Ouse Bridge, about 1928

By Laetitia Marion Hamilton (1878 – 1964)

I was always waiting at my end of the bridge over this river. That's where we'd meet, Me and Alfred that is. We went out two or three times a week and he was always one for being late. Yet again, that night, he was late.

We'd been going together for almost three years then; it was three, I counted. So I was thinking we should move on in our relationship; you know, as you're supposed. Move on somewhere, not sure where, but move on. I had tried mentioning other boys, but, alas, nothing could provoke him into being jealous, not Alfred.

To try and force something out of him, that night, I was going to suggest a trial separation. Didn't like the idea, but I couldn't think of anything better, not when dealing with Alfred. If he did not respond then this was going nowhere. Better to move on and find someone else. I loved him, but you simply have to be practical.

When, at last, he arrived we went into a nearby pub, just along the waterfront, where we usually go. Just the few regulars in the room.

Later in the evening I managed to get the idea out; I suggested the separation. Having made my announcement we sat there in silence. He always did that when he didn't like something. Alfred just calmly drank his beer. He was never one to waste good beer. Then he got up and left; walked out just like that. It was then I started to cry, head in hands crying, others looking on, it was not the outcome I wanted.

Now, whenever I see this bridge, I wonder if I did the right thing. We never did see each other again.

The Volunteers, 1860

By Frederick Daniel Hardy (1826 – 1911)

See these children, take them, take them outside, strip them, strip them all. Then take them, drag them, to the open field with the canons prepared, lined up, ready. Shackle them to the barrels, make the ropes tight, their fate is preordained. There will be no entreaties, no pleas for mercy.

Call the drummer to strike up and to his beat light the fuses; one-by-one. Now watch their little bodies be blown to bits in a cloud of bloody smoke. All that will be left is their arms and legs, their blackened heads falling to the ground with a resounding thud. And the air filled with smoke, dust and a mist of blood; listen to the unholy echo, fading.

Of course I would not do this to these particular children, to my children, to these little darlings playing here. But I did it, not so long ago, to young men not that much older; men with brown skins and smelling foreign. Such an act might have been in the newspapers had it been performed in this country. But it was not; no such act is noteworthy when performed far away in India. Out of sight of civilisation and as revenge for a mutiny.

I remember long ago marching behind a similar drum as a child, dreaming of the intransigence of empire and of service to God and country; of the noble deed and valour in the face of the heathen. As we youngsters played the rest of the family gaily watching on; cheering. Later, of growing up, so quickly growing up, and that joyful moment of enlistment, and the tears when I first walked off, so proudly, to the railway station.

My father, here, standing behind me, was also a military man, but he never hinted at the miserable reality, not then in this our bright playroom. But I, also, am too ashamed to speak.

Book Review – Some Books on Writing

I've been reading a few books on the craft of writing recently. And if I've learnt one thing it is that mostly you're be better off spending the equivalent time reading and thinking about classic novels. Now don't get me wrong; most of these books contain reasonable advice. What they say is mostly true; and despite the claims on the cover to some unique insight they all contain pretty much the same advice; just each book gives it a minor twist in its presentation. However most this reading is a yawn; how come writing about writing is so boring? And mostly it somehow misses the point.

There seems to be a pattern to the kind of author who writes these books. (With only a few notable exceptions like Stephen King.) Obviously each author started out with a love of writing and wanting to earn their living from their craft. Each has achieved a modicum of success, enough to produce a CV that looks impressive, until you realise you've never heard of anything they've written. In order to expand their income they've taken to editing or acting as a writing consultant or taken on teaching. And then they spent most of their time running workshops on writing or trapped in some more or less formal classroom. From then on most of their time has been spent in such ancillary writing tasks. What has ground to a halt is their first love: any kind of original creative writing.

Book Review – The Snowman by Jo Nesbo

The first thing that catches the eye is what appears to be a sticker on the book's cover; the same sticker, in a variety of colours, appears on the cover of other books by Nesbo. On closer inspection, and to my disappointment, the 'sticker' is printed and could not be pealed off.

The 'sticker' makes a bold claim. It reads: 'THE NEXT STIEG LARSSON' INDEPENDENT. A claim that invites comparison; and such comparisons may not always be flattering.

By way of investigation lets take what, at first, seems a wild detour. Marco Aurelio Zani de Ferranti (1801 – 1878) was a nineteenth century classical guitarist and composed many likeable works for his instrument. (Simon Wynberg provides a useful biography of this musician.) Zani de Ferranti knew the great violin virtuoso Niccolò Paganini and made use of this association. He was one of a number of guitarist – and other instrumentalist who did a similar thing – who labelled himself as a sort of Paganini of the guitar. Zani de Ferranti had more claim than many to this title having a testimonial from Paganini himself.

Zani de Ferranti was a good performer and composer; there's no doubt about this; his music deserves a place in the repertoire. And, in fact, it deserves to be performed more often than it is currently. But will his music ever replace more established classics? No; definitely not. The comparison with Paganini tells us something: Zani de Ferranti was good, even very good, he's well worth listening to. But he was never as good as Paganini. Given a choice Paganini wins every time. There never was a time when Paganini would have been called: the Zani de Ferranti of the violin.

Still Life of Fruit, Flowers and a Bird's Nest on a Marble Ledge

By Jan Van Os (1744 – 1808)

You wouldn't think our little village show would engender such bitterness. But it does; so it does. You see, every year me and Myra would enter the floral competition down at the village hall. It's not much of a show, not much of a competition; and not much of a prize. Just some printed out certificate from the vicars PC and a supermarket gift voucher. I won't mention the name of the supermarket; it's something so down market, I never go there myself – though Myra did. I swear she, Myra that is, she was too friendly with the judges, there was something going on there, sure there was. She was like that; Myra that is. She had always been a bit too chummy with those on the parish council; there was gossip there was, don't take my word for it.

So this floral competition: for years now, she would get first prize and I would get second; like I said, she was too chummy with the judges. That's always niggled me. Just once in my life I'd like to be first. Then, this year, she passed away, didn't go to the funeral, wasn't invited. So I thought: my turn. At last my turn has come. So I pulled out all the stops. Spent weeks designing this; looks too much like an oil painting in this picture; but it was good, really good, even though I say so myself. And what happens? Third. Blooming third; those judges again.

I've been criticised for making my displays look too old fashioned. Well they are old fashioned; I'm getting on a bit now; so I am old fashioned in every possible way. What do they expect?

The judges complained that putting a doll in there looked a bit sinister. But I never thought of it that way. It was just my memory of my former rival; a little joke you see; Myra looking out from the grave; but they didn't like my little joke.

Look at her, this new winner she's behaving like some third rate Prima Donna. I can't be doing with that. And she ain't been in the village more than a year. She moved into Myra's old bungalow; some lawyer or something, it would be wouldn't it. And she's already well in with the parish council; well she would be. At least me and Myra had some dignity. We were always polite, didn't go lording it about over everyone. Look at her now; swanning about; it's a disgrace.

So Myra still beat me from beyond the grave. This is the last time for me. I doubt I'll see another year out. That's it for me; I'll die a looser.

Book Review – The Strange Death of Liberal England by George Dangerfield

George Dangerfield's The Strange Death of Liberal England (1935) is one of those books that has been on my 'must read' list for something like twenty years. It's a well known classic, at least on the left, though more 'well known' when I first heard about it than today. A book with a reputation like this can often disappoint. The myths created in your mind dissipate when you finally get round to opening the volume. That is, when the historical turmoil that made it essential reading have long since passed. Fortunately this book did not disappoint.

We are living in times when the subject of this book is very apt; more apt than when I purchased this volume; a whole £2.95. There seems to be a significant parallel between the events described and those of today. In both cases liberal values are threatened as society tumbles into crisis – both political and economic. Today's British ConDem coalition government only proves that when it comes to political practice, what politicians actually do when in office is nothing remotely like the values they espouse when trying to gain election.

The whole book is filled with a brilliant mixture of nostalgia and cynicism for an age that was dying. A more establishment historian would have concentrated on the nostalgia and produced a phony tomb detailing parliamentary debates and the exultant deeds of so called great men. He/she would have missed the social context and the real forces at work shaping those ideas. And above all missed the deep hypocrisy of the establishment figures involved. A more socialist writer then the liberal Dangerfield would have concentrated more on the cynicism. While this alternative may have been factually truer with Dangerfield the cynicism is all the more biting coming from a believer. (Just like some of the most vengeful critiques of religion come from those once hoodwinked into believing.)

Dovecot, 2007

Ceramic by Paul Young

We hardly speak now. Live in the same house, hear him snore every night, but he rarely says a word; not to me anyway. Now he's retired he spends most of his time out back; out there; out in his shed, horrible, draughty wooden thing it is. Out there he is, with his miserable birds; dam pidgins. I hate the things, mess all over the place; vermin I say; flying rats.

One time, I thought, I'd show an interest; you know, see what all fuss was about. Couples are supposed to have something to talk about; something to share. So I spotted this thing; down high street it was; little shop sells ornaments and bits; nice stuff but a but pricey for likes of us. Wasn't cheep; not cheep at all. Had to save up for it. Put a few pennies aside out of the bit of housekeeping he gives me. Anyway, weeks later popped in for it; snooty woman behind counter looked down on me like; but I'm as good as any one and I gets it. Pleased with myself I was.

See it's an ornamental dovecot, birds and everything. Wrapped it all up; all nice like; made a fuss of it. Only he laughed at me; laughs at me he did. There's a first time for everything, never heard him laugh since, never did it much before either.

I keep it here, right on top of the telly. Right here where he'll see it every night. Right when he's having his dinner. Just to annoy him. I can see he don't like it; it's not authentic enough; so I make sure he has to look at it.

He's out there now; with his birds; he talks to them.

Six Jugs, 2007

Ceramic by Philip Eglin

“Look what I've found,” said a boy excitedly to his brother. They had been digging in this disused quarry looking for fossils. That morning they had not found much. Until now.

“Look here's another one. Another jug,” said the brother, prodding the ground with some stick used as a makeshift spade.

“How many do you think there are?”

The brother shrugged and examined what he'd just ripped from the ground. “Do you think they're old? They look old.”

“If they're old we could be rich.”

“If mum's rich dad will have to come back.”

“Keep digging.”

Half a cup, please, 2006

Ceramic by Penelope Batley

“This is nice... lots of sugar, nice and sweet... just the way I like it, you know the way I like it... nice and sweet... nothing like a good cup of tea, that's what I always say... it's good we can let bygones be bygones... talk again... just like the old days... before the divorce and all that... now that wasn't a happy time for either of us... but lets not talk about that... surprised you phoned... even more surprised you wanted to see me... yeah, that did surprise me... nice here... never been here before... had a bit of trouble finding it... it's a bit out of the way... nice though... on the phone you said you're emigrating... that's nice, glad to see you're moving on... got to let go of the past sometime... me and... all right, I wont talk about her... you didn't say where you're going... surprised you wanted to talk, I can say... after what you said last time... still, that's all in the past... best forgotten... we can still be friends... I always said we could be friends... for the sake of the kids... they're grown up now... though Katie will still not talk to me... she'll come round in the end... you'll see... good we can sit here and chat... you're not saying much... it was always you that did the talking... we did have some good times, at the beginning anyway... I could do with another half cup, my throat still feels dry... you look a bit apprehensive... anything wrong... no need to cry... it'll be all right... mind you I feel a bit of indigestion coming on myself... must be something I ate...”

The Wave, 1898

By Roderick O'Conor (1860 – 1940)

I often come and look out there; to stand on this desolate embankment and look out over the sea; hoping to view The Wanderer on the horizon. A dim dot disappearing and revealing itself, growing larger, and yes it really is. But I know it will never happen, not after all this time. He's out there somewhere.

We were never happy, had to marry him. They said 'you'll have to pay for your fun,' but I never had any fun. Not up against the back wall; him drunk forceful.

Most of the time he was out there. But I paid the price when he came back, yes I paid the price.

He was jealous, for a long time I never knew what about. I never had any time to make him jealous, what with all the young'uns he forced on me. Nothing I did could please him, no nothing. So I decided to give him something to be jealous about. That's when I fell in love for the first time. Not some pretty lad for sure; he was older; set in his ways; and kind. The bast I was going to get.

I was going to divorce him when he came back. We were going to go somewhere, anywhere, away from the sea, start a new life, in a town. And there are not many who will take on another man's children.

But he never came back. The only time I wanted him back he never came back. What could I do? I was still married and no one will wait forever, not round here.

He's out there somewhere. He left me but I never got rid of him. It's too late now; all I can do is look out there.