Yet More Voices of Herefordshire

YET MORE VOICES OF HEREFORDSHIRE

  An Anthology of Poems and Short Stories

  by the Barnabas Writing Group

  Editor John Wood

  Copyright 2014 John Wood.

  A TRIBUTE TO KATE JONES

  by Paul Young

  This little book is a tribute to the memory of Kate Jones from the members of a writing group which, for more than two decades, met weekly under her leadership and direction throughout the winter and spring of every year. She was a woman of great good humour, firm friendship and deep insight. She enlarged the lives of all who knew and worked with her and she is sadly missed by us all. The short pieces which follow were largely inspired and created under her leadership and kind guidance, and many began as pieces of weekly homework which we hoped Kate would select to read out in class. We have put them together to help us fix memories of our time together and to show great gratitude for her life and friendship, but with perhaps just a little trepidation, knowing that somewhere in heaven she will affectionately be marking us all with red ink.

  The short stories and poems of this anthology follow the earlier collections - “Voices of Herefordshire” in 1994 and “More Voices of Herefordshire” in 2003.

  Names of contributors to “Yet more Voices of Herefordshire” appear in the Contents. For several years the class has met on a Thursday morning in St. Barnabas Church Hall, Venn's Lane, Hereford.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  In Weobley Church by Elizabeth Rumsey

  My House by Romayne Peters

  Misty Morning by Jill Lawson

  Buying a Carpet in India by Ann Foley

  Thought for the Day by Helen Beach

  Home Sweet Home by John Wood

  First Footing by Peter Holliday

  Tree Pearls by Jean Heaven

  Reasons to be Cheerful by Faith Bellamy

  The Revolting House-Wife by Faith Bellamy

  An Absent Friend by John Wood

  Back to School by Jennifer Budd

  The Artist's House by Elizabeth Rumsey

  The Dreamer by Jill Lawson

  Too Much Black by Helen Beach

  The Fete by Jill Lawson

  The Retreat by Wilma Hayes

  A Baker’s Dozen by Bronwen Wild

  A Psalm for the Senses by Jill Lawson

  Smithers by Peter Holliday

  War in Abertaled by Haydn Lloyd

  Next of Kin by Jim Valdez

  Tale of Two Loves by Jill Lawson

  You Remember Jenny by Paul Young

  Blues by Peter Holliday

  The Seat of Idris by Ron Roberts

  Slow Moving Hereford by John Wood

  Hoot of Hate by John Wood

  A Most Unusual Woman by Ann Foley

  Rainbow in the Sky by Romayne Peters

  Two Umbrellas by Paul Young

  A Tale of Old Herefordshire by Faith Bellamy

  Salad Days by Jennifer Budd

  A Mirror by Romayne Peters

  The Veiled Lady by Romayne Peters

  A Day for Ducks by Gill Clifford

  Oddments Drawer by Jill Lawson

  My San Jose Home by Dot Ellison

  3 AM New Years Day 1998 by Paul Young

  Appreciation by Jill Lawson

  Easter by Louisa Boughton

  The Word by Romayne Peters

  Six Women - 1940 by Wilma Hayes

  Beginnings by Romayne Peters

  Attachments by Bronwen Wild

  Dragons by Helen Beach

  Hill Farm by Peter Holliday

  Renewal by Haydn Lloyd

  Growing Old by Jill Lawson

  Salad Days by Jill Lawson

  Late Summer Sun by Jennifer Budd

  The Kindness of Sergeants by Jim Valdez

  In Memoriam by John Wood

  A Tree of Delights by Ann Foley

  The Wind by Jill Lawson

  Top Drawer by John Wood

  Home by Jill Lawson

  Mixed Emotions by Faith Bellamy

  I wish I were a Wiggly Worm by Jennifer Budd

  Time by Romayne Peters

  Eve and the Apple by Paul Young

  Food by Louisa Boughton

  On Passing my old Home in the Rain by Paul Young

  Things my Mother Said by Wilma Hayes

  Family Life by Bronwen Wild

  Collecting the Male by Haydn Lloyd

  Crow by Peter Holliday

  Haikus by John Wood

  Calvus et Calvinesta by Paul Young

  The Name by Ann Foley

  Remembrance by Ann Foley

  Overboard by John Wood

  Late Autumn Sonnet by Jill Lawson

  Paths of Love by Romayne Peters

  Bed Time Stories for Boys by Faith Bellamy

  Wind Band by Jennifer Budd

  Snow by Louisa Boughton

  Close Shave by Wilma Hayes

  Redemption by Bronwen Wild

  Homage to the Eternal Woman by Haydn Lloyd

  Mixed Doubles by Ann Foley

  Unregarded Blackbird by Paul Young

  A Meeting of Minds by Bronwen Wild

  Sfumato and the Mona Lisa by John Wood

  Wuff Trade by Haydn Lloyd

  Snapshots of Love by Elizabeth Rumsey

  Goodbye from Kate by Dot Ellison.

  IN WEOBLEY CHURCH

  FOR KATE

  by

  Elizabeth Rumsey

  Earth, earthed. Foundations

  Of memories and prayers.

  Here we stand,

  hands cupped in expectation.

  Will some elusive echo

  sound within our ears,

  Lift us on that eagle’s wings

  to sing and praise the elusive God?

  Stone faces and armoured knights

  stare through the years,

  Peering up at this new generation .

  Like us they strained to fly

  With the angels,

  join those swallows in the sky.

  We feel a deep thankfulness.

  MY HOUSE

  by

  Romayne Peters

  My house has many windows

  Yet none look out to sea.

  So sandy dunes and ocean swells

  Are only imagined by me.

  My house hasn’t much of a garden,

  A few shrubs and a favourite tree,

  My Rowan, bright russet in autumn

  A delight for all to see.

  My house may mean nothing to others

  They who travel the world to see.

  I do not roam. Why should I

  When home’s the best place to be?

  Of course visitors come

  And I love them to stay

  Though my home’s not quite mine

  Till they’ve gone away.

  My home may have certain shortcomings

  Life’s lonely but at least I am free,

  It’s just good to live in my own space

  It’s my home and suits me.

  MISTY MORNING

  by

  Jill Lawson

  Inside in Technicolor, the book is red, the carpet green,

  The duvet on my bed is sprigged with varied hues, it seems

  That every shade and hue is present in this place of dreams.

  While outside, on an Autumn morning all is grey;

  The gentle dawning of a new born day is monochrome.

  Leaves merge into a single blur, there is no view

  Beyond the next door’s fence, still wet with dew.

  I cannot hear the birdsong with the windows closed.

  Yet they composed a plainchant as they posed

  On telephone wires, a minim each;


  Here, with my book and tea in easy reach,

  I am cocooned from the rigours of the day.

  But in my haven-nest, away at present

  From the demands that day will bring.

  The mixed blessings of the postman’s offering,

  The pain and portent of the paper’s pages,

  Recession and redundancy and wages

  Inadequate to meet real or imagined needs,

  The constant battle with encroaching weeds.

  But this illusion that began the day will fade,

  The sun will burn away the morning mist;

  And give us (please Lord) one more golden day, sun-kissed,

  When what once seemed so colourless and drear,

  With glow with Autumn colour bright and clear,

  The thrush will sing with cheerful repetition,

  Robin come to share my morning coffee,

  A crumb of hospitality.

  Life has been good to me!

  And I will take the grey days with the gold,

  Continue to rejoice though growing old.

  BUYING A CARPET IN INDIA

  by

  Ann Foley

  You must buy a carpet when you go to India. We are in Cochin in Kerala, South India. It is rather out of the usual way. This morning we have been to St. Francis Church, which is a fifteenth century Portuguese/Dutch church, Cochin Fort and the Jewish Synagogue. Our guide now stops outside a Government Emporium where he advises us that the goods in the store are all guaranteed and the prices are very good. Reluctantly we get out of the car and are introduced to an attractive young Indian who takes us straight to the carpet warehouse.

  We tell him as kindly as possible that we do not want a carpet. He charmingly says “Of course not, but I show you anyway. Let me show you how they are made.” We feel churlish; there can’t be any harm in seeing how they are made. Our first mistake, but so difficult to say “No”.

  We see a mock-up of the start of a carpet, the many strings involved, the warp and the weft, and he tells us how a child sorts the different silks and every pattern is quite unique.

  I notice our man has hazel eyes and wears a western-made pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up and designer jeans. An assistant serves us cinnamon-flavoured tea in glass cups and we are made to sit down and look at the many carpets for sale. We say again “We do not want one”.

  Then he says “Of course not, but what carpet colours would possibly suit your house?”

  John looks at me. I look at our carpet seller and say “None of these would suit our house in England but since you insist, coral colours would be good with blue, possibly” and I make my second mistake.

  This is difficult for him but he finds us one and rolls it out. Then another, then another. We say again we do not want one. I am thinking of my new kitchen extension at home, we are saving up for that. I try to explain to him. He has very good English and a charming way.

  He says “Of course not, but if you could have only one of these carpets, which would it be?” John looks at me. We tell him again we do not want one, but since you ask – that one! This is our third mistake, but if he put a knife to my throat and had John’s arm in a Half Nelson, we would have gone for a dark blue carpet with complicated lozenges and touches of coral.

  He now gets out his pocket calculator and after lots of tapping he says 886. That sounds pretty good to us if that is rupees. He tells us that is in pounds. We say, yes that is a good price but we don’t want a carpet! He says “Wait a minute, I make another price.” Again the clicking of the calculator. John and I are squirming in our seats. Our guide and driver are nowhere to be seen. The next price is £663. We say again, the carpet is lovely but no we do not want it.

  He tells us his family is in Kashmir. They have been allowed the use of this building to sell their carpets. It is very hot and he mops his brow. He is getting nowhere.

  John looks at me with a query in his eyes. I shake my head. No, we don’t need this carpet. Where would we put it? Our charming Kashmiri mops his brow again and clicks away on the calculator with his other hand. The price comes down again to £480 – his last and final offer. John can’t stand the discomfort of the whole business. He knows I don’t like Indian carpets, but we don’t say this out loud. We are polite. We say we like the carpets but we don’t have the right room. We get up and take our leave, thanking him for his patience. He mops his brow. We are all hot and exhausted. Our charming Kashmiri is bitterly disappointed and can hardly look at us.

  We find our guide and driver sitting in the main shop. They know immediately we have not bought a carpet. They all look disappointed. We feel we have let them down.

  In the car, our guide turns to us and tells us that we are now going back to the Hotel. He shows us where the Indian Dancing will take place that evening. We try to note the spot and imagine the place without the teeming throng and traffic. They turn away from us, we can go on our own. I feel it is because we did not buy a carpet, so why should they take us?

  We get back to the Hotel and are longing for a beer in the delightful cool gardens. It takes a long time to come. Punishment for not buying a carpet.

  I know I am feeling sensitive but that evening I want to thank the Dholak player for pounding his drum so well, but he doesn’t look at me. We did not buy a carpet.

  THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

  by

  Helen Beach

  “Journey? Journey? I’ll give them bloody journey. I’m not going anywhere, I’m not.” Sometimes Thought for the Day was all right, made her think a bit, but not this morning and she switched it off crossly. Crosser still, as it was of those new radios which faded gradually and they’d already got back to Baghdad before the sound went completely. “ Bloody Bush.”

  She lay back on her pillow. Her hip had locked again. Damn. That meant she really needed to have a bath this morning, and with the Social cutbacks, that meant she’d have to dress herself. Louise would only have time for one or the other. And today was the day she was going to see her first great grandchild! She should be looking forward to it. But at her age it was all she could do to get from one end of the day to the other. Anything extra – even thinking about it – made her feel so tired. Not a good start to the day.

  She could hear the sound of the kettle boiling downstairs. She must try to be nice to Louise today, after yesterday. “Hello Doris! How are we this morning?” “Fine, thanks, Louise.” She used to enjoy telling lies sometimes when she was a child, see how much she could get away with – like that time it was perfectly obvious she’d finished off the chocolate cake and she persuaded them all it was the dog. Ha!

  “You’re looking more cheerful today! That’s good.” Louise was standing by the bed with a cup of tea. “I know – you’re looking forward to Hannah coming with Edward. Well, you need something to look forward to, a bit of change to the routine.”

  “I’m sorry, Louise. My hip’s bad again. Would you mind helping me bath this morning? I’ll manage the dressing.” She watched Louise’s face carefully and noticed the telltale momentary frown. “Are you sure? Yes, that’s fine. I tell you what, I’ll start the bath, and get your breakfast while it runs.” Doris hitched herself up in to a sitting position and slowly, painfully, moved her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet found her slippers and holding onto the bed, she inched herself towards the door.

  Louise bounded up the stairs two at a time and took her arm. “Poor thing. You are stiff this morning.” “Oh, thank you, that’s lovely.” Doris lay back in the bath and it was lovely; the trouble was, Louise was so busy, and what she wanted to do was simply lie there, not be raising this arm or that foot. Really, her armpits weren’t the point today. “Can I just lie here for a couple of minutes?” That quick frown again. “Yes, okay, I’ll make your toast and be right back up.” Well, that toast would be stone cold, but if it gave her a few more minutes……….

  By the time she’d got dressed, delivered herself sedately downstairs and eat
en her cold toast, she was exhausted. She had two hours before lunch was delivered and she needed to put out the things for tea in good time for Hannah this afternoon. Thank goodness Louise had left a cake. She could just about manage to do a few scones with the readymix and with any luck there would be one or two left for supper.

  At least the baby wouldn’t need feeding – not by her, anyway. She really ought to be feeling more pleased they were coming, and she was cross with herself. She mustn’t sleep too long after lunch.

  When the doorbell rang, she jumped. Momentarily confused, she called out “Come in, Louise” and there she was: Hannah, her favourite granddaughter, with what seemed a very small bundle in her arms. “Oh Gran, I’m sorry! Were you expecting someone else?” Doris looked at her fondly, thinking how like Margaret she was, with that exuberant hair and the kink in the nose; thinking too how, after all these years, it was still really Fred she was expecting whenever the front door opened.

  “Hannah darling, how stupid of me. Come and sit down next to me here. I want to have a good look at you both. He’s fast asleep, I can’t see his eyes.”

  When Hannah went out to get the tea ready, she put Edward gently into Doris’ arms. It was a long time since she’d held such a tiny baby. Doris hardly dared to move. Slowly, she brought her face down very close to Edward’s head. That smell! So unlike any other smell on earth. A bit of baby oil or something now probably, but really just sheer baby. Soft. Welcoming. Vulnerable. Hopeful. Lovemaking. Suddenly she was twenty-two again, and it was Margaret she was holding, looking at this tiny miracle she and Fred had made during his last leave before going back to France with his platoon. How much she had needed something of Fred’s to hold and cherish.

  Edward’s tiny hand was starting to open and Doris put the tip of her little finger in his palm. His fingers closed around it, warm and strong. He was opening his eyes too now, and he fixed them on Doris’ face, unblinking. “Oh Gran, you’re such a softie! Here, I’ve got your tea.”

  She was much too tired to contemplate the washing up. She was fed up with being tired. Fed up with having to be grateful to so many people. The effort of it all. Well, maybe, maybe, she’d done this bit, coping on her own, like she’d done the wife and mother bit – even the grandmother bit. Maybe she should ask the man from the bank to come round, see if she could manage the fees of that place near Margaret. Someone else could make the scones. She could have a bath every day.