Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

  Not everyone looks good in black

  But it has its uses and the young

  Hardly wear anything else, these days.

  But this – this is the wrong sort of black

  This is smart black, they shouldn’t be wearing

  Smart black. There’s far too much of it

  And there are far too many of them.

  How many of these boys bought these suits for today?

  Off the peg, snatched unwillingly, unwanted but

  Somehow essential, must show respect.

  It’s the trainers, cheap, worn, incongruous

  That catch me into their grief –

  Black shoes a step too far

  Adidas, Nike, don’t match the suits

  Their suits match their faces.

  They come in knots of three or four

  Look around, unfamiliar, confused

  And quiet. Not a phone, not an Ipod

  The girls mostly sit apart

  Their own sex their strength, today,

  These boys and girls.

  ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life’

  Nervous, they see they should stand

  Uncomprehending of the priest

  Uncomprehending of the Word

  That was there at the beginning

  And most of all, not understanding

  Why this great friend, good mate, lies

  Dead, here, now, with them.

  Off they go, back into the sunlight.

  Has this shattered and broken them too, a little?

  Will they remember him as they fasten their seatbelts

  See the road ahead, and go more gently?

  Please God, let this be a good funeral.

  THE FETE

  by

  Jill Lawson

  Come to the fete, we mustn’t be late

  We can pay at the gate, when we go to the fete.

  Come to the Fair, everyone will be there,

  There’ll be good things to share when we get to the fair.

  There’ll be pickles and chutney, some jam and some honey;

  Face-painting children to make them look funny.

  Oh, how I hope that the weather stays sunny.

  You’ll need a basket for all that you buy.

  Or you might win a coconut right from the shy.

  (I’ve never succeeded, I’m not certain why.)

  A milkmaid, a farmer, old lady in lace,

  And a man with some beer and a smile on his face

  See, there are scarecrows all over the place!

  Well, we got to the Fete, and we weren’t very late

  We didn’t win prizes but that can’t surprise us;

  We walked hand in hand and we danced to the band;

  Then we had a nice tea, my Ronald and me.

  Yes, we talked tête-à-tête, as we walked round the fete

  And he asked me to wed, (I think that’s what he said.)

  But the band played so loud and there was such a crowd.

  I couldn’t be sure, so we walked round some more.

  Right away from the band, and you know, it was grand

  He said, “Now close your eyes, I’ve got a surprise!”

  He fished for a ring, a bright sparkly thing.

  So I did get my prize, a young man with brown eyes!

  And we’ve now fixed a date …all because of the fete!

  THE RETREAT

  by

  Wilma Hayes

  I went to war on the hip of a boy

  twelve years old, when he and Napoleon fell

  Just a boy

  Just a boy

  I marched with the fife and the Red Coats

  to Quebec’s heights, the White House, Rourke’s Drift

  The Empire

  The Empire

  I rode besides the bugles and took the dead

  to their beds at Balaclava and Crimea

  For the Queen

  For the Queen

  I went with the pipes through cities and towns

  calling thousands to the mud of the Somme

  And they came

  And they came

  I made the altars for prayers of thanksgiving and peace

  while the killing went on in Serbia, Burma and Crete

  I am the drum that bangs the patriot heart

  I am the drum that beats the retreat

  Again, and

  Again and

  Again and

  Again.

  A BAKER'S DOZEN

  by

  Bronwen Wild

  Standing by the dusty window at the back of the bakery, Edwin’s worried gaze travels across the low roofs of the cottages by the quay to the river. The water is lapping against the grey stone wall; as high as it will rise at half past five on this summer morning. Another few hours and it will have sunk to a narrow stream at the bottom of steep mud banks. If he is lucky and there is a lull at the front of the shop, he will be able to watch the oystercatchers and dunlins as they gather at low tide. Watch them, for half an hour maybe, through the powerful binoculars that were his mother’s last gift to him.

  Now though, the yeast has worked itself into a dome of golden sponge and he tips it into the vast mound of velvety flour lying in the trough. This will be the first batch, left to prove while he has breakfast and does a cursory tidying of the bedroom and kitchen. Later he will make another lot. He flicks flour over the pool of yeast, gradually adding enough lukewarm water to form a massive ball of dough with his hands.

  Edwin is not married, has never had a girlfriend even though he is nearly twenty seven. When his father died , Harry, his brother, left a few weeks later for Istanbul where he had found a job as a security guard with a British firm there. Edwin had been overwhelmed by his mother’s grief and his own sense of loss. So much so that he had promised his mother he would stay at home, look after her, take on the bakery.

  Ten years have passed and he is quite alone after his mother’s recent death. Alone but rarely lonely, he has nevertheless become almost silent. He is a shy man with his mother’s pale skin and black hair.

  He gets up at half past four in the morning to start the bread and so goes to bed early in the evening. When he does have some free time, in the afternoon usually, he takes the binoculars and wanders on the shore or along the cliffs watching the birds. Often he sits on a rock, staring out to sea or across the bay to the distant mountains.

  When the risen dough has been knocked back and kneaded sufficiently Edwin judges precisely how much he will need for each loaf and rapidly fills the tins. He has not used the old set of scales on the dresser for many years. Neither has it ever occurred to him that it might be possible or desirable to vary his repertoire.

  Every morning at eight o’clock he places fifty large and twenty small loaves and thirteen round, crusty rolls onto the shelves of the shop window. Even at the height of the holiday season, when the visitors ask for rolls for their picnics, they are met with a polite, ”I’m sorry, I’ve sold out,” as though hordes of people, only minutes before have, like locusts, sucked the shop dry of an unquantifiable number. His mother used sometimes to make a batch of Cornish pasties or half a dozen lardy cakes but Edwin has lost the recipes so the appearance of these delicacies ended when she died.

  Edwin’s thick black brows are drawn together and his face has a solemn brooding aspect. His heart is full of dismay and dread is making him slow and clumsy. He has a smudge of flour on his cheek and unusually, has spilt a considerable amount on the floor. At ten this glorious June morning Regine Clissot will arrive. She is coming to help Edwin. She will assist with the preparation of the bread as well as serving in the shop. Edwin is certain this will prove to be a terrible mistake!

  People in the little town are fond of him and have watched anxiously as he has struggled to provide them with their daily bread. One woman in particular, a friend of his mother, has had an idea. Her husband’s sister married a French man and they have a daughter who has said she wo
uld quite like to spend some time in a foreign country. She is willing to come and lend a hand in the bakery. She will stay with her aunt and start work in the shop at seven every morning except Saturdays.

  The only bright spot, as far as Edwin can see (for the arrangements seem to have been made without his conscious consent) is that he might be able to increase the number of ‘morning goods’ he makes, for he is dimly aware that a fuller window would mean more customers and a bigger profit.

  Six Weeks Later - the shop is full of holiday makers, the queue stretches out of the door and along the pavement almost as far as the bridge. Regine, her freckled face glowing, her mass of wild red hair tied back under a white cap, is filling paper bags with croissants and pain au chocolats. Bigger bags hold customers' demands for brioches, baguettes and plaited poppy-seed bloomers. The freshly cleaned glass shelves and front window sparkle, the bakery and kitchen alike are immaculate and a very new electric mixer stands unabashed next to the flour troughs. This small, bright spark called Regine has set Edwin’s life on fire. She has added butter, eggs, chocolate, vanilla and extra sugar to the weekly order of flour and yeast. Bowls, spoons, jugs and basins, long left idle, have been brought out; the bakery these days is redolent with the sweet smells of France. Her pastry is meltingly light; the little tart tins which she fills with strawberries or cherries and covers with an irresistibly glossy glaze are snapped up by the astonished populace.

  She has transformed the shop into a Boulangerie-Patisserie and

  Edwin does not mind!

  Edwin does not mind because he has fallen in love with this Gallic firework. He watches her, as with strong plump arms like ‘petit jambons’, she takes her delectable creations out of the oven, carries them proudly out on trays which for so long have been the recipient of plain white bread, to the joyous throng whose eager money is this very moment filling the cash register. People are coming from other resorts and villages along the coast to buy her produce. The reputation of the shop grows apace!

  He is so proud of her. She never stops talking, she is funny and sweet-natured. He does not know what he has done to deserve this marvel but he cannot speak to her of his feelings. He fears she will reject him. He will wait, keep silent and see how things turn out.

  And then the bombshell lands and explodes in Edwin’s hand. It is a letter from Harry. He is leaving Istanbul, he says; coming home to join Edwin in the bakery. Edwin reads the letter with growing horror. “The food here is great. It’s given me lots of ideas. We can give the old place a real make-over. There’s Baklava and a fantastic cake called Kibrizli. We’ll need almonds , honey, semolina, so start ordering now! They make these little pizza things with minced lamb and cumin and cinnamon. They’d go down well with the lads.”

  Edwin groans and leans against the counter, his hand with the letter hanging limply by his side. Regine looks at him with concern and since Edwin cannot speak, only lift his hand up slightly and flap the letter about, she seizes it and begins to read.

  Her face flushes rosy red, her green eyes flash, “Ah! Mon Dieu! Zis Arri. ‘ave no fear. Leave ‘im wiz me.”

  And Edwin, utterly in thrall to her, has no choice but to do exactly that.

  A PSALM FOR THE SENSES

  by

  Jill Lawson

  LORD, I have passed my three score years and ten,

  And I want to thank You that I still have the gift of sight;

  That young robin who watched us eat outside

  Was quite grey a week ago,

  But now shows traces of chestnut.

  I PRAISE YOU THAT I CAN SEE.

  LORD, I thank you for the gift of taste,

  The horse in the field must be content with grass and hay,

  But You of Your bounty give us such variety of tastes;

  Peppermint, crispy bacon, …cambozola.. toasted almonds.

  I PRAISE YOU THAT I CAN TASTE.

  LORD, I thank You for the gift of touch,

  For sand running through my fingers,

  Carpets under bare feet, a baby’s fist in mine;

  An arm round my shoulder, a hand to help me over a stile

  I PRAISE YOU THAT I CAN TOUCH AND BE TOUCHED.

  And LORD, though it is not what it was,

  I thank You for the gift of hearing;

  Bird song, the wind in the trees,

  A grandchild calling to say,

  “Granny, I got distinction in my clarinet exam!”

  Bruch’s violin concerto, Jacqueline du Pré playing Elgar

  I THANK YOU THAT I CAN STILL HEAR.

  And my prayer, Gracious Lord is

  That I may see more and more with Your eyes,

  That my home may smell good to all who enter,

  That I may hunger more and more for Your Living Bread;

  That I may be generous in my touch to those who need to

  Feel Your love through my hands, and that as my hearing

  Grows dim, may my ability to hear Your voice grow more and more

  UNTIL I SEE YOU IN GLORY.

  SMITHERS

  by

  Peter Holliday

  Some things you can choose in this life; some things you can’t. Like your first employer, for example, or should I say - your first supervisor. I can’t blame Mr Cameron for the behaviour of some of his staff - and one employee in particular.

  “Smithers - I’d like you to look after young Evans,” Mr Cameron said on my first day at the office. ”Show him the ropes - the way we do things here. You know what we need. This chap’s straight from university, so he’ll be smart!”

  Smithers extended his hand then dropped it quickly - as I held out mine - to pick up a paper clip. Mr Cameron turned and left the office.

  “Where’re you from?” Smithers drawled, looking me steadily in the eye. His own eyes were a peculiar silver-grey, heavy-lidded and with white eyelashes, though he was by no means old, for his hair was jet-black, smoothed, creamed and parted.

  “Welshpool,” I said. I was aware that the whole office was listening.

  “Welsh-pool,” Smithers repeated, with a sneer and a faux – Welsh accent, “In Wales is it?”

  Several sniggers.

  “Yes .Of course it is,” I said, “Mid-Wales.”

  “Mid-Wales, eh?” said Smithers, “Neither north - nor south - but somewhere in the mid-dle.”

  He split the last word and dropped the final syllable like a stone in a well. I didn’t reply.

  “We had a Welshman here once before. Thomas Thomas. Funny little bugger he was. I suppose you’re Evan Evans are you?”

  “No,” I said. “William. Bill if you like.”

  “No – not Bill” he said slowly. “Little Willy, I think.” His mouth, and I was looking at his mouth rather than his silver-cold eyes, was one of those that seem to have no lips.

  “This – gentlemen - is little Willy Evans.”

  General laughter, although some had bent once more to their work.

  “Straight from uni-versity,”he continued. “Must know a thing or two about accountancy, I suppose.”

  “I’m here to learn.” I said.

  “Really?” he said, twisting the paper clip in his fingers. I was slightly taller than he was, and I had the feeling that he would rather like to punch me in the stomach, so that doubling up, I would be somewhat below him.

  “You know how to add up, do you?” he asked.

  I nodded. I knew it was a trick question, but I knew I couldn’t escape it.

  “Depends what it is,” I said.

  “Two plus two” he said

  “Four” I murmured, blushing.

  “Speak up! He said, “Four plus four?”

  “Eight,” I said “Look,”

  “What’s the matter? Too simple for you is it? A graduate wants to start at the top, I suppose. Well, unfortunately little Willy, you’ll have start at the bottom – like the rest of us,”

  “That’s what I expected,” I said

  “Just so
long as you know,” he said “Here’s your desk, next to mine.”

  The next three months were excruciating. Smithers took every opportunity to criticise and humiliate me, but I was determined to stick it out and, truth to tell, the work was not too demanding. I was mastering accountancy, and he knew it.

  Mr Cameron knew it too, for we had a brief interview every week and I could see he was impressed.

  And then came Smithers accident. He had been painting the side of his house when he slipped off the ladder and broke his ankle.

  Cameron called me into his office.

  “Smithers is likely to be away from work for at least a month,” he said “He’s in the middle of sorting a rather difficult account which we need to complete as soon as possible. I’m aware that you’ve been making good progress, and are on top of procedures. I want you to take it over and see if you can sort it out. I’m confident you can do it.”

  I worked day and night on the project and at last discovered the problem. I went to see Cameron.

  “Could I have Smithers home number?” I asked him. “I just need to make sure I’m on the right track.”

  “D’you think you’ve cleared this one up?” He was surprised and pleased. “Smithers has been at it for months! Here we are.”

  I rang Smithers as soon as I got back to the office.

  “Smithers? It’s Evans here.” I said

  “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “I want to come round and see you,” I said “I’ve taken over the Howell’s account you were working on. I want to ask you a few questions.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “What about?” he said, clearing his throat.

  “I’ll be round at six-thirty,” I said, and I replaced the phone

  The door was opened by a pale, tired young woman and she showed me upstairs. Smithers was lying on his bed, leg encased in plaster. The room was thick with tobacco smoke and the ashtray full of butt-ends. He looked ill.

  “Sit down,” he said wearily.

  I sat down on the hard cane chair next to the bed.

  “Well?” he said

  “I think I’ve resolved the problem,” I said, plucking a grape from the bowl on his bedside table. “It’s an accounting error. A small matter of £25,000 that appears to have gone missing – and I think I know where it has gone,”