Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

  It had been a long day. She smiled to herself. Quite a journey, really, just as the man said.

  HOME SWEET HOME

  by John Wood

  Home - where my specs lie lost or hidden,

  A place where bills arrive, unbidden.

  The children’s room’s a filthy midden -

  I shut the door to keep it hidden.

  Home Sweet Home! You must be kiddin’!

  FIRST FOOTING

  by

  Peter Holliday

  My parents were quiet people. Unobtrusive. Not showy, not demonstrative. They preferred to be on their own for celebrations. Just the two of them - and me, of course. They did not like parties, or what my father would have called “false bonhomie”. So it was something of a surprise when my mother announced that someone would be joining us on New Year’s Eve.

  “I’ve invited someone round to see the New Year in,” she said, not looking up from her embroidery.

  Father peered over the top of his newspaper and raised an eyebrow.

  “Someone round?” He said, “What for?”

  “To ‘first foot’ us,” said mother, digging her needle into the canvas.

  “To ‘first foot’ us!” said father indignantly “We’ve always done perfectly well with the three of us, haven’t we? A glass of sherry - a piece of cake and a cracker - that’s enough for me. Who is he anyway?”

  “Jock,” said mother. “From down the road. He’s on his own.”

  “So are a million other people,” said father. “Who’s Jock when he’s at home?”

  “I don’t know his other name,” said mother, blushing a little and holding the pattern up to the light.

  “Don’t know his name? said father, “Well, who is he?”

  “He lives three doors down,” said mother. ”He only moved in six months ago. He said he was on his own and asked if he could ’first foot’ us. He’s Scottish. He’s missing his family.”

  “I thought it must be a Scot with a name like Jock.” said father sarcastically.

  “It’s a Scottish tradition,” mother continued. “Hogmanay means more to them than Christmas.”

  “I know all about that!” snapped father. “And I know about first-footing. We don’t do it south of the border.”

  “Well - he asked and I said yes,” said mother, but I could see her hands trembling. She couldn’t hold the needle steady.

  Father looked across at me “Sidney - Have you finished that jigsaw yet? It’s bed-time.”

  “Not quite.” I said, pretending to concentrate on a particular piece of sky.

  “When’s he coming?” he asked mother. “What time?”

  “Just after midnight,” mother replied.

  “I hope he’s prompt,” father said. “We don’t want to be up half the night. Sidney – leave it for now.” He folded his newspaper roughly, banging the sheets into place with the edge of his hand.

  “Just one more piece,” I said.

  He glared at me, then went into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

  I put down the piece of sky, which I had been holding for the last ten minutes, said goodnight to mother and crept upstairs to bed.

  New Year’s Eve was tenser than usual. We played three games of “Scrabble” and we each won one game, bringing little murmurs of pleasure. I could see they were trying hard to enjoy the occasion but father kept staring at the clock. Then we played whist, rummy and, at mother’s insistence, “Happy Families”.

  “That’s our tradition,” she said smiling.

  “Fair enough,” said father. “But we‘d better be quick - it’s twenty to midnight.”

  The crackers were laid out, the cake cut; the sherry glasses half-filled. Mine was a third full.

  “Will Jock want one?” said father.

  “Better put another glass out,” said mother “But don’t fill it.”

  “I shan’t” said father. “I know what these Scots are like.”

  As the clock struck twelve we raised our glasses, standing in a little triangle under the lamp. The fire shifted its last lumps of coal.

  “Absent friends!” said father, and we clinked our glasses.

  “And Aunt Mary,” added mother. “And your brother Horace-and his family.”

  “Yes – them too,” said father. ”Now, let’s have a cracker!”

  But we had no sooner taken the ends of the cracker into our linked hands than there was a rattle on the door-knocker and the doorbell rang at the same time.

  “I’ll go” said father, putting down his cracker. The knocker and the bell sounded again.

  “We’ll all come.” said mother. So we all crowded into the narrow hallway.

  The bell rang again before father could reach the door.

  “Keep your hair on!” He muttered, then slipped the safety–chain from its catch and opened the door.

  “Happy Hogmanay!” roared the man on the doorstep. ”Will you no' let me in?”

  To my surprise he was wearing a kilt with a huge sporran, a black tight-fitting jacket, and a plaid cap with a jaunty feather in it. His long tartan stockings came almost to his knee, and I saw the glinting handle of a knife sticking out of the top of one of them.

  “Come in.” said father, extending his hand, into which Jock pushed a huge half-empty bottle of whisky.

  “What’s this?” said father.

  “Happy Hogmanay!” said Jock. “It’s bloody cold out here!”

  Father glanced at mother, who grinned sheepishly. It was the first swear-word I’d ever heard in our house.

  “Come in,” father said again, and Jock barged his way between us, pulling off his cap as he did so, and handing it to me.

  “Put this somewhere warm,” he said. I noticed his hair was gingerish-red flecked with white – or was it white flecked with red?

  “And I don’t mean down your trousers!” he added, poking me with a thick nicotine-stained finger.

  Then he peered at me more closely. “Didn’t I see you outside my front door the other day - having a quick fag?”

  I blushed scarlet. “No. Not me!” I stammered. “I don’t smoke.”

  Father looked at me fiercely.

  “Let me see your hands.” Jock demanded.

  I held them palm up to him and he turned them over and perused them carefully.

  “Tut-tut!” he said. Mother watched anxiously. Then he dropped them abruptly.

  “Only joking!” he laughed. “Now – where’s the liquor?”

  He bustled into the front room.

  “I’ve put you out a glass,” said father.

  “That’s not a glass - that’s a thimble!” said Jock. He picked up the bottle of sherry and clucked his tongue.

  “Sherry?” he declared. ”What sort of a drink is that?”

  “We’re not big drinkers in this house,” said father.

  “I can see that! said Jock, “Nor am I. Nor am I.” he added. “But I make an exception at Hogmanay. Have you any other glasses?”

  “We have a few tumblers,” mother said.

  Father shook his head warningly.

  “Sonny - get us four tumblers,” Jock said to me.

  Father and mother stood rooted to the spot. I was torn between good manners and obedience. They all stared at me – and I made for the kitchen.

  “Now, where’s that whisky?” Jock said, rubbing his hands together.

  Father had put it on a table by the fire. He reached over and gave it to Jock without a word.

  “Good man!” said Jock.

  I returned with the tumblers. Jock twisted the cap from the whisky bottle and poured a good half of the golden liquid into one of the tumblers.

  “Not for me!” father said, placing his hand over one tumbler. “Nor for Mavis. We don’t drink whisky.”

  “Mavis - what do you say?” Jock looked at mother, the neck of the bottle poised above another big glass. “Just a little one for the New Year?”

  Mother didn’t know what to say or do.


  Jock took the decision for her.

  ”There,” he said, pouring a little in the bottom of the tumbler. ”See if you like it.”

  “She won’t” said father firmly.

  “She might!” said Jock grinning. ”Just this once. Otherwise I may as well go home.”

  Mother picked up the drink with a shaky hand. She dared not look at father.

  “And Sonny Jim?” Jock asked

  “Sidney’s too young,” said father. “None for him.”

  “How old are you, Sidney?” Jock asked me.

  “Thirteen.” I said

  “Thirteen! – and not drinking whisky? No wonder you’re so skinny!” Jock exclaimed in mock amazement.

  “I had my first wee dram when I was five!”

  “Things are different in Scotland,” said father.

  “Not that different,” said Jock calmly, and poured a small amount into the third tumbler.

  “Have you sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ yet?” he continued. “I’ve bought a tape of Scottish tunes with me. Have you got a player?”

  “I have.” I blurted out.

  “Good man,” said Jock. “Go and get it, Sidney. Let’s have a bit of music!

  “He raised his glass. “ To you Mavis,” he declared “And you ?“

  “Wilfred,” murmured my father, his hand still clamped over his empty glass.

  “Wilfred,” said Jock, and he swigged a mouthful of whisky and smacked his lips.

  Mother touched her lips to the liquor, despite father’s disapproval.

  I hurried in with the tape recorder, inserted the tape and turned it on. The strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ rang out. Jock leant over and turned up the volume.

  “Not too loud!” said father tersely. “The neighbours.”

  “Oh – hang the neighbours!” shouted Jock” - and never brought to mind!” he sang in a strained voice.

  He grabbed my mother’s hand. She put down her drink and took hold of my hand. I took father’s and we all linked hands.

  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot -” wailed Jock, pumping his arms up and down and somehow we struggled haltingly through the several verses, father looking more uncomfortable by the minute.

  When the song ended Jock drank the rest of his whisky and mother took a sip of hers. I did not dare to touch the drink that had been poured for me.

  “Hey - d’you know this joke?” Jock turned swiftly to father, while a raucous reel blared out.

  “What joke?” said father blankly.

  “An Englishman, a Scotsman, a Welshman and an Irishman met in a pub,” said Jock. “The Scot was called Jock. The Welshman Taffy, the Irishman Paddy -” he paused “Well?” he said.

  “Well - What was the Englishman’s name?” said father wearily.

  “Sir Kiss-my-Arse!” roared Jock, and with that he twirled round, bent over and flicked up his kilt. He was wearing nothing underneath

  “Oh dear!” gasped mother. She plonked her whisky onto the table and flopped down into a chair.

  “That’s enough of that!” said father angrily.

  “Only a joke, Wilfred!” laughed Jock. “It’s a good one, don’t you think?”

  “No I don’t” said father. “It’s half-past twelve.”

  “That’s the point of the joke,” said Jock, thrusting his face close to my father’s.

  “The Englishman doesn’t have a nickname. He gives nicknames to others – see? He’s fine when he’s in control, isn’t he? Eh?”

  “Look Jock,” father began.

  “Don’t Jock me, “hissed the Scotsman through gritted teeth “You never bothered to ask my proper name, did you? Oh - 'Jock’s good enough for him. Well, Wilf, my name is Alexander. Have you got that?”

  He poked my father in the chest with a broad finger. Alex-an-der Ian-“

  “Alright Alexander,” said father.

  “I haven’t finished-“he said “Charles – Stuart -“

  “Look” said father “Sidney – turn that music down! “

  “Look? Look? Look? – What are you? A bloody optician?” snarled Jock.

  “Turn up the music, Sonny Jim.” He ordered.

  I hesitated with my hand above the volume control, but I didn’t turn it up or down.

  Suddenly Jock whirled round, seized mother by the hand and pulled her to her feet. She was still in a state of shock. I could see the pain and bewilderment in her tired eyes.

  “Let’s dance, Mavis,” he said, and dragged her into the middle of the room.

  “This isn’t a dance-hall!” father shouted. “Mind the table!”

  “Make room, Wilf! “ called Jock, twisting and kicking a leg into the air “Come on Mavis - let yourself go!“

  But my poor mother simply hung on helplessly as he cavorted around, barging into the table and chairs. The bottle and glasses trembled and shook. He bent down quickly and with one deft move, scooped up a log and tossed it onto the almost dormant fire. It sparked into life.

  “Hey!” father shouted.

  Then expertly and adroitly Jock moved mother under the mistletoe and planted a big slobbering kiss full on her lips. Under the mistletoe! That had only ever hung as a token in our front room! Like the holly. Like the paper chains. I had never seen anyone kissed under our mistletoe!

  “Stop that! “ Father dashed forward and put his hand on Jock’s shoulder. Two huge tears of humiliation rolled down mother’s cheeks.

  “What’s the matter? Are you jealous Wilf? “ growled Jock, “Well - here’s one for you too!”

  With that he let go of mother and gripping father by the collar, planted a kiss full on his lips.

  Father staggered back towards the fireplace, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he spat into the fire.

  “That’s enough!” he gasped and reaching down, he grabbed the poker from its stand.

  Jock laughed. “Come on then, Sir Kiss-my-Arse,” he said and slowly slipped the knife from his stocking.

  Mother shrieked and began to shake with deep gulping sobs.

  “Don’t worry, Mavis, he won’t hurt me,” said Jock, without taking his eyes off my father.

  “D’you know what this is, Wilfred?” He waved the knife in front of father’s face.

  “It’s a ‘Highland Dirk’, especially sharpened for slitting the throats of the English!”

  I held my breath. Was there to be a murder in our house? On New Year’s Eve?

  “Don’t be stupid “ said father hoarsely. His knuckles were white on the handle of the poker. ”It’s time you went home.”

  “Time to go home, is it?” Jock bawled, jerking the dirk toward my father, “What do you know about home? Where’s my home? Eh? D’you think I want to be here? In this grubby little hole? This God-forsaken corner of Hell? I’ll tell you where I should be..!”

  But he never did tell us. Quite without warning he pitched forward onto his bare knees, the knife fell from his hand and he rolled over onto the hearth rug.

  We all stared at him. Mother had stopped crying. “What‘s happened? She croaked.

  “He’s passed out!” said father, replacing the poker. “Dead drunk!”

  “Pull his kilt over his knees, Sidney,” whispered mother, dabbing her eyes. Jock’s kilt had risen halfway up his thighs.

  “What do we do now?” I said.

  “We take him back were he came from,” said father. He picked up the dirk. ”It’s just ceremonial,” he said, handing it to me. “It’s not sharp. See?” He ran his finger along the blade.

  “Put it on the mantle piece. We‘ll keep it as a memento”

  “No. We can’t! “ mother protested. “It’s not our property.”

  “He can come and collect it, if he wants it,” father replied. “Sidney, you can take his legs –and we’ll carry him back. I’ll get our coats.”

  I knelt on the floor with Jock’s shiny black shoes resting on my knees, and noted how thin his legs were. Only the thick tartan stockings made them look so
lid and firm. Even the hairs on his legs seemed freckled ginger and white.

  “What about his drink?” mother muttered to herself, as she vacantly moved the glasses on the table. I wondered if she was going to drink her whisky after all!

  Father returned and we slipped on our jackets. He put his arms under Jock’s armpits and hauled his shoulders off the floor.

  “What number was it Mavis?” he said. I took hold of each bony ankle.

  He’s not heavy, is he?” said mother. ”Number 23. Three doors down.“

  “He’s surprisingly light,” father replied. “Not much of him really. All talk.”

  Mother held the door open and we shuffled out into the street.

  “Not too cold, is it?” she asked anxiously.

  “No. Not at all,” father said.

  A tall man tottered unsteadily by.

  “Another drunken reveller?” he called out.

  “That’s right,” said father.

  We placed Jock on the step of Number 23 and tried the door. It was unlocked and we pulled him inside.

  “Put him in the recovery position,” said father. We propped him against the wall and made sure his clothing was loose. He snorted, coughed and sighed deeply and continued to sleep on.

  Then father hitched up Jock’s kilt and tucked the hem of it into the belt that held his sporran, took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and positioned it right across the Scotsman’s private parts . On it he had scrawled the words “Take me back to Glasgow”

  He stood up and looked down at the slumped and sleeping figure with jaws wide open and thin white legs stretched out on the cold floor

  “Silly old sod!” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Come on. It’s half-past one, well past your bed time.”

  TREE PEARLS

  by

  Jean Heaven

  Jacob looked across the misty fields. Where the grey sky met the horizon, there was a lighter line. Perhaps he could see the sea? Cloud in the west frayed and separated. Amber sunlight made wet grass shine. He was high, in the tallest tree in the orchard. Black twigs caught at his clothes and hair. He didn’t care. He was determined to have the last crimson apple. It was far out on the branch. He breathed deeply. He loved the smell of everything, apple sap, earth and the sweet wood smoke of the fire. It was good to be away from the forge. His left hand clamped tight around the trunk, his foot wedged in the V between trunk and branch. He lent out, sickle in hand. He stretched. He must reach. Just another inch.

  “Jacob! Ain’t you gonna cut no mistletoe? Slacker!”