The following was written and submited to a competition in Bristol, in 2005, on the theme of "passing of time."  Not successful in the competition so not read out at the performance of winning entries at one of the Bristol theatres - so long ago I've forgotten which!!  Other than the judging panel, no-one else has ever seen this, so now it's a case of "judge for yourselves!"  And, maybe tell me what you think!!

Waiting at five and twenty o five

Waiting at five and twenty o five

Almost forty-five years inbetween.

Something of a riddle,

Also a life flashing by.

*************************

 I remember waiting at age five

At the bay window of

Our South London house.

Oddly, I probably started at

Something approaching five.

It was Christmas Eve, 1961,

The snow had started to fall.

After work, my Aunt and Uncle

Were wending their way to stay.

Magical, snow on Christmas Eve,

A five year old, excited

Santa was on the way.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight,

As coal in the fire grate glowed.

I remember it now,

The room felt cosy and warm.

Whilst, hidden behind heavy curtains,

My breath turned to ice on the pane.

Winceyette ‘jamas, thick woolly

Gown and furry lined slippers to boot.

Still I remember my icy cocoon.

Twixt cold glass and soft curtain,

Looking out on the snowy road.

Come sit near the fire

My mother said, with my father adding,

They’ll be ages yet

With this snow laying thick on the ground.

But I wanted to see them arrive,

Be first with the news

Shout out, they’re here,

Dash into the icy hall

And embrace my aunt’s furry collar

The waiting went on and on

Still they didn’t arrive.

Traffic must be bad my father said

Come warm by the fire mum urged.

No, one thing I had was resolve

I would see this through to the end.

Whatever time they arrived

Wide-awake I would be

By the frosty glass.

Then came the doubts

Time dragged its feet,

My stomach an empty feeling

And my eyelids grew heavy with time.

The battle really began

Excitement versus exhaustion.

Bedtime was looming,

Stocking hung by the chimney

Waiting for Santa to call.

At least an hour had passed,

Seeming more like a week

To this wee small lad

Who still through the window peered.

The weather made few venture out,

Our road was short and

Went nowhere in particular.

Although, one or two cars turned in,

Flutter, but false alarms.

The ache in the stomach increased

The legs started to numb,

Unmoving and cold they became,

Unknown for an active boy.

Another half hour was gone

Surely soon they must come.

I longed for my bed,

Warm patch by the bottle,

Until cold from the covers thrown.

Just in the nick of time

As hands held up the head

A car turned in, it was them,

Off to the door I rushed.

Too short to reach the handle

Relied on my brother instead,

As the door was opened

In blew the snow and the cold,

But was warmed by the embrace.

Quick five-year-old gabble, worse

As tiredness kicked in.

Kisses all round and

Up the wooden hill to bed.

But the waiting was just beginning

Tiredness a thing of the past,

I lay in the cold crisp sheets

Couldn’t get him out of my head

As for the sleigh bells I listened!

*************************

Forty-five years have passed.

Thirteen since my daughter was five.

Now we wait after ninety long days

For her from travels to return.

Near three months before,

With stinging eyes,

We waited for her to disappear,

Through a door simply marked

De … par … tures.

Suddenly she seemed very young,

School barely over and

Adventures in some far off land,

Beckoning strong.

We were early, time to wait

‘Till the plane would take her away,

To ease the pain, she announced

Through that door, she would go

And wait in the vacuum beyond.

Last hugs and kisses, stinging increased,

Pleads to be careful,

And with a quick backward glance

She was gone.

The waiting was almost over,

Careful she told us she’d been.

But when back in our midst,

We were soon to find out

It was best, at the time, not to know! 

  

Early, we paced the bustling arrival hall,

Counting the minutes down.

Only to see on the monitor,

Her flight was delayed by an hour.

Never, well perhaps only when five,

Had time taken so long to pass.

The clock hands hardly turning,

The digital clock,

It seemed stuck!

It struck me as strange,

With so many delays

Not a seat was to be seen,

Despite people waiting around.

On her departure she’d said

Never once had she be met

At an airport by a sign bearing her name

So with pen and paper

Hasty arrangements were made.

It helped a little

To pass the time, which still

Dragged heavy and slow

For once wishing our life away!

Seeing a significant delay

A coffee was ordered,

To slowly sip and wait to cool

To pass the time of day.

But when it arrived it was cold!

Lukewarm to say the least

So down it went in a jiffy.

All too soon over and back

On the prowl we returned.

That dull ache in the stomach returned

As the progress we checked

On the monitor screen,

Which simply announced in bold print

Flight delayed.

The legs they started to numb

The terminal floor seemed so hard

As first we paced up, then we paced down,

Again and again and again.

We went out to view the sky

To look out for the plane

As it came down

With a cargo so precious

But nothing was seen.

Time waits for no one

The saying goes.  However,

On this particular day

It seemed to have forgotten the rules.

 

Suddenly, the screen was a flicker

Our hearts aflutter

The message changed

Reading as clear as day

Flight landed, taxiing..

Nearly there, lined up with gangway,

Doors open, disembarked,

Waiting by the everlasting luggage conveyor,

Playing through in our minds.

Suddenly, those with only hand luggage

Started to come through,

Glancing at name cards, looking for friends

But peering at labels revealed

Wrong flight, landed earlier!

A trickle became a flow

Passengers laden with luggage

Started to come through.

The moment was here.

But several long minutes went by

Luggage on each trolley

Scrutinized as it appeared

For any sign of

Identity of the person behind.

When it came it was clearly her bag

But pushed by somebody else.

No it was her, but with hair in dreadlocks

At first I wasn’t sure!

Long embraces ensued

Back in our arms again,

Stinging eyes once more, then another onslaught

Our ears, as adventure after adventure

Poured out for several days!

******************

Twenty O five, 2005,

Some year it had turned out to be.

Once more it proved that old adage:

………

Things come to those that wait!

Under the woodpile? (from The Adventures of Bouhenri)

Sorry, a bit late, got carried away decorating!!  Please remember,  this is written under one of three nom de plumes to protect the confidentiality of anything that gets my imagination going and as it said in Missive 34:  “any likeness of any character to a living person will be purely accidental and involve a good degree of imagination, and all names will be changed to protect the identity of the person who is not the likeness of any living person, or something like that!!!” and in an earlier missive:  “Someone (or indeed it may be something!) nearby has caught both my eye and more importantly my imagination, and this person (or persons) for reasons of confidentiality will assume a false name and carry the caveat, that events and persons herein mentioned are fictitious and any resemblance to living individuals is purely coincidental!!”  Hope that makes it all absolutely crystal clear!

Under the woodpile?  (from The Adventures of Bouhenri)

Perhaps it was the weather, a prolonged spell of very sub-zero temperatures, day and night, that had caused them to get under one or other’s feet and caused a good deal of tension, as well as voices raised more than normal.  The brother’s were getting on a bit, their hearing wasn’t as good as it used to be so raised voices were not uncommon, but this time there had been something in the tone that, had they not been living together under the same roof  for nearly fifty years, might possibly have sounded alarm bells if not the ringing of telephones to the local gendarmerie! 

In such relationships, in this case the youngest brother Pierre , like his older sibling Fulbert was no spring chicken, and might in a marriage have been described as hen-pecked, but over the years and to keep the feathery sayings going, it was really water off a duck’s back.  This time as always, as Fulbert  ranted and raved, getting it off his chest, Pierre stood there a little like a naughty boy being told off, hands behind his back and head bowed slightly, before going off to do his own thing, almost at times with a slight spring in his step and if the new hip and more recent new knee would have allowed it possibly a small leap into the air and a heel click, as he retreated to his own personal territory – his cave, an underground treasure chest for the serious drinker!  At other times, he might rather half-heartedly or begrudgingly carry out the forgotten task – wood for the fire, the week’s lotto ticket or the baguette from the Boulangerie, before it closed for a long lunch.  Food is important in France and lunch can be a long languid affair, but it doesn’t do to get too laid back and forget the bread, as the Boulanger, also likes his long languid lunch shutting up shop until mid afternoon, before the rush to get the next batch ready for the evening meal!

Or at other times, having departed a little like a sulking schoolboy, with or without the Dutch courage offered by the contents of the cave, he would wait a short while before departing in his ubiquitous white van, to visit; someone else’s cave, to do a little hunting or simply to make himself scarce and out of the way for a while! 

But, on this fateful day, Pierre had been out a long time and Fulbert  was obviously growing impatient, something needed doing and eventually he stormed off to do it, obviously giving up on his brother’s timely return.  But, barely had he driven out of the top of the road when the white van weaved its way in the back way, and out got Pierre and similarly weaved his way first into the house and then with empty bottle needing a refill, even if it seemed that he had already had his fill – the hunting had obviously been good and needed celebrating, or should that be further celebrating.  He then seemed to remember that the fire needed wood and out he went to the woodpile, housed in the dry of a large barn, and was it the drink or something more sinister that made a large avalanche tumble loudly and haphazardly from the top of the enormous woodpile, as Pierre stood there slightly unsteadily, but with a bemused look on his face and a low chuckle from his lips.

A neighbour hearing the commotion and having witnessed Pierre’s wobbly return and worried for his safety rushed across the road, quite sure that she would find Pierre lying battered and bruised under a large pile of logs that in his shaky state he had managed to dislodge, with serious consequences.  But, at least the neighbour thought that if he was injured then at least he would be sufficiently anaesthetised to feel no pain until the pompiers could be alerted to come to his rescue and top up the pain relief!  With a sigh of relief, as the neighbour approached the barn, Pierre stumbled through the door, with was it a bemused or a satisfied grin on his flushed face.  Confirming to the neighbour that all was well, just a slight slip of the axe he had used to dislodge the next load of firewood, he then proceeded to watch the neighbour retreat back across the road, the red glowing face, still registering something; was it bemusement at the concern when all he had done was pull down a little more wood than he had intended or something more enigmatic if not downright sinister, particularly when accompanied by the low self-satisfied chuckle that followed the neighbour over the road!

Back in her house the neighbour was unsettled, convinced that on his return from the errand that he had so obviously rather hastily and testily rushed off to do, seeming as though he wasn’t really expecting to have to do it at all, Fulbert would not be in the best of moods and with Pierre, three sheets to the wind, if not a few more, there would be major ructions!  But, as evening wore on there was no sign of Fulbert, so what had seemed to be a quite last minute rush to do something was either taking longer or somewhat out of character, maybe infuriated by Pierre’s lain-back approach to life Fulbert had hit the bottle in the local bar leaving Pierre to get his own tea.  A good couple more hours passed before the missing car turned down the road and came to a stop in the garage next to the house, before the large metal door was swung confidently closed, not it would appear in the manner of someone who had been drowning their sorrows all this time.  The driver, Fulbert thought the neighbour, would soon after entering the house be confronted with the chuckling, grinning and well lubricated face of his younger brother and she waited for the eruption and subsequent slanging match that accompanied such events.  But, surprisingly all was quiet and after only a short time the thin line of light escaping from one of the downstairs shutters was extinguished and replaced by one from Pierre’s bedroom, one of three windows on the first floor, the other’s being the box room, largely used to store various preserved food items in large ominous kilner jars, the brothers only slowly getting used to their relatively new large chest freezer that hummed gently away in one of their many out buildings and a spare room.

Rising early as she always did, the neighbour was surprised to see Pierre up and about and indeed busy with uncharacteristic household chores, but no sign of Fulbert, again most unusual as he was normally the one up doing whilst Pierre usually took rather longer to focus on the days activities – indeed to focus at all!  And for several days this continued Pierre alert and busy, with almost a new spring in his step and no sign of Fulbert, which increasingly worried the neighbour, but this being rural France and the brothers being very much of the école ancient, she didn’t like to pry, well at least not obviously?!  Then, the neighbour got to thinking, to piecing together all the parts of the jigsaw of the last few days and suddenly, the last piece fell into place and she audibly gasped and quickly put her hands over her mouth to stifle the noise, just in case Pierre was within earshot and realised that she had finally fathomed it out.  But, what was she to do?  Sadly, her husband of many years had died just a couple of years previously, he would have known what to do, probably, being a large rumbustious man he would have gone straight over to the brother’s house to have it out with Pierre and to find out what was going on, but now he had gone and her children moved away, there was nobody close that she could confine in.  She almost telephoned her daughter, but she lived some way away in a large city where she worked all hours making money to help look after her family, and all she would have thought was that it was just another sign that mamam was going gaga, like the time she had phoned worried about there being an intruder in the house – up in the loft.  It had turned out to be a campagnol (dormouse) and yes, afterwards she had to admit that she did know that the loft was so small that barely anything bigger than a campagnol would fit in it.  So, she waited and worried and continued to wonder what to do.

The next day when the boulanger called in their little white van, she went out to buy her baguette and was rather startled by Pierre coming out of one of the outbuildings to buy bread, and very loudly (remember he doesn’t hear as well these days) and in a curiously friendly and sober manner, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, pleasantly greeted her a Bonjour and asked about her health!  She almost intruded into her neighbour’s life and asked after Fulbert, but became frightened at the last minute, simply ending up exchanging small talk about her health and the ever rising cost of bread!   But it was over her solitary lunch as she cut into the crispy baguette, perhaps the large knife in her hand giving her false courage, decided what she would do.  She was going to take matters into her own hands, take a leave out of her late husband’s book and finally find out what had happened to Fulbert.  She would wait until Pierre went out and not without a certain degree of trepidation and worry about her intrusion, she would check out the woodshed.

Her chance came quicker than she had expected, as shortly after lunch Pierre collected his chien de chasse (hunting dogs), put them and his shotgun in the back of his small white van and set of for a spot of sport looking surprisingly dapper in his freshly laundered hunting clothes.  Was it the shotgun, or the realisation that the last time she had seen those hunting clothes had been the day the wood pile fell, and now they were freshly laundered, by whom she wondered as it was usually Fulbert who did the washing!  It was probably a good thing her chance came quickly, otherwise she would have had too much time to find excuses not to get involved or simply to become too frightened.  As it was, as the white van turned the corner at the bottom of the hill, her heart started racing as she guiltily stole across the road, thankful that her hearing remained keen and would alert her of Pierre’s unexpected return.  When he went out hunting he was usually gone for several hours particularly if he met up with a friend or two and ended up having to go back to their caves, to celebrate the chase if not the prey.  Her pounding heart was in danger of blotting out the sound of Pierre’s white van should he return, as she nervously entered the shady and dank interior of the woodshed aware initially of a strange, pungent and unpleasant smell, then the buzz of the large cloud of flies that rose from their “feasting.”  At that moment, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness of the shed and she saw it and fled, back as quickly as she could shutting and bolting the door behind her in fear that it might have followed her.

With no hesitation she was on the phone to the gendarmerie and was quickly giving details to a kind and understanding sergeant, who was obviously aware that the lady on the other end of the telephone had suffered a traumatic experience, and although he was reassuring the nature of the call required immediate action, so he hurried the conversation along as much as he could, found out the details of where the lady was calling from and continuing to talk slowly and calmly to madame, passed a hastily scribbled note across to the gendarme opposite, which simply said “homicide” and the address whilst frantically waving his hand in a gesture that obviously meant move – TRES VITE!  His colleague understanding the signs, grabbed the note as he leapt from his seat, briefly and with a register of shock glanced at the note and was out of the door, had mustered a car load of gendarmes and was on the way to the scene of the crime before, the desk sergeant had got as far as saying that someone would be with madame, just as soon as they could.

The gendarme minibus, followed by a couple of cars, all full of gendarmes as this was a “big shout” and required a rapid and full response,  sped through the countryside towards the scene of the crime.  As they got nearer, in that bizarre fashion that would always seem to scare away any lingering criminals, they approached with siren blaring and lights flashing, tyres screeching on the corners and the occupants of the vehicles being thrown around just to add to the excitement – it had been a long time since there had been a homicide on the patch, so the reaction was perhaps just a little melodramatic, but they had a job to do and the sooner they got there the sooner they would get a lead on any suspects and hopefully quickly apprehend them.

The “flying squad” of vehicles passed close to the piece of woodland in which, had they not been making such a noise, they would have heard the sound of gunshots, as Pierre and his friends put up a deer.  Well in truth the noise of the sirens had put up the deer and so caught unawares the hunter’s prey had escaped for another day.  But, Pierre having discharged both barrels of his shotgun, became aware that the noisy convoy was heading towards his little hamlet and with a shout of farewell to his friends he ran back to his white van and sped off.

In the meantime the gendarmes had arrived at the hamlet and hearing their approach and for the first time since her worries had started about the safety of Fulbert, feeling secure she unlocked the door and ventured out to meet them in the road and pointed towards the woodshed, simply saying he’s in there!  As the officers started a well practised, but little used for real procedure, some started to tape off the crime scene, a couple started to take the neighbours statement, others got ready for crowd control, had in the unlikely circumstances their presence caused a crowd of inquisitive onlookers to congregate, and the senior personnel went towards the scene of the crime, covering their noses with handkerchiefs, as their sense of smell was more acute than the neighbours, whilst issuing strict orders that nothing was to be touched!  As when the neighbour had crept into the woodshed, the buzzing of the “hungry” flies intensified as the officers entered and they spotted the booted leg, half-heartedly hidden under a smattering of large logs, the rest of the body more hidden from view under a larger pile.  Gasping, for breath, the hot afternoon sun having intensified the stench of rotting flesh the officers blinked out into the bright sunshine and issued orders for forensic to be called and fresh orders to secure the area as indeed a murder had been committed.

Just as one of the squad car drivers had got through to HQ to request forensic, the officers detailed to keep people out flagged down a small white van, the worried looking inhabitant of which indignantly ordered to be let through as he lived here and what an earth was going on.  The neighbour, still filling in the details of her statement and somewhat bemused by all the activity, suddenly spotted Pierre, the murderer returned to the scene of the crime and loudly screeched “That’s him, he’s the one that did it!  Grab him don’t let him get away” it must have been all the police around the place who gave her confidence, because suddenly she appeared to think she was in charge of the proceedings!  It was then as the senior officer gently but firmly told the neighbour that she wasn’t to worry they were handling things now and perhaps it would now be best if she went inside to continue her statement and maybe have a steadying glass of something.  But, as he was making this last suggestion, he became aware that she was not only not listening to him, but had also gone extremely pale as if in delayed shock, and her hand clasped tightly over her mouth.  He was just about to get someone to call for a doctor when he also noticed that her shocked gaze had moved from Pierre to the other side of the road, where there stood an older version of Pierre, Fulbert somewhat pale and strained but, very much alive.

At this point Pierre, who had been dragged from his van and was being physically restrained, managed to pull himself free and rushed over to Fulbert, looking very concerned and asked him if he was alright and shouldn’t he still be in bed, just as Fulbert, who having come out of the house and been confronted with a small army of policemen and been rendered speechless, found a croaky voice to ask what an earth was going on.  The senior officer, now thoroughly confused ordered his men to arrest both of the brothers and asked them to explain the presence of a decomposing body under the pile of logs in their woodshed.  Fulbert, looking at Pierre was totally confused and worried about what Pierre had been up to whilst he had been laid up in bed with a nasty bout of flu and Pierre simply looked mystified!  Sensing an early result, the senior officer seemed suddenly oblivious to the awful stench and ordered the brothers to be taken into the woodshed and confronted with their crime, as for the two brothers their sense of smell seemed to have suffered in the same way as their hearing!

Fulbert, was the first to speak, to Pierre, to ask him why he hadn’t done as he had been asked and taken the rubbish bag up to the wheelie bin at the end of the road, that would have stopped the animals from getting into it and pulling out the left over bones from several dinners, which were now scattered around the woodshed, stinking to high heaven and attracting every fly from kilometres around!  He continued to nag, despite still being weak after his illness from which he hadn’t really properly recovered yet, as to why Pierre hadn’t taken the pile of old clothes that they had thrown out to the clothing bank, the pile of clothes that were now lying underneath the fallen logs, dislodged while Pierre was trying to fetch the wood whilst well and truly under the influence.  Pierre just stood there, head bowed rather like a naughty schoolboy, but through the gloom the senior officer could see that his head was bowed to hide the grin on his face and he was trying hard not to laugh out loud, his shoulders just perceptibly going up and down.

The senior officer made a split decision, and although he had just been about to explode and rant and rave about wasting police time and money, he instead rather uncharacteristically, exploded with laughter and was magnanimous enough, at the end of the day, when everyone had stopped laughing, to admit that even he had been convinced the old pair of trousers and discarded boot had contained a human leg, attached to a body and it really had been a very successful and well carried out exercise in modern policing, all the more realistic as nobody knew it was a rehearsal – and if they unfortunately encountered the real thing in the near future they would be much better prepared!!! He was a kindly soul at heart and much of this generous response was down to the look of abject horror of what she had done on the face of the brothers’ neighbour.

Sending most of the team away, the remaining senior officers sat down with the neighbours, and over a glass of two of something steadying, talked through just what had actually occurred, so as to be fully prepared should they be summoned to Area HQ to explain events.   Well, it transpired that on the faithful day, when Pierre had knocked over the wood, Fulbert had returned from a meeting feeling very under the weather and gone straight to his bed where he remained for several days and really should still be.  Pierre in  the meantime, had to do all the things that Fulbert normally did, and realised just how much he had taken his brother for granted over the last few years, and worried that Fulbert was more seriously ill than he turned out to be resolved to make amends.  After all, you don’t live with someone for all those years unless there is something of a bond, actually the two brothers needed each other, and yes they had the odd argument, made worst by their deafness, but they soon made up and both knew that the other one wasn’t going to change markedly!  As for the neighbour, it could have been that they became rather angry with her nosiness, but perhaps taking a leaf out of the senior policeman’s book, they decided that actually they were rather touched by her concern, and despite the rather bizarre turn of events and outcome, realised that she was being neighbourly and afterwards their relationship changed for the better.

There was just one outstanding problem, which she decided to talk through with the brother’s and that was what she should tell her son and daughter about what had happened!  They mulled it over for a short time and then unanimously agreed that perhaps it was best to say nothing, after all remember the campagnol, but should they notice how much better she was getting on with the neighbours, she would simply say that in their hour of need she had come to their rescue, adding if further questioned that she had helped out when one had flu and the other needed some help and reassurance – as neighbours do – so much easier than saying that after accusing one of them of murdering the other, after a heated argument, they were all now the best of friends – that could have taken some explaining and not been without the odd knowing glance and raised eyebrows between sister to brother!