Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

  He fumbled for another cigarette but I reached over and took the packet from him.

  “Either I report my findings to Cameron – or we can come to some arrangement.” I said, placing the cigarettes on the table out of his reach.

  “What - what do you suggest?” he stammered

  “I suggest we share the proceeds,” I replied. “and that I amend the account accordingly - Just as you were proposing to do.”

  He didn’t speak. His tongue flicked in and out, and slipped across his cracked lips.

  “Have a grape,” I said, holding the bowl out to him “I think your mouth is a little dry.”

  So it was that our relationship changed. Smithers was never quite the same again. He asked my advice on everything and almost got to the point of pulling out my chair before I sat down and tidying my desk before we left work. His colleagues put it down to loss of confidence following his fall.

  Cameron was increasingly dissatisfied with his performance, as he seemed to make more and more mistakes, and in due course I was promoted. Smithers became my “Senior Assistant.”

  He took early retirement a few years later, and sometimes as I drive past the “Cosy Café” I see him sitting in the window, staring out at the traffic, a cigarette clamped between his lips.

  WAR IN ABERTALED

  by

  Haydn Lloyd

  “Minnow has seen a French Letter!”

  Robbo always seemed to know things earlier than anybody else, even if he hadn’t seen or heard of it first, and his instinct for maximum impact was truly Celtic and unerring, After all, we had met at least a quarter of an hour before, and he had kept this staggering information to himself for the whole of that time, until in fact, we had our legs over the wall ready to drop down to the mud and stones on Pwll Cam – the inner harbour.

  It was 1942 or maybe ’43 and the three of us were doing what any nine year old would have been doing in Abertaled. Every small port on the Welsh coast in those days had sodden, salty and sad reminders from all sorts of ships sunk by U-boats in Cardigan Bay and the Irish Sea.

  When the tide was out it was always worth looking to see what treasures were strewn around the newly emptied harbour – like an oozing, smelly bran tub.

  “Minnow has seen a French Letter” said Robbo suddenly again.

  Hooter and I were still stunned and Robbo glanced slyly from one face to the other with obvious satisfaction. Hooter had a face which lent itself magnificently to register surprises - a decade or two later he would have already been wearing a brace to pull his protruding upper teeth back to conformity. As it was the space behind them was filled with his lower lip when he swallowed, and gaped when he didn’t. The slight extra drop in his jaw at Robbo’s news produced a study in reverential awe.

  We looked at one another for a long time, impressed and excited. We knew that this had to be a secret, and that it could not be spoken of in grown up or older company, although none of us knew what a French Letter was, what it looked like or, of course, what it was for. We did, however savour the sharing of this knowledge, which we strangely but instinctively knew was forbidden. No one said anything more for a moment.

  The careful jump onto the stones standing out between the mud and gravel needed our usual skill, but there was no doubt that we had lost the natural weekend thrill of the treasure hunt …. after all Minnow had seen a French Letter.

  We saw a crate of oranges, which had broken against the pier with the incoming tide, and there were many loose fruit with a few still in the crate, Hooter broke one open and tasted it, spat and grimaced and threw it down. We trod on and burst a few others swollen from their immersion. The mingled smell of stale orange peel, seawater and harbour mud filled the damp air and chimneyed, drawing a spiral of aggressive seagulls.

  It was Robbo I think, who found the smaller wooden box like a tiny crate, and it needed my penknife to open it, as well as a long smooth stone from the river bed to push the lid off. Inside was treasure indeed. Row after row of metal objects about two and a half inches long open to our gaze; we took them out gingerly and manipulated the moving parts. We discussed, reluctantly rejected the thought that they might be secret weapons, but Robbo was silent until breathed out slowly “I think they might be French Letters, we’ll have to get Minnow”

  We stopped playing with them and with a reverence mingled with mounting excitement we put the top layer back in the box, replaced the lid and placed the container under a stone above the high tide line.

  “I’m sure you’re right Robbo” I said

  “I think I’ve seen one in the riverside shelter “said Hooter.

  “Well, there you are then!” said Robbo triumphantly

  That the riverside shelter was the place where servicemen home on leave took their girl friends, and where we were often hurried past by our parents, was the clincher, although we had no other real idea why.

  Hooter honked with delight. When ever he used to giggle with glee or anticipation, it always ended with a long inhalation of breath, which due to his adenoids and open mouth tendency caused a sort of inward snorting sound which had given him his nickname. He really honked now.

  We clambered with accustomed ease up the steep cement and stone buttress to the top of the inner harbour wall, knowing every stone which could be relied on, and started the long trudge from Pwll Cam to where Minnow lived with his widowed father right over on the other side of the harbour, in a cottage as much part of the shore as the seagulls and oyster-catchers.

  It was quite a distance over the bridge, past another long low wall with stinging nettles on one side where we normally did a double-dare balanced walk on the crest, but where today we were concerned with more weighty matters.

  Once on the south side of the bridge, it was down a little lane to the harbour wall and the still-quite-long walk to Minnow’s

  On the narrow path, we passed Sarah Williams, Rosa Thomas and Millie Price, who might have delayed us, as Sarah Williams put her tongue out at us, with her hands on her hips at that, and the other girls giggled. Normally we would have responded fairly robustly, but Robbo, with a great deal of dignity I thought, just pulled his eyelids down with two fingers of his left hand and his nose up between them with his right index finger, and we turned away like grown-ups, although Sarah Williams was still sticking her tongue out when we briefly looked … “Girls!” said Hooter.

  When we got to the house, stuck like a barnacle above the high-water line, Minnow himself answered the door, was told the news, nodded understandingly, and was, after consultation, allowed out by his father.

  “No longer than half an hour mind!” rang in our ears from inside the house, as we walked, an excited guilty foursome, back to where we had hidden the little cratelet.

  Minnow was nearly nine months older than the rest of us, and the fact that he had broken one of his central teeth, which fractured in a perfect diagonal from one tip to the gum, and had turned blue-black – and that he didn’t care – gave him a further seniority over us and made his consultant status as a French Letter identifier quite acceptable.

  “Open it up then!” he ordered and I set to with my penknife again, a big blunt one, the only type my father would allow.

  The little crate lid came off, the damp oiled paper peeled away, and the forbidden items exposed in tight rows like sardines. I removed one and handed it to him. He took it and examined it, weighing it carefully in his cupped hand.

  I still remember the rising pulse rate, Hooter’s wide eyes and open jaw, and Robbo’s squinting concentration as we faced Minnow expectantly. A long pause and …

  “Well?”

  “Yes well?”

  Minnow narrowed his eyes and looked at us hard, He handed the steel hair curler back……….

  “Yes, they are “ and then “But they’re women’s ones!”

  NEXT OF KIN

  by

  Jim Valdez

  When raindrops spurted, on the desert plain

  He glanced at
the clear blue sky,

  Then the staccato sound of angry greased guns arrived.

  It choked his throat; it tore his chest and

  Closed his eyes forever.

  When the path divided, he chose the left

  He stepped on a pressure plate,

  Just one sweet second of slow motion regret

  As the entire world flew away.

  And the featherweight load of a layer of dust had

  Closed his eyes forever.

  When the night was still, he grew concerned

  He went up to the roof.

  In the chill of Cyclops icy stare

  He saw Orion explode.

  A finger’s click, in a distant land, had

  Closed his eyes forever.

  Three mothers wept for three dead sons

  Their souls devoid of hate,

  Two will wear a blood red flower and one will ululate.

  But the grief and the pain, will always remain, till

  Their eyes are closed forever.

  TALE OF TWO LOVES

  by

  Jill Lawson

  My own true love was faithful to me for fifty years (and a half), but you must understand that there was an another love in his life, a love I needed to come to terms with, and even to love too.

  For the man in my life loved wood.

  When his goodnight embrace was not all that I might have wished, it usually meant that he was planning a new project, ways to enhance, to nurture, to beautify his “other love”.

  As I longed to make frequent trips to see grandchildren, so he would hanker after regular visits to his “offspring “; cupboards and tables, later fonts and altars, and all of them different and beloved. “They will be there when I am gone,” he would say, and of course he was right

  As we approached our Ruby Wedding, I stitched in secret a celebratory sampler, depicting our three homes. A procession of increasingly battered prams marked the birth of the children, and an appropriate border of acorns and oak leaves paid tribute to his “other love”. His present to me was A Lump of Wood (of course).

  Now that he is gone, I live in perfect harmony with his other love. Every room has a tribute to his craftsmanship; in the bedroom a capacious book case, with the central cupboard designed for outsize volumes. In the dining room, the walnut corner cupboards which were one of the most challenging of his projects, while the telephone table is a continued delight. And smaller items, butter dish, towel holder, picture frames, are in constant use and will be treasured by future owners.

  And what of that “lump of wood” his Ruby Wedding present to me? It is the words that are carved that transform it, for it quotes the writer of Proverbs whose legendary “perfect wife” is valued above rubies and with it the words “JEREMY FOUND HER”. My own true love was faithful to me for fifty years (and a half). I am glad he had his other love. Few men I know were as contented as he. The treasure remains, as do the memories, when the last pile of sawdust is swept away.

  YOU REMEMBER JENNY!

  by

  Paul Young

  It was a winter’s day, bleak in the streets, the rain was bitter, but it was warm in Saxty’s. In the wine bar the newcomers steamed, leaving puddles on the floor. Two women, one young carrying a sleeping child, came in. Disposing of their parcels, dropping coats across chairs. Pushing up their sleeves, ordering Frascati, lasagne, black olives, cappuccino later. My wife nudged my arm, pointing with her chin. “ Look, “ she said “that’s Jenny, Jenny Chelmarsh as was, when we were girls. You do. Of course you do. You remember Jenny”

  Why yes, she had red hair, and danced all night

  And when she smiled at me, and took my hands.

  My heart was melted with delight.

  And everything that women were, she was to me

  When I was young

  “Oh yes “ I said “ she had red hair, she had big feet, went with a boy out Dinmore way” “ You see, “ she said, “ you do remember Jenny, after all”

  Who could forget,

  The stolen kisses on that April day,

  The sweet unbuttoning

  In Parker’s barn, where lovers hide

  And everything that women were she was to me

  When I was young

  “ Didn’t you see something of her? Before we met, met properly that is, weren’t you both in that Choir or something? I thought you went about a bit with her, before we met. You must have seen something of Jenny then”

  She sang contralto

  And her speaking voice was deep

  Husky in the love whispering evenings

  As hand in hand down Hayward Lane

  In the long dusks of June, we strayed and stayed

  And everything that women were

  She was to me, when I was young

  “Her voice was good, should have been trained, but she went off with that chap from Dinmore. Married young, had to I think. She certainly had lots of kids. That must be her daughter, the eldest girl.”

  She knew secrets that boys did not,

  Guiding my hands to pleasures still recalled

  She entrapped my love in lace, bound up my heart with bows

  And satin straps of sweet forbidden garments

  All wantonly disclosed

  And everything that women were

  She was to me

  When I was young

  “ She looks well now, those are smart clothes, mind you I thought she was a bit tarty in those days. Did you never, I mean before we met?

  Oh yes, far more than once,

  I lay with her, in private nooks about the fields

  Sometime in barns, or folds

  Cuddled in haylofts, once in her bed at home

  Her breasts perfumed the sheets

  So I lay wrapped about in bliss

  And everything that women were

  She was to me, when I was young

  My wife shuffled up her bag, “Look, get the bill. I’ll go over and speak to her; it must be twenty years, and more. Come over when you’ve paid” So I did, and found my way back to her side at last. There in that crowed place we met, her voice still low. “Hello Alan, weren’t you in the choir? Nice voice, should have been trained. This is my daughter Alice, and my grandson, Oliver. So nice to see you, after all these years.”

  I held the child, I said

  “Hello Baby

  Hello Oliver

  Have a good life now Oliver

  And God bless“

  In the street my wife said “That girl was pretty, such a nice girl, and that charming little boy. But she reminds me of someone “

  BLUES

  by

  Peter Holliday

  An old guitar

  He picked up from a junkyard -

  Only three strings

  To which he added three,

  And a new bridge he made from matchwood

  And let his fingers

  Glide across the strings

  Like a shoal of fish through waves,

  Or ride like a rickety cart on the track,

  And heard the air hum

  And he echoed that hum

  With a hesitant call from his heart

  As shy as a dull colour -

  Brown, say, or faded blue, or grey -

  The shade of his own worn overalls.

  “Who you talking to?” said his woman.

  “Have you got someone in there?”

  He had never had anything to say

  To anyone

  About anything

  But now he held the guitar

  Like a baby, and told it stories,

  Stories about himself,

  That other self he thought was dead and buried,

  That had been asleep so long.

  And evening strollers passing the open window

  Hearing that music, that voice,

  Even if they could not hear the words,

  Knew it was their story too -

  Knew he was singing them thei
r lives.

  THE SEAT OF IDRIS

  by

  Ron Roberts

  My father favoured sheep - what else was there in the Welsh mountains? Mountain Sheep - as hardy as they come. Up there on the slopes lay our home - a rough track up from the road, mother in the kitchen looking after hens and ducks, and, of course, me, when I wasn’t up the hill with Dad, weather and Mum permitting. As I grew older there I got to enjoy rounding–up time with all the local farmers helping each other – on our farm one day then along the hill the next. And then came school - full of farmers’ sons and daughters speaking Anglo–Welsh!

  Over it all loomed the great spectre that was to dominate my outlook – the bulk of the Seat of Idris. Or to be properly Welsh – Cader Idris. Not only did it dominate the valley but my senses also. Steep but relatively easy to climb.

  One day I grew up - just like that. At fourteen I left school and moved away from the farm. My Mum had two other brothers to look after, so I had to go and earn my living. So it was “Go Eastwards young man”. I had no qualifications to speak of - only a Headmaster’s reference saying what a reliable chap I was. Little did he know!

  Eastward lay England - a land to be wary of, so I was told. Nobody spoke Welsh there! I moved from odd jobs along the valley, sometimes on farms, sometimes in local gardens. At the far end of the valley lay the final frontier outposts - the Breidden hills with their war memorial on top together with other bulky hills. There was still a view back along the long valley toward Cader Idris if you knew where to look.

  So what happened to me? Is it relevant? I settled just inside the Welsh border, worked as Assistant Gardener at Powys Castle and eventually became Head Gardener. I settled for awhile, married a local Welshpool girl, sired a family and ended up later as an Engineer – Mechanical and Electrical maybe but still civil!! It was a hard grind up the ladder of qualification - including sending my wife out to work - but my origins were still there within my senses, let alone my blood! From time to time I retraced my steps along with my family to the old haunts which I grew up in. The farm was in other hands but Cader Idris was still there.