We all love Southbourne, but today we’re going to jump on the bus and head for Bournemouth town centre.
What’s happening in the lower gardens?
We’re visiting Bournemouth Writing Festival which is a great festival with loads of things happening all weekend, but we only have time to pop into the poetry hub on the bandstand where you can write a contribution for the community poem or buy a poem from a machine kindly lent by the National Trust.
It’s the sort of article you read in the tabloids or the rabbit hole you fall into when you are tempted to scroll down on the internet. There was a boy at junior school who always had ghoulish ‘true stories’ to tell. I was never sure whether to believe him, but we wanted to and it was a bit dull in class after he moved away.
When I became a sardonic teenager I realised how ridiculous his tales had been, though I would have given him credit for his imagination if we ever met again.
As I turned into a sensible adult a strange thing happened; television documentaries, tiny cameras in operating theatres and Wikipedia provided real true stories. It turned out that there were girls with two heads and boys with four legs. The stuffed two headed lamb we saw in a glass case at the ‘House of Horrors’ on holiday had nothing on real two headed people who talked on television and went to school. Yes, real life could be truly bizarre and nature played jokes.
When I started getting mystery pains, or rather when I could no longer ignore mystery pains and the strange lump I could feel, I went to the doctor. An appointment came through for my scan, can’t remember which machine it was, but it made lots of noise and I did not like being in it. Of course the operator is not allowed to tell you anything and just mumbled something about a report going to my GP. I was just glad to get dressed and get out of there down to the hospital Costa Coffee. I was beginning to relax with my strong coffee and a lemon tart poised towards my mouth when my mobile rang.
‘This is Doctor Jekyll, are you still in the hospital grounds? Good. Have you eaten anything in the past couple of hours?’
Puzzled I put my lemon tart down.
‘Good, now there’s nothing to worry about, but I would like to examine you and possibly do an exploratory operation. As soon as possible. Now. No you don’t need to know where to go, I’m sending someone down to fetch you.’
I didn’t even get a chance to finish my coffee before someone in a uniform appeared and guided me into the depths of the hospital. It was not long before I was undressed and lying on a couch, being prodded and monitors applied. One good thing, I knew I was in good health, heart and everything working properly and fit for surgery. I was just about to ask when the operation was going to take place when the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room with all sorts of tubes attached to me.
Doctor Jekyll was at my side promptly.
‘The good news is, it was not a malignant tumour. The bad news, it was a very complicated operation and the surgery was invasive.’
‘I don’t understand, what did you find?’
‘A baby.’
This would be a shock for most people. It was certainly a shock for me as I am a man.
‘How on earth…are you trying to tell me I’m a hermaphrodite?’
‘We don’t use that term these days, but you are not. Now you have heard of conjoined twins? Yes of course, but have you heard of parasitic twins? So you have seen old drawings and photos of people with partially formed bodies appended to themselves on Beetleypete’s blog… who or what is that? No I’m not a blogger, never heard of WordPress. Now I need you to pay attention. Your parasitic twin just happened to be completely inside you, very unusual and it… he seems to have been having a development spurt, otherwise you would not have noticed.’
‘This is a bit hard to take in, but at least I’m rid of it. How soon can I go home, I’m feeling okay.’
‘That’s all the pain killers, you have had a very serious operation and you will be monitored in intensive care. But we also have an ethical problem. We managed to save the baby.’
‘WHAT! Um what are you going to do with it?’
‘Him… well at the moment he is still attached to you by his, for want of a better word, his umbilical cord. Now do you want to see him before we discuss how to proceed? ‘
I thought of that boy at school, he would have wanted me to look, ready to relate the story to anyone who would listen. Somehow my schoolboy morbid curiosity took over and as instructed by the doctor I turned my head to the other side of the bed and there in an incubator was my baby brother. Or more accurately, if you put a pair of glasses on him he would be an exact miniature replica of me.
Joy had news for our art group, she had her new bus pass… at the age of eighty.
We all had something to say.
About time too, wouldn’t be without mine.
Why did you wait so long. I am looking forward to getting mine, but I’ve got to wait another thirty years.
Are you serious, you have never been on a bus?
‘Unless you count being born on one.’
Our imaginations went into overdrive…
‘At least my mother used to say You must have been born on a bus every time I left a door open.’
Buses have doors these days Joy, the Routemaster has been out of service for twenty years.
Our group varied in age and athletic ability and conversation progressed to discussion of various forms of transport from bicycles to E-scooters and back to cars and buses. Joy was joined at the hip to her car, but it transpired that Joy and the car had both failed their MOT.
‘I didn’t say I was actually going to go on a bus, the bus pass is just in case.’
You must at least have a go.
We all had bus stories, Mandy was expert at manoeuvring her double buggy and six shopping bags on board and I exclaimed how lucky she was to have floors that lowered and space to park. No folding up McClarren buggies for her. Maggie’s bus journey to the hospital to have her baby was equalled by Ron’s travelling from Land’s End to Berwick upon Tweed, using only his bus pass.
The next day I stood at the bus stop with Joy. She had reluctantly agreed to a trial run with moral support. We were at the second stop at the beginning of the route so Joy would be eased gently into the experience. The sunny spring day belied a sharp east wind and I prayed we wouldn’t have to wait long, having told Joy we had two frequent routes to choose from.
‘Why are we going into town, aren’t all the shops closing down?’
‘Not all of them, anyway that’s where the bus goes.’
‘How long do we have to wait?’
‘Not long, look at the bus ap on my phone, you can see the bus coming up the hill.’
Joy peered at my phone screen, failing to see the tiny toy bus shaped arrow moving along the map. We were so busy looking, a bus sailed by before I had a chance to put my hand out.
I always have my bus pass safely in my pocket, ready to produce immediately I’m on board. I hadn’t thought to prepare Joy for the operation. The next bus soon came along, but she spent five minutes fumbling in her handbag for her purse, then five minutes fumbling in her purse for her bus pass. It would have to be that grumpy driver.
I always head straight for the back half of the bus, or better still, upstairs on a double decker, smugly glad I don’t yet have to sit in the front seats with their little signs ‘Please offer these seats to elderly or disabled passengers’. Not actually forbidden so Joy happily plonked herself down in the front seat. I tried to tactfully urge her further back.
‘What was wrong with those seats?’
‘They’re for the elderly and…’
‘How old do you have to be, I’m a pensioner.’
‘But a spritely one, it’s only your eyes that failed the MOT.’
She crossed over the aisle and pulled down a folding seat.
‘The elderly won’t be wanting these ones.’
‘We can’t sit there, that’s the space for wheelchairs and prams.’
‘At least you didn’t make me go upstairs.’
Fortunately the bus soon started filling up with baby buggies, walking sticks and crutches to prove my point.
‘Goodness, how many more walking wounded are coming on board, oh surely she’s not allowed on board with that!’
A lady in a large designer motorised wheelchair/scooter contraption had just about made it up the ramp the driver had put down for her, but it looked as if she was also having her maiden bus trip. Grumpy bus driver set off looking firmly ahead, ignoring the fact that the embarrassed woman was having great trouble manoeuvring into the permitted space. Her face flushed with embarrassment, she pressed buttons and moved a few inches in each direction, ramming a passenger next to the aisle. Her ensuing panic resulted in her being firmly wedged in, preventing anyone getting on or off. I looked across the aisle at the emergency door and back to the window next to Joy, where a sign said In Emergency Break Glass with Hammer. Iwondered where the hammer was.
One passenger did get on and manage to squeeze by, or rather climb over the poor woman. To my horror it was our local ‘character’ Davo. We locals did not need to use the politically incorrect descriptions that came to mind with Davo. Just the mere mention of his name ‘Davo was in the shop’ or ‘Davo came up to our table in the restaurant’ was enough to illicit sympathy and horror.
‘Joy’ I whispered urgently ‘do not look that chap in the eye.’
Unfortunately he started talking in that bellowing voice of his to a young chap behind us, who obviously knew how to wind up Davo for entertainment. That’s when the baby, who had been sleeping peacefully strapped to his mother’s chest, started crying. By this time we had arrived at the stop planned for our disembarking, handy for the few shops in town that hadn’t closed down. It turned out the wheelchair was literally jammed and the driver was radioing his base for help. Luckily it transpired that Davo was an expert at smashing windows and opening emergency doors and the driver couldn’t reach us to stop him.
It was a long way down, but Davo helped us descend, albeit in a rather undignified manner, bellowing ‘Age before beauty’ before assisting the young mum and other passengers.
Once safely on the pavement, Joy tapped into her phone. ‘Thanks goodness my nephew put the local taxi number into my new phone.’
The White House has just announced changes to the Gregorian Calendar, the calendar most people are familiar with. President Donald Trump stated that it was time it was tidied up. From now on all months will be 28 days long as they were originally intended, marking the cycle of the moon. Thus it is now 6th April. The 29 spare days will become the thirteenth month which will be named Trumpril and follow April. When asked by a reporter how he justified causing a great deal of confusion he replied ‘If Pope Gregory could change the Julian calendar in 1582 without upsetting Julie what’s the problem changing to the Trumpian calendar?’
A BBC expert explained what these changes will mean. ‘Leap year has been cancelled, it was always considered to be unfair for those born on the 29th February. They will join all the people born on 29th, 30th and 31st of any month who will no longer have birthdays. BBC Verify is checking the facts and figures, but has already confirmed that April Fool’s Day has been cancelled.
Delia had read all the articles and listened to all the broadcasts and podcasts on sleep and health. She had been encouraged to get a Fitbit by her niece who was keen that she should find out her resting heart rate. The Fitbit alas, did not help her sleep more, only confirm that she did not sleep much. However, she persevered with following all the recommendations for winding down in the evening.
That night Delia had turned off the news and switched her television to the radio station broadcasting her regular late night music programmes, Night Waves and Round Midnight… Then she headed upstairs and was in bed and tuned to Radio 4 in time to be lulled by Sailing By heralding the late night Shipping Forecast. Delia pictured seaside places she had stayed and remote coasts she was never likely to see…
North Foreland to Selsey Bill – Strong wind warning
Ardnamurchan Point to Cape Wrath…
Tonight the mellifluous Scottish baritone of her favourite continuity announcer finished the forecast and bade her goodnight with his usual soothing words.
‘And that is the close of Radio Four’s broadcasting tonight. This is Alexander MacSmooth wishing you a safe and peaceful night.
Delia sleepily turned her radio off before the National Anthem could jar her serenity. She snuggled under the duvet, safe from the strong winds and waves pounding the coast…
Delia woke suddenly. It was dark, the radio clock showed 3.15 am, not unusual for her to be awake in the witching hour, but who on earth was frantically ringing her doorbell and what were those blue lights flashing on the ceiling? And who was yelling through a loudspeaker?
‘Emergency, this is the police, you must evacuate immediately. Leave your home now, do not stop to collect belongings.’
It was bizarre, but the only way to find out what was going on was to get wrapped into her velour dressing gown and head for the front door. When she looked outside she was stunned. The nearby streetlight revealed a huge hole where the road had been. Her first thought was ‘Bin Day’ how would she get her recycling bin out of that hole, how would the rubbish truck get down the road when there was no road. Before she could have another thought the street lamp plunged into the crater and the scene was plunged into darkness. A yellow arm grabbed her, at the end of another yellow arm was a powerful torch revealing a crack widening beneath their feet.
In a church hall a mile away Delia and her neighbours gathered round ‘next-door-but-one’ who had managed to grab his iPad on the way out. The live news showed next door’s car slipping into the sink hole and Delia’s front wall crumbling. She didn’t even recognise half her neighbours without their clothes on. They all reintroduced themselves and compared stories as it dawned on them that they would not be going home any time soon, if ever. The only possession Delia had with her was the Fitbit. She wondered what her resting heart rate was.
I have been a little distanced from blogging recently. It’s half term and I’m briefly in between visitors. This bleak time of year is perfect for catching up on creative pursuits, so I have built the Lego orchid I got for my birthday this time last year and crocheted an African Violet from a Christmas book.
For this year’s birthday my younger son sent me a Fitbit and my older son set it up. I haven’t figured out most of the functions, my main in-put was choosing the colour of the strap, burnt orange. I know my heart is beating and messages pop up on my phone and emails to reveal that since Sunday I have earned three pairs of shoes and a Marathon badge. Even as I write this it has the cheek to buzz me and say it’s time to move.
Most importantly, I have actually published my first book on Amazon Kindle since November 2019, all by myself.
My late husband never read any of my books, but he did learn from scratch how to publish them and created the covers with his photographic and digital skills. He had the advantage of never panicking with computers and not being emotionally involved with the books.
Not completely by myself as I followed word by word a handy book I downloaded to my Kindle called very originally…
I went to places on Microsoft Word I have never been before and conquered two of the fears experienced by beginners formulating a manuscript for an eBook, page breaks and even scarier, chapter headings and table of contents.
I got the message every book parent waits for, your book is live on Kindle, before I had even gone to bed. I downloaded it, but it did not appear on my Kindle, which seemed to have gone on WIFI strike. I had no idea if my book was okay.
After trying various things, I eventually hit upon an idea when I got home the next afternoon. I turned my Kindle off and on again and my book appeared instantly. There might just be a couple of deliberate mistakes on the Kindle version, see if you can spot them.
Yesterday I ordered my second proof copy of the paperback version, all part of the learning experience… Tidalscribe Tales is another collection of short fiction, a handy volume to practice with while my next novel evolves. The challenge is to create a cover with a back, front and spine, with illustrations of some sort. You can use Amazon cover creator or have a go yourself. I wanted to use my own photos; I take many with no idea what size, shape or mysterious formats they might be in. Amazon rejected them. I tried the Amazon cover and it let me put my picture on the front, sort of… anyway, at least my first proof copy enabled me to spot a few things that needed changing. Hopefully a future blog will reveal how I got on.
‘I don’t care where or how, as long as he is never ever found. You will do it as soon as possible and never contact me. When he does not return home I will assume it is done and after a few days I will report him missing and the second instalment will appear in your bank account. If a year passes with me receiving only sympathy from the police, you will receive the final substantial payment.’
They nodded in agreement and my aides entered the room to blindfold the three men again and escort them out to a waiting vehicle. It was a one hundred mile drive back to the outskirts of the city. I had every faith that the hefty first payment they were given a week ago would ensure they carried out their task.
I had never trusted Phillip’s partner, but for this plan I did. We had the same aim with neither of us getting blood on our hands. His contacts in the underworld had provided contract killers who could not be traced back to Phil or us. It was costing me very little as I had been syphoning money from Phil’s various bank accounts for years. His patronising assumption that I could just about manage the little personal and housekeeping accounts he had set up for me worked to my advantage. Phil also assumed I was only capable of using the old computer in my sewing room for dipping into social media.
It was on an ordinary shopping trip that an unexpected problem arose. I was just putting my shopping for one in the boot when a rough looking girl ran over to me crying that her bag had been stolen. She begged to borrow my phone to call the police. I wasn’t going to fall for that one and have my phone stolen, but she looked genuinely upset and reassured me I could keep my phone safely in my own hands and call the police, then put it on speaker so she could speak to them.
I weakened and let the false cosy image I projected 99% of the time take over. Ordinary anxious menopausal housewife meekly dialled 999.
‘Emergency, which service do you require. Fire, police or ambulance?’
‘Police, hurry’ cried the girl.
‘Police, how can I help you?’
To my astonishment the bag was not mentioned. The girl stammered in panic…
‘In the office in the old Jackson shoe factory you’ll find Phil Hardy’s body in a broken cupboard.’
‘Can I have your name please’ the calm voice spoke from my phone.
The girl looked directly at me, pointed at me, then whispered ‘Your phone, your name – goodbye…’
She was gone in a flash.
‘Caller’s name please’ the remote voice repeated.
The police are never around when you want them. I terminated the call, but already I could hear sirens. I didn’t know local big businessmen warranted such an urgent response, I had been pleased they hadn’t seemed interested in his disappearance. Now he was dead, or perhaps still a live body all three emergency services were turning up. Fair enough, the building was on the verge of collapse and I would not want anyone risking their lives for Phillip.
I was slipping into the driver’s seat to go home, play the shocked widow if they brought terrible news, but in seconds a uniformed chap was banging on the window.
‘So glad you’re here officer, I was just tricked into handing over my phone. This girl made a hoax call about my poor missing husband.’
‘Hopefully it is a hoax Madam, we will soon know, but prepare yourself, they are checking the building right this moment.’
I don’t think they were sure whether to arrest me or offer support with the Police Liasson officer. After a cup of tea at the police station it was decided to let me go home as a person of interest, with police protection in case whoever murdered my husband also wanted to kill me and presumably so I could not leave. They didn’t use the word murder or tell me any details, but it was soon all over local social media. My every day phone was kept at the police station, nothing incriminating on that one. I slipped into my ensuite bathroom with my iPad and read on the local Facebook page comments that would probably be rapidly deleted in the interests of good taste.
Decomposing body still recognisable as missing businessman Phil Hardy.
Urban explorers find more than they bargained for.
Teenage couple left traumatised as body topples out of cupboard.
His flesh was falling off his face.
His eyeballs rolled out.
Whatever possessed the killers to stick him in a cupboard in a building near our local shops and our house? Well, I certainly wouldn’t be using their services again, nor would they get the final payment next year. Maybe I should not have told them our address, but how could they have tracked Phillip down without knowing where he lived?
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 