Welcome

ENTRY 1

VANISHED by Andrea Neidle

Monday, Clapham Junction station. 11am.

Janet anxiously looked at her watch. Ken had been in the loo for what seemed ages. What was keeping him so long? Another few minutes and they would miss their train.

“Excuse me,” she spoke to a man coming out of the men’s toilet. “Can you please tell my husband in there to hurry up.”

“There’s no one else in there,” he answered.

“Where can he have disappeared to? We have a train to catch!” Janet berated herself for turning her back on Ken even for a moment. She had thought that telling him to wait for her to come out of the ladies loo would have been enough.

Janet walked up and down the platform calling out Ken’s name. He was nowhere in sight.

No one at the ticket office had seen him. What’s more they weren’t at all sympathetic or helpful when she told them about Ken’s dementia. Janet felt close to tears. She and Ken had been waiting months for this hospital appointment. There was nothing for it but to go back to Watford. And wait. Other than informing the police that Ken had gone missing, what else could she do?

………………..

30 miles away in Stratford, East London, Carol Richardson was busily going through her Tuesday morning cleaning routine. This sunny weather was all very well but it didn’t half show up the dust on her windows! Looking out she saw a man wandering down the road, behaving oddly. He would walk down a path, turn around, walk back and then walk down a path again. “Hello!” She called out of the window. “Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

The man appeared not to have heard her but continued to wander up and down people’s front gardens. He seemed lost and confused. “He doesn’t look like a burglar,” Carol said to herself, “but I‘ll give the police a call, just in case.”

…………………………….

Back in Watford Janet, who hadn’t slept all night for worrying, leapt to the phone when it rang. It was the police. A man meeting Ken’s description had been found wandering on an estate in Stratford. “Stratford!” exclaimed Janet, “that’s where we lived when we were first married. I wonder if he could have been looking for our old house?”

It turned out that Ken had come out of the men’s loo and, not seeing Janet, had wandered onto another platform and got onto a train going in the opposite direction. Janet sobbed with relief when the nice policeman on the phone said they were bringing Ken home. Where had he spent the past night? No one knew. Least of all Ken.

“Mum!” Her daughter berated her later that morning, “I know it’s hard for you but it’s time you did something! You have to accept that it’s not just dad who disappeared but that his mind is disappearing too.”

ENTRY 2

RUNNER BEANS by Helen Nicell

Putting the tea bags into the pot, Joan placed the two mugs on the tray. She checked the clock 10.25, Jim would be back from the allotment soon. She put two digestives on a plate and looked around the old familiar kitchen; not a thing out of place, taps and sink sparkling. She straightened the tea towel hanging on the oven door. Pouring the boiling water into the pot as the 10.30 news came on the radio, Joan didn’t listen to it, but waited for the weather forecast at the end. It could make all the difference to the vegetables Jim grew.

As the music returned to the radio waves, Joan hummed along, smiling as she remembered her and Jim waltzing at the village dance when they were courting, She felt the ache in her legs and knew her dancing days were over.

Where was Jim? It was nearly 10.45, it wasn’t like him to be so late. Joan wondered if he was chatting to one of the lads, or had he said he was going to the shop on the way home.

It got to 11.00, Joan tipped the tea down the sink and put the biscuits back in the tin. Wiping down the worktops and polishing the taps, she straightened the tea towel, then went to the front door. Her eyes searched up and down the street, no sign of Jim. He’d been gone too long now.

‘Hello Mrs Johnson, are you ok?’ Joan’s neighbour, Sally, called from her driveway.

‘I’m worried about Jim. He’s not come back from the allotment. He’s been gone hours.’

Sally came to the front door, ‘Let’s go inside Joan, you’ll get cold standing out here.’

‘But where is he? Have you seen him today? It’s not like him to disappear.’

Sally took her arm and sat her in the chair,

‘Calm down Joan, I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Let me make you a cuppa.’

Joan burst into tears, ‘I think he said he was picking the runner beans today. I was going to cook them with some cod.’ Sniffing, she pulled a hankie from her apron pocket and wiped her nose.

‘Shall I ring your son Joan?’ Sally placed the mug on the side table.

‘Oh I don’t want to trouble Paul. He’ll be at work, but I am really worried about Jim.’

Sally took a mobile out of her pocket. ‘I’ll give Paul a quick ring.’

Paul arrived fifteen minutes later.

‘Hello Mum. What’s the matter?’ Kneeling beside her, he held her hand.

With watery eyes she looked at him,

‘Your Dad’s gone missing. You need to go and look for him at the allotment.’

‘Mum, do you remember?’ He spoke softly and squeezed her hand, ‘Dad passed away three years ago? We don’t have the allotment anymore.’

‘Thanks Sally,’ Paul said, as he saw her to the door. ‘Mum’s still capable of looking after herself and keeping the house immaculate. It’s just her memory that’s disappearing.’

ENTRY 3

GETTING RID by Liz Shaw

I love a good clear out. There is something very satisfying about recycling and de-cluttering, but there are some possessions that are difficult to get rid of. Take clothes for instance. I often take a bag or two to the charity shop, but time after time I fail to include those special outfits that I know I will never fit into again (but then, you never know). And those high heels that kill, but they go with those special outfits that I know I will never fit into (but you never know)! Then there is the underwear that got washed with a yellow duster and are now a bile yellow. Spark joy? They do not, but they are too new to throw away. And the jacket, bought in the sale, yet still too expensive to give away, and still too red.

What to do with grandma’s old blanket box and that 1930’s hall stand? I watch Money for Nothing where tip finds are turned into steam punk lamps and scatter cushions, and Jay Blades paints chairs black apart from one neon pink leg. I will do something with them some day.

Another category of clutter I never get round to getting rid of is the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ stuff. The unused pasta maker on top of the fridge, the box of cassette tapes under the bed, the unmatched plates in the sideboard, and whatever is in the wardrobe in my son’s midden of a bedroom.

And what do you do with things that have a face? I have boxes of photographs, many of them duplicates from the days when you sent your films off to be printed. We always had extra sets done, especially of the children to send to grandparents. Now they are all back with us. It doesn’t seem right to throw them away or destroy them. Perhaps there is something in the belief that the camera captures the soul. I also have a doll that was given to me by my grandma on my first birthday. Her plastic face is now a sallow yellow. She has a droopy eye and lives unclothed and unloved in the bottom of my wardrobe. She is too broken and ugly to be given away or put on display, but it feels wrong to throw her in the rubbish. I have thought of burying her, but that seems weird. Equally problematic is a clay bust of myself from my university days when I posed for a friend’s art project. I wasn’t expecting her to give it to me at the end. It spent many years on a window ledge behind a curtain in my parents’ house. Now it’s in my loft doing the opposite of the painting of Dorian Gray. Who would want it? No one. But it’s me and I can’t throw it away or destroy it. It could be useful if I ever needed constructive surgery. Maybe I could turn it into a water feature.

ENTRY 4

LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT by Ian Welland

Disappearances in life do not only happen to materialistic things or people in crime novels and films. Over the last five years, I have noticed some physical and mental disappearances that have meant a great deal of adjustment. Some people call these matters ailments, some express them as disabilities. They are neither. They are merely life changers or “game changers” as a friend once said. Sounds better than referring to them as ailments and disabilities one feels.

My hearing has not really been acute for several years. Indeed, I noticed my hearing deteriorating as I turned forty. The tinnitus that I had suffered as a sideshow for most of my life, suddenly drew closer and louder. The constant whistling was joined in the symphony by a hissing, not the hissing of summer lawns, more like a whishing of a breeze. As an evening moves toward bedtime, so the hissing becomes similar to white horses breaking on the shore. A tempest in the making rushing in from the north-west; not quite Storm Eunice, more like stormy seas.

Paracetamol to hand, two tablets normally do the trick, taken just before I head off the bed is enough to settle me into a dreamy world of abstract expressionism Dada artists would be proud of. I always seem to dream of travelling – from house to house, town to town, even country to country. I can’t see myself of course, only others, but the tinnitus is at bay and although people talk to me in normal voice, I somehow still can’t hear very well.

So, onto my next “game changer.” When I turned fifty, I noticed I was starting to forget everyday things, but could remember vast amounts of learning, of books, of music, of lectures. Remembering which junction on the M25 to turn off for Watford, or what clothes I need the following day, or what I had for lunch yesterday – all these matters were missing. What was happening to me? Is this an hereditary condition? Having no real contact with family, I was left to…, err, remember whether this condition had existed in my ancestors. After much thought, I suddenly recalled my grandmother suffering from slight memory loss when she turned sixty; and full-blown dementia by the age of eighty.

So, here’s where I am today. My hearing continues to deteriorate year-on-year; much to my frustration and that of my dear lady wife. I should wear my hearing aids at all times, but honestly, they itch me. Their various settings work, but in the last two years with the obligatory wearing of masks and the fact that I also wear glasses, the accompaniment of hearing aids has become tiresome. But, I am committed to making a change in my attitude toward them!

To compensate for poor memory, I write everything down. It works; though, I did turn off the M25 at Maple Cross by mistake recently!

Life is what you make it. 9 out of 10 – always room for improvement!

ENTRY 5

A GOOD LIFE by Sumi Watters

My name is Archie Newbourne. I disappeared without a trace on 22 February 2022. This is my

story.

The day started like any ordinary Tuesday. My alarm sounded at 6, and I was out the door by

6:10. Mr Singh stood in front of his shop, newspapers stacked and ready to be delivered.

‘G’morning!’ he said. ‘Some fog, eh? Be careful out there, Archie.’

He was the last person in my previous life to see me.

I pushed my bicycle up Avery Hill, past the Quaker Hall, towards Common Road—my regular

round. What happened next is inexplicable. I remember seeing an ominous purple cloud hurtling

towards me from across the common.

Everything went black after that.

***

Lily Newbourne paced, her eyes fixed on the open front door.

‘Anything?’ she asked her husband upon his return.

He shook his head.

‘Archie wouldn’t abandon his bicycle and leave his phone. Something’s terribly wrong, Martin.’

‘It hasn’t been three hours, Lily. Let’s not panic yet. He’s fourteen. Kids do stupid things.’

A man holding a large wooden box appeared at the door. ‘Mr Newbourne?’ he said. ‘Hello. My

name is Thom, and I’ve come from the Quaker Hall up the hill.’

‘A distant relative of yours entrusted us with this in 1952,’ he continued, handing the box to

Martin. ‘We were instructed to deliver it to Clementine Cottage on this date. No sooner.’

Martin examined the box and tugged on the combination padlock that held it shut. ‘Is there a

key?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The engraving on the lid—DoBAN. What does it mean?’

‘We were hoping you would know, sir.’

‘Could it be …’ Lily ruminated, ‘Date of Birth, Archie Newbourne?’ She snatched the box from

Martin then fiddled with the padlock’s dials until the mechanism released. She lifted the lid.

‘What is it?’ Martin asked.

‘Old photos … several journals … a letter …,’ Lily stammered. Her eyes welled up. ‘They’re

from Archie.’

Dear Mum & Dad,

What I’m about to tell you will come as a shock, but please don’t despair. For reasons I can

neither fathom nor explain, I was transported back to 1882 on the morning of 22 February

2022. I was desperate to return to you and the life I had, but seeing no way home, I resolved

to accept my fate and make the most of my unusual predicament.

A generous family took me in and raised me as their own. They sent me to Cambridge to

study engineering, Mum. Wasn’t that your dream for me? I met Clementine, my dear wife of

sixty years, shortly after I began working for the Underground. Together, we built Clementine

Cottage—just as I remembered it. The wonderful home I grew up in was also our family home

for many happy, memorable years. It is filled with the joy and laughter of your grandchildren

and great-grandchildren.

While I may no longer live in your world, please take comfort in knowing I lived a long and

very fulfilling life.

Your loving son,

Archie

ENTRY 6

THE TRUTH BEYOND THE PREFIX by Chris McDermott

Mr Snook was a Latin master at the local boys’ grammar school, believing strongly that the boys in his care should be taught to love the subject.

‘It’s good for building character. Where would the British Empire have been without Latin?’

David and his classmates at Roburton Boys Grammar School did not reply. They had been brought up to believe that Mr Snook’s words were words of wisdom.

‘Give me the boy. I shall teach him Latin. Then you will have the man,’ was another of Mr Snook’s favourite sayings.

But David’s heroes were all footballers. He reflected on how many of them could speak Latin. If so, he wondered whether this helped them in their confrontations on the field of play. David had learnt that ‘Erras’ is the Latin for ‘You are wrong’, but any referee not understanding this in the heat of battle, particularly if the offending footballer had a southern accent, might involve the player being shown a yellow card.

That morning Mr Snook was speaking about prefixes and suffixes and how many of them had Latinate roots. ‘Dis’ meaning ‘not’, was referred to. David had only heard the term ‘diss’ amongst his friends to mean demonstrating a lack of respect, but he understood Mr Snook’s point that ‘dislike’ was the opposite of ‘like’ and ‘distrust’ was the opposite of trust. On many occasions Mr Snook had been openly critical of David and he had, ironically, wanted to ‘disappear’.

Mr Snook completed the lesson by telling the boys that it was important that people got along and avoided any unnecessary disputes. He then smiled at his own witticism.

David went home that afternoon and switched on the television. Most of the local news passed him by, the main story being about a lost parrot, who had disappeared, last seen in Grimsby docks, before making a bolt for Belgium.

This was followed by the main news. David’s frivolous reflections ceased as he suddenly became aware of something of momentously serious proportions. Russia had invaded the Ukraine on the basis that it was to free the citizens from a Nazi regime.

The pictures were horrific and David could barely bring himself to watch. How could anyone with a conscience order such an invasion? It was at that moment that David received a call from one of his classmates, someone David regarded as being super-cool.

‘Have you seen the news?’ Leo asked. ‘You know Snook was telling us not to, like, get involved in disputes, like?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, there’s dis guy on the TV, dis Putin, saying he can do stuff, real disputin’.’

It was at that point that David, for the first time, had understood the wisdom of Mr Snook’s words. Behind David’s initially humorous take on Mr Snook’s assertions about prefixes and suffixes was a realisation that we live in a world where evil has a presence.

‘Once there was Rasputin,

Now there is dis…’

Please, can he just disappear.

ENTRY 7

COP HUMOUR by Ann Crago

There’s nothing quite like murder to bring a jolly evening to a halt.

A serious situation requires sober people and looking around I realised I had my work cut out. The women were already beginning to tremble and several had the glassy eyed stare of the drunk and deranged indicating hysteria wasn’t far away.

The men were slowly forming into two distinct groups based on body language alone. Dinner jackets were being put back on, trousers being hitched, bow ties tweaked. Their macho postering in tuxedos had a slight nod to James Bond. The other group of men, young waiters and bar staff and a few older gentlemen were all beginning to look both puzzled as the lights came on and worried that somehow the premature end of the evening was their fault.

Morag had found the body and was now sitting in a corner of the room smoking despite the signs. Her fingers trembled. But at least she had stopped screaming.

I was just about to step up to the microphone when George Leonard stopped me.

‘I’m the Captain. I’ll handle this.’

I held on to his arm and kept my voice low.

‘With all due respect George, you’ve been retired from the force for 30 years. This is a crime scene. I applaud your willingness but being captain of Stanmore Golf Club does not equip you with powers under PACE as well you know’.

He looked crestfallen. I threw him a bone.

‘The body is still in the locker room and I’ve left young Hunter guarding the door but he may have been sick and that will piss off Forensics. Be a good chap and relieve him. Just in case, wear these.’ I passed him a pair of cotton gloves used by the waiting staff. Nodding and with a clear mission he left the room.

I grabbed the mic, addressing the clubroom which was looking depressingly sad with the unflattering strip lights fully on. Several deflated balloons and paper streamers hung happily several hours before, now trailed across the floor.

‘Thank you for remaining calm during this upsetting event and no, I’m not talking about the dinner.’ The humour fell flat as I thought it might but at least I had their attention.

‘The police are on their way. We don’t know who the victim is as the injuries are too severe to immediately identify them. We also don’t know cause of death except there is a lot of blood compatible with a knife wound.’

At this, several people began to look a little green, matched by young Hunter who slide into the room.

‘Everybody is now in this room apart from George who’s guarding the locker room.’ Everyone relaxed a little looking around, confirming their nearest and dearest were present and correct. A little late in my view but still. A young waitress raised her hand.

‘The chef has disappeared.’

Just as well I didn’t complain about the beef I thought. Cop humour.

ENTRY 8

AIRBRUSHED by Sumi Watters

Red Chinese characters at the bottom of the page catch my eye. An advert for facial treatments—

“Non-invasive Botox. Only £29.99 for new clients.”

I’m sold.

The past few years have been unkind. Those months I spent sitting at my ailing mother’s bedside

and the grieving period that followed have aged me. I see it reflected in my face every morning

when I look in the mirror. The grooves across my forehead have deepened; the furrow between my

eyes, visible, even when I relax all the muscles in my face. I used to have to smile or deliberately

squint to make laugh lines and crow’s feet appear. Nowadays, they are constant features. And those light brown specks across my nose my grandad called “freckles”? My last beauty therapist

diplomatically referred to them as “pigmentation” instead of calling them what they are: age spots.

A tiny Asian lady leads me to a darkened treatment room at the back of the shop. She looks about

twenty-five but shuffles her feet like she’s eighty.

‘Will it hurt?’ I ask.

‘No hurt. Only heat.’ She points to a massage table. ‘Lie down. Do you have allergies?’

I hoist myself onto the table and lie back. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Good. I will begin treatment.’ She turns on soothing music and lights candles. An earthy scent

fills the room.

‘This mask feels hot, but not burn hot. You … close your eyes, relax,’ she says. Her voice

suddenly sounds smoky—like a midnight DJ whose playlist only includes Bossa Nova tracks. She

applies something syrupy that smells of vinegar on my forehead.

I crinkle my nose. ‘What’s in the mask? It smells like kombucha.’

‘No talk. Sleep.’

‘Ms Taylor, wake up,’ the lady barks, then switches on all the lights.

I don’t know how long I’d been sleeping. Minutes, maybe. Hours, perhaps. All I know is that I

dreamt—the most vivid dream of lying on a beach with the scorching sun beating down on my face.

She hands me a mirror. ‘You want to see?’

I take the mirror from her and gape at my reflection. My skin is radiant, unblemished, and

completely wrinkle-free. As if an artist air-brushed away fifty-three years of worry, stress, and grief.

‘Happy?’ she asks.

I’m too astonished to reply, so I nod.

‘Okay. You come back in eight weeks.’

My seventeen-year-old stares at me with disgust. ‘Ew, Mum. What have you done to your face? Did You get Botox?’

‘Of course not! I got a facial.’

‘Well, I don’t like it,’ Holly says. ‘You look … weird.’

‘What do you mean, weird?’

‘I don’t know. Something’s off. Your skin looks amazing and everything, but it’s like your eyes

don’t match your face.’

She was right, you know.

The miracle treatment might have erased external signs of wear and tear, but my eyes still

reflected the memories, life experiences, and gained wisdom of fifty-three years.

I never returned for the follow-up.

ENTRY 9

THE FRANGLAIS WAR by Geoff Brown

The Académie Française complains constantly about the disappearance of their pristine, melodic language under the weight of harsh English words adopted into their popular lexicon. Yes, they do use sandwich, OK, Happy Hour, week-end, brunch, T-shirt, job, parking, hamburger, hot dog et al. But what about our proud Anglo-Saxon heritage? It has been almost decimated by the plethora of French words and expressions. Something like 45 percent of English words are French in origin usually derived from an original Latin root. Judge for yourself which language has suffered or benefitted most from the incursions of its neighbour by reviewing this synopsis of a novel.

“The heroine is Angelique, a petite femme fatale from the elite class of Bordeaux. Her father is the enfant terrible of his clique, a roué who is having an affair with his au pair. Angelique is waiting for her fiancé, a lieutenant in the army. He is taking her to a discoteque and then on to a café where there is a cabaret. She is in her boudoir wearing a negligée, through which can be seen her lingerie, particularly her brassière. She is eating canapés and sipping an apéritif. Earlier she devoured an omelette with a salad vinaigrette followed by a soufflé. Her chauffeur drives her to the rendez-vous in a cul-de-sac. She is very chic and is full of energy and optimism for the soirée.

But unfortunately the evening is sabotaged by the arrival of her former paramour a cadet in the navy. He throws down the gauntlet and challenges her fiancé to a duel. They meet in the forest at the appointed hour and her fiancé is vanquished. The victorious cadet administers the coup de grâce with his épée. Her fiancé is taken to the morgue and Angelique swears to avenge his demise. She has a tête-à-tête with a famous criminal over dinner. For entrée she has the house speciality, coq-au-vin with pomme frites and he has filet mignon. He is very gauche and commits a gaffe by eating his pomme frites with his fingers and dropping them on his serviette. The gangster agrees to assassinate the cadet but his pistol jams and he is apprehended by the police. Under interrogation, he implicates Angelique and the clandestine intrigue becomes a cause célèbre on television.

The judge sentences Angelique to probation. He is lenient because it was an understandable crime of passion with an honourable motive. The cadet is arrested and receives a lengthy prison term.

Angelique rapidly regains her zest for life and gastronomic adventures and develops a liaison with another bon viveur and connoisseur which leads to matrimony. The ceremony is incredible and the happy couple embark on a lifestyle characterised by magnums of vintage champagne, elegant limousines and ancient chateaux.”

French fury at the introduction of a few English words into their everyday speech is therefore misplaced. The mass eradication of Anglo-Saxon words by a tsunami of French replacements after the Norman Conquest should instead be a source of Gallic pride.

ENTRY 10

GONE WOMAN by Brian Bold

David waits on the mezzanine floor overlooking the barn interior below, filled with wedding guests dancing, drinking at the bar and trying to chat, despite the loud music Projected on the far wall -Congratulations Jane and Steve, May 1st 2021.

Should he break the spell that has enraptured all for the last five hours? The last time he'd seen Anna was an hour ago, one of the smiling onlookers, watching her daughter and new husband pirouetting to All of Me.

David has only known Anna a few months and was delighted she'd invited him to her daughter 's wedding, revealing their relationship to friends and family. He’d left her to wander for most of the day, knowing she had many friends to catch up with and wouldn’t want to factor him into every conversation. He has sat with some of her friends for the Wedding Breakfast while she was at the top table, next to her ex-husband. Now the dancing has started, he hopes they will spend some time together. Surely, she would have come to find him by now?

As a detective, he’s trained to spot irregularities and his disappointment is turning to concern. Has Anna drunk too much and is being sick? He checks with her sister and a few others. He tries to be light-hearted but his instinct suggests a problem and when a person goes missing the first two hours are critical.

With reluctance, he shares his worry with the bride and groom. They agree to make an announcement. Jane steps up as the band finish playing Help me make it through the night. David hopes Anna will.

“Sorry to interrupt the party everyone. And no, this isn’t another speech. We seem to be missing Mum. Steve and I have to go soon and we can’t without saying goodbye to her. Do any of you know where she is?” There are murmurs but no answers.

David doubts Anna will be found tonight, but is sure someone who was at the wedding knows where she’d gone. A hundred suspects need to be screened for evidence. You always suspect the husband first but Anna’s ex is leaning on the bar chatting with several others. David prompts Jane.

“Please can you check your mobiles for recent pictures of Mum. If you have any, show us. Mum’s friend here is a Police Officer and can help us find her.”

David nods.

A girl in a red dress, rushes to him. “Look,” she said, “I’ve picture of Anna, about half an hour ago, talking to a man with a dark beard. I don’t know him and I can’t see him here now.”

David is ready to initiate a nationwide alert when Anna and a bearded man burst through the door, dressed in livery costumes.

“Jane and Steve, your carriage awaits you.” Through the open barn door, David sees a pair of white horses and a carriage. He pockets his phone, relieved Anna is safe and he hasn’t embarrassed himself at work.

ENTRY 11

PORT OUT - STARBOARD HOME by David Elliott

Die Scab Die.

I’ll remember that blood red graffiti sprayed on my brother’s primrose yellow front door till the day I pass. If you think the miner’s strike caused rifts in communities, then have a thought for us poor sailors.

We’ve been through it too. Dad used to work the Irish ferries from Liverpool. A shop steward who was heavily involved in the strike of 66; the one that wasn’t Geoff Hurst’s. Four-hundred ships laid up in dock for forty-seven days. Peeved ship owners sought draconian punitive disciplinary measures. Able-seamen eked strike pay that barely bought a loaf, a raft of penitential Hail Mary’s the extra price of a miserly pontifical handout.

Dad almost went to prison and the thanks he got was blame from his fellow brothers for stuff that was so far out of his control. Stiffed-up by government, owners and the union hierarchy. Now scousers hold grudges and dad, always handy with his fists, lived life with a kill or be killed brashness. It took all of Mum’s persuasive guiles to get him to start anew down south.

Dover became a good home. Working La Manche. Freight, tourists, booze cruisers. A fair day’s work for a fair reasonable days’ pay. Hard but good times. Four generations of my family sold their souls to Port Out Starboard Home Seaways. I spit out the name. I’ve lived, loved, worked and given blood for that company and how do they treat us? I’ll tell you how.

If you think Sixty-six was bad then eighty-six was titanic. Just after the Herald of free Enterprise went down and my best friend died that night; the company decided to impose wage cuts to increase profit margins. Under Maggie’s tutelage the fat cats got richer and safety was disregarded. Laws were passed and a state of emergency declared, unions bashed to within an inch of their lives.

I raised funds, organised rotas, stood on the picket line myself and almost got arrested for my troubles. The company turned families against each other. I know my brother had a mortgage and two young kids to support, but I guess his view and my view of what was right and wrong never matched. I even went to his house with hot soapy water and a brillo. All I got was a barrage of expletives from my sister-in-law that would make a docker blush. A chasm as wide as the Channel.

I wish we had made-up. Now the company are up to their old tricks. His and my children and grandkids informed of their sacking by video call. The cowards. My pension might be at risk too.

I need a walk. Fresh air. So here I am up by the castle looking over the port, France a blur on the horizon. All the boats moored up, surrounded by thug security. Along the esplanade, lorry-drivers honk support.

God help us. POSH be damned. From my point of view, the whole world is about to disappear up its own arse.

ENTRY 12

THE DISAPPEARED by Geoff Brown

I remember with bone-chilling clarity the night they dragged my father away from our home in Buenos Aires. I was nine years old. I woke to the sound of screaming. It was my mother howling hysterically and beating her fists against the wall near the shattered door of our apartment.

“Mamá what happened….Where’s papá?”

“The soldiers…they’ve taken him.”

It was May 1977 and the junta was waging its so-called Dirty War. By 1983 when the brutal military dictatorship relinquished power, an estimated 30,000 people had been “disappeared” by the state. These desaperecidos were never seen again. The junta dubbed left-wing activists “terrorists” and they and anyone else who spoke out against them were kidnapped and killed. The government made no effort to identify or document the desaparecidos. By disappearing them and disposing of their bodies, the junta could pretend they never existed. But their families knew they existed and my mother, Bernardina was active in one of the earliest protest groups of women who gathered every week in the Plaza de Mayo.

I recall my mother telling me years later, “You see Valentin, the government officials didn’t know how to deal with this increasingly large and strident group of fearless women. They tried to marginalise and trivialise us by labelling us las locas, the madwomen, but they didn’t suppress us for fear of a backlash from the general public. We kept going even when some of our leaders were murdered and on occasions the police opened fire on us with automatic weapons.”

I was thirteen when I joined my mother on the first “March of Resistance,” a 24-hour long protest that became an annual event. For decades we tried to find out what had happened to my father. He was a campaigning journalist, an outspoken critic of the regime and there was clearly a target on his back. All our considerable efforts to discover what had happened to him came to naught until…..

A friend of mine provided a vital link in the chain. He introduced me to former Argentinian Airforce pilot who had “found God” and was guilt-wracked about his role in the junta’s murderous campaign. I heard his confession.

“I flew several “death flights” several hundred kilometres out into the ocean. On board were dozens of the desaparecidos. I recognised your father as I’d often seen him on TV. On the first flight I didn’t know what was to happen to the passengers. I was told to lose altitude and then saw bodies being heaved out of the plane and plummeting into the sea.”

So here I am looking at the elegant brass plaque on the wall of our old apartment block. Its simple inscription,

Isandro Alvarez 1939-1977

Dormir Tranquilo

Wiping my wet cheeks, I instinctively turn towards my mother’s house. I want to tell her we can finally lay my father to rest. But of course I can’t as she passed away years ago worn down by grief and her fruitless struggle to find out the truth.

ENTRY 13

DUW GENES by Mike Lansdown

(Pronounced ‘Due Gennes’ – ‘Goodbye’ in Cornish)

Boswednack, Cornwall – March 1891

‘Now then, why on God’s good earth would anyone be interested in hearing what I’ve got say? But, as you’ve trudged your way to my door, open the curtains and let in some light; then pull up a chair. You will have to speak up, mind, as my hearing isn’t all that it used to be – and no, I don’t mind if you write down what I have to say…but for the life of me, I can’t understand why anyone should be listening.

‘You say your readers would be interested in my childhood? Well, it was happy. Poor, cold, and wet, but happy. My family, like everyone in Zennor, lived off the land and the sea. Here, in the very room where we are sitting, is where I first saw the light of day. Just there, in front of the fire. It was a fine spring day, and within the hour my father had swaddled me in a blanket, held me in his arms, and shown me the view of the fields, the cliffs, and the glistening sea beyond. ‘Dynnargh dhis, John’ he said, ‘Welcome. Da yw gener metya genes - I’m pleased to meet you.’ And so, from the moment I first set eyes on the world, I knew I was a true Cornishman. Can I spell that for you? Show it to me later, but I fear that for your readers it might as well be Double Dutch or Greek.

‘Most of the time we learned the old language in rhymes and silly verses – children’s games and the like. My mother would sing me a lullaby, especially when the wind threatened to take off the roof, and my father would teach me the names of the birds, animals, and flowers of the field. And the weather of course! Glaw for rain – nearly always; Howl for sun – hardly ever; and Gwyns for wind -all the time. And then there was the Cranken Rhyme – we didn’t understand a word of it, but it sounded nice and would always bring a smile to our faces.

‘When they died, I took over the farm. Little time for courting, I lived alone – still live alone – and have no sons or daughters to pass things on to. Even if I did, like all the young people around here, especially now the railway has found its way to these parts, they would like as not have gone to seek their fortunes in Bristol or London. No time for the old ways. No time for Cornwall.

‘Now, I’m tired, so I’ll bid you Duw Genes. I look forward to reading the article – Death of a Language, you call it?

‘A sad title; but true.’

Boswednack Community Centre – March 2022

‘Let’s start by practising what we learned last week, shall we? So, if I was to meet a stranger and wanted to say hello, my name is Mari, then goodbye, I would say: Dydh da. Ow hanow yw Mari. Duw Genes.

‘Now, turn to your partner, and introduce yourself.’

FLASH FICTION - THE DISAPPEARANCE