Six of the Best

by Michael White

  It was a week ago that Bartholomew Bidecombe, in his capacity of squire to the village had summoned Henry to the churchyard (of which the squire was the custodian), to discuss a matter that he had considered to be most pressing. It had been a bright but breezy Autumn morning when Henry had met the squire at this location. The squire’s horse and cart stood underneath the huge Oak Tree that straddled the church side of the path. Curiously, the squire seemed to be wandering amongst the graves spread about the church, muttering to himself and occasionally stooping to pick something up, and then almost immediately throwing whatever he had found away once more. The squire’s man servant, Oswyn Pelletoot, seemed also to be engaged in a similar task, but did not seem to be throwing away whatever it was that he was picking up, stowing whatever he was collecting in a fold of his smock that he held before him like a small sack. As Henry watched however, Oswyn stumbled and dropped all of whatever he was holding all around him. He loudly uttered a curse and the squire stopped immediately what he was doing, staring at Oswyn.

  “Sorry, Squire” he muttered, which earned him a scowl from his master. Oswyn immediately began collecting his dropped treasure once more, and as Henry got nearer he could now see that the pair of them seemed to be collecting acorns. Henry remembered pausing on the path before he crossed over to the squire, and wondering what by the devil’s name they were doing. His observations had been interrupted however, as the squire suddenly noticed that Henry had arrived. Standing up and straightening his hat he rubbed his hands together as if to shake the dust from them and came to meet Henry.

  “Squire.” nodded Henry and Bidecombe nodded to him in return.

  “Damned acorns, Henry” he sighed, eying Oswyn out of the corner of his in case of any remonstration, and Henry could see that although he was no longer collecting acorns he still remained somewhat in a state of agitation. “Something needs to be done. They are all over the church yard. Graves and all, even though they are on the other side of the church! It is just not right!”

  Henry noticed Oswyn out of the corner of his eye who was still busy collecting acorns into the fold in his smock. “I am sure Oswyn is suffice to the task, squire” Henry remembered replying, and the squire looked confused at this.

  “I consider Oswyn to be most definitely insufficient at all things not related to ale or whoring” he had remarked, leaning closer to Henry as if imparting some form of secret knowledge. “Yet you are correct. Gathering acorns is not beyond him.” He stared across to Oswyn, who was by now positively brimming with acorns and had the look of a man who was not sure where to deposit them. Squire Bidecombe sighed loudly. “And yet...” Henry smiled too.

  “But Henry, I did not bring you here to watch Oswyn Pelletoot over there performing his usual buffoonery. We must address the issue at its source.” His face brightened as he considered his words. “At its root, perhaps” and to Henry’s surprise the squire winked at him. Henry had attempted to look not too lost by the conversation but it must have been to some degree apparent to the squire that Henry was floundering. The squire cleared his throat loudly.

  “The tree, Henry” he pointed, “That is the root of our inconvenience. Once a year the whole church yard is assailed by acorns. Everywhere they are. The tree must go.”

  Henry looked up through the branches of the huge oak tree. The tree had stood on the edge of the churchyard since he was a boy, and it had been even more mountainous to him then than it was now.

  “They are only acorns, squire” Henry had replied, and the squire had suddenly looked on the edge of agitation again.

  Only acorns, you say?” he enquired, rubbing his hands together more vigorously again. “Yet I feel that is an affront to the gentleman of the cloth and God himself, to which I am now party. It is my church, is it not?”

  Henry had nodded in agreement.

  “Therefore it is my tree too.” he waved dismissively at the oak and frowned at it. “And it must go, Henry. It must surely come down.”

  “There were no acorns at all last year” Henry had offered, but the squire had frowned once more, a slight colour now rising to his cheeks.

  “Are we to rely upon such providence?” he had spat, and Henry was fully aware that this was not in any way a question. “I am away to my brothers across the county at the start of next week and I shall be away for two nights. “I want that tree felled by my return. See to it Henry.”

  Henry made to query the squires plan but he was already making his way back to the cart. Over his shoulder he called, “Make sure it is done true, Henry! Brook no errors in this. I am sure to rely upon you.”

  Henry had stood open mouthed as the squire had knocked all of the acorns out of Oswyn’s smock as he went past him, tutting as he went. “Come along, fool!” he had snarled as he made his way back to the cart. Oswyn had scampered up on to the cart after him and soon the pair were gone down the path, leaving Henry gazing up at the Oak.

  Henry had stood looking up through the branches of the Oak tree into the blue of the bright autumn sky. A light wind caught the branches and as he watched acorns began to fall around him. He had shook his head sadly at the thought of it, but the squire’s mind seemed to be made up. The tree must go. Slowly he had walked around the base of the tree. He had estimated that the tree must be some twenty feet or so wide, and perhaps some seventy feet high, with a spread of about fifty feet. “Axes as well as saws” he had thought to himself, and so he had begun to formulate a way to fell the oak.

  Over the course of the next few days he had gathered a crew of sorts, villagers who had the right tools, and enough them not just to fell the tree (though that would be a task in itself) but also to move it once it had been felled. Barnaby Gerville, Tobias Quintin, Cuthbert Pursglove and Solomon Ruggenall he had consulted and all had agreed to give their assistance. Of course in truth they all had little option. Henry was uniformly recognised as being the head of the village tradesmen, and as village blacksmith was a very important man by his own right, which of course was why the squire had called upon him. However, once Henry conveyed that the request came from the squire himself then there was little to do but undertake Henry’s plan, and to fell the tree.

  Henry had worked late for several nights after that, sharpening axes and saws and so on, but now on this early morning at last they were ready. As promised the squire had departed late the previous evening, but not before calling on Henry who was at work in his smithy, to re-iterate his plan.

  “Make sure it is cleanly done” he had called to Henry as he departed, and then he was gone.

  Henry frowned as he continued on in the dark. He had since then gathered several more men to assist him, and his contingent now stood at about eight men who would do the cutting and the pulling, and several others who were there purely to assist as necessary. He thought however that once the cutting had begun then a larger crowd than that was almost a certainty.

  Late last night he had loaded the sharpened axes, ropes and saws on to his small hand cart and Abraham Sprottle and Oliver Sulyard had driven the cart over to the churchyard where it would be watched over by the pair until just before dawn, at which point the two men would begin unloading the tools. Henry had considered going with the cart but he had reached the conclusion that a brisk walk for the mile or so to the church yard would clear his head for the long day that was ahead.

  As he proceeded down the rough road dawn now began to take a hold and a few minutes later Henry extinguished his lamp as he no longer required it. He took a moment to check the lightening sky as he did so, and wondered if the clouds slowly ambling in over the hills to the west would bring rain. He was pleased however, to note that the air was quite still for an autumn morn, which he felt was a good sign. He continued on his way a little longer. Slowly he approached the small hill, on the other side of which he knew stood the small chapel. Already he could make out the high branches of the oak jutting above the rise in the road. He was nearly there.

  Suddenly he stopped. He held his hand
up. No wind. It was quite a calm morning. Somewhere far off in the distance a cock could be heard crowing. He looked at the branches of the oak once more. Scowling to himself he stared once more at the upper limbs of the tree, the base of which was concealed behind the hill. With alarm he began to wonder that if it was such a calm morning, why were the branches of the oak tree that he was about to cut down shaking slowly from side to side? With a startled cry he broke in to a run.

  Over the hill. Down in to the church yard. Registering the small cart now unloaded beneath the base of the massive Oak. About which Abraham Sprottle and Oliver Sulyard were chopping at the tree with their axes. Judging by the size of the cut in the base of the oak they had been at it all night, and had by now probably cut a good third of the way through the trunk. As Henry raced between the grave stones the tree suddenly lurched a little to the left.

  Directly towards the small church itself.

  Gathering speed now Henry flew towards the now slightly frightened men who were looking up to the top of the tree in confusion and indecision.

  “What are you doing?” screamed Henry as he raced across the graveyard. Then, at the top of his voice, “Stop! For God’s sake you fools, stop! The tree is going to fall on the church! Stop!”

  King of the Tyrant Lizards

  The silver ship Baptistina dropped out of warp high above the planet Earth and automatically achieved orbit seconds later. This process was totally automated, but on the command deck of the ship the four people there were mostly busy running checks, then counter checks on all systems to make sure all was well. On the large view screen in front of them the planet revolved, filling the screen entirely, growing larger and larger as their descent began.

  “Engaging gravitational dampeners!” barked Glotis. His role of science officer was the most crucial at this stage of the journey. If the ship computer mis-calculated even by a fraction the descent to the planet could get very messy indeed. Sweat speckled his brow, a frown creasing his features through concentration. All four of them switched their view between their personal consoles and the view screen before them, as the planet grew in size.

  “Confirmed” responded Savarex, running a precautionary second check on their descent. This was not standard procedure and Glotis glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, clearly irritated and not making much of an attempt to hide it.

  Commander Trevix sat in his seat, his entire being screaming calm, his view set firmly on the view screen, studying the planet as the raw blue, brown and green slowly began to form clearer images before them.

  “Trajectory?” he enquired casually. Glotis ran a series of commands on his board without looking around to where the commander sat. “Confirmed Normal” he said. Trevix nodded almost to himself and turned to Savarex who was also running a series of commands.

  “Heat shields?” he enquired, almost politely. Savarex paused and switched to yet another sequence on her board. “All normal” she said, and returned to the original key sequence she was running.

  The command deck now had a noticeable tremor to it as gravity began to take hold of the ship during its descent. Trevix knew the gravitational dampeners would take care of the majority of this but nevertheless there was no such thing as either a quiet or a safe descent.

  “Computer” he enquired, “descent ETA?” The computer pinged and relayed the answer via the speakers concealed in the fascia of the command deck. The voice was calm, male and the response instantaneous. “ETA 45 minutes local time in line with current speed and heading.” Trevix nodded and studied the view screen once more.

  Savarex this time. “All systems running in compliance with safety requirements.” Glotis nodded solemnly, his twin antennae swaying in time with his movement. “Deceleration parameters correct.” Trevix stood from his chair, moving behind it and turning to face the view screen once more. “Excellent.” “well done all”

  “We’re not down yet” snarled Glotis through clenched teeth, the tension now more than apparent on his features. Savarex turned to Glotis and threw a glance at Trevix, but thought better of whatever she was about to say and turned back to her board, her fingers running lightly but rapidly across it. Numbers flew across the visual display in response.

  “I am aware of that, Glotis” announced Trevix, smiling. “Hold her steady old friend. I have every faith in you.”

  Glotis briefly smiled at this, and then continued to pull up screen after screen of data on his display. Savarex seemed to visibly relax. Trevix smiled and returned to his seat. Ahead of him the planet continued to grow, now only a large swirling mass of colours filling the large display. Turning slowly to the console to his right he noticed the fourth member of the crew who was obviously completely unaware that the commander was looking at him.

  “Colin” he said. “What are you doing?”

  Colin blushed a little, the colour flooding his cheeks. He would, unfortunately, never see the other side of twenty stone again, and the same statement would be equally true of the likelihood of him ever managing to catch a glimpse of his feet either. At the moment he was starting to glow as much as heat shield presumably was on the outside of the ship as it skipped into the atmosphere like a small stone skimmed across a pool of water. Trevix could not help but notice that at this moment in time Colin was almost visibly squirming. He would not be at all surprised if he started to suck his thumb.

  “Erm... dusting, commander” he almost whispered, and the squirming increased by about one hundred per cent.

  Liverpool

  (Excerpts)

  “The Sound of Guitars...”

  Liverpool. A city of poets, musicians, comedians and several banana shaped lamb statues. Oh, and a yellow submarine – and a cathedral (or two), and now a collection of fifteen short stories, tall tales and mysterious occurrences celebrating the city as well.

  Wrapped around Liverpool in the same way that the river Mersey wraps around the city itself, intertwining with its people and places, “Liverpool” showcases the love of life, laughter and music that the city embodies, and makes its own.

  Come with me now to see the mist rolling off that wonderful, beautiful river, and if you were to let your mind wander and imagine that the river is a song then that song would be a shanty, sad and melancholic, yet lifting as well. It would make you laugh, it would make you cry. It may even make you think, but for sure it would most definitely break your heart.

  Welcome to Liverpool, the gateway to absolutely everywhere else.

  This sampler includes the extracts from several of the stories in the “Liverpool” collection,. If you are sufficiently intrigued to want to buy one or two then all of my titles can be found on my Amazon author pages, on:

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B006Y7JHCK

  The Tree That Sang

  I have done my fair share of nights. It is worked on a shift basis, one week in four. It is worse a night shift in the winter as the park is a cold and bleak place. Wide open and completely deserted. Not a place for one hindered with a good imagination, I would say. The park of a night can be a beautiful but also a terrifying place when there is no form of illumination at all. All you could hope for was a starry night at best. Though we were all equipped with a torch, of course. Yes, a torch and a whistle, which would come in especially useful for the ritual that was the locking of the park gates. This always takes place exactly one hour after sunset. The gates are of course so far apart that it is quite impossible to be able to communicate with the constables locking the other entrances. Yet the Sergeant is a stickler for it. The gates must be locked at exactly the right time. So this is when our whistles come in especially useful. We would give a long burst on the whistle, about thirty seconds or so which is then responded to by your colleague at the next gate, and so forth. Somewhat like a chain of beacons being lit in days of old, I dare imagine! Then the gates are locked for the night and the Parks Police night shift takes over.

  It is quite a popular ritual in Liverpool, is the locking of the park ga
tes. Some people mark the beginning of night in Liverpool by the sound of the constable’s whistles, I believe. Some folk even gather to watch from time to time, and even every now and again some of the wealthier families and perhaps a guest or two. If this is the case I often make a show of it and give a small salute to the people there when done. Always seems to mark the end of a shift nicely, does that. Then it’s off home. Unless it is a night shift, of course, and it is at that juncture that your shift is beginning. As I have noted earlier, the night shift is not my favourite shift. For all sorts of reasons. What I am about to tell you however was most certainly the most unusual yet fascinating night shift of all. It was very probably the most frightening as well. “

  The Last Bomb, Aloise's Café and Death by Cow.

  The last bomb that fell on Liverpool in the Second World War fell on the evening of the tenth of January nineteen forty two in amongst other places, Upper Stanhope Street, Toxteth. I know this for I was there at the time, and remember it well.

  You would have thought we had grown used to the seemingly endless series of bombings by then, but I think that we never really had. Of course, we did not know at that time that it was the last bombing raid. As far as we knew it would carry on forever. We were not to know, but that was the last night and that was more than enough. I left the air raid shelter as the all clear was sounded and found myself in hell. Whole streets were now reduced to mounds of burning rubble. I could not reconcile my position in the sense that what I now saw did not match with what I had briefly glimpsed as I had hurriedly entered the shelter hours before when the sirens had begun to sound. The skyline was in flames. Smoke floated in eerie clouds across wide open spaces that hours ago had been houses, businesses. They were now just piles of concrete, metal and glass shattered across the ground.