*Sold at Christie’s in New York, April 2005
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Fiddle-de-dee
by
Ken Smith
Lambert hooked a cautious, inquisitive eye around the corner of the building. He had heard enough. This had to be a careful survey. Someone was lying in wait for him. They wanted what he had, and he was determined that they should not get it.
Enough stories had gone out to make him extra cautious, and prompted him to walk carefully in the back streets. He was intelligent enough not to spend too much time in the dark on his own. But life was exciting, this additional peril gave him a buzz, and made him feel so alive.
Now again, from the darkness, came that sound again. Despite his steady nerve, there was something in that peculiar noise that caused the hairs on the back of his head to stand erect. He had to know more. Cautiously he slid down the dark road into the bright lights of the busy High Street. Car Fumes. Cafe smells. People shouting, talking, cursing, as they rushed to the theatres. Small groups standing listening to the buskers on the pavement. It was all normal but worrying. Somewhere in that cacophony was the danger, but where?
The busker was playing an old fiddle, briskly but badly, producing a horrible screeching noise with the ancient strings. A shaken listener saw Lambert and pointed to him.
"That's what you want. Some new gut!"
The cat, hearing, streaked away across the road, diving dangerously under car wheels to escape, and the man with the violin laughed and walked away.
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The Man with the Violin
by
Thelma Turnbull
The moonlight shone in through the dirty windows, and the old man wriggled his big toe which stuck out of his worn old slippers. He was oblivious to the noises and strains of music that drifted up from the other rooms in the shared house. As he leaned forward the steam from his mug of tea reached his weatherworn skin, giving him a deceptively healthy glow.
Around him lay the meagre belongings of a man on the edge of poverty. The old crochet blanket, second hand music books, yesterday's discarded clothes still lay in the corner. He had been a rat catcher before he had to retire, and as he walked around the market in the evening, he despaired of the amount of litter thrown around.
When he was working he could clear an area very quickly, he had developed his own poison, unofficially, so he could clear an area of rats super quick. A beam of sunlight came to rest on his violin which lay on the table. His Hungarian father had taught him well.
The next day he took his violin to market and began to play beside his begging cap. He wrote on a small piece of cardboard that he was the Pied Piper, and could clear the market of rats. People smiled.
That night, in the dark he placed his delicious deadly poison in amongst the takeaways in the market place. It felt good, he would rid the market of vermin and the people would notice. Maybe he could make a living. His beautiful violin playing entranced the small crowds. The council soon noticed the rats were almost gone. They decided to reward him with a substantial cheque; he was happy because he was useful again.
One day he settled down to play in front of a small crowd. Suddenly a familiar face pointed at him, shouting, “ I know you! You were the best rat catcher in the city!”
And the man with the violin laughed and walked away.
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The Man with the Violin
by
Maggie Hale
He was always there, playing his violin in the café, earning a few coins as he moved between the tables. Life was hard and some days he couldn’t afford to eat. His clothes were shabby, his shoes let in the rain. So when the artist offered to pay him to sit and do nothing, he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Just sit there and hold my violin?” he asked in astonishment.
“That’s right,” confirmed the artist, gesturing to an empty chair.
The man sat, perching the violin on his knee and gazing into the distance in what he thought was a suitably fetching pose. The artist moved him around a bit and set to work. He’s not looking at me much, thought the man with the violin. How’s he going to get a good likeness?
After all, when an artist paints you, you do want to look your best.
Eventually the painting was finished and the musician walked over to take a look. He was shocked at what he saw: overlapping greyish rectangles, a single ear, a shattered violin recognisable only by its f-holes. This wasn’t art, it was a travesty!
“Don’t give up your day job,” he remarked with a smirk, “You’ll never make a living from that stuff.”
Flushed with anger, Picasso flung thrust some notes into the man’s hand and packed away his paints without uttering another word.
None the wiser, but somewhat richer, the man with the violin smiled and walked away.
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A Day at the Fair
by
Kate Briant
We were a merry throng of people at the Grand September Fair
With our pockets full of pennies for the treasures we’d find there:
Toffees for the children, woolly hats to wear,
Oranges with cloves in, gingerbread to share.
Within the busy fair ground the air was full of noise:
The jingling bells of Morris men, the shriek of laughing boys.
Four men were playing folk songs and tunes to start feet tapping,
Squeezebox, fiddle, banjo, drum – set our fingers snapping.
But as the day drew on and people thought to leave the fair,
The sound of Bruch’s concerto drifted on the cooling air.
Playing tunes he loved so much the fiddler played on
And the crowd, so close to leaving, delighted, all stayed on.
The music kindled memories among the people there:
The pain of unrequited love and the joy of passion shared.
The shy delight of love’s first kiss, the sorrow of the last
When lips are cold, of life bereft, and happiness is past.
His audience fell silent to listen to him play
Then the man with the violin laughed and walked away.
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The man with the violin
by
John Griffiths
The man with the violin
Has a case
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TWO TERRIBLE TALES!
It's Time We Changed Places
by
Ken Smith
Jenny climbed in. Sat on the cushions and stretched her long elegant legs before her, the thin tight trousers clinging like a second skin. Maddy followed her. She spread her dress around her and took the oars. It was a perfect afternoon - a gentle warm breeze just rippling the surface breaking up the dazzling reflection of the sun.
Jenny watched as Maddy propelled the rowing boat through the water, smoothly, her body flexing and rippling to the exercise, the oars skimming the water as she did the return stroke.
"How she manages everything so easily and so well, and still manages to look great," mused Jenny, with a grunt of amusement. "She even managed to grab hold of Guy and marry him before I could even blink. And I didn't say a word. Bitch! I can't bear to see how happy they seem to be. They don't seem able to keep their hands off each other. Laughing and kissing. I suppose that's how Guy and I would have been, if...." She deliberately stopped her thoughts and gazed bleakly into the distance.
The sudden breeze blew and swept the long dark hair into her eyes. She raised a hand to brush it back into place and looked across at Maddy - married Maddy. Her hair wasn't even slightly out of place. Her make up was perfect and her figure in the light yellow summer dress was shown to perfection as the slight wind moulded the dress to her shape.
"You know, Maddy. You're such a beautiful girl. I don't blame Guy for marrying you instead of m
e," Jenny said as she leant back against the cushions watching the girl rowing.
Maddy laughed. " You're a nut. Guy is always going on about you. How beautiful you are. He's still crazy about you. Do you know, I found he still has photographs of you in his wallet. When I annoy him he always says, 'Well, Jenny would never have done that.' And he's always comparing your figure with mine. He's a rat. I could kill him at times."
"What's the matter. Aren't you still in love with him?" Jenny tried to keep any inflection from her voice. She was not sure she succeeded.
Maddy laughed. "I suppose so. He's fun to have around. He's a good provider. And he's magic in bed. But he always was - wasn't he?"
She looked at Jenny slyly, and smiled knowingly. Jenny stared at her for a moment. "Well, I knew he was but I hadn't realised that you did."
Maddy looked up in surprise at the tone in Jenny's voice. "Surely you're not mad at me for marrying him. Not after two years? We always seemed to share our men. We've had lots of fun doing it. And he was very keen on getting me into the sack when you weren't around. I thought you two weren't really making it, so I just thought I'd have a crack at him. I'm not sure I wanted to marry him, but it happened."
"No. I don't think I'm mad at you now. But at the time I think that if you had stepped in front of my car, I would have run you down, and laughed."
Jenny's voice had gone quite matter of fact and quiet. She was trailing her fingers in the water, and seemingly watching the ducks bobbing up and down on the ripples sent out from the thrusting oars.
Maddy looked at her queerly. "I thought you took it too quietly." She paused. ''You know, I believe if I disappeared, he would be after you again like a shot. Sometimes I think he wishes he had married you, not me." She laughed. "I guess what he would really like is to be married to both of us. At the same time. Do you think we should have?"
Jenny stretched. Looked down at her long shapely legs, and laughed gently. "I don't know. Maybe it would have worked. But we would have had to work out a rota for everything. I don't think I could do that. I'm too impulsive. Spur of the moment girl that's me. It would have worked for you. You're organised, you plan. Anyway - it's illegal."
Maddy rested her oars, looked across at Jenny and nodded. "We wouldn't get away with it. You're right - it's illegal for a man to marry two women. The law would have something to say about that."
Jenny was silent for a minute or two, then,: "You know, I believe we could get away with it. There is always a way around everything if you just try. I'm sure I could work something out to solve the problem".
She stretched and said, "Come on. It's time we changed places and I row for a bit."
Maddy looked at her. "Are you serious - about it working? And you always say you're impulsive. You can't plan. You never could."
"Oh, I could plan for something like ... this." Jenny paused, then, "Come on. Let's change over. It's time you had a little - rest." She laughed as she said it.
The two girls stood up carefully, and moved around each other ready to change places. As they moved past each other, Jenny tripped. Lurched over and somehow pushed against Maddy, who with a shriek ended in the water.
She surfaced safely, puffing and blowing water. "You idiot. Look at me I'm waterlogged. Why did you have to push me in?"She looked up at Jenny standing there gazing down at her. "Come on. Give me an oar to hang onto, and I'll try to get in over the stern."
Jenny lifted an oar and started to lower it towards Maddy, then stopped.
"Oh, get a move on will you. I want to get dry."Maddy was getting a little impatient.
Jenny looked down at her. "I wonder what would happen if I didn't help you. If I left you in the water?''
Maddy, obviously not believing what she was hearing, said, ''Oh, come on. You're not still mad at me, are you? Anyway, you'll get me out. I’d bet anything on that. Come on, give me an oar."
Jenny just nodded. "Yes. I'll give you an oar. Here it comes."
She lowered the oar and as Maddy reached out for it, Jenny lowered it even more and carefully rested the end against the swimmer's shoulder, and pushed down - hard.
Maddy spluttered, and cried out, "Watch it, you idiot! You'll have me under in a minute."
Jenny smiled coldly. "Yes, I will won't I?" And pushed down, harder, and kept pushing.
Maddy was thrashing the water like a crazy person trying to get to the surface, but Jenny kept up the pressure until Maddy stopped struggling. Even then Jenny's beautiful face seemed to show no emotion. She just kept the pressure on until she was sure that Maddy was not going to spoil her life again.
Maddy surfaced, and lay motionless on the surface of the water. The thin yellow dress floated up around her 'til she was looking like a wilted daffodil. Her long blonde hair was washing gently around her head.
Jenny stared down at the white face below her in the water for a moment, then smiled. Dropping the oar into the water, she started to scream loudly: "Oh, Help! Help please!Anyone. Help! Please. She's drowning. Help, my sister's drowning!"
THE PATH
by
Sheila Cooper
Renoir's painting 'Path through long grass' depicts an apparently delightful rustic idyll. It portrays a group of children laughingly walking along a path through a flower-bedecked meadow. The path ahead of them disappears over the brow of a hillock and is lost to the viewer's sight.
The Quentin children presented a similarly outwardly charming scene as they crossed the field below the garden of their house, in single file. Alice, as befitted her status as first born, led the way carrying a wicker picnic basket. She was dressed, as was her younger sister Lucy, in a white flowing frock adorned with a blue satin sash. Typically, Alice wore her broad brimmed straw hat slung by its ribbons down her back, whilst Lucy's identical hat was firmly in place atop her golden curls, its ribbon tied in a neat bow under her chin.
Alice was rebellious but was only able, as yet, to show her discontent in small ways. Four-year- old William just tagged along behind the girls in his sailor suit, glad to have escaped the nursery on this gloriously sunny day. Only the Nannyless state of the household had enabled them to be permitted this foray into solitude, and the new Nanny was due to arrive in the evening.
It might have been expected that the sisters' thoughts would be light-hearted on such a day of unusual freedom. A casual observer, seeing the three heads flung back in childish laughter, could have been forgiven for assuming that was the case. But there are many kinds of laughter and theirs was not childish at all.
Today was the last chance they would have to accomplish the task they had set themselves six months ago. Alice and Lucy had whispered to each other last night in the nursery, long after William was asleep. They had leaned on the wide window sill gazing out onto the field, now demoted from gold to silver beneath the moon, and remembered and plotted. The path too had changed colour and stood out as a grey ribbon meandering through the metallic meadow. From
this vantage point it was just possible to make out the line of the path as it slid over the rise and down towards the stream in the gully. The undergrowth changed it to pewter and the shadows were leaden and inky.
It was at this same windowsill that Alice had explained to Lucy what was meant by a lover, and why she thought that Sir Peter was their mother's lover. She recalled the more frequent visits when Father was away; the dreamy expression in her mother's eyes and her faraway look; and the time that she had surprised her mother gazing at a locket which she had quickly hidden inside her blouse. And then the realisation that dawned that all this would cause such misery to the one person they all adored the most – their father.
So for the next few weeks they had watched and waited and finally their vigilance had been rewarded. They had discovered the mossy edging stone in the rose garden which the lovers used as a post box. This knowledge they felt must be used as a weapon to protect their beloved Papa. But until last night they had not seen a way to use this sword to
untie the Gordian Knot, and they had waited and watched and learned to hate.
It had not been strictly necessary to pass through the garden to reach the wicket gate that led onto the path to the flower meadow, but with one accord they had done so. The latest note, written evidently in haste in their Mamma's handwriting, simply said, “The dell near the stream - two o'clock.”
Whilst Lucy diverted William by playing “He loves me, he loves me not” with the daisies, Alice drew a pen and travelling inkwell out of her basket and added a single stroke to the time, then slid the slip of paper back into its earthy tomb. Nodding to Lucy over William's bent head she indicated by holding up first all her fingers and then two the new time of the assignation. And so the siblings had frolicked with such apparent innocence towards the dell.
Normality reigned for a blessed interval as they played with William and paddled where the stream was shallow. Then Lucy read aloud from a story book of fairy tales with black and white silhouette illustrations and happy endings. They spread a rug under the great ash tree that grew where the stream narrowed to a deeper pool. The shade was welcome for the sun was high in the sky now and the air shimmered with the heat.
Renoir would have found another attractive subject for his genius: a canvas entitled, 'Children at play?' But these children were nor playing! After the picnic Alice sang to William and, as she knew he would, he slipped quickly into the dreamless instant sleep of the untroubled young. Then, and only then, did they silently and without hesitation act on the plan of the previous night.
They carried the sleeping child, the basket and the rug much higher up the stream out of view of the ash tree, and Lucy stayed with William. Alice returned to the ash tree, selected a large stone from the stream bed and climbed the well-known branches. Insects buzzed, the stream rippled and murmured and the whole countryside waited.
It was all over so quickly: the gentle call of a name; the smile of recognition on the man's upturned face just before the heavy stone smashed into it; the dainty white slipper pushing the head under the water and forcing it down; the splash as a stained stone was returned to its natural element.
Later, much later, three children could have been seen returning along the path through the long grass, innocence personified. And this time they were laughing happily.
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The Concert Pianist
by
Jill Radcliffe
See the pianist’s fingers lift with a snooty disdain.
Wrists arch. Fingers scuttle. Shoulders sway.
Nose with an aristocratic lift samples the air.
Long feet dance and tap. Right toe, fashionably pointed,
strokes the pedals.
Seat shifts. Spine curls.
A triumphant chord sends the left arm skywards,
in delight.
Then arms strangely stiff, hands duetting alone.
Knees crammed under the keyboard.
Black brows.
Closed eyes.
White cuffs.
Tiny bald spot on the back of his head.
A finale of a white hanky to wipe the brow
and press the lips.
Then a far lean back, head coquettish to the right
as the strings take over.
Long hands resting lightly in his lap,
head back, eyes closed, in a euphoria of sound.
And so the pianist luxuriates in his private bliss,
until,
jolted from his reverie,
he hears the applause.
Slowly, gracefully unfolds himself to stand,
embraces the conductor
and bows
and bows
deeply and sincerely.
right hand on heart.
Reflections
by
Kate Briant
I was sitting on a bench overlooking the gardens and enjoying the afternoon sunshine when, through the half-open window, I heard a tour-guide enter the room behind me and address his group of visitors.
“This is the Blue Room,”he announced and recited the room’s many attributes, finally drawing attention to the portraits. “And here is our Gainsborough,” he said proudly. “The woman in the blue gown is Lady Eleanor, wife to Robert, the Fourth Earl.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be a ghost here?” someone asked.
The guide lowered his voice dramatically. “A few years ago workmen discovered the walled-up skeleton of a woman. They say she haunts this room.”
“Who was she?”
“Some think she was the Fourth Earl’s mistress and that Lady Eleanor killed her out of jealousy. To avoid a scandal the Earl sent his wife abroad and had the girl’s body bricked up in the chimney recess which was being remodeled at that time.”
There was an audible collective gasp and someone murmured, “How awful!”
How awful, indeed, I thought, but they were all wrong. It was Lady Eleanor who was bricked up behind the wall, murdered in a drunken rage by her husband when she tried to stop him beating a young chambermaid. If the workmen had looked further along, they would have found the girl’s body too.
It was time to return to work; I rose from the bench, shook out my blue gown and drifted through the wall back into the Blue Room.
Two Short Poems
by
John Griffiths
Trip to Leek (with High Peak Writers)
We went to Leek
Just last week
Gallery and Park
Home before dark
No sign of rain
Can we go again?