasure prize.

  Reach up to rose red lips, to dark brown eyes.

  For speech unspoken, speaks of more than words

  Why blight the singing soul?

  Take flight with birds.

  BEDTIME STORIES FOR BOYS

  by

  Faith Bellamy

  They read him lovely, fanciful tales, of rabbits, squirrels, foxes, quails,

  Living in rustic homes,

  Who drove in cars and motor boats, went off to school in bright red coats,

  And waged a war with gnomes.

  They read Just William, Enid B. and romantic tales of chivalry,

  and Magdalena Nabb.

  They found him Ransome, Nesbit, Dahl, and when those tales began to pall

  Thought Michael Rosen fab.

  They were spooked by Edgar Allen Poe, amused by Victorian tales of woe,

  Mourned poor Piggy’s death.

  Marvelled at tunnels for escape, laughed at schoolboy ploys and scrapes,

  Marched with Hannay o’er the heath.

  They read of Pip and Little Nell, shuddered to hear the prison bell,

  wept over Nancy’s fate.

  And then they said “Sleep well and tight. We’ll read some more tomorrow

  night.

  It’s getting very late.”

  “When I’m a man,” he said “I’ll go to the great grey greasy Limpopo

  set about with fever trees.

  And I will hunt the crocodile, seek out the real source of the Nile,

  climb mountains if I please.

  Or, if I’m feeling really bold I’ll sojourn in the Antarctic cold,

  like Robert Falcoln Scott.

  Or perhaps on a deserted isle, I’ll linger for a little while,

  or again, perhaps I’ll not.

  Because strange footprints in the sand might mean there’s pirates near at hand,

  Or a threat of cannibals.

  And cannibals are known to eat their human victims like roast meat.

  I’d not like that at all.

  And pirates make you walk the plank, and linger to ensure you’ve sank,

  While they’re splicing the main braces.

  And as you slip beneath the wave, down down to your final coral grave,

  You’d see their ugly faces.

  Now Jason and the Argonauts, while sailing enjoyed quite manly sports.

  I’d do that too, if able.

  And then, of course, there’s good King Arthur. You know I think that I would

  rather

  Be a Knight of the Round Table.

  I’d be a parfait, gentil Knight, and greet fair ladies with delight

  If they were in distress.

  I’d perform rescues from the Styx, the monster dragon and basilisk,

  And they’d be so impressed.

  When I returned them back to Court, they’d tell the King how well I’d fought,

  And offer me their hands,

  But I’d refuse and ride away, to rescue maids another day,

  Who perhaps had greater lands.

  One day his parents said to him “Son! This year you will be twenty one,

  And we have done enough.

  The world’s your lobster, off you go. Here’s Shakespeare and the Bible, Oh,

  And the poems of McGough.

  Their son replied “But I’ve been prowling and now discovered J.K. Rowling

  Surely you’ll read me those.

  His mother answered, with a sigh, “You are a man now, so -

  Good Bye.”

  And the door was firmly closed.

  THE WIND BAND

  by

  Jennifer Budd

  In Arcadia the shepherds would play a syrinx

  To charm both the sheep and the maidens

  And they danced in the fields and got up to jinx

  To the sound of its regular cadence.

  The bagpipes resounded over heathery moors

  With pibrochs and reels for the dancing

  Or raising the clans in their eights or their fours

  To wear themselves out in the dancing.

  The fife and the flute and the flageolet

  Can be tootled by all who have breath

  And the horn of the huntsman spurs riders to get

  To the front to be in at the death.

  In outback Australia the didgeridoo

  Sounds more like a flatulent cow

  In the mountains of Europe a similar “ moo”

  Is made by the alpenhorn now.

  There is the trombone with its in and out slide

  The tuba, euphonium and cornet

  The helicon, serpent and sackbut, beside

  The big, the beautiful bombardon. Yet

  The sweetest of all is the Aeolian harp

  Which sings in the wind in the garden.

  SNOW

  by

  Louisa Boughton

  A fresh fall of snow looks beautiful specially at Christmas, everything is transformed.

  Snow is wonderful for a child seeing it for the first time. Then, wrapped up warmly, coat, hat, scarf, gloves and Wellingtons, being able to go out into the snow and build a snowman.

  An older child drags a sleigh up a snow covered hill and then goes down shouting with delight as the sleigh gathers speed, ending up in a snowy heap at the bottom is part of the fun. Exhilaration, rosy cheeks. The joy of being alive.

  It’s romantic coming out from seeing a film to find that the snow has turned the world into a fairytale place. Your boyfriend soon has snow flakes in his hair and on his eye lashes

  Things change when you are older. You worry about members of the family who have to go to work or school when snow or frost makes it difficult.

  Now I don’t feel as confident to go outside when pavements are icy and the roads are dangerous with snow.

  Just going to the shops could mean a broken bone, better to stay indoors.

  Now I think the best place for snow is on a Christmas card!

  A CLOSE SHAVE

  by

  Wilma Hayes

  It was the Klondike that had called him, to dig for gold and for fame.

  It called him to gouge through forest, the wind and the rain,

  All through its swamps, with heat and flies and sweat,

  To the claim that would bring him fortune

  The place that he’d won in a bet.

  He was alone when he got there, except for the mules and his fears.

  And in panning the creek, he relived the guilt of his years.

  Then with shovel and pick axe, he got his first sight

  Of the gold that would buy him a woman

  And a warm, soft bed for the night.

  The poke burned a hole in his pocket, and led him miles to the town.

  It caused quite a stir, then a cheer
when he put the dust down.

  Now he had friends by the dozen; pals came from afar

  The gold bought him whiskey, hooch and a song,

  A woman and space at the bar.

  At the end of it all, he’d not a lot left, his friends all left town,

  Gone upstream to claims next to his, on land owned by the Crown.

  But he’d kept his stake safe, ‘cause he’d found the gold spoke

  Best if you lied and said that you’d found it

  Miles east of the Indian folk.

  He lay back to enjoy it, the clean sheets and the bath and the dame,

  He knew the gold would buy him respect, free him from shame

  For crimes he’d committed; a run-away slave,

  A black man, a miner, covered in foam,

  Just a man who needed a shave.

  REDEMPTION

  by

  Bronwen Wild

  After he died I took it away before it was relegated, with the accumulated detritus of my father’s eighty years, to the rubbish dump. My brothers and I took what we wanted from the house in the way of furniture, books and pictures and no-one commented when I extracted the battered black case from the cupboard under the stairs and carried it out to the car together with a box of books, a painting of the house and a little round Victorian piano stool.

  It was sometime before I opened the case and took out the mandolin. The belly was fine; the eight strings intact, the mother of pearl and tortoise shell decoration in perfect condition and every one of the ivory pegs in place. It was the back that was so shocking. Where there should have been rows of immaculately cut strips of shiny wood melded invisibly together to form a swelling, there was a heart stopping gash, the slivers of wood smashed and splintered. It had been like this for as long as I could remember, since before Sol Cohen gave it to my father. But to see the wounded instrument afresh was unbearably painful.

  Sol and my father had been at school together in the 1920s. Sol was Jewish but his family had been in England since the 1890s and though his mother still maintained a kosher kitchen and all the family spoke both Polish and Yiddish they did not go to synagogue and were to all intents and purposes assimilated, even if life, in safe and tolerant Britain, had not always been without its hurts and difficulties. My father and Sol were both clever boys but there had never been any chance of my father going off to university when Sol did in 1925. They remained close however, as Sol climbed the academic ladder in the Dept. of Slavonic Studies at London University.