Singing like Ces

When I was a kid he was the only weirdo in town. And our only busker. Ces wanted to be a singer but people said he took a bullet in the head in the war. 

About once a week he’d be outside the bookshop, his beige trench coat belted with a piece of baling twine. In summer he wore a red cap; in winter he sported a fur lined ushanka that he claimed he’d stolen from a dead Russian. I regarded it with fearful fascination.

Always, his faithful bitzer bitch lay on a blanket at his feet, beside a dogbowl into which no-one except tourists having a leg stretch ever tossed any change. The butcher’s boy would cross the road with a bone. Mrs Kooman would make Ces sit down in the tea rooms for a mug of tea and a pie, as payment for his ‘entertainment’ she said, but really because she worried that he didn’t eat properly.  He’d leave with a bag of yesterday’s scones or a few sausage rolls, and if it was raining Aunty Marj would put ‘Back in 5 minutes’ on the open bookshop door and run him home.

Ces loved the radio and he’d sing whatever was top of the playlist, with delightful approximation.

“I can see clearly now, Lorraine has gone”, I heard one day and even I knew that was wrong. The dog rolled her eyes upwards, and heaved a sigh.

Another time, it was “Bus stop, Wednesday, she's there, I say please share my umbrella.” When he got to “That umbrella, we embroidered, My Olga, she was mine”, I couldn’t help myself.

“Don't you know that’s wrong, Ces?”

He looked puzzled. “But if I sing the right words, people stop listening.”

I’ve tried to sing like Ces ever since.

Rosemary McBryde

July stories

For July, we have been given the inspiration "Under my umbrella".  It's winter here in the deep south, so that might mean shelter from biting rain.  Where you are, it could be shade from the sun.  Or it could be something more deeply metaphorical. Up to you, dear writers, to do with this what you will.  Looking forward to stories, a maximum of 300 words for purists or 500 if you aren't.  Truth be told, I'm not checking too closely.  Send your contributions to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 31 July. And anyone is welcome to write.

Saving a slice for Philip

August 19 1947

Crash!  The distant sound immediately jolts me from my slumber and I pull the curtains apart just enough to spy the time on the small clock beside my bed.  Today is my birthday!  I have asked Molly, Ruby, Joan and Elizabeth to come over for my party.  I only asked Elizabeth in the hope that maybe her brother Philip might come along too.  He is a total dish and I have had several conversations with him.  In my head.  But only one actual talk when I dropped a glove on the way to school and he said “I think this is yours”.

Judging by the sound of the crash, I guess mother has secretly got up early to make my favourite cake but gave her position away inadvertently by the symphonic cascade of tins falling out of the pantry. I imagine she is cursing silently. There are thirteen red and yellow candles waiting in the drawer to be planted.  I will make sure I save the biggest piece for Philip if he comes.

December 25 1961

The usual early morning bird call has been replaced by the bells from St Mary’s appealing for all available Christians and the sound of Edward riding his brand new tricycle.  He has also discovered the trailer, shredded the wrapping and joined it on.  Catherine has filled it with empty cans that rattle busily with every fracture in the concrete path and he shrieks with delight while his little legs spin furiously.   I send my first Christmas prayer of the day hoping Bert at number 52 has at least a little Christmas spirit today. 

March 16 2016

A rhythmic squealing then the sound of objects hitting the floor stirs me.  Following the raucous is the sound of laughing.  Is it my birthday?  Is Ruby here, or Janet?  Is Philip here? I get out of bed, grab my dressing gown and open the door.  Two dark-skinned women are outside my room gathering a tray and its contents that have fallen off the metal trolley. 

‘Morning Deirdre,” says the one with the badge that identifies her as Jamie.  There is no sign of my friends, only a long corridor with door after door off it.  Directly opposite my room is a door adorned with a photo of a man casting a fishing rod in a river looking very happy.  Underneath it says his name is Ted Spencer.  On my door is a photo of a woman in her thirties, her shoulder length hair in curls and looking like she has had three wines already and the slight blur suggests it’s not posed.  She also looks happy. 

“Here are your pills my love,” says the other holding out her hand.  I don’t know her but she seems kindly.

 

 “It’s Marjorie’s birthday today,” says Jamie.  “There’ll be savouries, cocktail sausages and chocolate cake,” she adds. 

I immediately feel better about the day.

 

“I love birthday cake.  Do you think Philip will be coming?”

Andrew Hawkey

The Dawn Chorus

The dawn is a gift full of promise like an unwrapped parcel waiting tantalisingly to be undone. No matter where you are it is the start, of a new day, which unravels slowly. At times it is serene and peaceful and sometimes it is noisy.

The sunrise from the balcony as I stood looking over to the St Clair beach signalled with its beauty a very bad day but at that moment in the dawn it was breath-taking. The sun was lambent on scattered roof tops. There was a solitude at this time that felt comforting and yet an unspoken yearning came unexpectedly.

A bird sound called on the soft summer air and soon another, different, calling intermittently to one another, randomly, greeting each other. First a high soprano followed by a lower contralto then a tenor, rich and full bodied, ensued.

A small chorus with no melody line and no conductor, random, but beautiful in its clarity and sound. No matter how the day unwrapped it had the most peaceful and beautiful start.

But a noisy cacophonous start to the day can be a grateful beginning. It can be the most welcome sound.

After an interminable night of silence desperately trying to sleep with wrinkled sheets, a hard mattress and hard pillow, the darkness stretching out for an eternity the morning’s arrival would have been so welcome. I continually looked at my watch but the hour hand moved so slowly. I stretched out a leg. I plumped up my pillows. I curled back my leg. It was so uncomfortable. The air was hot and stuffy. No breath of fresh air here .It was stifling Sleep was unattainable Counting sheep did not help. Another drink of water perhaps. Oh please morning, Hurry up!  Soft darkness.  Silence!!! Soft tread, sleuth like but still no morning. Desperation was my companion.

Dawn please!!! Then I heard it. Trolleys clanging, voices chattering, footsteps scurrying along busy and purposeful. Lights were on and buzzers sounded. Morning had arrived.

The hospital dawn chorus had started. 

What a relief!!

Fay Ward