Christmas story 2 of 3

 

Over the years I’ve been asked to contribute a Christmas story to a variety of publications. In the next few days I’ll feature some of them. Here is ‘The Trilby Hat’ which was read on BBC Forces Radio Malta in 1975 and published in The Portsmouth Post magazine in 2003, after some judicious tinkering. It is one of 18 historical stories in Codename Gaby, my fourth collection of stories, here.

THE TRILBY HAT

Portsmouth, England, 1995

It was a snow-laden Christmas Eve. Police Constable Paul Knight was approaching the end of his shift and glad of it as he rounded the corner of Fenchurch Street.

Then he saw them. Two youths. Faces partly covered by woollen scarves, they were leaning threateningly over an old man in a snow-heaped gutter. Paul broke into an unsteady run, careful lest he slipped on ice. It looked like Alfred Munro, the loner.

Wisps of breath gushing out of his mouth, Paul lifted the cold whistle to his blue lips.

The two muggers froze at the shrill noise.

‘The filth!’ one of them yelled.

Paul was barely yards from them when his boots slipped. Although he retained his balance, the few seconds delay gave the two thugs time to scurry off.

He was tempted to follow, but Alfred seemed in a bad way. There was no blood or obvious injury, but the old man was sobbing.

‘It's all right, Alfred,’ he said. ‘They've run off.’ He helped the frail old man up.

Alfred wiped his blood-shot eyes. ‘I - I'm all right,’ he wheezed, ‘But - it's my hat - they stole my trilby.’

Thinking back, Paul did recall one of the youths had worn a hat. They must have been baiting Alfred. He flushed hotly. ‘I'll see what I can do,’ Paul promised, not holding out much hope.

But Alfred didn't seem to hear. ‘Must get it back - You see, I've had it nigh on fifty-two years. Christmas...’

***

The war was in its fifth Christmas.

Alfred gazed at the 1943 calendar with its popular painted scene of skating on the Thames in the days of Queen Bess.

He thought about Liz, his wife, who died six years ago.

Thank God she missed this terrible war.

He looked around the cosy room: utility furniture, an embroidered pouf, a wicker basket sewing box and a well-placed chintz-covered suite that concealed the thread-bare carpet's many patches, whilst the dining table stood cluttered with the remains of their frugal evening meal.

The tiny coal fire flickered warmly in the tiled fire-place, its firelight reflected from the far corner where stood the proud Christmas tree, a battered fairy perched precariously on top; sparkling tinsel was draped over the branches. The tub, tightly packed with fresh black soil was wrapped with brown paper, which had been painted by Connie, his grand-daughter.

The other decorations were sparse, but for all that the festive season shone from wherever Alfred looked.

There was a gaiety, a family warmth, an atmosphere here that no war could possibly destroy.

Beyond the shielding hills of their small Hampshire town, air-raid sirens wailed.

Alan, his son-in-law stopped playing with Connie on the hearth-rug. ‘They seem closer tonight, Pop,’ he said.

Denise, his daughter, paused from her knitting and her troubled eyes sought Alfred.

He forced a smile of reassurance. ‘We've nothing worth bombing.’ Accepting this, they returned to their own amusements, whilst Alfred smiled contentedly to himself and looked at his daughter.

She's grown into a fine woman, he thought. Liz would have been proud of her. A full- no, a comely - figure, married so young, with her mother's auburn hair and hazel eyes aglow in the firelight. But she possessed his stubbornness.

And the memories flooded back. With an effort he blinked them away.

Yes, and Alan made a good husband. Denise was lucky to have Alan home, in a reserved occupation in the dockyard. Alan stood by her side, his thick spectacles reflecting the fairy lights.

He just had to look at young Connie there, the best of both of them already noticeable in her. Precocious, certainly, with a will of her own at times, but a little darling with it. He spoiled her unashamedly. And Denise scolded him, but she didn't mind, not really. Surely all grand-fathers are the same.

In a few more hours they would be opening their gifts. But he couldn't face that yet; it still sorely reminded him of Liz and how they used to dote over Denise... Perhaps next year the wound would have healed sufficiently, though of course never completely; he didn't want to forget her, just to deaden the hurt at times like this.

Reluctantly he rose from his comfortable chair. ‘Denise.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Denise, I think I'll be off now. It's getting late for me - and for you, Connie - Father Christmas will want to climb down the chimney soon...’

Connie giggled excitedly at mention of Santa.

Denise bundled her knitting into an embroidered bag. ‘As you wish, Dad.’ She helped him on with his great-coat.

‘Granda!’ Connie shouted, crushing herself against his legs. ‘You can't go yet. You haven't had your present.’

Alfred patted his coat-pockets, each filled with a package from Denise and Alan to open first thing tomorrow morning before his return here for lunch. ‘But I have. I wouldn't forget these.’

Connie shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Granda! No, you haven't had mine!’

Alfred noticed a puzzled look between Denise and Alan. Apparently, then, their daughter had kept her secret well.

Perhaps their neighbour had bought the present. With great ceremony his grand-daughter walked to the under-stairs cupboard and tossed out two gas-masks in cardboard boxes then handed over a large brown-paper parcel. It seemed to be a gift-wrapped boot-box.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said and he leaned forward to kiss her.

But she backed away, lips pouted. ‘Aren't you going to open it now, Granda?’

‘But it isn't Christmas yet.’ He pointed to the mantel clock. ‘A few hours to midnight, you see?’

‘Please, Granda,’ she pleaded, face slightly pulled.

‘Well... all right, but only if you promise to stop making faces.’

She stopped almost at once, changing her grimace into a mischievous smile.

Slowly and carefully he unwrapped the gift.

‘Hurry, Granda.’

It was an old boot-box. He lifted the lid and the sight took his breath away. Nestling amidst a bed of tissue paper was a brown trilby hat, its brim slightly bent so it would fit into the confines of the box.

‘Put it on, Granda!’

He swallowed hard but the lump in his throat persisted. Alan and Denise smiled.

Removing the hat reverently from the box, he knelt in front of her. ‘No, you put it on for me, Connie.’

She almost knocked him over as she dashed to do just that.

As it finally sat snuggly, a perfect fit, he held Connie at arm's-length and asked if she thought it suited him.

‘Oh, yes! You look just like a Granda. Really important.’

And they all laughed.

Then he suddenly lifted her high, almost touching her head to the ceiling. Connie shrieked happily.

Presently, he lowered her and kissed her flushed cheeks.

‘Well, merry Christmas, everybody,’ he wished them as he walked to the door with Connie's small hand in his. He carefully wrapped his long woolly scarf round his neck, criss-crossed his chest then buttoned up his great-coat. ‘I must go now, Connie.’

Denise opened the front door.

The cold air made them all gasp. The snow still fell silently, lending a bright peaceful glow to the otherwise drab street.

‘I'll keep this hat always. I promise,’ he said.

Connie's little chest swelled and her smile seemed to fill the doorway. Alan held his daughter back. ‘Merry Christmas, Granda!’ she said.

Shivering in the cold air, Denise whispered, ‘Is the hat all right, Dad?’ He nodded. She then whispered, ‘It was a gift to Alan from his poor Mum, but he doesn't like hats... We didn't know Connie'd planned this - ‘

‘It's all right, love. It's a smashing present. Now, go back in, it's cold out here. I'll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner...’

Quickly he stepped onto the crisp snow. Flakes wisped onto his shoulders and the brim of his new hat. He waved. ‘Merry Christmas!’ His voice echoed through the snow-filled night.

Far-off could be heard the crump of bombs and ack-ack, but not here.

At that moment a whistle shrilled. An ARP warden came running up the street. ‘Put that light out!’ he called.

Turning, Alfred noticed the hall light on and his family silhouetted in the doorway. Hurriedly waving, they closed the door and the house darkened.

Further over to the east he spotted searchlights. The snow was like dust in a light-beam. Tracer and ack-ack blossomed, more reminiscent of Guy Fawkes than Christmas Eve.

He then took off his hat and wiped the snow-deposits away. It was a beautiful hat. Really good quality and hard-wearing. Yes, it would last for years.

The sudden whistling alerted him first. A terrible coldness clutched his heart. The bomb cluster was close and there wasn't an air-raid shelter near.

He froze fearfully to the spot, panic weakening his limbs.

Seconds later, the explosion's impact reached him, blinding yellow and red, the shock waves throwing him painfully to the sludge on the road.

All around stark blasts deafened him. Flashes of light and flames sprouted everywhere. Black smoke mush-roomed into the wintry night sky.

Still giddy, he regained his feet. A sickly knowing feeling in the pit of his stomach gave strength to his ageing legs. Ignoring the dull ache of a bruised hip and shoulder, he rushed back to the ruin.

An ARP warden and a couple of neighbours were already sifting through the rubble, even though the dust cloud hadn't settled yet.

Mercifully the houses on either side had been spared, only their windows shattered, a few roof slates dislodged.

Alfred stood, unable to move, and his mouth felt very dry. Somewhere a fire bell clanged, and another.

A fractured water-main gushed high, sparkling in the torch-light.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Alfred knelt by the debris where the front of the house had been. ‘Here!’ he cried out to the frantic helpers. ‘They were here!’ And he started heaving bricks to one side, gashing his knees and hands in his haste, heedless of the cold.

The ARP warden who shouted the warning earlier was soon panting by his side. ‘They won't have known what happened, mate. It will've been over quick. A direct hit, you see?’

Two hours later Alfred collapsed, exhausted, after they unearthed the battered Christmas tree. Miraculously, the fairy survived intact. The ARP carried him to the doorstep next door. There, a kindly neighbour gave him a chipped metal mug of sweet tea.

Now, shakily, he got to his feet and shuffled over to identify them. His whole family, wiped out. He would never forget the joyous look on little Connie's face, he thought, gripping his trilby hat tight.

***

Paul Knight was on his way home when he heard scuffling in the dark. He flashed the beam of his torch across the nearby waste-land and relaxed. It was only a fox.

Then he picked out the shape of a battered hat and he recalled the incident earlier with old Alfred. Could this be his trilby? It looked the same colour. But it was so timeworn, and crumpled.

The hat felt dry though cold and it was reasonably clean. It hadn't been lying here long, then. The label was faded but he could just make out GRANDA and LOVE. Might as well call round on my way home, he decided, and tucked it inside his overcoat.

The dawn light was streaming down the deserted street as Paul walked up to the door. A few curtains twitched in the neighbouring terraced houses even at this hour. He rang once, his eyes drawn to the flaking paintwork.

The door opened. A musty smell greeted him, of untended dust, of age. Alfred stood shivering in his worsted trousers, shirt sleeves and braces. In the weak hall light Paul noticed a bruise under the old man's left eye. ‘You all right?’

Alfred nodded, eyes questioning.

‘I think I recognised those louts,’ Paul continued. ‘Would you come to an identity parade?’

Alfred's three remaining teeth shone as he smiled. ‘Yes, it'll be a bloody great pleasure.’ He hesitated on the doorstep. ‘It was good of you to call. Erm, come in.’

‘No, I can't stop. I'm expected home,’ Paul explained. He rummaged inside his coat. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked awkwardly, handing over the aged trilby hat.

The expression on Alfred's face had Paul worried for a moment. Then the old man seemed to collect himself. ‘You've made me very happy, constable.’ Tears gathered around his weak grey eyes.

Feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, Paul backed away and bid Alfred good-morning.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Alfred called after him. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Paul waved.

He couldn't understand it. It was as though he had bestowed some wondrous gift on Alfred. Then he remembered the label in the hat. Granda and Love.

Indeed, it was sometimes easy to forget in this material world, Christmas was not only a time for giving but also a time for remembering.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Paul replied.

Remembering the Berlin Wall

In 2004 this story was published in a magazine; it concerns the fall of the Berlin Wall. It seems appropriate to resurrect it on the thirtieth anniversary of that historic event. The story is now featured in my collected short stories volume four, Codename Gaby which contains 18 previously published short stories with historical themes - here.

ONE DAY, WE’LL WALK THROUGH

I waited and waited. And the memories flooded back, bringing the heartache as well as the joy, the short-lived joy...

***

‘Berliner Weise mit Schuss?’ the blond young man asked as I came over to his table with a damp cloth.

I smiled. ‘Just a moment, while I clean this away.’ I wiped pastry crumbs from the Formica surface.

Bringing the white beer injected with raspberry syrup, I noted his thin angular frame in ill-fitting worn overalls. His long dirty fingers prompted me to think of artistic hands.

‘Thank you, fraulein,’ he said, and smiled sheepishly, sipping the drink. His eyes were a beautiful slate grey, but they tended to avoid mine.

The restaurant was not busy, even though it was lunchtime. Most of the factory workers gathered in the bars or brought sandwiches. Few could afford Western prices for food, even sixteen years after the war.

‘I've not seen you in here before,’ I observed pleasantly.

He said, defensively, ‘No, I – I only – I promised myself this drink, my father said he used to–’

‘I’m sorry, I only meant I would have noticed you. I meant nothin–’

Mollified, he shrugged narrow shoulders, seeming unsure of himself.

‘Was it worth the wait?’

‘Wait?’

‘The drink.’

He sipped at the liquid, nodded. ‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ He turned, to eye Heinz drying dishes behind the counter. ‘Did you make it?’

‘No. I’m the cook around here, not the barman!’

‘Oh.’

He looked unkempt, as if the clothes of a manual worker were totally unsuited to him. Impulsively, I said, ‘Do you paint?’

He couldn't be more than twenty, I thought as he creased his brow in confusion. ‘No, I’m a machinist,’ he explained.

‘My hobby’s drawing, and I just wondered–’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, I draw,’ he smiled, ‘whenever I can.’ He pulled out a few scraps of paper from his torn pocket. Carefully, he spread them on the Formica, and gazed up, clearly seeking reassurance.

If the sketches of the ruined Reichstag and the Schoneberg district’s Rathaus had been inept, lacking depth or any artistic merit, I would still have praised him. He seemed so lonely, so timid and vulnerable, in need of warmth. I flushed at these thoughts and said, truthfully, ‘They’re wonderful. I can only draw people. I’m hopeless when it comes to buildings!’

I glanced at Heinz, who was preoccupied with watching the passers-by in the street. Nothing spoiling, so I sat on the empty wooden chair opposite the customer and asked, ‘May I?’ and held the crumpled sheets as he nodded. ‘You’ve drawn these straight lines free-hand–’ I looked up, to see his eyes shining, alight, his lips smiling.

***

I waited, and waited.

The restaurant had changed beyond all recognition in the intervening twenty-eight years. I used to count the days, before that terrible night.

Shaking off the melancholy, I stepped inside, smiled at the headwaiter. With commendable alacrity, he rushed forward and pulled out a chair at the table by the window.

The scene outside had altered, too. Now, West Berlin was affluent. ‘A coffee and cognac, please, Hans,’ I ordered, and allowed more memories to sweep over me...

***

His name was Dieter. He crossed daily from East to West Berlin to work in the factory opposite the cafe. His parents were old before their time, incapable of crossing to the West; he was devoted to them, and wouldn’t leave them though he had heard that many had passed through the reception centres last week.

Rumours were rife. The Soviets seemed in a belligerent mood: the tension was palpable. Some said it was like the Berlin Blockade all over again. He couldn’t remember that, though.

To take his mind off the rumours, I would pack a sandwich lunch for us both and we would walk down Ku-damm with its wonderful shops and rich colours.

His eyes opened wide in amazement every time we walked down Kurfurstendamm: ‘We have nothing like this in our sector.’ The ghost of a war-torn Europe still stalked the streets there. Unlike the eastern sector, restoration had moved fast. I proudly told him that my mother was one of the famous rubble ladies – a trummer frau – who dug the city out of its wreckage with her bare hands, brick by brick. There were enormous rubble mountains, now landscaped, to testify to their efforts.

My mother took to Dieter immediately, but typically expressed concern about his gaunt appearance. But no amount of potato dumplings and pork, cooked with fried fruit and rich gravy, put so much as an ounce on him. ‘He uses up too much nervous energy, dear,’ she observed kindly.

Another time, while drawing the ruins of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, Dieter remarked, ‘I really feel we are all part of history, even now...’

I wondered if our stroll down the Strasse des 17 Juni had affected him. The street was named in memory of the Germans shot down by Russian tanks in 1953 – when Dieter was only eight – when the East Berlin construction workers laid down their tools in protest over greatly increased work ‘norms’. Near here, at the Grosse Stern, too, he had been anxious to sketch the sixty-four-meter column of dark red granite, sandstone and bronze, surmounted by a gilded figure of Victory: Siegessaule, as it is called, was raised in 1873 to commemorate the Franco-Prussian War.

The following day, we had embarked on the tiring climb of steps up the column, and the view had taken away what little breath he had left!

‘Berlin’s heart!’ he said, eventually, trying to take it all in.

I pointed out the Philharmonic Orchestra’s building, the Kustgewerbemuseum, the Natianalgalerie and the Staatsbibliothek, the latter with its ‘three million volumes, the largest library of its kind in the world,’ I concluded proudly.

Perhaps the altitude made us light-headed. We embraced, and kissed then frantically broke away in a mad dash to save his drawings that had blown free! Laughing, we chased the sheets of paper.

Breathless at the column’s base, Dieter checked the rescued sheets, shrugged, ‘Only one missing, Olga,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘Brandenburg Gate.’

‘We’ll go there again tomorrow, then.’

He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t. I’ve been given the day off, because my mother is very ill... I’ll be with her, in the hospital.’

I was sympathetic. ‘Another time, then. The gate’s not going anywhere, is it?’

As we descended the stairs, I thought on what he had said when he confronted the Brandenburg Gate, the statue turned round to face east, underlining the tragic sundering of the city. His tone had been sombre, yet tinged with hope: ‘One day, we’ll walk through there, a free people again.’ For one so young, he could be very serious.

That night, he telephoned, briefly. His mother had died, his father was adamant that he should find a better life, elsewhere. He spoke guardedly, but I understood. After the funeral, when he returned to work, he would seek asylum. My mother prepared the spare room and I counted the days, anxiously.

Then he telephoned again. ‘I’ll be returning to work tomorrow,’ he said. That was all. I didn’t sleep that night.

Next morning, August 13, 1961 I hurried to work early.

The news trickled in gradually. East Germany had closed the Berlin border, unravelling barbed wire, delivering prefabricated concrete blocks. The train services between the sectors were halted. The news revealed that 50,000 East Germans who worked in West Berlin had been turned back. The S-bahns and U-bahns were blocked.

My heart sank as I watched the television newsreel. There were no pictures, but the hazy unsubstantiated reports were enough: East German police used hoses, truncheons and teargas on crowds milling round the closed crossing points. Some bold ones had chanted, ‘Hang old Goat-beard’, referring to Herr Walter Ulbricht. But they too were brutally repulsed.

Mayor Willy Brandt appealed for calm and broadcast to the East: ‘You cannot be held in slavery for ever.’

Every spare moment, I stood at the Brandenburg Gate, watching, waiting.

Within two weeks, the Berlin Wall was erected. In the pouring rain, I whispered, ‘We’re all part of history, even now.’ And I could feel warm droplets on my cheeks, but their source was not the sky but my heart.

I tried telephoning, but the plugs had been pulled.

The weeks stretched interminably. Then, as various networks sorted themselves out, and brave people escaped, through old ruins, gardens, backyards, tunnelling, before the barriers became too formidable, I received a scribbled note on the back of a sketch of the Brandenburg Gate from the eastern side:

‘I’ll come to you on the 10th. I love you. D.’

Mixed with the heady anticipation was fear, for as I had anxiously paced the Wall I often heard shouts and shots, and been blinded by soulless searchlights.

***

How many nights had I paced the Wall? I wondered, sipping coffee in the cafe window. Too many. Eventually, I stopped. But I had never forgotten. Dieter was one of many brave men who had dared to make their bid for freedom and failed.

But I held close to me the thought that they hadn’t failed. Every sacrifice kept the hope burning, the light ever stronger. Thomas Jefferson’s words echoed down the years: ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’ History was harsh, I thought.

I was sure I had heard the shots. The news report had been brief, the next morning. A young man had been shot trying to cross the Wall. No further information reached me.

Then, years later, as Glasnost took hold, some relaxation was permitted. I owned a string of restaurants by this time. I’d been married, for three years, then divorced. Depressed and lonely, I made enquiries concerning that fateful night. And learned the truth and received letters from the eastern sector.

***

Now, I finished the coffee and left my restaurant, clutching Dieter’s old sketch with its faded message.

Crowds were milling, as they had done for day after unbelievable historic day.

I had watched with tears streaming as people clambered on top of the hated, reviled Wall and chipped at it, unmolested. I thought of all the dead: perhaps they were looking down now, and smiling, at last!

The opening of the Brandenburg Gate was a solemn moment. Herr Kohl walked through, and I strained to see.

There were so many people!

Eyes streaming, I rushed into the crowd.

Surging forward, the East Berliners were laughing, cheering, singing, holding some people aloft in their infectious joy. Their future was uncertain, probably full of privations, but at last they were free! Amazingly, some held up a wheelchair, and I recognised the occupant from his recent photographs: he laughed, tears streaming. ‘Dieter!’ I called, waving his drawing.

Obligingly, they lowered him in his chair and uncannily an opening in the crowd permitted me to run to him.

Those letters had prepared me for his disability: the bullets had deprived him of the normal use of his legs.

I was about to step forward, to hug and kiss him when he held up a hand, peremptorily. ‘No, Olga, wait, please.’ And he struggled with both hands on the chair arms, and raised himself with great effort to his feet. Gripping a stick in each hand Dieter slowly, mechanically shuffled each foot forward, and walked into my arms.

For those precious few moments we could not hear the shouting and singing of the crowd.

After we had kissed, he said, softly, ‘Let’s walk through Brandenburg Gate. I have a drawing to finish, no?’

And, slowly, we walked through.

Olga Jager, November 1989

also in Kindle here...

Writing - Background to historical stories (4)

For those readers who are interested in the background to stories, here are a few notes on the short stories in my fourth collection, Codename Gaby. The printing history for the stories ranges from 1975 to 2011.

            In the late 1950s and early 1960s, I read a lot of true war stories – The White Rabbit, Carve Her Name With Pride, Odette, The Naked Island, Boldness Be My Friend, The Colditz Story, Commando Extraordinary, and Ill Met By Moonlight, among many others. I always hankered after writing a French Resistance novel. I have still to do that, but I have compensated a little by writing two stories on the subject: ‘Codename Gaby’ and ‘Hammer and Honey’. The former won a writing competition and the comments gleaned are here:

                ‘(Codename Gaby) is a tale of betrayal and extreme courage in the face of overwhelming adversity, written with great insight and sensitivity. The emotional conclusion is well crafted, leaving the reader bruised but relieved, just as it should for such an intense period of wartime history.’ – Award Organiser’s comments

            ‘This short story captures suspense, drama and wonderful character depiction. In less than 2,500 words, we know and relate to our heroine, the period and her situation. The story is complete and compelling. It is a remarkable achievement and demonstrates this author’s outstanding writing skills.’ – Kate Cavendish, Book Awards reviewer

            The earliest story represented in this collection is ‘The Trilby Hat’, which was originally broadcast on British Forces Radio, Malta, read by Reverend Ray Jones, November 1975. For the time transition, the production team used incidental music which proved effective. I’ve still got the recording from the radio. I jiggled the date-time for the printed version some years later. It grew out of an evening visit to a Portsmouth pub in the early 1970s when I was propping up the bar and an old gent wearing a battered trilby hat came in…

            ‘Tealeaf’ is slang for ‘thief’. Society rightly frowns on thieves. Theft is despicable, and even more so in a closed community, such as a ship or submarine. Servicemen were sent to detention if caught thieving; I used to type up the warrants. This story extrapolates.

            The early days of Australia have been of interest since I read The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes. I’m also fascinated by myths. So I was drawn to write ‘Creation Myth’.

            In my Tana Standish psychic spy series, I have introduced a number of secret agents, friends of Tana. I wanted to write some short adventures about them and when the writing circle prompt was ‘turkey’ I came up with ‘Cold Turkey’. Another prompt was ‘leather’ so ‘Hell for Leather’ was the result. In keeping with the Tana series, both stories blend fact with fiction. I’ll probably attempt a number of slightly longer stories about these agents in the near future. The events involving Alan Swann occur before he acquired a limp and a glass eye, as revealed in Mission: Prague and explained in Mission: Khyber.

            The reconstruction required in the aftermath of the Second World War must have been daunting. Reading about it, I was inspired to write ‘One day we’ll walk through’, which was also intended as a celebration of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

            When my wife and I saw the rather small pyramids on Tenerife, I conjured with the idea that certain craftsmen could have travelled there from Egypt in the prehistoric past. Certainly, having seen the pyramid of Altun Ha in Belize, I find that Heyerdahl’s theory that reed boats could have travelled across the Atlantic most compelling. This story is an attempt at visualising that ancient journey. The title is taken from Matthew chapter 11, verse 7.

            In my research for other work, I’d come across John Dee (1527-1609) and found him a fascinating character. I wanted to attempt realising his life and the best way to do that was for him to reminisce in writing. An occultist, mathematician, philosopher, astrologer and possibly spy for Queen Elizabeth, he was hoodwinked by an ex-criminal Edward Kelley into believing that angels communicated through Kelley. Dee died in poverty under the care of his daughter ‘about’ 1609. What drew me was the accusation of ‘calculating’ being a heinous crime! And we thought we had problems with the PC crowd finding offense at the drop of an innocent word or two…

            I wrote ‘For Valour’ expressly because I was inspired by the Help for Heroes campaign and it coincided with the time of commemorating the first awards of the Victoria Cross.

            ‘Born of Joy’ was written for Remembrance Day and its explanation is in a dedication note at the end.

            Another period that intrigues me is the English Civil War (1642-1651). I recalled the 1950s comic series featuring Cavalier Claude Duval (though in fact the real Claude Duval was a gentleman highwayman who came to England after the Civil War; he was sentenced to hang by Sir William Morton in 1670). ‘The Reckoning’ is a nod to a period I’d like to return to at greater length.

            ‘The Proper Thing to do’ evolved from reading about the ill-fated HM Troopship Birkenhead. I wanted to experiment and write this with a single person speaking, present tense. This was the birth of a tradition, too: women and children first. The story gained an ‘honourable mention’ in a competition before being published a couple of years later.

            ‘When the flowers are in bloom’ was inspired by the true tales of survivors from the war being discovered on tropical islands years after hostilities ended. Also, I wanted to attempt a detective quest in a strange land. I’d been to Japan in the late 1960s onboard HMS Zulu, but didn’t get the opportunity to travel far. The story was a runner-up in an international writing competition and published in the organisation’s anthology. The story was the title for an anthology of my short stories published in the US, now out-of-print.

            ‘Day of the Unicorn’ was written from another writers’ circle prompt – ‘unicorn’. A fun piece, mixing humour with myth, it sadly didn’t find a home in any of the limited number of magazines I deemed suitable.

            Having attempted to transport myself into the mind of a child in 1803, I fancied empathising with a tree – or rather all trees for ‘A Shared Experience’. This can be construed as whimsy, fantasy, an ecological or a religious piece.

            Finally, a sort of bonus: ‘Angel’s Trumpets’ is based in Tenerife, an island my wife and I have visited often; it is the first chapter of a planned novel in Victorian times concerning a detective duo, Bradbury & Hood. Tenerife features in my novel Blood of the Dragon Trees, which has been republished as An Evil Trade.

Codename Gaby - Collected short stories volume 4

Available as a paperback and e-book from Amazon here

Other books in this series are:

Gifts from a Dead Race – Collected stories vol.1 (science fiction, horror, fantasy, ghost)

Nourish a Blind Life – Collected stories vol.2 (science fiction, horror, fantasy, ghost)

Visitors –  Collected stories vol.3 (westerns)

I Celebrate Myself – Collected stories vol.5 (crime and adventure)