Watford Writers

ENTRY 1

THE SILVER KEY IN THE BLUE BOX by Marion Witton

“Twenty One Today, Twenty One Today,

She’s got the key of the Door

Never been Twenty One before”

It was my twenty-first birthday party and everyone was singing in unison. And there nestling between the cake and the presents, was a silver front door key in a blue box.

Our family are great ones for traditions, like a happy rainbow shining over the house. Nothing changes. Only last Friday I pulled out my late Mum’s folder of recipes, handed down from generation to generation, to make a rolly poly pud. “4oz of plain flour, 2oz of suet, handful of sultanas, mix with some water. Not too soggy”. I stirred the mixture together with my Mum’s old bone-handled flat knife, rolled the dough on the floured board with my hands into a cylindrical shape, wrapped it in grease proof paper, then in a pudding cloth and fastened it with an old nappy pin kept in the drawer for the purpose. Dropped it into an old saucepan of boiling water for 1 1/4 hours before serving with a large dollop of golden syrup from the slightly rusty-edged iconic green Tate & Lyle tin.

The shiny silver key in the blue box to our front door was largely symbolic as I had left home at 18 to start nursing. It wasn’t even the first time I had had a key to this house. My Mum was the homeliest mother of all my friends. Our kitchen always smelled of something warm and welcoming such as steak and kidney pie, or Victoria sponge cakes oozing with jam. The neatly folded pile of freshly ironed clothes seemed to leave a particular aroma that felt like home. Then suddenly when I was 14, Mum announced she had got a job! She and Dad had never been able to afford a car so she went out to work, saving every penny she earned. Just when she thought there was enough to buy the car she realised that she hadn’t calculated the cost of insurance so more of her wages were added until the little old yellow Ford Anglia could be ours.

I made a terrible fuss when Mum started work because I wouldn’t be able to go home for lunch as I had done since I started school at 4, and horror of horrors I might have to stay for school dinners. I didn’t though, as I spent my dinner money on two mini Cornish pasties and a semi-soft roll from Jones the Bakers on my way home, rarely bothering to go back to school in the afternoons as they only took the register in the morning.

Apparently I managed to lose my front door key the very first day Mum started her new job and she came home to find me forlornly sitting on the doorstep. Forty-nine and a half years after my 21st birthday I still have the silver key in the blue box as it has never left this house.

ENTRY 2

MIST by Mike Lansdown

‘And for homework…’ - a collective groan filled the classroom – ‘for homework, boys, you are to copy out page 13. And make sure you learn what it says!’

‘Yes, sir.’ The response was barely audible.

I crammed the book into the bottom of my bag and elbowed my way out of the room and into the corridor. It was Friday, four o’clock, and time for the weekend…

That lesson, that moment, seemed like a long, long time ago. It had receded into the mists of time, which, as I looked into the clouds descending around us seemed a darkly appropriate phrase.

‘Which way, sir?’

The voice, which I recognised as belonging to Alfie, the youngest of the boys I was leading, was small and strained. Was he crying?

‘Yeah, which way Mr Griffiths? Do you know where we are?’

I turned to the group, all togged up, six pairs of eyes looking expectantly at me, their lives apparently in my inexperienced hands.

‘No need to worry lads,’ I said, and shrugged my rucksack into position. ‘All we need to do is drop down a couple of hundred feet and we’ll be out of the mist. This is your first time up here, but I know these mountains like the back of my hand.’

‘I can’t see the back of my hand,’ said Alfie. A gloved fist punched him gently in the shoulder, and a couple of boys sniggered then went quickly quiet again.

‘Right, let’s have another look at the map. Get it out of the pocket, will you Marcus?’

Marcus reached into my bag.

‘It’s getting soggy, sir.’

And so it was. The plastic wallet hadn’t been the best choice, and the section of the OS map I had photocopied at work was already the worse for wear.

‘Not a problem. As long as we can orientate it correctly, we’ll be fine.’

He looked at me, unconvinced, then stared intently as I laid the sheet on a flat rock and lined up the northings with the needle of the compass.

‘There you are, Marcus.’ I pointed the way we needed to be heading. ‘That will take us towards the track we need. Boys, come and see what we’re doing. Learn a bit from this experience!’

A crescent of boys peered at the crumpled map, the layer of droplets making the faint photocopy even less distinct than it already was.

‘So, who’s going to lead?’ I said chirpily.

‘You are,’ came the groaned reply.

We strode off in the direction of the path I was convinced lay a few hundred yards to the north. Alfie was holding my hand. The mist was still falling. Swirling around our feet. Getting thicker.

We stopped suddenly at the cliff-edge, and I took out the map once more.

‘What does that squiggly black symbol mean, sir?’

‘That Marcus? I’m afraid I really can’t remember…’

‘So, you didn’t do your map-key homework then, Griffiths?’

‘No, sir.’

If only. If only. If only.

ENTRY 3

THE BLANKET OF WISDOM by Ian Welland

I wandered out into the prairie and began my long but familiar walk down the poled road. The sun was up and the Arizona dust bowl that had been my home for nearly twenty years exhaled an uneasy breeze, swirling and cursing. As I gazed up into an azure sky, there they were – the wispy vapour trails stretching far into the distance; as my favourite song confirmed, ‘…over geometric farms, charmed.’

I didn’t know this would be the last time I would ever see my family’s shuttered homestead, peeling white paint with sticking sashed windows and creaking doors, ebbing and flowing tormented by varying temperatures. My bedroom window, front top left, chiselled into the roof like a hostile lookout post, showing the full decayed truth. I always had a feeling of tumbleweed isolation gained from this bleak terrain. But not today.

I had written over a hundred stories, none of them worth much, but nonetheless given some credence by an impressed Editor. I had no choice but to answer my calling to the city limits. I guess my Editor saw someone naïve with a restless zest. My learning had been limited, in fact there were only ten of us at the village school, but Reverend Lawrie ensured an appreciation of language and safe passage by way of Copeland’s Simple Gifts.

My father, devout but detached from religious icons, had given me advice - most of it completely useless for this emerging free spirited, politically fuelled time. And my favourite song? It was right; my father’s advice was all false alarms drifting into icy altitudes.

I had been observing in my stories a strange wanderlust, but was now driven to an American expressionism reaffirming basically, that I had lived a life thus far on a diet of time and defining seasons. I suppose these ideals needed some massaging once resident in the grease and grime of the city; alas, my father’s advice in contrast to what was forthcoming being sadly forgotten the moment I stepped onto that dusty road and headed east.

I placed my wrought iron key under the earthen chipped pot, the same pot that had been a wedding anniversary gift to my parents from an elderly Chief of a tribe residing on an adjacent reservation. Mindful that our family homestead stood on their ancestral lands, the Chief offered the pot to remind us of our illegal occupation but that we had somehow understood the spiritual significance of the site and thankfully had chosen to barely scar by way of farming. Indeed, despite everything, my parents and I, an only child, became an extension of the Chief’s own and each year at harvest, the tribe would join us for a great celebration.

On this morning, with a satchel of writing and a small suitcase, my next chapter began accompanied also by my most treasured item - a blanket from that same Chief’s son. How honoured was I? That blanket had been passed down generations and would go on to reveal its own wisdom.

ENTRY 4

THIS IS ME by Louise Welland

Trudy hated herself. Everyone else was pretty, yet she had pale white skin, freckles and red hair. Sara was never happy with herself either. Everyone else was beautiful, yet she had spotty skin, gaps in her teeth, and to make matters worse she had dark hair growing on her legs.

Trudy and Sara were not invited anywhere. They had turned down so many invitations in the past that no one bothered asking any more. ‘They must think they are too good for us’ their classmates wrongly assumed.

Trudy saw Sara sitting alone every lunch time. She wanted to invite her around to do homework, but then Sara would discover that Trudy was brought up by her mum with no dad around. How would she react when she discovered that Trudy had no tv, laptop or mobile phone? It wasn’t worth the risk.

Sara was lonely but couldn’t invite Trudy to her house. Her mum drank red wine each afternoon. It was too risky. Her mum may be ok on the day, but just one too many and she would become an emotional blubbering wreck. Most evenings she was either in floods of tears, or fast asleep on the sofa. ‘I wish my family was normal’ Sara repeated over and over. Her dad would say ‘Mum is not well darling, one day she may get better’.

----------------------------------------------------

‘OK everyone, settle down while I explain today’s lesson’

‘You each have an identical piece of paper on your desk. Please write on it using black pen and capital letters; one secret about yourself. One thing that you wouldn’t want your classmates to know. Fold your paper into four and I will collect them in a box. I must stress, this is a totally anonymous exercise. No one will know who wrote what. Please work in silence and take as long as you need.

The room went quiet but you could almost hear the anxiety levels rising.

Miss Khan walked quietly around the classroom picking up each folded ‘confession’ she gave the box a good stir each time she placed a new one inside.

‘Now’ she instructed. ‘I will read each one of these out. Please show respect by staying quiet to hear each other’s thoughts. When I have finished; silently leave the classroom. Your homework for tonight is to write a very short piece on how today’s exercise impacted you.’

One by one the notes were read out: ‘My mum hit my dad’ ‘I hate my teeth’ ‘I feel too fat’ ‘I think I like people the same sex as me’

Trudy was stunned. It began to sink in that everyone had fears and insecurities.

----------------------------------------------

Trudy’s homework flowed easily; she wrote:

Don’t look at my outside to judge how I feel

It’s just a facade, and none of it’s real

I can’t be you and you can’t be me

Accepting yourself is truly the key

The next day Trudy spotted Sara in the lunch queue. ‘Do you fancy coming over after school tomorrow?’

ENTRY 5

FINALE by Ian Welland

Jack Shannon sat facing the empty chairs in that desolate board room. Less than ten minutes ago, the room had been filled with frowning faced Directors, tailored in their pin stripes and bold as brass double cuffs. Jack was as cold as his cappuccino, his hands clinched tightly around that horrible, commercialised cup that apart from being absolutely worthless to the environment, only encouraged you to be psychologically brainwashed into buying another take-out.

Jack had been overlooked again for promotion. Nothing to do with his spreadsheet presentation or voluminous report – the kind that no bugger will read. It was his old-fashioned style, in their words, “he wasn’t what they were looking for.” It had become personal to the point of Jack just getting up and saying, “you know what, sod yer promotion, I’ll go and cut grass for a living.”

The door to the board room cried open and Dave marched in.

‘You’re a big lad, Jack. You’re get over it. Besides, you’re still in my team and that’s what counts, right?’

“Why don’t you just fuck-off, Dave. Go home to your obedient wife and 2.4 children.”

A stunned Dave just stood with his mouth open. He had never heard Jack so abusive. They had joined the company on the same day more than twenty years before. They had gone through marriages and divorces together. Attended conferences and got drunk at the company’s expense.

“I can’t leave you here mate. You know what to do. Sleep on it. Come back tomorrow and start over. That’s what we do. Who wants a Directorship anyway?”

Jack suddenly felt the blood rush to his head and pointed his right index finger firmly in Dave’s direction. He yelled, “NO! It’s not what we do, Dave! I am sick up to ‘ere with the poxy excuses. I’ve given everything to help grow this company. I’ve parked my life to make sure our clients knew nothing of the chaos behind the scenes. And for what? A lousy £30-grand a year, ford escort, expense account and twenty days holiday that I hate taking cos my wife is no more.”

“You’ve got your kids. Talk to Mike. Wise head on young shoulders there. I should know. I am his bloody godfather.”

Jack, shaking for the first time, rose slowly from his chair. "See this boardroom. This is where lives are shattered mate. My life. Shattered three times in this board room. I’ve never got up from this table and gone on to the restaurant with the Directors to celebrate a promotion. Look at the empty chairs – about as empty as my life. They hold all the keys, Dave. And all they are, are jailers. They keep you locked up where they want you as your worth far more to them formulating bloody spreadsheets, converting presentations to pdfs and zip-filing monthly reports with appendices."

Jack threw his company car keys at Dave. Dave knew this really was the end.

“See you around, Dave.”

ENTRY 6

PRIME SUSPECT by Mike Lansdown

(The East End – early 1960s)

They called me Victor - after the Queen, who’d died in the January.

When my old man passed away, I took over the business, ‘Wood’s Locksmiths - est. 1823’. It had been in the family for generations and was part of the neighbourhood, or what was left of it after Adolf’s lot had had their way.

I remember, it was October, late in the afternoon, when ‘George’ (I called him this, after he of Dock Green fame) popped in at the end of his day on the beat. He came in, the bell above the door giving a warning tinkle. His bicycle was propped against the shop window.

‘George! Come on in. Cuppa?’

‘As long as it’s warm and wet,’ he said, sat down and took off his helmet.

I returned, poured the tea, and George added a splash of milk and his customary three sugars. We chatted for a few minutes, then I ventured: ‘Nasty business down at Churchill Mansions. How many break-ins is it now? Three, four?’

‘Three flats in as many weeks, Victor. Your dad would be turning in his grave.’

‘Certainly would. Did you know he was part of the committee they formed when they built the Mansions?’

‘I didn’t,’ George said with a sad shake of his head, ‘but it doesn’t surprise me. He was a diamond Like you, Victor, he’d do anything for the local community.’

‘So…any closer to finding the culprit?’

He sat, took a slow sip, then leaned in confidentially.

‘Well, Victor,’ - he was whispering – ‘he seems to have a method. His break-ins follow a pattern: number 3 was on the 5th of the month; number 7 on the 11th, 13 on the 17th, and so on.

I shook my head at him and shrugged.

‘They’re prime numbers, Victor! Prime numbers! He’s obviously a man hooked on numbers and he’s following a sequence.’

‘I’m sorry, I never was much good at maths, but what you say sounds very interesting. Who would ever have thought?’

‘Oh, yes!’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘they often like to tease us, to see if we twig what’s going on.’

‘So…?’

‘So, Victor,’ he sighed heavily, patience running out, ‘so, we know what he’s planning next – number 19 on the 23rd! And that’s tomorrow!’

‘Well, I never. Blimey, you’re a genius, PC Smith, a veritable genius. Another cuppa?’

‘No,’ he said standing and pulling his chin-strap into place. ‘Got to get down to the station so we can get things ready for tomorrow night. So, Evening All,’ he said with a wink. I waited until he and his bike had wobbled their way out of sight. The street-lights were just coming on.

I rinsed the cups in the sink and went to the backroom and opened up the key safe. My flashlight picked out a small pile of rings, watches, and bracelets that winked at me through the gloom.

‘Now then, where’s the key to number 1?’ I breathed softly.

‘It’s about to get dark.’

ENTRY 7

FRED'S ADVENTURE by Chris McDermott

Fred Shufflebottom’s surname had been handed down through the generations, but it was not until his eleventh birthday, that the true significance of the name Shufflebottom would become apparent to all. Fred was still at primary school, and had just reached the age when he was starting to take an interest in girls. Others appeared to have things ‘sorted’, while Fred was still working everything out. He was very fond of Maisie Clunkett, who was in the same class, but he was not sure how he would demonstrate his feelings for her. So, in the days long before Google, Fred resolved to take advice from his favourite rock star ‘Cool Boy’ Duff. Cool Boy’s lyrics informed Fred that the key to a girl’s heart was through gentleness and chivalry. This was the advice that Fred would follow.

Maisie was shy and quiet, but Fred was sure she really liked him. But how was he going to demonstrate his chivalry to her? Having recently studied the Battle of Hastings, Fred knew that chivalous knights wore shining armour, so Fred managed to convince his parents to buy him a plastic suit of armour for his birthday.

On the day of Fred’s birthday party, the usual gang arrived, with ‘Smokey Joe’ Galbraith wearing flared trousers, which had just become fashionable, and ‘Razzer’ Rawlings attired in what appeared to be a blanket, although Razzer assured everyone that it had spiritual connections with the East and started talking about ‘karma’. Fred found this perplexing, but smiled politely, nodding in that way which signalled to everyone else that he was part of ‘the in crowd’.

Just as Fred was completing his final nod, Maisie walked in the room, looking, in Fred’s eyes, like the embodiment of everything beautiful. If the school had decided to do ‘Sleeping Beauty’ that year, Fred had no doubt that Maisie would have been cast in the lead role.

As was normal practice, the girls huddled in a circle, and the boys, determined to prove their masculinity by being inappropriately loud, stood on the other side of the room, each determined to outdo the others by making them laugh at the expense of their latest victim.

Realising that he could not compete, and wanting to demonstrate his chivalry to the vision in the leopard skin dress, Fred endeavoured to ‘sidle over’ to Maisie. Unfortunately, his attempt at ‘sidling’ consisted of moving one foot in front of the other, in the manner of an arthritic penguin, which resulted in him toppling over, his face landing slap-bang in the middle of the birthday cake that his mother had prepared, using an ancient recipe involving eggs. Fred had been aiming to be ‘the cream of the crop’, but had ended up with ‘the cream on top’.

Fred Shufflebottom had not won the key to Maisie’s heart that day, but he was to find the key to her heart in the future, as sure as ‘eggs is eggs’, as his grandfather would have said.

ENTRY 8

BY THE DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT by Sumi Watters

I am a prisoner, being held against my will aboard my own ship. My crime? Coming to the defence and negotiating the release of a friend, a decent family man wrongfully accused of espionage and betrayal.

The good doctor is not in favour of the war any more than myself. Beanes is a man of virtue, driven by what he deems right and wrong. Bringing those British deserters who’d ransacked his neighbours’ farms to justice was not a display of American patriotism. He acted on principle. Nothing more. But the British army snatched him in the night anyway, and forced him aboard the HMS Tonnant in the Chesapeake Bay, where they held him captive—a prisoner of war.

Had my colleague Skinner and I arranged for Beanes’s release sooner, we might’ve avoided the predicament we find ourselves in now. The negotiations and deliverance were civilised and amicable, as they ought to be amongst distinguished gentlemen. But we’d learnt far too many details of Admiral Ross’s plan to launch an attack on Fort McHenry and, by extension, my beloved city of Baltimore and its harbour in the coming hours. They allowed us to return to the comforts of the Minden with one proviso: that our heavily guarded truce vessel be tethered securely to theirs and anchored some distance from the shore until the outcome of the battle was decided.

We are powerless, Skinner and me. Detained at sea, unable to warn our fellow countrymen of the imminent danger.

Ross’s fleet of heavily armed battleships began its shock and awe assault on Fort McHenry in the early hours of 13 September. We watched in horror from Minden’s deck as cast-iron bombs, each weighing as much as a well-fed farm boy, and Congreve rockets pelted down on the pentagonal fortress throughout the day. American forces, determined to protect its stronghold, bravely countered the attack by sending a deluge of artillery towards the masted ships.

By nightfall, ominous storm clouds had rolled in from the east. Rain fell in torrents, the wind picked up speed. But the battle continued. Lightning bolts and the rockets’ red flares lit up the darkened sky, creating a brilliant display, both unnerving and mesmerising. Booming explosions persisted all through the night.

Until, at last, an eerie silence—an uncertainty—descended upon us.

As dawn broke, I peered through the mist rising from the sea. And there, rising gallantly above the ramparts: our star-spangled banner, in all its glory.

I’ve never claimed to be a poet. An amateur, at best. But in that moment, I was inspired. I withdrew a letter from my breast pocket and scribbled the first lines of a verse in its margins.

O, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming.

‘Mr Key?’ Skinner said, tapping me on my shoulder and drawing me out of my creative trance. ‘The British have retreated. We are free to return to Baltimore.’

THE END

[Author’s note: Francis Scott Key (1779-1843) was inspired to write The Star-Spangled Banner (originally titled Defence of Fort M’Henry) after seeing the American flag still flying at dawn after the British bombardment of Fort McHenry during the War of 1812.]

ENTRY 9

THE DARKNESS - A STORY ABOUT AFGHANISTAN by Chris McDermott

Aina is my name. It means mirror in my language and I can see my anxious face in the mirror as I tell you my story. I am a girl, aged 16, and I live in Afghanistan. I used to go to school, but not anymore. My father worked for the government and my mother worked in an office. I was looking forward to receiving ‘the key of the door’ as I grew older, until, one day, everything changed.

My father had left our home; he had had no choice. My mother had locked the doors to our house, and kept a key with her. As I sat, reading a book, sheltered at the back of the house, the sun streamed its blessings through the window. Then a shadow came across the page and I looked up. What I saw were yellow teeth, surrounded by the hair of his black beard, as he grimaced in effort, smashing the butt of his gun against the door. His angry exhalation of breath was echoed by the fear in my heart.

I was in a state of terror.

I threw my book to one side and ran to the front of the house to find my mother. She was screaming in fear, so we hugged each for support. We had always prayed five times a day, so how could this be our reward? This was not Jannah, our Heaven; it was Jahannam, our living hell. Why had we been forsaken?

‘Aaaaaaaargh!’

The final thrust at the back door brought a blood-curdling cry from our intruder, as he invoked the name of God and strode through the house. I cannot tell you what happened next, because it is too painful to recount. But now there is just one key to our house. It is to the back door and I have it, because my mother is no longer with me.

My final memory of my mother is seeing her dragged, without mercy, outside, as the bearded intruder locked the door behind him, wanting to make me a prisoner in my own home. I had always been taught that a key is something which opens life’s doors, the key to someone’s heart, the key to life, the key to Heaven.

But the turning of my mother’s key, stolen from her hand, ended life as I had known it.

Now I live alone, in dread. Each day, my neighbours come to the back of my house, bringing me food, for I do not dare to go out. But I survive. What has happened to my mother I can only fear, but I cannot know.

Stop! What is that sound?

This time it is coming from the front of the house. Is he back?

I must go. Thank you so much for listening to me, my friend, and for reading my story. Perhaps we shall meet one day, in Paradise. I hope you shall have your key to Heaven, as I hope I shall have mine.

Goodbye.

ENTRY 10

A REWARD by Helen Gordon

Barbara sat on the edge of her grandmother’s bed and considered opening the large wooden chest on the floor in front of her. She had little time left as the removal people were due in an hour. She wondered why she had left this to the last minute. Maybe she was putting off the last farewell to grandma and the memorabilia. She was yearning to find one particular item that had intrigued her as a child and it was still a mystery. It was a wooden box that her grandmother always kept on her bedside table. She never knew what was in it and grandma never opened it.

When Barbara started work she travelled around the country for months on end. When she did visit there was so much to talk about and Barbara forgot about the mysterious box. Now it was too late, grandma died a few months ago. It was a vague memory now and she wasn’t sure if she would recognize it but hoped she would.

There was one difficulty of course, the chest was locked and she didn’t have the key! She looked around the bedroom for the umpteenth time but it was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly distracted by the rattling window, Barbara looked out at the March storm brewing and early spring blossom floating aimlessly outside like fine snowflakes, as she felt she was aimlessly searching for the key. She opened the dusty curtains wider and suddenly heard a ‘ping’! It wasn’t her phone this time! Something had fallen from the picture rail on the left hand side of the curtain rail and landed on the window sill. It was a small, sturdy looking gold coloured key.

“Wow” Barbara exclaimed. “ That must be it!”

The key fitted the lock in the chest perfectly and she lifted the lid.

Kneeling on the floor beside the chest, she started to rummage through the top layer, removing old lace tablecloths ; embroidered pillow cases and some delightful elaborately designed silk scarves. A heady lavender scent wafted out of the chest and into the room.

Suddenly from deep inside the chest a tiny grey-black mite flew out and made Barbara jump. She thought it must have been a pupa in autumn when grandma packed the chest. It had hibernated safely inside and now flew out to freedom. Fortunately it wasn’t a moth!

The next layer revealed some gloves; old dance shoes, probably from the 1940’s; and a few pretty petticoats with broderie anglaise frills. She found a glass trinket dish with a coloured design of flowers and butterflies on its lid. Then she saw it. It was the mother of pearl lid that she noticed first and knew then that she’d found the mystery box. She lifted it carefully and ran her hands over the shiny wooden base. It was long and narrow. Her heart was beating with excitement as she prised off the lid. Inside was a small glass bottle securely sealed with a gold cap. Inside the bottle was a tiny book which reminded Barbara of the Bronte children’s miniature books she’d once seen, in Haworth. The book was open at the centre page on which were words too small to read. Barbara remembered that her grandmother kept a magnifying glass in a kitchen drawer and hurried downstairs. She ran back upstairs and tried to focus on the writing in the book but it was difficult as the glass was thick. Then she saw it -grandma’s tiny neat writing :

Barbara. March 1st 1965

My first grandchild. God Bless Her.

A reward indeed!

ENTRY 11

THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE by Geoff Brown

October 18th, 2021, Ottery-St-Mary, Devon

This is the last will and testament of Nicolas Flamel, alias Joseph Siverwood.

I am six hundred and ninety-one years old. I was born in 1330 in the village of Pontoise, outside Paris. I made a good living as a scribe, translator and manuscript seller.

On a trip to Spain in the 1360’s I came upon the tome that was to change my life. The Book of Abraham the Jew was full of strange codes and symbols which I spent the next twenty years deciphering. It is hard to believe that I discovered The Philosopher’s Stone. At first I was able to transmute base metals into silver and gold. I accumulated great wealth which I was careful not to flaunt. After many failed experiments I created The Elixir of Life, the key to immortality. I purified and condensed a plethora of ingredients including blood, hair, mercury, sulphur and arsenic.

I reached the age of eighty-eight in rude health and looking much younger than my years. Rumours started to circulate about the possible unnatural causes of my longevity. I faked my own death. You can see my tombstone in the Église Saint-Jacques-de-la Boucherie. I decamped to Italy.

I have since lived in twenty countries and have mastered thirty languages. In addition to all the major European languages, I am fluent in Mandarin, Hindi, Urdu, Japanese, Samoan and Māori. Since my first wife Perenelle died in 1397, I have been married twenty times and have sired sixty children. In order to evade detection I have had to fake my death many times and move to a new country. My enormous wealth which makes Jeff Bezos seem a pauper has afforded me the capacity to adopt many new nationalities and personas.

Through the centuries I have tried to deploy my riches and unparalleled learned experience for good. My unseen hand has been behind many things of benefit to mankind. I’ll mention a few more recent examples. I lived in France in the mid-nineteenth century. It was in Lille that I seeded the ideas to Louis Pasteur which encouraged his development of the pasteurisation process. In America I was a major banker for the Underground Railroad providing secret routes and safe houses for slaves escaping from the southern states. One of my proudest achievements was as a Swiss citizen with the name Henri Dunant organising emergency relief for casualties at the Battle of Solverino in 1859. This was the initiative which led to the formation of The Red Cross.

I have decided to end my life. My cameo appearance in the Harry Potter series has encouraged those still searching for the secret of eternal life to redouble their efforts to find me. I know my current camouflage as an antiquarian bookseller in Devon is good but is not impenetrable.

Today, I have burnt all my alchemistic formulae in the hope that the search for the Philosopher’s Stone will end now. Immortality was more curse than blessing.

Yours finally

Nicolas

ENTRY 12

DEAR WATSON by Susan Bennett

‘Dear Watson you have done it’

‘Done what?’

‘Provided me with the key to solving my problem’

Many considered Shelby Jones wildly eccentric, with her whirlwind arrival in any space, her untameable hair, and her obtuse replies, when she deigned to answer. I first met her in the local coffee shop. I was in need of a caffeine fix and ahead of me in the queue was this woman who was busy describing the benefits of each type of coffee bean. Eventually she settled on her drink and I was able to get my order in for an ordinary cappuccino. I settled down in the corner to enjoy my coffee in comfort when the expert appeared at my table and sat down without a by your leave. Before I had raised my cup to my lips Shelby, as she announced herself, started on a long tirade about today’s youngsters. I turned a deaf ear to her chatter and drifted into a daydream regarding my upcoming weekend with Darren.

Jerked back to the present by the sudden silence I looked at Shelby.

‘Sorry, did you want an answer’, I asked

‘Only if you have one’, she replied

‘Can you repeat the question?’

‘I asked if you had any suggestions of how to deal with my situation. I have thought about it from all angles, and I just can’t see a solution’

I didn’t want to get caught up in her drama so I said I didn’t really know. I then muttered something under my breath, I can’t for the life of me remember now what I said but it appeared to satisfy my companion.

A couple of weeks passed. I thought I saw Shelby on several occasions but I couldn’t be sure. Unsuccessful on a shopping trip, and with the pouring rain dripping down the back of my neck I decided to seek shelter in the nearby coffee shop. The delightful warmth flooded through my fingers as I wrapped them around the large cappuccino, but before I could raise the cup to my lips Shelby sat down beside me. It’s like she knew!!

I couldn’t really ignore her now, so I murmured ‘Good afternoon’. Shelby didn’t appear to hear but then suddenly exclaimed, ‘You were so right you know’

‘What’, I exclaimed, ‘I’m not sure what you mean’

‘Last time we spoke you made me realise that I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. I went away feeling more positive and do you know after some consideration I was able to solve my problem’.

‘Oh good’

Shelby had addressed me as ‘Watson’

‘Please my name is Joan’

‘I know, Joan Watson right’

‘Yes’

‘As you have the same surname as my hero’s friend and as like him you provided the key to solving a problem, I thought I would be the same and call you Watson. After all you did help me with your down to earth approach.’

ENTRY 13

FREEDOM by Andrea Neidle

Kila lifted her hand up to the door again. Nothing.

She shook her head perplexed. Why wasn’t the door opening? This had never happened before.

When the Ministry of Security and Home Affairs had first mooted the idea of integrated keys there had been an outcry.

What next will they want to embed in our skin, people had asked. But, as with the notion of vaccine passports, back in 2021, everyone had soon got used to the idea. And who nowadays used an old fashioned key?

Kila rubbed her hand and tried the door again.

What was she going to do? Without her palm key she wouldn’t be able to activate anything. How was she going to make phone calls, write, bank, show her health record, her ID? This was the stuff of nightmares.

She looked around in case anyone she knew was passing.

“Kila!” It was Alik reaching out a friendly elbow in greeting.

“Alik! Am I pleased to see you!” She smiled happily at her neighbour and elbowed him back.

Alik wasn’t smiling.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“My key’s no longer working,” he said.

“That’s odd,” she responded, “neither is mine. What do you think is going on?”

“So you haven’t heard the news?”

Kila shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s been some kind of security lapse. None of the palm keys are working. Not just yours and mine. But everyone’s.”

Kila’s eyes widened in amazement.

“But that’s crazy. How are we going to do anything? The whole system will breakdown! It’s like they had back in the old days with the internet. What are we going to do?”

“We’re marching” announced Alik. “We’re marching on the Ministry. Listen!”

Kila listened and for the first time could hear the shouts of an angry mob.

She could just about make out the words, “freedom from the key” being repeated over and over again.

“But I don’t want freedom from the key. I like my palm key. It gives me freedom to do everything I want to do.”

“But it gives them control over us,” answered Alik. “We want freedom from control.”

Now Kila could hear the mob chanting, “Freedom from control. Freedom from control!”

Alik elbowed her again.

“Come with us Kila. Join the protest.”

Kila stepped back.

“I can’t Alik. Keys give us freedom. You must see that.”

Alik scowled. “Keys belong to our colonial past.”

Kila shook her head and elbowed him away.

“NO!”

“Kila – wake up! Happy birthday my darling! 21 today!

Her mother was leaning over her. She was laughing and dangling something in her face. A large silvery beribboned cardboard key.

“Happy 21st birthday! Today you get the key of the door! That’s what we used to say when I was young. But it’s all change now. The Prime Minister was on TV just before announcing a new idea. They’re going to impregnate keys into your hand. Can you imagine! Whatever will they think of next?”

ENTRY 14

WHERE ON EARTH AM I? by Geoff Brown

First a few clues. I’ve driven down an interminably long causeway over forty-two bridges…. I’ve passed signs to Marathon and Matecumbe….I’ve marvelled at the dozens of predatory pelicans, each one regally perched atop its own dock post along the Seven Mile Bridge….I’ve finally arrived at a Caribbean enclave tacked on to the southern tip of a northern continent. So where am I? Key West of course, my undisputed favourite place in the entire US of A.

Its idiosyncratic bohemian ambience and laid back lifestyle is utterly captivating. The word ‘key’ comes from the Spanish word ‘cayo’ meaning a small island. There are hundreds of Florida Keys extending from about fifteen miles south of Miami in a gentle arc for over a hundred miles. They have names ranging from the downright prosaic to the beguilingly poetic….Little Duck, Big Pine, Raccoon, Loggerhead, Knockemdown, Sugarloaf, Biscayne, Largo, Bahia Honda, Boca Chica and Islamadora.

Key West is the southernmost point in the continental US and is closer to Havana than Miami. I have special memories of my three mid-winter breaks in a sub-tropical paradise. I can conjure up a vivid kaleidoscope of the sights, sounds and smells of this magical place.

Swimming in the Gulf of Mexico in an impenetrably milky sea as warm as a jacuzzi.

Sipping a Mojito or three on the aptly named Sunset Pier as our planet’s star slipped below the watery horizon.

Sitting on a bar stool in Sloppy Joe’s listening to raucous rock bands belting out their stuff.

Marvelling at the exodus from gargantuan cruise ships of hordes of equally gargantuan people, most of them in capacious shorts the size of bell tents.

Returning down Duval Street to our inn by pedicab, the ubiquitous bicycle powered rickshaws, after a bibulous dinner. Cleaving through the balmy air suffused with the scents of exotic vegetation and pulsating with the music pouring from every bar.

Resisting the blandishments of the many Drag Queens to grace their particular establishments.

Browsing and tasting in our favourite emporium, ‘Peppers of Key West,’ with its bewildering array of hot sauces.

Chortling at the many amusing signs on shop doors. My favourite is this:

Business Hours

We’re Open

Most days about 9 or 10

Occasionally as early as 7

But some days as late as 12 or 1

We’re Closed

About 5.30 or 6

Occasionally about 4 or 5

But sometimes as late as 11 or 12

*******************************************************************************

Some days or afternoons we aren’t here at all and lately I’ve been here just about all the time

We were there in 2002 and experienced the most unusual of condolences. An American couple at the next table in a restaurant hearing our British accents leant over and with sad faces said, “We’re so sorry for your loss.” Registering our startled expressions they continued, “We heard about Princess Margaret’s passing and it must have been a shock for you.” We didn’t have the heart to tell them that as lifelong republicans her demise hadn’t really hit us very hard.

ENTRY 15

KEY WEST by David Elliott

The Pillar, a fifty-foot sunseeker luxury yacht poured herself into Key West harbour. A jeroboam of champagne in a bucket full of Budweiser bottles.

With too deep a draught for the marina, her pristine lines swung into the quayside. Pure glacier white against the coffee-stained trawlers and rusticated tramp steamers.

Across the waterfront a coastguard cutter prowled.

Raul Perez sat in the Pillar’s salon; enveloped in a White Star Line level of opulence.

An oil painting of Ernest Hemingway, cast his eye over the proceedings.

‘As you can see,’ he spoke elegantly to the gentlemen from Homeland Security, ‘we have nothing to declare.’

Raul smiled at his wife, who threw a disdainful look at the King Charles Spaniel as it snuffled and slobbered across the white merino-wool carpet.

Raul got up and walked over to the sniffer dog and tickled it under the chin. ‘Let it be darling. He’s only doing his job.’

The dog barked in agreement. ‘See, they are trained to stand stock-still if there is the slightest whiff of illicit narcotics.’

‘That is correct Sir and you appear to be clean today.’

‘As every other day. Leave the cocaine to the Columbians, us Cubans prefer a simple mojito or Havana cigar.’

‘Cigars aren’t illicit Sir; but they are still classed as contraband under the Cuban embargo,’ the Homeland Security officer reminded Raul as he took a stamp from his briefcase and endorsed the two passports; carelessly discarded on the table. ‘Welcome to the USofA.

The officer pointed at the portrait. ‘Perfect timing: they’re running the annual Papa Hemmingway looky-likey competition up at Sloppy Joes.

Raul escorted them down the gangplank and laughed, ‘my father fished the Gulf-stream and drank with Ernesto on many occasions, I even met the great man as a child. No need for any looky-likey’s.’

The officers saluted and marched their inquisitive mutt up the quay.

Returning to the salon and a frustrated wife, Raul pressed a concealed button and a keypad rose from the depths of the upholstery.

‘Enter your keychain darling.’

Raul followed with his own and a mechanical whirring filled the air. He padded across to Papa and swung the painting aside, to reveal a safe. He opened the door and removed a pack of the finest Cohiba Montecristo Superiores. Far better than Castro’s or Churchill’s smokes.

His wife took two out of the pack, removed their caps and with a cigar-cutter prepped them.

She kissed her husband, ‘but up on deck carino, not in the salon.’

Raul climbed the companion-ladder and walked to the stern. He struck a match and ever the perfect husband lit his wife’s cigar first. The match floated overboard as a second sparked his own into life.

High on the poop-deck, Raul blew a stream as blue as the Atlantic’s undercurrents towards the coastguards. Were they watching?

Raul opened the cocktail bar and muddled mint leaves.

‘A toast.’ He clinked his glass against his wife’s, then raised it towards the cutter.

‘Capitalism mis amigos. To contraband.’

ENTRY 16

POCKET MONEY PURSE by Helen Nicell

The grey path before her swum in and out of focus, she just needed to get to the other side of the park. Amy started to swallow more frequently, her mouth dry from smoking weed, a scented aftertaste like a sickly violet sweet, mingled with the dryness. Clinging to a tree trunk, Amy rested her forehead on the cool bark, sweat trickled down her back. The musty woodland smell filled her nostrils. Not far and she’d be home. Home? A room in a hostel, so small that if she stood next to her single bed, she could touch both walls without her feet leaving the sticky vinyl floor. Amy was reluctant to use the shared bathroom.

Something glinted in the late evening sun. Amy screwed her eyes up to see what was concealed in the bushes. Unsteadily she walked forwards and it became clearer, something red glaring from the green foliage. Looking around the park, Amy couldn’t see anyone else. She picked up the object, it was a red purse with an ‘S’ shape metal clasp, like one she’d had as a child for her pocket money. She tucked herself further into the bushes, her dirty fingernails fumbling with the clip. The purse sprung open and revealed a roll of notes fastened with an elastic band, it reminded her of a mini Swiss roll. She had no idea how much was there, over £100 she guessed. She shoved the money into the pocket of her jeans. Enough to pay for some more grass, maybe she could get some solid cannabis? She felt the rush of excitement knowing this find would see her through several fixes. The only other thing in the purse was a brass front door key, but no clues as to who owned the purse. Anonymous, perfect, no need to feel guilty. It was a gift! She tossed the empty purse further into the woods and tucked the key into her other pocket with no idea why.

As Amy walked away, she took one more look over her shoulder. Then she saw it, a black shopping trolley lying on its side, one silver wheel protruding like an arm waving from the sea. Her eyes followed the outline of the trolley; ghostly white fingers, wrapped around the handle. A blue headscarf lay in the grass, like a small pond in a forest. Amy froze, she had to go back. Feeling the key in her pocket, she slowly walked forward. Amy was shaking as she saw the woman’s lifeless body laying on the earth, her open handbag by her side. She wore a navy raincoat, her grey hair flat against her head. Lifeless. Picking up the bag, Amy rifled through it. She found a bus pass with the woman’s name and address.

Amy smiled, no need to go back to the hostel tonight, she hoped she had the key to an empty house, and a bathroom to herself.

ENTRY 17

OFF KEY by Lesley Kerr

“Remember, it’s only supposed to be a bit of lock down fun” Mark smiled at Cheryl as she started setting up her laptop for the evening’s choir session, muttering furiously to herself.

“Well, it would be fun if ‘certain people’ didn’t monopolise the proceedings. She huffed, “I’m sure he’s got himself one of those professional microphones attached to his computer – no-one’s that loud over Zoom!”

Mark knew exactly who the certain person related to, and he also knew better than to try to appease his wife when she was on one of her tirades against one of the more trying members of the community choir.

The particular focus of her ire was Barry Newsome – or “Barry the Belter” as he had come to be known.

He was not only loud but spectacularly off-key drowning out the other members of the choir, not matter how much he was tactfully implored to dial it down a little.

It would have been slightly more bearable if he knew the lyrics and didn’t just shout out whatever came into his mind.

“To skew the words of the great Eric Morcombe: he sang all the right notes but not in the right order”, one of the more generous choristers, had remarked after a particularly ear-splitting session.

The final straw had come the previous week when his wife insisted on accompanying him on the piano and played everything in C major which was completely wrong for the arrangement.

“If I try to mute him that makes him cross. I can’t win”, Cheryl said miserably, “I wouldn’t normally moan but it’s just that tonight is important – we have guests this week.”

“Look” Mark said finally, “I found this trick out at work – you remember the guy I told you about who is always eating and just wears a hoody and nothing else on calls?”

Cheryl nodded.

“Well, there is something you can do just to teach him a little lesson and you don’t have to mute him or kick him out altogether. You can send him to the ‘Zoom Waiting Room’”

“He will end up in virtual purgatory, until you are ready to have him re-join. It's like a virtual time out.”

He leaned over and pointed to the top of her screen and continued "Here – see where it says, ‘put in Waiting Room’? and when you're ready to bring them back, tap on the blue "Admit" button next to his name”.

“Oooh sounds interesting!” Cheryl said.

“Well, I’d only use it as a last resort” Mark cautioned, slightly unnerved by the alarming glint which had appeared in her eyes as she tapped the keys enthusiastically.

“I’ll use my power wisely” she grinned patting his arm.

She turned her attention to her screen as it began to fill up with the familiar faces and sounds of vocal exercises. “Right Barry!” she thought with relish, “you get two strikes and then you’re out! I hope you like the magazines in the waiting room!”

ENTRY 18

STAGE FRIGHT by Ann Crago

It was still gripped in her cold dead hand. An ordinary brass Yale key.

I glanced at her face and she seemed to have a smirk playing around her lips as if the bitch knew she had the final word. Her grip on the key her last scene in the final act of life. She always demanded attention, to be seen as the leading lady. I was just a bit player in her life, an extra cast at the whim of the director she adored, loved even. No, she wasn’t capable of loving another. Her love of self took top billing. Always.

By rights the director should have been the one on the floor by my feet, injured but begging forgiveness as a husband, as a cheat, as a liar. He was certainly a better director than actor. I had seen beneath the murky waves of his sea of lies every single time. The late calls, the evening casting discussion meetings. The research trips as he attempted to write the big one, the screen play that would make his name. His second- rate acting skills fighting his lies for believability.

I felt a calm, cold certainty that this too would play out well. I was clearly the injured and innocent party. I had already written this screenplay in my head. The scene had been set: a late-night call to the theatre from his phone to her. A note through her door supposedly from the stage manager. Me, the heroine, arriving first and rearranging the lighting rig to fall silently and fast at my command. It’s true I hadn’t anticipated her arriving with such speed, desperate as she must have been to meet my husband for an unexpected sex scene, a triste I think the French call it. I just called it the way it was, sordid.

My intention in the opening act had been to confront them both on the stage and then kill him off, literally. He was of no further use to me. His so-called friends and contacts were now mine and I made a very good living with my acting skills bringing their fantasies to life. He was useful at parties but full of his own needs, never noticing me, my life, my needs. In his own mind he was pivotal in the theatre world, a successful artist.

I looked again at her face still beautiful beneath the metal struts, wires and broken glass. I realised the final act was still to be written. Why couldn’t she just love me, want me? All I had ever wanted was her.

Why was she holding a front door key? Was that hers? Had she finally realised my love for her and wanted me to be with her? As I contemplated this final scene, he arrived panting and apologetic in his haste to meet his lover, mumbling and incoherent in drink.

“Oh My God what happened?”

“Darling, there has been a frightful accident”

FLASH FICTION - OCTOBER 2021

THE KEY (or THE QUAY!)