Wednesday, 26 February 2020

The Call

Aloysius Lark was having a bad day.

He’d woken with a snort at his desk as the morning light struggled to push through the grimy windows of his office. After wiping the drool from his mouth and peeling a piece of paper stamped FINAL DEMAND off his cheek, he’d taken a swig from the bottle at his side, downed a couple of aspirin and set about trying to remember what day it was.

That was three hours ago, and the day hadn’t got any better as it ambled towards lunchtime. The phone had been ringing every 20 minutes, but Lark had not once answered. He knew the callers were vultures circling his shrinking resources to honour old debts, not clients seeking his services.

Fuelled by guilt and good intentions, he’d tried to organise the papers swarming on and around his desk. He gave up three minutes later, when a dust-cloud puffed up from the first folder, flew up his nose and sparked an orgasm of sneezing, choking and streaming eyes.

Lark settled back into his chair, lit a cigarette and took a wheezing drag.

A rap at the door roused him from his contemplation of the tendrils of smoke twisting through his fingers.

Before he had the chance to say “Enter!” or take his feet off the desk, the door opened. In strode an imposing blonde in biker’s leathers. She wore them well – very, very well, Lark noted with appreciation.

“Aloysius Lark?” she commanded in a voice tinged with traces of Stockholm that made him stand to attention.

“At your service, dear lady,” he bowed slightly, hoping his old school charm might soften her officious manner.

It didn’t.

“I have a job for you.”

“Let me check my availability.” He pulled out his diary, making a show of scanning the pages whilst hiding the empty gaps stretching into June and beyond.

The woman reached across the desk and slammed the diary shut. “You’re free. And if you’re not, you will be. This is urgent.”

The detective arched his eyebrows.

“What exactly do you need of me?” he asked. “Find a lost cat? Track down a deadbeat boyfriend?”

“Look at me,” she sneered. “Do you really think I need that kind of help? If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even be in this…”  she looked around in disdain “…place. But we both know there are certain services that only you can provide.”

Then it dawned on him. It had a been a long time, but now he realised what it was the blonde had awakened within him. It wasn’t lust. One does not lust after mythical beings, least of all female warriors charged with choosing who will fall in battle.

Aloysius Lark had a talent – unasked for and of unknown origin. He could spot a supernatural creature anywhere.

And they were everywhere, hiding among mortals in modern society. Forgotten, unrecognised and mostly powerless. Vampires, warlocks, goblins, the occasional ogre, elves… not to mention naiads and dryads searching for their spirit streams and trees years after they’d been cemented over.

People used to notice them, sometimes worshipped them, but mostly they shook pitchforks, lit torches or chucked Holy water in their general direction. These days, they didn’t bat an eyelid. Hardly surprising when many ‘ordinary’ people were scarier than a whole legion of demons.

Most of the supernaturals just wanted a quiet life – and Lark was happy to let them be.

He looked at the woman with new eyes. It was obvious now that his instincts were firing on all cylinders. The flowing blonde hair, the steely gaze, the Nordic features, the motorbike helmet with wings above each ear. Dammit, he could almost hear Wagner playing at the back of his head. He wondered how it hadn’t spotted it before.

“Call me Val,” she told him. “We must act fast. We’re talking about the end of the world.”

The dame meant business. Lark stubbed out his cigarette, pushed some empty burger boxes aside and started making notes.

The battle lines were being drawn up for the last fight for the fate of the world, she said. Forces were gathering in an evil alliance to claim the soul of every man, woman or child that had ever lived. Forces that were all the more powerful for being man-made, so the pantheon of mythical beings had to come together to resist them.

But there was the problem.

“The Angels of the Apocalypse,” she sighed. “I’ve tracked them all down – except one.”

Like her, they’d been living among men, waiting for the call. Orifiel, charged with declaring the coming of judgment day, was the harmless loon who haunted the Pret stand at Victoria Station begging for scraps and declaring the end was nigh. Gabriel was thinly disguised as a jazz musician playing gigs in a dingy Islington club. Haniel, the bringer of compassion, was better known as a Brenda, resident agony aunt on Radio Bridlington’s morning show.

But Zachariel, the healer who would lead the dead to judgment, had gone A.W.O.L. Last thing Val heard, Zach had been working in a nursing home in Billericay. Turned out he preferred that life. Now a reluctant angel, he simply hadn’t answered the call to report for the last great battle.

Lark suppressed a burp, rubbed his face and met her steady blue gaze. “Perhaps we should discuss the matter of my fee.”

She held up her hand, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“How about your immortal soul?”

Lark nodded meekly. This was no lady to argue with.

“Good. You’re hired,” she said. “Now, let’s get down to business.”


In the hallway, a sharp-suited man was bent, unseen, listening at the door. He nodded to himself, straightened up and pulled out his phone. With a flurry of thumbs, he tapped in a message and hit ‘Send’ with a vulpine grin before creeping down the stairs to the High Street.

He melted into the crowd, leaving nothing behind him but a faint fizz of brimstone.

Wednesday, 29 January 2020

The Alphabet Alliance

"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport."
- King Lear, William Shakespeare

A was the first to arrive. He knew the importance of staying one step ahead of his enemies, and two ahead of his friends. Ambition by name. Ambition by nature.

He strode to the head of the long table and sat down. With a click of the remote control, images filled the TV screen behind him, the sound muted.

A large, lumpen man with hair like straw and a dark business suit was beating a podium, his face contorting as he shouted slogans. A didn’t need the sound to know how the crowd greeted his words – the triumphant fist pump said it all.
He smiled. Everything was going fine.

A knock on the boardroom door.

“Come!” snapped A. He half-rose from his seat and motioned the woman who entered to take a place on his left. Mrs B sat and the TV flipped to burning crosses against the night sky.

“The Pastor will be with us soon,” a blush spread across her buttoned-up features. “We rode in together.”

“Ah yes, the good Reverend,” A nodded. “A great man. Couldn’t do without his firm moral compass.”

Angry demonstrators waved “GOD HATES FAGGOTS” banners as a middle-aged man with a clerical collar and suspiciously smooth face joined them.

“All praise!” he pronounced. “Our time has finally come.” He sat at A’s right hand without being bidden.

Next came a buxom blonde with a fake tan, false eyelashes and fur coat. In her wake, a woman who was her polar opposite - small, timid, birdlike, dressed in brown, eyes darting about in case of hidden dangers.

Mrs B snorted with contempt at the blonde, looked to the second woman and patted the seat beside her. “I saved you a place, Miss F.”

F darted over and sat on the edge of the seat, clutching her bag.

Unphased by the snub, the blonde threw herself onto a chair, and tipped the contents of her bag onto the tabletop. Make-up, cigarette packs, fast food wrappers, wet wipes and used coffee cups spilled out. Nestling among them was a gold lighter emblazoned with the slogan ‘Nothing succeeds like Excess’.

C was the last to arrive, all wild eyes and shambolic fashion sense speaking of deep hurt buried but never resolved.

“Typical Chaos,” B tutted to F, loud enough to be heard.

“Back off, sister! Have you seen the traffic out there?”

He pulled papers out his pockets, peered at them, dropped a burger wrapper and tried to smooth a crumpled page.

“We can’t all be perfect, Mrs Bigotry. You’ve got Judgement and Xenophobia on your side, not to mention Little Miss Fear here, and Dogma …” he nodded at the Pastor “…with his rules laying everything out in black and white.
“I got nothin’ like that. I’d like to see how you’d handle natural disasters and madmen who manoeuvre themselves into power.”

A coughed and shifted in his seat.

“Let’s begin,” he turned to his left. “Maybe you would like start?”

Mrs B straightened her spectacles and stood.

“We’ve been focusing on the media,” she said, clicking the TV remote. A hard-eyed woman baying into a microphone, a Twitter feed pock-marked with capital letters and exclamation marks, headlines screaming.

“Our well-known allies in the ‘War on Woke’: shock jocks, publicity-hungry celebrities, trolls and tabloids. But in the past few months, we’ve seen growing support from the so-called ‘serious’ media – something we would never have seen if not for the admirable work of Popularism.”

“Excellent,” said A. He cast a questioning glance at C, who was still searching for something in his backpack.

“Not yet,” came the reply.

A rolled his eyes – but a smile played on his lips. He turned to his right.

“Very well. Then, perhaps we can hear from the good Reverend?”

“Gladly,” said D. He took the remote control and clicked to a PowerPoint presentation. Every page was headed ‘The One True Way’. Graphs, maps and figures danced across the screen, dominated by an angry red arrow in a jagged upwards trend.

“Despite our concerns over rising secularism, we’re seeing a welcome resurgence of fundamentalism across the board.” Burning effigies slid onto the screen. “And not just in our heartland, where you’d expect. We’re seeing great work by Mullahs, Rabbis and even in some Buddhist strongholds.”

He smiled at F, cowering across the table. “Much of this can be attributed to our good friend Fear, as well as the excellent work of our agents in the field Ignorance, Oppression and Zealotry. Praise be.”

All eyes turned to C. Head down, he was still sorting through his papers.
A turned to Excess. “Madam E, if you’d be so kind?”

The big blonde flounced to the head of the table and posed before the TV which now showed mountains of plastic flaking fibrous strands into the wind.

“Our recycling campaign has been a HUGE success. We’ve convinced people that all they have to do is throw their trash in a different bin and they can carry on consuming with a clear conscience.”

On the screen, hessian bags sat in a shopping trolley with boxes, bags, vacuum-sealed vegetables and shrink-wrapped bananas.

“Meanwhile, our sideline businesses selling reusable cups, bottles, bags and more are seeing record sales – and 80% of households are repeat buyers. We’re on track to smashing our target, and making a tidy profit in the process.” 

Excess sat down and Miss F got to her feet. As she did, the image on the screen flipped again. An endless line of people snaked across the screen – every one of them young, male, dark-skinned and sinister. Bold red letters screamed ‘BREAKING POINT’ next to a frog-faced man in a grey business suit.

“We’ve been working with Mrs B and her team, and the results speak for themselves. Even among those who claim to embrace diversity, fear of the ‘other’ is at record levels.
“And whenever concessions are made, our response mechanisms are working like clockwork. Look no further than the conspiracies about cancelling Christmas and removing the word Easter from chocolate eggs. All excellent fuel for paranoia.”

A shot her a Cheshire Cat grin of approval, and she sat down.

Finally, it was the turn of Chaos. He gave up rifling through his papers and walked to the head of the table. The screen leapt into staccato action showing wildfires, looters, floods, caged children, riots, a boy carrying a gun as big as himself…

“It’s growing exponentially,” said C. “It’s clear we’re approaching the tipping point, from which there’s no return…” he gave a hollow laugh “…exactly as we planned.”

“Excellent work, Chaos – yet again,” said A. “But next time, please be ready when it’s your turn.”

C flipped A the finger behind his back.

“That’s something I never got. Why is it so goddamn important to have everything in ABC order?”

A sighed.

“It’s about symbols. The alphabet is a human creation. So are we.”

He settled back into his chair, a smirk smeared across his face.

“The signs are good. Project End Days is progressing well. You will all be rewarded – in this life or the next.”

In a spreading bruise of yellow, red and black, a familiar mushroom cloud filled the TV screen.

Wednesday, 4 December 2019


I’ll never forget my first Thursday afternoon in the newsroom. A siren cut through the air, and a low growl rattled beneath us. Nervous, unsure what to do, I looked around me. No-one turned a hair.

Wednesday, 9 October 2019

The Dotted Line

The morning silence was shattered as a woodpecker battered the trunk of an old beech tree in search of a snack. But it was another banging that woke Klaus from his drunken slumber. Someone was at the door.

He groaned - and immediately regretted it. It felt like a colony of mining dwarves was digging for gold in his head.

“Who izzit? What yer want?”

His mouth tasted like five-day-old moose droppings, and the scent of spilled alcohol, old chips, paper and ink filled his nostrils.

“Courier for you, sir.”

Klaus heaved himself to his feet, shuffled across the room and flung the door open… to no-one. A cough made him look down into the green eyes of Elvis, one of the workers who lived on the farm. He wore a beige shirt with a courier logo on his left breast.

“Moonlighting?” growled Klaus. “I could fire you for that.”

“No, you can’t. We haven’t signed this year’s contract yet.”

A box the size of a filing cabinet sat on the doorstep. Elvis nudged it with his toe: “That’s what this is all about.”

An envelope bearing the logo of the International Bureau of Folklore, Myth and Legends: Festive Events Division sat on top of the box. An angry ‘URGENT: Immediate response required’ was stamped on it. 

“Shit. So soon?”

“Well, it is October,” Elvis shrugged. “We’re already behind schedule. They want the contract back, signed and sealed, straight away.”

Klaus motioned the elf to bring the box inside, and swept some papers to one side on the tabletop. Puffs of exertion punctuated the progress of the box as it staggered blindly across the room. Klaus rolled his eyes, picked it up and put it on the table. Elvis crumpled into a heap on the floor, pulled a large spotted handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

The old man balanced his reading glasses on the end of his nose and tore the box open. It was full of requests from the most organised of kids - the annoying, anal-retentive ones who always sent their requests before the first leaves fell and made a god-awful fuss if they he got it wrong. He opened the first letter and squinted at the jumble of https, coms, //s and ¬¬¬¬_s .

He tossed it aside in disgust. “I’m too old for this.”

He took the sealed envelope and ripped it open with a nicotine-stained thumb. Fifteen sheets of clauses and sub-clauses in the kind of legalese that made an IKEA instruction leaflet seem straightforward plopped onto the table.

As he flipped through the pages, a wave of acid rose in his throat. Same as last year, and countless years before - ‘…for the duration of the three months commencing 10 October 2019…’ ‘…the 2nd party (hereafter referred to as “SC”) waives any and all rights to any previous identity…’  ‘…obliged to receive, read and sort submissions received …’  ‘…sole responsibility for the allocation of Naughty and Nice, and the consequences thereof…’  ‘…ensure the proper maintenance of sleigh and livestock for fast-track distribution …’  ‘…complete deliveries, regardless of location, within 24 hours of the date(s) stated in the addendum…’

Blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada. He’d seen it all before and he’d signed on the dotted line every year for as long as he could remember.

So why did it feel different this time?

Klaus reached for a pile of newspapers left unread over the past few weeks. 
The headlines didn’t do much for his mood.

Fear, fake news, bullying and discord fought ads and phoney sentiment to dominate the pages. Leaders acting like spoilt toddlers. Children being forced to lead when they should be playing. Floods, famine, drones delivering pizzas or raining death on those below. Macho posturing pushing humanity to one side. Dead whales with bellies full of plastic discarded in the name of convenience. People fleeing the unthinkable, only to be met by suspicion and stereotypes. Police prowling airports and shopping malls. Frantic shoppers pushing past the homeless as they battle to grab must-have luxuries that would quickly be forgotten.

Too much stuff. Not enough spirit.

“A-hem.” Elvis coughed discreetly from the floor.

“You still here, elf?”

“I’ve got to wait for your answer.”

“Not now. Later,” grumbled Klaus. “Bugger off.”

Elvis scuttered out, leaving the old man scowling at the table. Maybe he’d just sit at home and drink his way through the wine cellar this year. If he refused to sign or report for duty, would anyone notice?

He popped the cork on a bottle of port and poured himself a large glass. Then another. And another…

…it was the smell of cinnamon cookies that roused him. Like the ones his mama used to serve for Christmas morning breakfast. And there she was, sitting across the table telling him to drink up his milk so they could go see what Santa had left.

The freshly lit kitchen fire was crackling. Just a few crumbs sat on the plate he’d left on the hearth the night before, and the sherry glass next to it was empty.

“Hurry up, sweetheart.”

Klaus blinked at a nostalgic tear as his mother took a last drag on her cigarette and dropped it into her coffee cup.

“Yes, Mama,” he squeaked in a voice he’d forgotten was ever his. He drank his milk, jumped down from his chair and took her hand. She covered his eyes before opening the parlour door...

“Mister Klaus! Wake up!”

Elvis nearly poked the old man in the eye with his nose as he came to, the taste of cookies and his happy childhood Christmas still fresh on his tongue.

“You’ve got to sign. Now!” He elf handed him his sugar cane pen. “On the dotted line, like always.”

“Just like always,” sighed Klaus, as he scribbled his name.

Elvis breathed a sigh of relief, gathered up the contract and dashed out the door, relieved he could tell the other elves they wouldn’t be looking for work this year, after all.

Wednesday, 11 September 2019

Blessed Be The Fruit

Albert pulls the hood over his head, enjoying its smooth embrace as he fastens it in place. He shuts his eyes to focus on what lies ahead, preparing for his part in the solemn ritual. It’s nearly time, he tells himself, not long now. Unable to contain his curiosity, he crosses the small chamber and pushes the door open a crack. Just enough to see what is happening on the other side. What’s waiting for him. 

There they are, hundreds of them. Streaming in silently, filling the pews beneath the soaring sandstone arches. 

Where once sweet castrati voices had been offered up to the heavens, the only sound is shuffling of feet against the polished marble floor, a low murmur and the occasional cough. All eyes are turned to the High Altar. Desperation hangs in the air like a miasma. Though they are many, the crowd stands like a single creature, wounded, watching, hope oozing from its pores. Waiting.

Sulphur-tinged daylight lends a sepia hue to the jewel-bright colours of the stained glass windows that workers laboured over centuries ago, for the glory of God. But the religion the cathedral was built to serve is now long dead, its saints and martyrs no longer revered. Its nooks and nave now heave with living bodies pressed against statues of forgotten knights, bishops and patrons.

No Eucharist is performed at the altar where priests once shared the body and blood of Christ to congregations hungry for redemption. Instead, a large glass dome stands before it, hermetically sealed against the acrid air. Inside stand two trees, each as tall as three men, with broad, glossy leaves spread like splayed green hands over their branches. They echo the idyllic image in the first of the tryptic of windows that rise up behind the chancel. A vision of the beginning of the world, unspoiled, unsullied, innocent, populated by one man and one woman. Adam and Eve, unashamed and naked but for some strategically placed foliage, in the Garden of Eden.

And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.”
– Genesis 2: 16-17

The trees in the dome are fig trees – one male, one female. Their fruit a symbol of fertility, like a ripe womb, considered by some the original source of temptation in God’s first garden. That temptation is seen in the second window, a snake twisted around the trunk as it whispers enticements into Eve’s ear.

These are the only living trees left anywhere on the planet. Beyond the dome, every leaf, flower and blade of grass has withered or been burned and stripped away. The sky is tinged with an ominous ochre, the land a uniform sea of grey-beige cement. The oceans are reduced to a listlessly heaving mass of flotsam that will never rot nor sink. No squawk of birds or buzz of insects joins the hum of human occupation – they haven’t for more than a generation.

And yet, congregations still gather at the cathedrals to worship and pray.

The crowd looks to its left at the sound of a small door at the side of the nave opening. They follow Albert’s slight, bent figure as he steps out and pads his cushion-soled way to the altar. He’s the chief attendant, dressed not in the priestly robes or vestments of past centuries but a hooded bio-suit and perspex face mask. Moving with the reverence of the most pious supplicant, he takes a card from the bag slung around his body, places it into the slot at the opening to the dome, unlocks the outer door and enters. Closing it behind him, he turns and steps through the second door into the trees’ realm.

Albert is a horticulturist, the last of an almost-dead breed. At nearly 160, medical science has ensured that his mind is still clear and multiple laser surgeries have kept his vision sharp. His movements are painful despite his many implants, yet driven by the urgency of his mission. Named after the patron saint of scientists, Albert is a mere mortal, decades beyond his prime and wracked with doubt and desperation. The load he carries is a heavy one. The hopes of the world lie on his shoulders. Hopes for a green resurrection. Rebirth.

It’s time to begin the ritual. He plucks two small buds from the male tree, cuts them open and taps out their pollen into a sterilized steel bowl before gathering the precious dust into a syringe. Then he takes a needle and passes it all the way through the single fruit hanging from the female tree. Into the hole it leaves, he injects the pollen and, lifting his mask a little, gently blows into the hole like a kiss on the wind - just to be sure.

In the third window above him, the faces of the man and woman are twisted with fear and anguish. No longer naked, they’re covered with rough tunics as they flee an angry angel charged with their punishment.

And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.
– Genesis 3: 22-23

A deep sense of peace passes through Albert’s bones. His mission is complete, his purpose fulfilled. He is done. He turns and faces the crowd.

With shaking hands, he removes his mask completely. As he slips his hood down, the halogen light glints off his delicate pink scalp dotted with age spots and wispy white hair. The gloves go next, freeing him to unzip the bio-suit and step buck-naked out of it. His meatless buttocks sag loosely as he turns to face the trees. He raises his arms to them in tribute then brings his hands together in prayer. The crowd responds with a mass murmur rippling through the pews:

“Blessed Be The Fruit.”

Albert is spent. His time is over. These are his last moments, and he is claiming them. He sits creakily cross-legged at the foot of the mother tree and leans his head against her trunk. His eyes flutter and close as he breathes a long sigh of contentment. Beneath his lids dance visions of juicy red-fleshed figs plucked from the trees in the sunlit gardens of his youth more than a century and a half ago. He has regained his paradise. Only time will tell if he is alone.

The ritual is complete, but the congregation does not leave. Even after Albert’s chest rises and falls gently for the last time, they refuse to go. This is where they need to be. There is no fear on their faces, just weariness and resignation pricked with faith. 

Reluctant to return to the harsh, leafless world beyond the cathedral walls, they sit and wait. For a miracle. For a resurrection. For the glory of what they once had, but have lost forever.

Wednesday, 14 August 2019

The Artisan

A strip of old blue paint flakes off the door as I lift the latch. It falls to the ground, resting on the overgrown grass like a petal shed from one of Nana’s beloved cornflowers. 
The door opens with a creak and I peer into the gloom. Weak rays of sunlight filter through the windows at the back of the workroom, smeared with years of dust and neglect. The light dances clumsily on tarp-shrouded humps whose shape I remembered so well. Musty air catches in my throat. It speaks of being sealed like a tomb, a memorial to the most practical of men whose tools now lie obsolete.

There’s a hint of wood chips in the air. Very faint, like a distant memory, but enough to recall countless pieces cut, shaped and smoothed to exactly the right shape and size.
In the corner, covered by an ancient oil cloth, sits the abandoned power saw. Next to it, shoved unceremoniously against the wall, is the workbench. His workbench.

August 1976:

It had been a long, hot English summer. Quite unlike anything I’d ever known in my 11 years. June, July and now August had hardly seen a spot of rain. At first it was fun, running around the garden like little savages in swimsuits, splashing about in paddling pools, turning a fierce shade of pink whose heat kept us awake at night.

Then the hosepipe ban came into force. The sun kept beating down. Grandad’s carefully tended lawns turned dry and yellow. The flowers in the herbaceous borders drooped like surrendering soldiers. The dank, green-tinged rainwater in the butt behind the shed was soon used up on the thirsty tomatoes.

With no hosepipe to frolic around with, we quickly tired of playing outside at our grandparents’ house whilst our parents were working. We’d read all our books, climbed all the trees, explored the woods at the back of garden (now parched and buzzing with insect life), and built as many play camps as we could with old bean sticks and blankets from the shed.

Biscuits had been baked, raspberries and green beans picked, peas shucked from their pods, tomatoes gathered from the tangy-sweet smelling greenhouse.

We had became blasé to the heat whose novelty was now quickly waning.

We were bored. And boredom is a dangerous thing in pre-teen sisters.

I wipe the grime from the heavy cloth and yank it down onto the floor. Mindful of grandad’s meticulous ways and half fearful he’s still watching me, I bend to fold it neatly and place it to one side.

The workbench sits there patiently, just it has for more than half a century, waiting to be useful. The vice is slightly ajar, ready to tighten its grip whenever needed. There is still a slick of ancient Vaseline on the thread of its screw to ward off the rust that dots the handle and the screws holding it in place. Faded numbers mark the inches along the length of the bench. A carpenter’s pencil, its broad flattened tip sharpened with a Stanley knife, nestles in one of the grooves.

I bend closer and breathe in. A faint but still powerful cocktail hits my nostrils - stale sawdust, the sweet tangy tobacco he rolled into five cigarettes per day (three for breaks and one after his midday and evening meals), the strangely plastic scent of the neon pink gel he used to clean heavy duty dirt from his hands. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear his calm countryman’s voice telling me the right way to hold the chisel.

The whirring squeeea of the circular saw stopped abruptly as our girlish voices rose to crescendo. The workroom door opened, and he stepped out, fixing us with a gaze that silenced us in an instant. It wasn’t his style to scold or shout at us. He didn’t need to. We knew he expected better of us.

“I think you two need to do something useful,” he said. “Why don’t you give me a hand in here?”

The card game we had been playing was deserted on the parched prickly lawn. We rushed to the doorstep and put on our shoes (no bare feet in the workroom) and joined him at the door. He smiled and led us over the threshold into the cool within.


September 1989:
The workbench was shoved to the side of the room. The floor around it littered with scrunched up newspapers and with spent dog ends. The circular saw and all sharp tools were banished, locked away, for safety’s sake. The workroom was locked. Hadn’t been opened for months.

Grandad was spending most of his time sitting in his armchair by now, staring into space. The twinkle in his eyes extinguished. His hands, unaccustomed to idleness, picking at the upholstery. When he got up to potter around the garden, someone had to go with him to be sure he didn’t wander off. We’d learned that lesson when he disappeared - only to be returned by the local bobby. Everyone knew the man who’d built so many village houses, and where he lived – even when he didn’t.

Lived. Past tense. He wasn’t living any more. Not the active, useful life which was the only way he knew. He was a moving shell housing the faintest whisper of the man he once was. Some days, he didn’t even remember his own name.

He didn’t know who Nana was. He knew she looked after him, and that he loved her. Assumed she was his mother.

Some days, he went outside to howl his rage and frustration at the heavens.

August 1976:
A stack of neatly cut lengths of timber lay on the floor. He handed a pencil to my sister and showed her how to measure and mark the pieces to the length against the inches on the workbench top. For me, a square block with sandpaper wrapped around it to smooth any splinters from the wood held tight in the vice’s grip. 

Cutting the wood and handling sharp tools was his job. But he called us both over to watch him work, always making sure we kept a safe distance as he operated the saw and carefully carved out holes with a chisel. He was calm, methodical, benevolent. Nothing in his capable weathered hands or mischievous blue eyes to say girls had no place in the workroom. An Equal Opportunities grandfather.

Hours passed in contented industry. Measuring, sanding, sawing and carefully fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. When we were finished, two stools sat amid a pile of sweet-smelling shavings. We didn’t even whine when he handed us brooms and a dustpan to clear up the mess. Our fights were forgotten, and there were two new pieces of furniture for the play house built on top of what had been a bomb shelter in the dark days of war.

December 1989:
The last time I saw him was in the care home. Defeated and confused by his unfamiliar surroundings, he still had moments of lucidity. Those moments were the worst – a reminder that he knew what he had become but could do nothing to escape his internal prison cell.
He looked into my eyes – the same blue as my Mum’s and my Nana’s – and said “I know those eyes so well”.

I tried – and failed - to cheer him with talk about the plants in the surrounding gardens.

“They’re dying now, just like me,” he said. Then, after a heavy pause: “I want you to go and get my shotgun.”

I looked at him, unsure what to say. He sank back into the depths of himself and was lost again.

By Christmas Day, he was dead.

August 1976:
After a glass of lemon squash and slice of cake in the sunshine as Grandad smoked his fourth roll-up of the day, we returned to our work. He had laid newspapers under the stools. A sharp chemical smell filled the air as he opened a tin of varnish with the flick of his long-handled screwdriver.

We sat cross-legged on the ground in front of the stools, each holding a brush and listened obediently as he told us how to apply the varnish to the naked wood without leaving streaks or loose badger hairs.

We were very proud when we completed the task. Even more so when he tipped the stools to show us the underside of their seats. While we’d been finishing off the crumbs of Nana’s sponge cake, he had added a hidden inscription to each in bold letters: our names, the date and the honourary title ‘Apprentice Carpenter’.

August 1990:
I woke up in a cold sweat, shaking and in tears. Horrified and heartbroken at the betrayal my sub-conscious had committed.

It had started as a simple childhood memory of Nana and Grandad’s house. But like so often in dreams, the details were off. The road in front of the house was different. The layout of the house was skewed. The garden back-to-front.

The worst inaccuracy, the greatest betrayal, was Grandad. He wasn’t the gentle, patient, thoroughly decent man who’d played such an important role in our happy childhood. In my nightmare, he was a monster, harsh, sadistic, with vicious sharp teeth. We cowered in the corner of the shed, aghast and shaking with terror as we watched this monster grab the baby from the pram left in the garden next door and take off with an evil grin on its cruel, alien face.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

How could I have dreamed such a thing? What was wrong with me that my mind could defile his memory in such a way?

Now it’s time to banish that monster and exorcise the false ghosts. To reclaim my memories of a golden childhood denied to so many.

The house is being sold. The buyers have plans to modernise, so the workroom, play house and sheds will probably be bulldozed to make way for decking, bamboo curtains, water features and a barbecue pit.

I pull the workbench from its corner, brush the debris off and test if the handle on the vice still turns. It does. Good.

I take the pieces of wood I’ve brought with me, cut by hands more expert than mine, and set about sanding them down with the long, unhurried movements he had taught me. When they are as smooth as satin, I fit them together like a poor man’s Rubik’s cube and secure them with plates and screws.

Three coats of varnish, and it’s ready. A stool. Like the ones we made all those years ago.
It just needs one final touch.

I tip it over and write under the seat: “Artisan – then, now and always.”