Category: Writing

My Thanks

3/4/2018

I just wanted to say a special thank you to everyone who took part by either sharing, liking or downloading copies of Niedermayer & Hart, in my Kindle giveaway over the Easter Bank Holiday weekend. The promotion (first time I've done one of these) went far better than I might have hoped, and a lot of copies of N & H are now on a lot of Kindles. There are some folk however who seem to just like acquiring books, and judging by the huge numbers listed on some To Read lists I've seen on Goodreads, it's unlikely they'll ever get round to reading them all, unless of course someone discovers a serum that can bestow everlasting life on them! I'm sure the majority of people will have downloaded N & H with the intention of actually reading the book in the not too distant future, I hope so anyway!

Naturally, I also hope that people will like what they read, and should they do so, tell their friends and/or post a review on Amazon. These simple actions are just about the most helpful things an appreciative reader can do for an independent writer, who doesn't have the vast marketing machine of a large publishing house to support them. Anyway, thanks again, I'll be posting more soon about the follow-on title to Niedermayer & Hart. In the meantime, I hope some of you at least will get reading. Enjoy!

0 Comments

Radio Four

17/4/2016

2 Comments

I've been decorating over the past week or so - trying to catch up with the stuff I pretend isn't waiting to be done when I'm busy writing. I'm not a great fan of the paintbrush, if the truth be told, however, I have been grateful for the opportunity to listen in to more on the radio. When I say radio I am naturally referring to BBC Radio 4. We generally wake up to Radio 3, the classical station, as the other half dislikes opening her eyes (ears!) to the full-on confrontation that is the Today news programme on 4.

The variety of programmes on Radio 4 is always astonishing, and as someone who rarely watches television I think I'd happily pay my BBC licence fee for this service alone, which has managed to both educate and entertain me over many years. If only I could write and listen to radio programmes at the same time! Alas, during periods of writing the radio has to be switched off until I break at lunchtime (here I must confess to having been hooked into the Helen & Rob marital abuse storyline of late in Radio Four’s daily soap The Archers!). I've really enjoyed some of the drama offerings, especially Killing Time by Peter Jukes, starring Lenny Henry, and The Clerks' Room by Janice Okoh, plus a number of one-off plays and some serials like Home Front, about the First World War, which relates itself to a day exactly a hundred years ago. But the Radio 4 diet is completely omnivorous, and this week I've also particularly relished hearing Thinking Allowed and The Media Show.

There is one fifteen minute programme that I've found immensely engaging though, and I'm so glad I didn't miss any of it: Free Speech, written and presented by Timothy Garton Ash. Basically this is a series of essays on a subject I truly believe we should all feel passionate about - the hard won right to express ourselves without prejudice. This is a terrific short series and I can highly recommend listening to it.

So, mostly thanks to BBC Radio, the decorating has been getting along nicely and relatively pain-free!

2 Comments

Buddy Read - The Harp in the South

13/2/2016

0 Comments

I think I mentioned a few weeks back that I was about to take part in a buddy read of The Harp in the South by Ruth Park. A few of us on Twitter choose a book unread by us all, (often an unexplored author too) and we start reading on a set date - no rules really, other than we only do a title every six months - this is because reading has to be a pleasure, not a chore!

This book was suggested by our Australian member* and I think all of us feel really pleased about it, because we found it a hugely enjoyable book. The Harp in the South (published 1948) is actually the second book in a trilogy, although it was written first. The success of the novel was followed by Poor Man’s Orange (1949 - last book in trilogy) and Missus, the first book in the trilogy but actually written very much later, in 1985 in fact. I had no idea until I read, in the aforementioned review, that the (Harp in South) book was the winner of a newspaper competition and serialised in the Sydney Morning Herald in 1947. It’s not difficult to believe it won, because it really is so very well wrritten; it perhaps also explains the slightly episodic nature of the narrative, which might be viewed as a flaw in the writing until you’re aware of that fact. The novel, perhaps surprisingly today, was seen as controversial when it first appeared, many arguing that Park had made up the slum life we experience through the lives of the Irish Catholic Darcy family who are central to her book. Park attested to the book’s authenticity, having herself lived in a tenement in the Surry Hills area of Sydney with her husband when first married.

The book is set at the time it was written, which certainly took this reader by surprise, probably because of the acute poverty experienced by its cast of characters. Initially (because the period isn’t stated), I thought it was set in the early 1930s or even earlier, but oblique references to Lana Turner etc put me on the right track. What really came across for me was the tolerance and care these people demonstrate for each other, how despite everything they somehow manage to uphold their standards of decency, despite the plodding grimness of their lives. It’s hard to believe (from our cosseted lives today) how a day’s outing to the seaside could have been seen as a momentous occasion. There is tragedy, ugliness and despair here, but there are also many light-hearted moments, and the book left me feeling exhilarated and uplifted. The writing itself is excellent and Park’s descriptions are always beautifully crafted.

Ruth Park (1917- 2010) was actually a New Zealander by birth and was no stranger to poverty, having grown up through the Depression there. She was a prolific writer, wrote several novels including many books for children and produced literally thousands of radio scripts. She died at the fine age of ninety-three.

If like me you were almost completely ignorant when it came to Antipodean literature, then add this title to your TBR pile. Or, just add it simply because it’s a very good book. I’m delighted to have found a new author and especially happy because I still have two parts of the trilogy left to go. Woohoo!

* Caffeine and Chapters review

0 Comments

Great Westerns

5/7/2015

0 Comments

I've always had eclectic tastes when it comes to what I'm reading; but as long as it's well written I'll probably read it. The only stuff I can't bring myself to endure is romance, erotica and badly written cr*p. I have, as discussed elsewhere on my blog, a fifty pages rule. However, I never rate or review a book unless I've read the whole thing (no skimming allowed!). I love prose that engages me and flows with a simplicity and elegance. Steinbeck's Cannery Row is a masterclass in this, I think; and I was ecstatic when I read The Dog of the South by Charles Portis last year - Portis is so good! His prose runs along in a stream-of consciousness style which makes him look like he's not doing very much, and you can easily overlook his consummate skill as a writer, probably the reason why he's so woefully underrated. I suppose, truth be told, I read slightly more contemporary American fiction writers than I do their British counterparts, although I remain a lifelong fan of our indigenous nineteenth-century and early twentieth- century authors.

The wife is, as I've often mentioned, a really good book finder. She passed on The Giant Book of The Western to me to read, and boy, did I enjoy it! It's a collection of twenty-seven short stories written by many of the names I recall seeing as a boy in the cheap reading editions often seen on newspaper stands at railway stations and newsagent shops. These writers cut their teeth selling stories to the American pulp magazines that proliferated from the 1920s through to the 1960s. They only sold their stories if people bought the magazines, so they had to work fast and learn to do what they did well - if they wanted to make a living that is! A huge number of the most illustrious names in twentieth century American literature seem to have started their careers this way. It's a fact that if you want to improve at any craft the secret is doing (no secret).

It goes without saying that I liked some of the stories more than others. My wife had put a tick by her favourites and it was fun seeing where our tastes coincided. We weren't unanimous by any means in the stories each of us liked the best - although we were in agreement about fifty percent of the time. I particularly liked the way Jon E Lewis, who edited this anthology, introduces each story with a brief biography of its author. I sincerely hope to meet a great many of these again. Here is my personal list of favourites:

On the Divide by Willa Cather

All Gold Canyon by Jack London

The Last Thunder Song by John G Neihardt

Wine on the Desert by Max Brand

At the Sign of the Last Chance by Owen Wister

Great Medicine by Steve Frazee

The Tall T by Elmore Leonard

Blood on the Sun by Thomas Thompson

Soldier Blue by T V Olsen (an excerpt from his novel Arrow in the Sun)

Beecher Island by Wayne D Overholser

Desert Command by Elmer Kelton (an excerpt from his novel The Wolf and the Buffalo)

The Bandit by Loren D Estleman

I liked all the stories, the ones I've listed above in all probability simply appealed or spoke most at the time of reading to either my mood or taste. lf I had to pick one story out of the entire collection, I'd name On the Divide by Willa Cather. It stood out for me as one of the best short stories I think I've ever read. I shall definitely be looking out for her Western novels O Pioneers! (1913), My Antonia (1918), The Lost Lady (1925), and her collected short stories Obscure Destinies (1932).

This is a lovely collection and I can highly recommend it.

0 Comments

Bring Me Sunshine!

25/4/2015

0 Comments

The sun has taken its hat off and has been shining down on us for well over a week now, a situation I find very tolerable, although I’m suffering a little earlier than is normal for me with hay fever symptoms. I suspect the pollen situation must be high this year as even Judith was violently sneezing a few days back and said she thought she was coming down with a cold - no cold developed but she’s still sneezing a lot! I guess that’s what happens when acres and acres of Kent countryside are turned over to oil-seed rape. You know, I really could launch a personal vendetta against that particular genus of plant!

The last week or so has been fairly uneventful. We went to a jolly good organic farm shop the other day and we plan to stop shopping in supermarkets quite so much and lend our support to these people who are doing a good job at a fair price and making the world a bit greener and healthier in the process! I daresay I’ll be writing more on this blog about Cherry Gardens Organic Farm Shop in the future.

The second draft of the follow-on book to Niedermayer & Hart is busy underway at the moment and I’m really enjoying it. Mrs J gets given the completed chapters and really doesn’t have a clue what it’s about yet; of course she recognises themes, characters etc from N & H - but says she trusts that I’ll bring the whole thing together satisfyingly by the end (poor deluded fool!). I hadn’t previously discussed anything about the book with her, she didn’t see a word of the first draft, and so she’s experiencing it now completely ‘blind’ as it were. I personally find this is a really good opportunity for gauging response - and so far, so good! I stopped writing for over a week while we had some guests staying from Amsterdam, and although I was happy to get back to work, I didn’t in any way resent stopping work for our lovely relatives. It was fun spending time with them and we especially enjoyed having a toddler about the place, Tee hee hee! Actually they were model house guests. Judith’s Mum is the little-un’s Great-Great-Grandmother - now that has to be a pretty rare five-generations photo opportunity!

Keep smiling whether the sun is shining or not - might as well!

0 Comments

Nightmare Builders!

5/11/2014

1 Comment

It has been a strange hectic few months since our summer holiday in Ruhpolding, Bavaria in early August. Upon our return, I’d arranged for some necessary and fairly extensive building works to get underway. I’d considered what needed doing carefully and gone about things cautiously, or so I thought, and had received about half a dozen different estimates for the work. The job mostly required the repointing of brickwork that was in poor condition and had been hidden beneath masonry paint. I didn’t have any immediate contacts when it came to bricklayers, so I used an online directory provider who claim that they thoroughly vet the tradespeople on their website, and that the reviews for them posted by scores of satisfied customers are most definitely to be trusted, enabling you as a prospective customer to feel confident and sleep easy in your bed. A note of warning ... beware!

What I didn’t realise, and probably most prospective customers don’t either, is that these companies charge the tradesperson a nice fat fee to to use their service. A reputable builder explained that even impressive acronyms for what might seem to us novices as representing solid-as-rock trade organisations, are often meaningless - “Just an opportunity to hike-up the price,” he suggested, and went on to say, “The only way to be sure of a good builder is either to see their work, or, through the recommendation of someone you completely trust”. I entirely agree. These customer-review sites are simply opportunities for tradespeople to advertise their skills and should definitely be seen as such; undoubtedly there are some good people on these sites, but they are easily open to abuse; the danger lies in the perception (which they have a vested interest in promoting) that customers are dealing with an authoritative voice that can be unequivocally trusted ... again, I say, beware!

After I’d sacked the builders I’d taken on via this well-known website, I rang to make a formal complaint. The girl on the phone was warm and expressed dismay that we had had a bad experience with one of their tradesmen. She said she’d put me through to their ‘Complaints Department’, pointing out that there may be no-one in that office at this time, but reassured me that if I left my name and telephone number someone would be sure get back to me promptly. Ten days later I’d heard nothing and rang again. I was about to be put through to their complaints department once more until I mentioned this was the second time I’d called. I got the distinct impression that most people give up before they make the second call. The apologetic chap I spoke to suggested, as I hadn’t been given an invoice number by the tradesman, that I leave my feedback on their website, which they would understandably, for the sake of fairness (presumably because I might be an unrealistically demanding or even vindictive customer) allow the tradesman an opportunity to comment on and offer his explanation, or perhaps he might be able to put the work right ... after twenty-one days if the matter wasn’t resolved and the tradesman couldn’t justify himself, my comments would be posted on their site. I suggested their organisation, to ensure fairness, might like to send someone over to examine for themselves the builders’ thoroughly dreadful work ... witness for themselves the mortar they’d thinly smeared over paintwork to make it look like they had ground-out and repaired a joint, or see their wafer thin pointing that would no doubt ‘ping-out’ at the first frost. He gently explained that they were not able to make site visits at that time (whatever that meant!).

It’s quite a big thing to get rid of your builders once works are underway, because by this time you generally have quite a lot invested already in what they’re doing. At first you try to convince yourselves that maybe they just got off to a bad start ... maybe next week their time-keeping and perhaps even their work might improve ... in your heart you already know you’re deluding yourselves ... the sleepless nights have already started! There were four of them and I don’t think I ever saw one of them before 9 am ... some days I didn’t see them at all ... the last straw was when only one of them rolled up for work in the second week at about 11am, broke for an hour’s lunch at 12.30pm, then condescended to do an hour more in the afternoon before packing up for the day. Their on site presence was as rare as a hen’s teeth (as someone who works from home, I took to jotting down their hours) ... four guys over two weeks totalling 72 hours present on site (I suspect time actually working was far less) isn’t going to win any gold medals for diligence and hard work. The moment arrived when they just had to go! And once I’d bitten the bullet it immediately felt better - no work is better than rotten work that is going to require a good deal of putting right.

However, there were inevitably consequences to bear: I’d agreed to what I’d considered to be a reasonable payment at the end of each week’s work, so we were taken for some money - but in the great scheme of things and against the overall cost of the job, we didn’t suffer too badly. There’s certainly no way of getting any money back, they’re the sort of guys who if you took them to the small claims court, it would not only end up costing you more money, they’d probably claim to having no money at all and would probably be allowed to pay you back at £1 a week. I’d suggest that if a builder requests any interim payments, that you discuss this thoroughly with them before agreeing to it and make any agreed payments a week in lieu. Hindsight is a great thing!

Once the builders were finally gone we then encountered a couple of weeks of disturbed if not entirely sleepless nights - our home was now surrounded by a large scaffold, costing us money as it lay idle. There has been something of a building boom in the south-east of England this year; the number of other houses in the surrounding streets that bear their own scaffolds confirms this. For over two weeks every reputable builder I approached who came recommended to me turned out to be busy. The situation seemed impossible ... I was comforted by a story I knew from Eastern wisdom about the transience of all things ... “This too will pass” I assured myself many times. And to ease my frustration and to save my nails from being bitten down to the quick, I launched myself at the house’s gable end (not literally!), and my son lent a hand too - I don’t possess the skill to dismantle and rebuild a chimney, but I could certainly grind out and repoint brickwork that would ultimately be painted again. I persisted in looking for new builders and eventually some of the good guys in white Stetsons turned up and took on the more skilled work. We are very grateful to them.

Up to 81% discount on Kindle from 8 November!

And that’s what happened, and why this has been the longest blog-holiday this website has ever taken! I’ve still got a few bits and bobs inside and out to finish off, so I can’t get down to my daily writing schedule again just yet; but I’m no longer solely thinking and dreaming about bricks and mortar - the house is looking great and the end is definitely in sight! I’ve actually started thinking about my books and their marketing again, and recently set up what I hope will prove to be some attractive opportunities to get Kindle copies of both my books at highly discounted prices on Amazon.com and Amazon.uk. The offers will start on Saturday 8 November and go on until Thursday 4 December. Both the books will be available at different times and the price they’ll be available at will vary - I’ll simply say this, remember, it’s the early bird that catches the worm!

1 Comment

Ghosts 'n' Stuff

6/7/2014

0 Comments

It’s been a busy week for us Johnsons

We went to see a digitally recorded performance of the recent acclaimed Almeida Theatre production of Ibsen’s Ghosts, skilfully adapted and directed by Richard Eyre. It is a wonderful play about the power of the past to return and haunt the living with its unresolved bitter truths and hidden lies. An appropriate theme indeed at a time when so many loved and trusted British celebrities have been lately exposed for their sordid past behaviour.

In Ghosts, Ibsen, the great nineteenth-century exponent of naturalism, remains true to the unities of Greek Theatre (Action, Place, Time), as his play unfolds and its characters unravel within the space of a day and night. He was without any shadow of doubt a tremendous playwright, commanding an ability to drive his audience along with a force as irresistible as a steam locomotive. What may at first seem to be little more than a domestic drawing room saga, set in the comfortable provincial home of Helene Alving with her liberal ideals, soon has power to make the jaw drop. The past and its ‘sins’ return, leaving a trail of torment and destruction in their wake. Judging from the collective exhalation that came from the audience as the lights dimmed on the cinema screen - this play still packs a very powerful punch even a hundred and thirty years after it was written. The cast were all excellent, however, Lesley Manville was utterly marvellous as Helene Alving, and thoroughly deserved her Olivier award. I think her performance, its truthfulness, integrity and total lack of theatricality, has to rank as one of the very finest I have ever witnessed. Here’s a link to the West End Theatre Series website - some cinema performances are still available. Do not hesitate if it’s possible to see a reprise showing of this.

Judith and I spent last weekend in Cardiff. Since my mother passed away eighteen months ago now, we like to pay a visit home every few months when the feeling of ‘hiraeth’ (longing is closest to the word’s meaning) becomes compelling. “We loves the ‘Diff!” We met up for coffee with a long-lost cousin, last seen when he was thirteen and I was eleven. We’re all chatterboxes and a couple of strong coffees didn’t inhibit any of our tongues any. We had a lovely time!

Then I returned home to the cellar and the great effort I’m engaged in down there. I love a difficult task, although after our busy weekend I did feel rather despondent by Tuesday after realising I had made a mistake the previous day and needed to take another day to undo everything it had achieved. Ah well, I got over it and was smiling again by the end of the week - especially after receiving, completely out of the blue, no less than four new 5* reviews for Roadrage in as many days! All were, as always, greatly appreciated - two of these pieces were so marvellously succinct I hope you’ll forgive my indulgence by including them in this blog post:

“I found this book by chance and it is a riveting read. Fantastic characters, fantastic plot and I would highly recommend to all. Brilliant.” - left on Amazon UK

and

“Brilliant storyline. A must read.” - left on Goodreads

Pretty good, huh?

0 Comments

Old Chums and Great Passions

1/6/2014

2 Comments

A Midsummer Night's Dream (Nov 1970) - Ogmore-by-the-Sea

The wife’s gone off to London for the day (Saturday). She just rang - she’s having a coffee with Bob Mason , an old chum of mine from my teenage years in Wales (see photo left of the Glamorgan Schools' Theatre Company production of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream - Bob played Bottom and is photographed with donkey ears, end of third row on right - that’s me seated on end of second row left). We met up again in London about a decade later, around the time my son was born; my wife got to know him then too. Unbeknown to either of us, we’d both trained as actors at different schools in London. We saw a lot of him for a while and then he disappeared from our lives again until about three years back - he tracked me down through my website. He rang yesterday to say he was on a flying visit from Sweden and were we around to meet up? I wasn’t able to get up to London myself today as I had a pre-arranged appointment this afternoon with someone who is going to be doing some work for us. Judith however was actually visiting London today to see her lifelong hero Julie Andrews, who’s appearing on stage at the Hammersmith Apollo. Sadly, she no longer sings of course, but I think she tells anecdotes and is interviewed by Aled Jones. What’s for certain is that Judith will love it! And when I imagine the audience of two thousand odd adoring fans and think of my wife’s rapturous expression surrounded by all those like minded ‘brothers and sisters’, without being in any way snide, somehow I can’t help smiling.

We should all have at least one thing in this life that we really adore!

Judith and I consider ourselves extremely blessed because we’re enthusiastic about literally dozens of things. Reading is of course a shared lifelong passion. I’m currently reading Jane Eyre, which I’m almost ashamed to say I’d never picked up before, although I have seen numerous adaptations. When I was a boy the BBC took its remit to educate its audience very seriously, and every Sunday afternoon we were introduced to the Classics through various serialisations - I suspect Jane Eyre was first experienced in this way. I know the characters and story in the book very well, so unfortunately there are no great surprises as there might have been, however it is still a great book and remains after more than a hundred and fifty years a total page-turner.

On the subject of books: I am really pleased that lots of people have taken advantage of the ‘Pre-Summer Madness’ low-price promo for Niedermayer & Hart and Roadrage on Amazon Kindle and Smashwords (if reading on my website, full details in the column to the right of this blog post). I plan to allow this offer (especially as it’s not officially summer yet!) to run for a little while longer before putting the price up again. Thanks very much to everyone who has posted a review - this is an invaluable promotional tool and always greatly appreciated.

Enjoy your week!

2 Comments

That Was The Week That Was

16/5/2014

0 Comments

Our new pond

My normal day for the last few years has been centred around my PC. It’s therefore quite strange, but nonetheless enjoyable, for me to rise each morning and don workclothes rather than the track-suit bottoms and t-shirt which has become my customary writer’s garb. It’s entirely a question of comfort. How did all those writers past manage with all that starch and corsetry they had to contend with, not to mention having to write the whole flippin’ book in longhand? Actually, I wrote the very first draft of Niedermayer & Hart in longhand. I didn’t own a computer at that time, or a typewriter for that matter, in fact, I’d never so much as even typed a letter of complaint to the CEO of a coffee chain on some matter of great national importance like the milk temperature of my daily latte. Times change! But can’t help wondering whether Dickens or Victor Hugo might not have managed to keep going a bit longer and even coughed-up a few more books if they’d been allowed to write on a laptop in a nice loosely-fitting floral shirt, a pair of baggy shorts and some sandals. Goodness only knows what Jane Austen might have achieved wearing a kaftan!

Talking of being strangely dressed, the Eurovision Song Contest, which the wife loves to watch annually (sigh), was won by a bearded lady for Austria! Actually, the bearded lady was a drag artist called Conchita Wurst (stage-name of course!) who said in the interview that I watched on Facebook that he’d invented the persona to promote more tolerance of people who are different. I must say the effect was quite shocking at first, however, he/she really could sing, the song itself was powerful (although in all honesty I can’t remember anything about it a week on!) and it was well delivered - he/she deserved the success.

I suffered some anxiety a few days back when my garden pond, which I had recently dug out and filled, turned into an unappetising pea-soup from the rapid invasion of algae. Fortunately my gardening guru tells me this is just minerals in the water and it will clear. Hope he’s right. Actually, seem to recall the same thing happened to the last pond I had about twenty years back, and that turned out okay! So, fingers crossed.

Most of the week I’ve been working down in our cellar. I plan to screed the floor and make the walls (a little bit) more waterproof. Judith asked me a few days back whether I, being the author of Niedermayer & Hart, didn’t feel somewhat unnerved working for several hours each day in a cellar on my own? I suppose you’d need to know the relationship between Niedermayer & Hart and cellars to understand the meaning behind her question. Actually, N & H managed to pick up this rather excellent review on Amazon.com about a week ago and my tail hasn’t stopped wagging since. If interested in a ripping yarn with horror/thriller elements, please take a look - definitely a lot more fun than working in my cellar!

And that was the week that was - well, sort of!

Stop Press: in an act of pre-Summer madness, I have recklessly slashed the price of both my books on Kindle. You can now buy Niedermayer & Hart (and find out exactly why my wife may be concerned for my sanity after spending prolonged periods down in our cellar!) and psychological/thriller Roadrage (no horror but definitely scary) for just £0.99 each from Amazon UK.

US and worldwide readers haven’t been left out on a great deal either. They can now purchase Niedermayer & Hart and Roadrage at the very low Summer price of $1.99 each over at Amazon.com. This US pricing applies to all other countries worldwide.

If you do take advantage of this offer and read either of my books, I am, as always, delighted to receive any feedback!

0 Comments

The Blackberries

9/5/2014

0 Comments

Welsh poet Dylan Thomas was born a hundred years ago this year, and there was a lot of programming on BBC Radio this week to mark this (Dylan was actually born in October 1914, so I expect there must be more to come. Hooray!). He wrote a number of finely crafted stories about his childhood in Wales, and the centenary celebrations prompted me to complete this story. It was loosely scavenged from my own childhood in Wales and has been percolating upstairs in the grey matter for some time. I hope you enjoy it.

The Blackberries

His mother had mentioned blackberries some days before. It was at teatime. The boy’s father had been speaking with some eloquence on the subject of his wife’s baking skills. In fact, anyone arriving at that moment might easily have been forgiven for thinking he was composing a eulogy for someone recently departed, and not merely singing the praises of his wife’s rhubarb tart.

“That was a marvellous tart,” the father said.

“Not bad,” replied his wife, who was known to be something of a tyrant when it came to shortcrust pastry, “A bit short on lard today I was.”

The boy’s father shook his head in vigorous disagreement. It was his custom to always deny any culinary shortcomings his wife confessed to.

The boy looked down with regret at his scraped-clean dish and wished he’d eaten slower. He closed one eye and began to secretly conjure a rhubarb tart island partially submerged under an ocean of evaporated milk, wishing his bowl to magically refill.

His mother went on with her blistering analysis and self-appraisal, “Perhaps a bit more sugar on the rhubarb ... thought it was a bit on the sharp side.”

“Well, I thought it was very nice. What about you?” said the father, prompting the boy to voice an opinion.

“Lovely,” said the boy.

“Mmm ... maybe it’s me then,” his Mam said, “Mind, I’ve never been a big one for rhubarb,” she continued, “Blackberries are my favourite.”

The seed was sown. A day or two later the boy noticed how the berries were ripening in the hedgerows. On his way home from school he was walking alongside another boy, a sometime ally by the name of John. They lived in the same direction. John was a year above the boy in school but they went to the same chapel and were in the same Sunday school class.

“I’m comin’ back out when I gets in,” said the boy, “I’m going to pick some blackberries for my Mam.”

John considered the premise a moment. “Me an' all,” he said, “I’ll come round for you.”

“Alright,” said the boy.

Mam was delighted when the boy told her his intention. She supplied him with an enamel bowl. “I’d better get on and make a bit of pastry then,” she said. The boy changed into his play clothes, but now they were the clothes of a great hunter, and before leaving the house on his intrepid search for blackberries he took a glass of milk and a digestive biscuit to sustain him on his safari.

John came as arranged, although he wasn’t alone, he’d brought a friend with him who the boy only knew by sight. There were no introductions. John had one of his mother’s bowls tucked under an arm, the other boy had no visible container.

“What you going to collect yours in?” the boy inquired of the friend.

“I’m just comin’along to help,” he replied.

“Alright. Where to then?” asked John, “The rec ... back of the cricket pitch ... round by the old works?”

The boy knew where the very best blackberries always were. There was a large patch of wasteground behind the bus shelter, it was overgrown with bramble bushes half as high as a house, or at least that was how they seemed to him. The boy spoke with such conviction on the subject of location that his companions went along with it.

The boy had chosen well, the brambles behind the bus shelter were richly adorned with the purplish-black jewels, big, plump, luscious blackberries, ripe and lovely, just begging to be plucked. The boy took his sizeable enamel dish to be a challenge and began to pick with much diligence. He was determined to fill it until it overflowed. His family would feast on the finest blackberry tart ever tasted in the whole of Wales! A tart that would be talked of for years to come!

The boy was only vaguely aware of the other two, who were messing around a lot and not getting much picking done. The boy intrepidly leaned and stretched into the bramble bushes, acquiring multiple scratches along his arms and hands but not caring much, for his eye was clearly set on its goal.

The boy’s dish was well above the halfway point when John’s friend suddenly voiced an idea, “Tell you what, let’s pool ‘em!”

The boy was horrified at the thought, “But I’ve got loads more than you!” he responded.

“True,” agreed John’s friend, who almost certainly went on to become a politician in later life, “But what I’m suggesting is pooling together so as to help each other. You give what you’ve picked to John, then afterwards we’ll help fill up your dish.”

“I think things is alright the way they is,” said the boy.

“Don’t you trust us?” John’s friend asked, sounding rather offended by the younger boy’s lack of trust.

“It’s just that I’ve got some really big juicy ones.”

John’s friend shook his head as if exasperated by the dimness of some people. “That’s the whole point! We’ll help you get tons more ... the biggest, fattest most juiciest ones. We’re taller than you, so we can reach and get the very best,” he said, then demonstrated by stretching out to reach a massive fat berry well beyond the boy’s reach. He popped the picked fruit into his mouth then displayed his tongue dyed dark purple from its flesh and juice. “Go on. You help John, then we can help you.”

“Yes,” agreed John, holding his bowl out towards the boy in expectation.

“It makes more sense. We’ll pick a lot more if we all work together ... like during the war,” added John’s friend after a philosophical pause.

“Promise if I give you mine, you’ll help me back?”

“I give you my word,” said the future politician.

“Alright,” said the boy, tipping his hard-earned blackberries into John’s bowl, which made it instantly very nearly full.

“Great stuff,” said John’s friend,”We’ll help you now.”

But it turned out as the boy had first feared. John and his friend continued to mess about and almost all the berries that made their way into his now sparsely-populated dish were generally picked by himself. After a time he became acutely aware of some whispering and sniggering coming from the other two.

When the village clock was heard striking five o’clock, John said, “Five. My Mam told me I was to be home by five.”

“Mine too,” said his friend.

“But you said you was going to stay and help me!”

“I could come back later on,” said John’s friend, adopting a conciliatory note, “After tea ... no wait a minute, sorry, no can do ... ‘cos I’m goin’ to the Roxy tonight to see John Wayne with my sister and her boyfriend.”

“You promised!”

“I never promised!” said John forcefully.

“You’re right, I did say I’d help you,” said the friend, “But I didn’t say I’d stay right this minute an’ do it. I already said why I can’t come back after tea tonight, but we could arrange for another day?”

“But you said!” screamed the boy, unable to prevent the tears springing from the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t shout at me!” said John’s friend aggressively. He pushed the boy in the chest, it sent him flying along with his dish of blackberries. The attacker struck a pose that spoke of moral indignation, “I was going to stay and help even though I’m wanted back home ... but seein’ as you’ve taken that tone of voice with me, now I’m definitely not!”

The two bigger boys turned and began to walk away, laughing as they went.

“Stupid bloody cry baby!” John called back at the weeping boy who was sat on the ground surrounded by his spilled blackberries. As they disappeared from view, the boy, though still sobbing, began to wipe his face. These tears, as they mingled with the sticky sweet blackberry juice on his fingers, had a taste and smell he could recall years later.

After a time the boy stopped crying and got what blackberries he could salvage from the grass. Then he set off picking once again, but the best fruit had either been taken before and were now in John’s bowl or out of his reach. He guessed it must be getting late and that he’d soon be expected at home for his tea. He managed to fill about a quarter of the dish then shuffled off home, head down and dejected.

His mother looked surprised and somewhat disappointed by the number of berries the boy had managed to collect in the amount of time he’d been away; but then she’d come to accept that there was never any telling with boys. He never told her what had happened, about how he’d trusted and been tricked; he felt a fool about it.

His mother augmented the blackberries with some cooking apples she had in the pantry cupboard. There was apple and blackberry tart for two days. His father was of course very complimentary about these. And they were fine tasting tarts indeed; yet somehow, apple and blackberry wasn’t quite as good as blackberry by itself.

The boy continued to pick blackberries for his mother every year, but he never forgot how he’d been diddled out of his share that time.

0 Comments

<<Previous

My Thanks

Radio Four

Buddy Read - The Harp in the South

Great Westerns

Bring Me Sunshine!

Nightmare Builders!

Ghosts 'n' Stuff

Old Chums and Great Passions

That Was The Week That Was

The Blackberries

M J Johnson

Categories

Archives