Stories Volume 6
Introduction > Stories #141 to #161
Stories collected during 2021, A View From Here and The Promise of a Garden. Photos by Sameer Paudel, Ed Sunman, Ben Pugh, Zoe Martin, Linyuan Sheng and Mike Pinches.
Paulette Morris - My Mother's Garden - #141
My mother has a garden party every year to raise money for St Kitts and Nevis Association.
Her garden is beautiful; full of red, pink, yellow and white roses and the biggest hydrangeas I’ve ever seen.
A beautiful garden just right for a garden party.
Mum’s cooking up rice and peas, fish, chicken, curry goat veg option, mac cheese and cakes – calypso/reggae beautifully disturbing the peace.
Mum’s garden is open to all. I asked her about her garden back home. She said “No time for pretty gardens. Pretty gardens reserved for the land owners”. No land was given to the people. Sugar cane and cotton ruled the land.
My great grandmother was a weeder in the sugar cane and cotton fields of St Kitts. Up at 5am dressed in denim to protect soft flesh armed with a hoe, like generations before her. They were bound to the Earth. Uprooted, re-named and re-imagined in an English setting.
Tropical plants have adjusted to new environments. They live in conditions not familiar to their origin but have learnt how to survive alongside native spices.
We sit sipping tea looking out into a beautiful mature garden and I ask for more stories of past lives in distant places.
She owns her piece of England now.
Alex Elliott - Español Mal Hablado - #142
Barney Bardsley - Attila József - #143
In 1925, Attila József, one of Hungary’s best loved poets, wrote a poem called Kertész leszek – I Shall Be A Gardener.
But Attila was no gardener. Born into the 9th District of Budapest, a tough, industrial corner of the city, Attila was a street kid, barely schooled.
He got some schooling in the end. Even went to university, dreamed of being a teacher – but was sent down, for writing a poem deemed ’seditious’ by the state.
He suffered from depression, schizophrenia. In December 1937 he died under the wheels of a train at Balatonszárszó station. Accident – suicide? He was 32 years old.
Attila never grew flowers, never planted trees. But with the poems that he wrote, he dug a garden of the mind, as deep as the suffering which made the words grow.
I shall be a gardener, I’ll grow trees
early in the morning, I’ll rise too
and nothing else will bother my head
except those flowers in the flowerbed.
shall be my sweethearts – every one,
and if weeds grow, I won’t mind,
faithful and true, each flower of mine. I’ll drink my milk and smoke my pipe,
and closely guard my own good name,
no danger can reach me, I can’t be found,
I’ve planted myself into the ground. This is needed, so much needed,
in the East and in the West –
and if the world cannot be saved,
may there be flowers laid on its grave.
Roger Harington - Questions - #144
Our garden is just a few flowers and courgettes that my wife is growing on the church roof in Liverpool because that’s where our flat is.
I’m now 27 and I think I’ve made a grown-up decision to become a Priest only then there’s another question. It’s from a book called “Only One Earth” by Barbara Ward.
It’s about the pollution of the planet and the way rich countries do things to poor countries that aren’t just. I realise for the first time how important these questions are and it seems to me the Church is not trying hard enough to answer them. It’s not trying hard enough to make things more just for people – so should I be a Priest in such a Church?
Emma Truelove - Nothing to Prove - #145
My father had four daughters.
Liz, the eldest was his very favourite with Kathy, my twin sister, being his second. Lorraine, the youngest, was always ‘the baby’, and then there was me. He liked to set us challenges.
One Sunday at a local stretch of water he asked if any of us could swim a mile with him?
Before anyone else could get in there my hand shot up and I said “I can do it, I can do it!”
This was my chance to shine.
Kathy watched on and smiled. My eldest sister continued to read. I rushed to the water’s edge.
We entered the water and swam along, I swam breaststroke and dad swam by my side.
I was determined to do it and kept going even though the water was freezing cold and I was getting tired.
On getting out of the water my father said “Well done Emma”.
He then turned to Kathy and said “Now come on Kathy I’m quite sure you can do this easily.”
I watched her running down into the water and swim with ease, she didn’t even wait for Dad.
She had nothing to prove.
Pat White - Alarmed - #146
When he was small my son loved to be in the garden. At first, stones and mud and sand fascinated him and later flowers and worms and insects. And as he grew, in those precious days before he started school, I loved the way Richard made sense of his world: discovering and exploring before asking. So refreshingly unlike me.
Then one night it all changed.
We had just fitted a house alarm and sometime during the night it went off. We thought it was just teething problems but I went straight to look in on Richard anyway.
His bed was empty. He was gone.
I ran downstairs and there, standing beside an open front door, was a very frightened little boy. I hadn’t realized he’d grown so much. He could reach the doorknob if he stood on a stool. So the alarm had worked after all – not keeping intruders out, but keeping Richard in.
He was too young to explain much but he told me had done it before. He would wake in the night, wander round the garden and into the street and then return to bed. He wanted to know what it was like to be outside in the dark. I’m not sure how many times it had happened but I knew I’d failed to keep him safe and I had to tell him – You can’t do that again.
That night I had to make Richard’s world a little smaller.
Namron - Sarsaparilla - #147
Christopher Benstead - Harmonium - #148
Some 15 years ago I was waiting to meet a friend in Richmond station in London. It was pouring with rain, so to pass the time, I wandered into a little auction house. And there amongst the tables and chairs and Welsh dressers, I came across this beautiful little portable harmonium. I asked the auctioneer what the reserve on it was and he said £40, and I thought “Wow, that’s quite a bargain”.
But unfortunately I was tied up with work on the day of the sale, but he said I could do a telephone bid. So on the day I was sitting on my sofa at home and I heard him say “In the room what am I bid for this beautiful, portable, Salvation Army harmonium?”
Silence.
“On the phone?” I said “£40.” I heard him shout out “SOLD!” So she was mine. It was only when I got it home, I discovered several of the keys played the same notes when pressed, some of the black keys were missing completely and the bellows had holes in them so I had to pedal really fast to get any sound out of it. So there it sat in my workroom for many, many years until I decided to get it restored. I tracked down a restorer and he happily agreed to do it, but it was going to cost a hugeamount of money. I thought “Well, I really love this instrument”, so I bit the bullet and got it restored. So now my little, £40 harmonium now cost £40 plus the huge amount on top.
So then I had the problem of how to transport it from London, where I live, up to Leeds. It seemed to me there was no option but to build a crate for it. So out I went to the local timber yard, I bought the plywood, the screws, the glue and the hinges, and built a box. So my little £40 harmonium now cost the £40 and the huge amount of money the amount for building the box.
Two weeks into rehearsal, Alan, the director, took me to one side and said “I think I’m going to cut that bit.”
I think not!
Colin Trenholme - Excuses - #149
I taught in primary and middle schools in Leeds for well over thirty years and collected dozens of letters, notes and messages that were received from children, colleagues and, of course, parents.
Usually, the notes were well-meant:
‘Please excuse Debbie from school because we are going to London to see the Queen.’
Sometimes, amusing: ‘Dear Mr. Trenholme. I give permission for my son to attend the party after school. Sorry he’s late back; he’s just done the ironing’.
Occasionally, rather baffling: ‘I am sorry Christopher hasn’t learnt his words but I had to take them all to the dentist’
The ex-pupil who recently got in touch to tell me:
‘I’m married for the second time, one son from my first marriage and three stepsons with this wife. I’m also lead singer in a covers band – and have become a grandad.’
I’m beginning to wonder how old I am…but finally, I can’t resist this one: ‘Thank you for teaching me. You have been my best friend.
Marcia Wright - Late Bloomer - #150
An arrogant young estate agent once referred to what was my little bit of treasured garden space as a ”yard”. Where I saw pots of flowers and shrubs and tomatoes growing in profusion he saw only the concrete on which they stood.
I didn’t have a space of my own to garden in until I was forty. It wasn’t much of a space, but it was vast to me. I had a lot of beginner’s luck planting seeds and they all flowered. Great masses of pots of lovely blooms covering the concrete.
And then miraculously I was pregnant for the first time at the age of 42.
My sense of smell was never as acute as that time. Everything was intense and new and flowers were blooming all around me and a baby was blooming inside of me and it was glorious.
Maureen Willis - A Symbol of Protection - #151
The decision to demolish our church came out of the blue.
The priest called a meeting. Most people walked into the hall, totally unaware of the bombshell about to be dropped. He entered, followed by a group of grey suited men from the diocese.
They took their place on the stage above us. We were told the church was in a bad state of repair and would need thousands spending on it and a quick decision was needed.
They had taken it already.
I put my hand up to speak, suggesting a further meeting to discuss alternatives. But no, they said a decision was needed that night. Unbelievably, on a show of hands – only one objector- me, the motion passed.
A friend was involved with the demolition of the church. He knew I was upset. I asked if it was possible to have some stones from the rubble. A couple of days later he presented me not only with stones but a gargoyle, a symbol of protection.
I am no longer a Catholic, but the gargoyle still lives in the garden.
Harry Venet - Burial Rites - #152
On a February day in 1964 my mother went to work and didn’t come back. She’d suffered a stroke and died later in hospital, leaving my father and myself to cope with . . . well, life, really.
The ritual followed with regard to the death was according to the Orthodox Jewish faith. We contacted the rabbi attached to our local synagogue, who arranged for a funeral director to collect the body and the communal burial society to receive it, wash it and dress it in a simple white shroud, ready for a burial the following day.
Orthodox Jewish burials (cremations are not allowed) always take place as soon as possible, while the body is still warm, which often involves the co-operation of the certifying doctor, and the civic authorities (the registrar and the coroner), unless the law requires a post mortem examination.
The mourners, my father, my mother’s sisters and myself, didn’t see my mother’s body or the coffin until the funeral, though the burial society ensured that she was not left alone during that period.
Following biblical tradition, mourners tear their garments to symbolise their loss; this was done by a representative of the undertaker or burial society snipping an old garment of each of us before the funeral. I remember little of the funeral itself except that as the coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with earth my stiff upper lip failed me and I burst into tears.
There are three periods of mourning, covering the eleven months until a gravestone was consecrated. The first of these was shiva, the seven days when, apart from the Sabbath, we sat at home, on low, wooden chairs, still in our torn garments, and received condolences from friends and neighbours.
They would come for evening prayers and often brought food, as mourners are not allowed to cook for themselves. It’s odd how you remember little things but I clearly recall my Dad, as soon as shiva was over, buying a gas fire so that he and I didn’t have to go through that other ritual – clearing out the ashes of our coal fire and preparing it for the next day.
I was grateful for the shiva as it meant I was not alone as I recalled my mother’s life and how she had helped form my opinions on many things. It also helped me as I began my new relationship with my father.
Sonja Miller - A Lady in a Hat - #153
I don’t frown upon that time.
In fact, I kind of spread my wings,
doing many things I’d never tried.
One day I drew a lady in a hat.
For several hours I sat with pencils,
sketch book, learning from a girl
Whose own work unfurled, creating magic!
Without her I was lost.
And this cost me nothing but my time.
Each day in lockdown,
home alone,
I felt sublime when something clicked
Through being transfixed
on learning something new.
One day I drew a lady in a hat.
Bill McCarthy - Rock and Roll - #154
I thumbed through my music collection the other day. It’s a bit thin on the ground, just a few CDs now, the vinyls are long gone, to charity. No cassettes either, they were rubbish!
They said the CD was the future but they’re nearly obsolete. If you don’t listen to music on a radio anymore its likely the music is downloaded. Can’t fathom the technology myself. I think I might just hold on to those CDs a bit longer..
I was feeling nostalgic. Remembering the soundtrack of my youth. Mainly 1970s, R&B, soul, a bit of soft rock. And it got me thinking, not only are some of these musicians still alive, but they are still working, not in a studio but out there touring.Do they need the money or what? I appreciate the lifestyle of a rock legend is costly. Oh the wild parties, the sex, the drugs, and the vegan chef- all have to be paid for.
But “the great songs” were about, love, loss, heartache, tears, being misunderstood, the generational divide. It was about ‘sticking it’ to your parents, they didn’t understand the music .It was something parents just didn’t get, and the louder, the better!
And that is what I don’t get about iconic bands touring, rolling back the years, the audience having their youth rekindled, watching 70 year olds trying to be, well, 25 years old again.
But why don’t we have more songs about, ageing, mortality, social care, losing partners, dementia, arthritis – and remember love, loss, heartache, tears, being misunderstood?
The generational divide is not just for the young generation. These things still matter when you are old. It can be done! So come on Daltry, Jagger, Springsteen: get writing those tracks..
Leung Man Chiu - The Four Stages - #155
The first one is birth.
Everyone is born.
Then second is ageing.
Getting old. And in getting old, sickness comes. And then finally death. These four you can’t escape
Some people are lucky
They go birth, ageing, death.
They miss sickness. They just die.
But my younger brother and my son.
They missed the ageing part. They just went birth, sickness, death. I buried them. I had to bury my younger brother when I was 15.
And then I buried my son when I was 35.
My wife doesn’t forgive that I didn’t grieve when my son passed away.
To me death is part of the journey we have to go through.
We can’t escape death, but we don’t have to feel sad about it.
We should celebrate their life, whatever their story, we should celebrate.
Tamara McLorg - I Surrender - #156
through pink shimmering beads
I see your golden body
soft contours of silken wonder
rays of light discovering you
As I surrender As the scorching sun
smiles through netted curtains
spying on your glistening body
caressing the silhouette
of your inviting flesh
I surrender As the sun streaks
through half open shutters
exploring valleys of curves
oblique patterns of splendour
hidden in half shadows
I surrender As the moon embraces
the burning sun
An eclipse
falling into darkness
sinking into you
trembling
I surrender As the first star
extends its shine
to the moon
A whispered lullaby
A delicate touch
Laying close to you
I surrender As the galaxy
of stars are born
sparkling in the night
illuminating your radiance
I believe wishes come true
And
I surrender
Margaret Bending - Where I Belong - #157
All my life, from my earliest memories, I have wanted to go to space. The space race of the 1960s between the USA and the USSR, together with a liberal helping of science fiction, was my childhood inspiration. My dream took me to university and beyond, to the role of experimental space physicist, which at least enabled me to work in a space-related field. There was no British manned space programme. Getting to space has been the constant desire of my life, and I have reached for any opportunity, however remote. There is now a plan to send a thousand starships to Mars, starting in the near future. Each one will carry a hundred people or so, and I will try to be one of them.
I’ll never stop dreaming, never give up trying to go into space, for that is where I belong.
Mally Harvey - It Can Be Better - #158
As I pick up the pieces of our abandoned life
Cautiously I move forward on a precarious path
As I engage to enrich our lives
For I have too little time left to tread water.
I want to dance, hear life music and be transported at the theatre
I want to meet my fellow walkers without the Coronavirus two step
I need to be there in family illness or crisis
I will be able to hold a lifelong friend who is dying
I can’t wait for the cacophony and confusion that is a family party
I long to wake up in our tent on a Scottish Island, despite the midges
And delight in the company of challenging people
I can dress up, slap on the make up and go to a favourite restaurant
My mouth waters at the prospect of sharing my newly baked bread
I need to touch, to embrace to kiss
This is my life.
Liung Ip - Life in Hong Kong - #159
細個嗰陣香港打仗。我重記得我嗰陣識行嘅，我阿媽孭住我走難，過山越嶺行陸路去惠州。
後來我哋返香港住，周圍好窮無野食，草都無一條，要出去搵野食搵水飲。
有一日阿媽要出去搵野食帶埋我出去，留番妹妹一個，因為佢細個唔行得遠。
得哋出去時妹妹係咁喊，喊住叫我哋帶埋佢，話帶我走啦，唔好留低我一個呀我死㗎啦。
阿媽最終都係無帶埋佢。到我哋返嚟嗰陣妹妹已經唔見咗。
其他人走我哋都無走，希望等到妹妹返嚟。但都無返嚟。
我諗佢應該比人擄咗去賣囉。到我結婚時我媽走埋。
Hong Kong was at war when I was little.
I remember I could walk and my mother carried me on her back to seek refuge. She crossed mountains and rivers to get to Hueizhou.
Later we went back to Hong Kong. It was desolate everywhere, nothing grew. One day my mother and I were heading out to search for food and water, leaving my sister a home because she was too little to walk far.
My sister kept crying ang and crying, and begged us she take her with us, she cried please take me, don’t leave me otherwise I’ll die. We didn’t take her.
When we came back she was nowhere to be found. We stayed there while others moved away, hoping we might found her. But she never came back. I reckon she was kidnapped and sold. My mother passed away when I get married.
Hilary Andrews - My Garden - #160
Cultivated flower beds will never there be seen
It’s loved for many reasons
But mostly for the seasons
When plants and all their glories
Can freely tell their stories
Sally Owen - Perfection - #161
Walking through the city on a day off we came across a large corporate building. There were many layers of glass on the empty ground floor through which we could see a very large Japanese garden.
We pressed our noses up against the glass for so long, that two security guards appeared at the door to see what we were doing. Having decided that we were not a threat to the building, they very reluctantly let us in to view the garden through the final large plate glass window.
It was Perfection, if there is such a thing. A hillside rising away from a small lake, covered in Japanese maples, Azalea, Japanese Ilex and bamboo.
Who was this garden made for?
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