STAN

One way of setting a writing topic is to be given a picture and then compose a story around it. It could be the same picture for everyone each has or chooses a different one. Those of us who’ve been in the group since it was formed in February 2012 will remember one member of the group composing a dialogue between a vase on a table and a chandelier above it. The dialogue was in verse, too!
The following piece was formed round a simple picture of a middle aged man.

STAN

“‘Stan the Man’ they call me. Why do they always say that? I hate it. Stanley’s such an old fashioned name, isn’t it? But then my parents were old when they had me. My mother was nearly 40. My brothers were in their teens. I hardly remember them.”

I was talking to Stan one warm April evening. We sat in the front garden of a non-descript pub fronting onto the street where the rush hour traffic was dying down.

“I’m from London originally. Came here because my wife, ex-wife that is, wanted to be nearer her father who was very ill. I was glad to get away too. She and the children left me many years ago. I saw the children on and off in their early teens, but not seen them for many years now. No idea where they are.”

Although nearing 50, Stan looks a lot younger. He delivers office supplies.
“I like the solitude of being in my van. I’ve got the radio, music or just my own thoughts for company. There’s no interruptions, no need to make idle office chit-chat, nobody on your back. I like it.”

He laughed. It was more like a sniff.

I work for the local newspaper. Earlier this year the editor told me to go out on the streets and interview anyone I liked. He wanted the stories of ordinary townsfolk. What surprises me is how willing people are to talk and they can be pretty revealing.

Next to him, on the table, Stan had put down the book he’d been reading when I’d first approached him. I pointed to it now; a well used ‘Canterbury Tales’
“Ah, Chaucer! Love him. Love reading. Did him for ‘A’ level at school. Fell in love with the language. Don’t know why, just did.”

He paused and drank some of his beer.

“I could have gone to university. I wanted to read English. Never got to take my exams, did I?”

He looked down into his glass and swilled its contents around a bit.

“I was at a good school and doing well, but some of us were found smoking dope. We were expelled. My parents threw me out. I’d brought shame on them, they said. I ended up living in a squat. I was never addicted, though, and never took hard drugs. Then I joined the Army. Don’t know why. Maybe I thought it might bring some stability to my life. Well, it got me away from the drugs but landed me in the Falklands. 19 I was. Two weeks before it was all over, me and 3 others were in our dug-out when a shell exploded. God knows how, but I survived and, more importantly, all in one piece. More than I can say for my mates, poor bastards.”

His voice had tailed off and I could hardly hear those last words. Then he suddenly turned to me. There was anger in his expression and in his voice.

“And do you know, while that victory march went on in London and everybody cheered, we, the wounded, the cripples, the blind were told to stay away. No way were we going to shit on Thatcher’s glory. ‘You’re not wanted. Here’s a few quid, now piss off’, that’s what it was for us who were no use to the Army anymore.”

He stopped talking and looked towards where the sun was lowering itself behind a church tower. The anger passed.

“I got some therapy, later. Didn’t do anything for me, though. Perhaps I was looking for instant results. Had lots of different jobs. I even started to learn the London ‘Knowledge’. Gave that up. It would have taken so long to learn. Instant results again, I suppose. Maybe that’s why I never considered doing my ‘A’ levels and trying for university. Would take too long, and anyway I had a family by then.”

He went silent again. We drained our glasses. I asked him what he was thinking about. He turned and looked at me, smiled slightly and gave that sniffing laugh.

“I was thinking about my ex and how she wanted to look after her sick Dad. I’d love to see my children again and perhaps be a Dad for them again, if they’d have me. Being old and alone can’t be nice. I know it may sound funny, but my one big regret is that I wish I could have made it up with my Mum and Dad before they died.”

Ronnie Puttock

THE FOWEY FLYER – April 2012

One of the things that I enjoy doing while thinking about and writing a story, is doing some background research. This one came about after I read about an actual plane crash in 1938. And there really was (briefly) an airfield in St. Austell around this time.
The topic was “Flying”.

THE FOWEY FLYER

Bill Warren taxied his Tiger Moth out of the hangar and onto the sunlit grassy field that was St. Merryn Aerodrome. It was a sparklingly clear April morning, the skylarks already burbling invisibly high above. There was a steady breeze from the north west but nothing to bother the sure-footed Moth. Bill, or as he was universally known by his wartime nickname, Bunny (Warren = rabbits = Bunny!), didn’t need a weather forecast to tell him that it would be a typical showery April day, but he’d be back well before the showers developed any intensity. What he had planned was a short flight of a couple of hours to test the plane after it’s routine grounding for repairs and maintenance. He liked to go easy on a plane just after it’s service, so he’d cruise at a relatively slow 50 m.p.h. She could get up to a 100 if pushed, but that wasn’t recommended in anything but short bursts. A quick glance at the fuel gauge: three quarters full. “That’s plenty,” he thought to himself. Then signalling to the ground staff to stand clear he accelerated, bumping along the airstrip, easing back on the stick and, with that familiar pleasant feeling as if his stomach had been left on the ground, became airborne. “Yes, this is going to be a very pleasant stroll,” Bunny told the plane, “a quick spin and then back to the club for a couple of pints and a pasty for lunch. Maybe get some gardening done this afternoon if it doesn’t rain too much.”

Bunny had been a pilot for over twenty years. He’d joined the RFC as soon as he could and was doing tours over Flanders by 1917. Flying became ingrained in his blood. He did some commercial flying after the war, but this kept him away too much from his wife and family. So it was a dream come true when he was appointed the senior instructor at the new aerodrome only two or three miles from his home in Padstow.
His logged route took him downwind at first over the clay hills of St. Austell. The pools were jewels of sapphire, turquoise and emerald set amongst the blindingly white pyramids.
It was so smooth up there. The engine droned at a perfectly even, rhythmic pitch. The wind whistled and sang through the wing struts and cables. Despite the sun it was freezing in the open cockpit, but Bunny’s old wartime leathers still kept the cold out.

Below him, now, the White River discharged its sediment into the sea. A vast white fan spread from its mouth at Pentewan showing just why this once busy port had all but died. Banking gently to the east, there was the other reason for Pentewan’s demise; Par Docks and its apron of milk-like water. Polkerris over there in its rock cleft and then round the Gribben and its barbers’ pole landmark. The sea, now clear of the china clay waste was as blue as only a Cornish sea can be, liberally flecked with white where the wind flicked the tops off the waves.

Fowey harbour was busy. The large china clay carriers were there but also many private yachts taking advantage of the morning’s glorious sailing weather.
He was now approaching his favourite bit: following the River Fowey. The woods on his right from Polruan up as far as St. Winnow were already showing tinges of green. He always thought of St. Winnow as one of the most beautiful places in the world and whenever he was there, no matter what time of year it was a place of peace. A timeless, magical peace. But even now he couldn’t think of peace without remembering the war. Those terrible, terrible months he spent at the front. The sights, the sounds and the smells still so vivid he could almost taste them. And he was a lucky one. He could fly away from it.

Dipping his wings to salute that special place and his dead compatriots, he continued upstream. He liked to fly as low as possible up the estuary and get the sense of the steep banks on either side gradually closing in on him. And then rounding that last bend in the river, there, appearing all at once and nestling beneath the hills in all its glory was the spire of St. Bartholomew’s and its little town of Lostwithiel gathered at its feet. Gaining height quickly so as not to annoy the populace, he soared over the old bridge. It was a motorist’s nightmare. But not for much longer because over to his right Bunny could clearly see the new road taking shape.
Past Restormel, Lanhydrock and then a lazy arc round to the right to head into the Glyn Valley. “I’ll have some fun here and see how you can go, old girl.” he said, patting the side of the plane like she was a horse. Much to the annoyance and vociferous protestations of the nesting rooks, Bunny opened the throttle. The engine notched up and octave or two. His speed climbed up into the 90s and with full confidence in the plane’s sturdiness he pulled back on the control stick and somewhere near Golitha Falls the Moth shot upwards out of the valley like a snipe breaking cover.

“Blast it!” Bunny hissed through his teeth, “they’re early!” As he reached the apex of his climb, there, to his left and barring his homeward route was a wall of cumulo-nimbus. Their feathered tops a dazzling white reflecting the sun while their bases were a livid purple-black. Robust as the Tiger Moths were, Bunny knew his plane wouldn’t stand a chance in the churning violence of those clouds. “OK. I’ll have to skirt round them and go back the way I came,” and with the graceful sweeping flight of a buzzard, Bunny banked and turned.
Straightening up and heading south west, Bunny’s eye was caught by a sudden flash of light down to his left. The sun glinting from the gleaming green express engine as it pounded towards Liskeard. White smoke streaming over its carriages. He watched until it went out of view, thinking how beautifully such a man-made object can fit into the landscape.
The billowing smoke rising and spreading like clouds shook him back to reality. Those storm clouds were definitely nearer and he could see that Bodmin was already in their shade. If they kept to their present course and didn’t start to spread out Bunny calculated that he could get round them over Lostwithiel.

Bunny glanced down at the fuel gauge. It showed there was three quarters of a tank of fuel left. “Eh? That’s what I had when I left.” He tapped the glass. No change.
A stab of fear sliced through his stomach. How much fuel did he have? He had absolutely no idea.
“Right, Bunny, think clearly. The terrain’s too hilly and steep to try to land here unless I really, really have to. I don’t know if the strip at St. Austell is still operational. Even if it is could I get that far? There’s only one option open and that’s to carry on the way I’m going. If I can get to Lostwithiel there are some flatter fields or even the marshy bits by the river where I can ditch. The main thing is to conserve fuel but if I take it slowly and get a good height if the worst comes to the worst I can glide for a while.”

He climbed steadily: six hundred feet; eight hundred feet; nine hundred, at nearly a thousand feet the plane was hit by a violent gust and tipped over onto its side, only then to fall abruptly into an air pocket. The engine screamed furiously in the dead air. Arms and legs working madly, Bunny fought to get the machine back in control but bottoming out at three hundred feet there would be no room to manoeuvre so he’d have to risk going higher again. There’ll be more turbulence up there and it would use still more precious fuel, but he needed the safety net that height could give him. Up to a thousand feet again, buffeted from side to side, dropping like a dead weight then bouncing up again as the engine found the air to breathe and support the wings.
Passing St. Nectan’s chapel, the worst. The engine spluttered, made a few feeble attempts to stay alive, but expired. Bunny swore. He knew, though, that if he maintained this height and direction he should make it but with no power he wouldn’t be able to regain any lost height. The river was clearly visible now, no more than a couple of miles away, bathed in a curiously ethereal golden glow as the sun and the storm battled for its possession.

The storm had gleefully seen the river valley as an opportunity to stretch out. There was no way round it now. It was now a race against time. As if to hammer home that point a vicious updraft threw him several hundred feet higher before it vanished and dropped him like a belly flopping diver. Momentarily Bunny panicked. Then all his experience and skill switched on. Only one thought was in his head. Get it under control. Oblivious to everything around him, Bunny melded with the machine. He felt its movements, coaxing it, caressing it, brutally wrenching it until he was once more in charge, but his situation was rapidly deteriorating. He was now facing away from the river and diving steeply earthwards. He had to get the plane’s nose up and bank as sharp as he could to the left otherwise he’d crash straight into Downend Garage or, God forbid, across the road into St. Winnow School. “Oh God! No!” he screamed for the children were there in the playground on their morning break and he was headed straight at them. If only they were inside they’d stand a chance. The school walls were probably far stronger than his wooden bodied plane.
He pulled the control stick as far back as he could and at the same time stamped both feet on the rudder pedal. He held that position with all his strength but to no avail. It seemed as though the storm was sucking him into its jaws. The forces of Nature were far too strong for him.
Then all went loose. The pedals flapped around at his feet. The control stick waggled at him aimlessly. The cables had snapped. They couldn’t take any more punishment. He couldn’t do any more. He and the children were going to die.

But Nature hadn’t finished yet. Amidst all this power and wrath she let show her compassionate side. At least as far as the children were concerned. The storm finally broke in a fusillade of stinging hail driving the children to the shelter of the classroom and with it came another almighty squall. Was this another gesture of compassion? It certainly did what Bunny had been straining to do. The plane’s nose lifted and turned to be facing the river again and was by some miracle at a perfect landing approach. He was dropping towards some flattish fields that had a ridge behind them which loomed like a cliff face, but on a slant to the ridge so he wouldn’t hit it head on which would be fatal. All he needed was to stay like this for a few more seconds. The fields looked terribly small and he was bound to crash through a hedge or two, but as long as there were no trees and they weren’t Cornish hedges he’d be alright. He’d done it several times during the war, making emergency landings on makeshift airstrips or in damaged planes. The worst he’d got were cuts, scratches and bruises.

“Please, please just hold it like this,“ Bunny prayed and braced himself for the impact. It was not to be. Nature’s compassion for him was a lie. She was a cat and he was her mouse. She’d let him escape for a moment but now she pounced and had her claws into him again. The plane was grabbed forcefully from behind and hurled forward like a paper dart and like a poorly made dart it went straight up until for a split second it stood vertically in mid air as if wondering which way to go next. Bunny hung helplessly to the sides of the cockpit. If the plane flipped backwards, that would be it, all over; and if it went forwards….? The Tiger Moth elected to topple forward but it wouldn’t change the outcome, though. The plane was plunging to the ground at a lethal angle. For what it was worth the only slight difference was that he’d been tossed over the ridge like a piece of waste paper thrown over a wall. He could now see the river again, but knew he’d never reach it now.
Acting with pure instinct, Bunny yanked the useless control stick backwards and frantically started bouncing up and down in his seat. It was all he could think of to put some extra weight onto the rear of the plane and hope the nose would lift.
He was now over a field plummeting towards a dense snowdrift of blackthorn. It was yards, a matter of moments away. He was now close enough to see his plane was aiming towards part of the blackthorn hedge which was lower than the rest. Small comfort, he’d still hit it, but at least not go through it.
He closed his eyes. He felt the jolt and heard the crashing and splintering of wood as the undercarriage tore at the bushes. Then he was jerked forward hitting his head hard on the cockpit’s edge and then instantaneously thrust backwards. For a moment, for one marvellous moment, the rear of the plane had got entangled in the bushes. Perhaps it was that silly little tail wheel these planes have. Whatever it was it had reduced his speed, but far more importantly the snagging had caused the front end to rise enough so that it would be the wheels that hit the ground first, not the nose. The undercarriage struck the ground with bone crushing force. Then the plane bounced several feet into the air. The field sloped downwards so that when the plane touched down again it didn’t somersault. By then it had reached the end of the field and ploughed into its boundary hedge. This was a Cornish hedge, but fortunately for Bunny the wall was only about three feet high on his side. It was at least ten feet on the other where it dropped down to the Lerryn Road. The wall ripped off the wheels, the hawthorn and hazel bushes collected most of the wings allowing the fuselage with Bunny in his cockpit to scramble through. With it’s momentum now all but lost what was left of the plane slumped exhaustedly over the wall leaving its nose on the road and its tail resting on top of the hedge.

Dazed, shocked and totally spent, both physically and emotionally, Bunny came to rest draped over the side of the cockpit, mirroring the plane‘s attitude. A profound silence pressed heavily on his ears. Gradually, individual sounds began to emerge: his heart pounding, echoing in his head; the clatter of hailstones on the plane’s shattered body and the sighing and soughing of the wind rushing through the branches around him.
Very carefully he moved his arms and then his feet. Finally, slowly, cautiously he raised his head and gently eased himself back as far as the tilting fuselage would allow. He could taste blood in his mouth but feel no serious injury. He was alive.

He made no attempt to climb down. The ground was too solid, too real. He would stay where he was. Someone would find him eventually.

Ronnie Puttock
April 2012

THE SHEEPSHANK REDEMPTION

This quirky little piece was written by one of our members long before the group was set up.

THE SHEEPSHANK REDEMPTION

I was enjoying a walk in the country. Revelling in the sunshine and rejoicing that the foot and mouth epidemic seemed to be virtually over I was celebrating the reopening of one of my favourite footpaths. I stopped to drink in the beauty of the morning and the magnificent view. A large sheep looked up at me and ambled over to the gate I was leaning on.
“Good morning, lovely day” it said in cultured tones.
“Yes, wonderful isn’t it” I replied, “and how are you?”
“I’m very well. Thank you for asking. But do you really care? I mean really, really care. People like you just take us sheep for granted.”
I was taken aback by its aggressive tone of voice and stuttered a trite reply. “But of course I care. I mean you’re vital to the countryside.”
“Oh yes? In what way exactly?”
I was stuck for an answer. I had said what I thought was correct, but the sheep was having none of it.
“Come on. How am I vital to the countryside? It’s no good you mouthing platitudes. I’m sick to death of hearing all this namby-pamby psuedo liberalism. Why can’t you really tell me the truth? Just once, just for once, say what you really think.”
“Well” I said, thinking hard, playing for time “all this grass needs to be eaten, and…”
“Feeble” the sheep interrupted. “You’ve never had a proper conversation with a sheep before have you? How many sheep have you got as friends, that you’d invite to your house, share a meal with? None! You haven’t the first idea. It makes me really angry.”
“Now look here” I retorted “there’s no need to be rude. I’m just here minding my own business. I don’t want to get into an argument. I’m not anti-sheep, I like sheep, I really do. After all where would we be without sheep?”
“Another platitude” it snapped. “ I’ll tell you where you’d be without sheep. You’d be smug, self-satisfied. If we’re not here, no problem. You lot think you’re better than us, superior. It’s blatant sheepism. Have you ever thought what it’s like to be a sheep? I mean really thought. I tell you this, put one of your lot out in this field for a week and you’d never survive. Why shouldn’t we enjoy what you’ve got? Why should we be denied a nicely furnished house, central heating, good job prospects, all the good things in life you take for granted?” It’s tirade slowed as it ran out of breath and for a moment it stood there, glaring at me, it’s chest heaving slightly.
“Perhaps I need educating a bit,” I said in a conciliatory tone of voice. “The way you put it just now makes me realize that perhaps I’m not as knowledgeable as I thought. But I’m willing to learn.” I hoped this would placate the belligerent sheep and that I would soon be able to make my escape.

It looked slightly mollified. “Perhaps I was a bit harsh,” it said. “It’s just that years of exploitation gets you down in the end. Sometimes I feel I’m going mad. Lots of us feel like that you know.” It looked down at the ground gloomily.
“I always think of sheep as such easy going, placid creatures,” I said. “I’ve never met one quite like you.”
“That’s what I mean, another stereotypical attitude. Happy, woolly, placid creatures. I despair, I really do. And what’s that jacket you’re wearing?”
“Do you like it? I got it for Christmas. It’s very warm and cosy, pure new wool.” As I said it I realized I had made another error. I waited for the inevitable outburst. It came like a slap across the face.
“Exploitation” the sheep screamed, and to my horror it began to cry. Huge tears rolled down its face and caught in its wool, making a tangled, soggy mess.
“Please don’t upset yourself.” I felt ill at ease, embarrassed, not knowing how to cope with the situation. “Would it help to change the conversation? Or would you like me to go away?”
“No, no” it gulped, “don’t go. I was enjoying our chat.”

I tried a new tack. “If you feel so strongly about things, why don’t you run for council or something? There’s an election coming up soon.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it. We do have a small party you know. The Free Sheep Movement. Would you care to sign my nomination papers? Could I count on your vote?”
“Well I’m not sure about that. I’m a Lib Dem you see.”
“As I thought,” said the sheep. “Not really prepared to get your hands dirty to change the system. Let’s change the subject. Do you like gardening?”
“Well yes” I said.
“What do you grow?”
“Vegetables, flowers, fruit. We have a very fine kitchen garden.”
“What do you grow in that?”
“Oh, all sorts. Marjoram, parsley, basil, chives, rosemary, mint.”
“Mint? Mint? What do you use mint for?”
“Well it’s lovely on our new potatoes and peas.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I make mint sauce.” The words were out before I could stop them. There was a horrible silence.
“What,” said the sheep tremulously, “do you use mint sauce for?”
Before I could answer it gave a strangled gasp and fell on its side.

I left, rapidly. Farmers are allowed to shoot sheep worriers.

Pat Stearn.