Monthly Archives: May 2016

Under The Old Oak Tree

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It was the first and only place that Janet and I made love.  It was wonderful, her soft, warm kisses and the incredible ecstasy as our bodies entwined were like nothing I had ever encountered before.  We met there many times, and I really believed my life was complete with her.  Like other young lovers before me, I carved our initials with my penknife, so that our love would last forever.  But that was not to be; beneath the tree she cried as she told me she’d met Rick, and had to choose between us.

Janet married Rick and they moved away with his work.  I heard that they’d had a child soon afterwards, but I never saw her again.  Despite that, I always loved her; there was to be no-one else for me.

I remained in Banford and, more than 20 years later, on most days I still walked the field where the tree had once stood.  It was long gone, brought down in a winter gale and sawn up for logs; a bench had been put in its place and I would sometimes sit and recall our times there.

One day I met a young couple there.  The girl seemed familiar, and that puzzled me, as I was sure that I didn’t know them.  She asked me if the old oak tree was around here, and I told her that she was in the exact place, but that it wasn’t here any more.  She looked troubled, then burst into tears and ran to their car, parked in the lane.  The lad followed, then came back to me.

“I’m sorry about that, what you told her gave her a shock, she’s repairing her make-up now”.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked why.

“Her Mum used to meet her first boyfriend under the tree.  She died not long ago, and it was then that she told Jane that the guy was her natural father.  Jane says she’d never spoken of it before, because Rick had loved her and brought her up, believing she was his natural daughter, but he’d died in an accident when she was 18.  Jane’s biological father was her Mum’s first love, a guy named David Roberts. Her mum died from cancer a year ago and she wanted Jane to know.  Ever since, she’s wanted to see the place and the tree – and, just maybe, find out something about David.  You see, I’m all she’s got now and I’m just trying to help her through this”.

Suddenly I knew – knew why she was so familiar.  I hadn’t realised it in those few minutes before she ran off, but she was the image of my Janet.  I asked him her name, knowing what the answer would be.  He told me, then I told him mine.  He excused himself and ran to the car.  Minutes passed, then they both came back.  Jane ran to me and we embraced; George watched, all three of us in tears.

I took them home and showed them the piece of bark that I’d cut from the fallen tree and kept – a  roughly carved heart encircling the initials “DR x JB”

I’d believed that I had no children, but now I have Jane and George.  Years back, I’d wished I’d never laid eyes on Rick, who took my love away.  But now I am so grateful to him, for caring for Jane.  Jane and George were married six months ago, and I was privileged to give her away.

Next year their first baby will be here, and I shall have a grandchild.

A Yellow Balloon

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A YELLOW BALLOON

I was twelve when we moved to Dunby.  Rosie was only young then, maybe two or three. She lived next door, with Mr and Mrs Smith – and she was lovely, with her brown eyes as deep as pools and her long, soft locks of deep auburn tumbling down like the feathers of a beautiful bird.

She and I became inseparable.  Like me, she was an only one and it became the natural thing for me to call round for her every morning in the school holidays.  We played together all day; even though she was much younger than me, I never wanted to be with anyone else.

We played in our garden, and in the Smiths’ too, which was much bigger with lots of places to hide.  And in the woods, where there were trees for me to climb (but not Rosie, it wouldn’t have been safe) and in the park with its swings and roundabouts.  She loved to jump on the roundabout while it was moving, and I had to be careful not to go too fast.  In those days it was safe, with supervision, to swim in the little river, and I learned there.  Rosie was a natural at that, she didn’t need any teaching.  And if we found a bit of old rope, or even just strong string, we’d play tug of war.

Then tragedy struck.  Mr and Mrs Smith were both killed in a car accident only five miles from home.  They had no relatives who could take Rosie and after a lot of heart-searching by my parents (and a lot of pleading from me) it was agreed that she would come to live with us.

Despite the tragic circumstances, things eventually settled down; and my life was even more pleasant with Rosie living at our house.  My teenage years passed quickly, bringing my story up to the present time.

I’m 19 now and I’m at university.  After I moved into a room on the campus, my parents decided to make their oft-discussed move to the seaside.  They now live in Westwick-on-Sea, in a bungalow just across the road from the beach.  It’s great for Rosie, now 10, and whenever It’s end of term I come back to see them all.  That weekend, I brought my girlfriend, Sally.  We’ve been going out for a couple of months now and I’d been meaning to introduce her to Mum and Dad, as I’m beginning to think this may be the real thing.  There was a special deal on the train, a second ticket for just 50p on the Thursday evening only; we students are always short of money, as you know, so I went for it.

Of course, I introduced Sally to Rosie, too.  I hoped they’d get on well but I have to say that at first, Sally was a bit cool.  I can’t blame her, I’ve probably rabbited on so much about Rosie that Sally was sick of the sight of her before she’d even seen her (if you know what I mean).  Anyway, on the Sunday afternoon Sally and I fancied a quiet time together, so we  went for a walk on the beach.  A little girl was playing happily with a yellow balloon, but she  lost control of the string and it floated off on the wind and out to sea.

The little one was crying and her Mum was trying to comfort her, without success.  There was only one thing to do – I went in to get it for her.  But the wind blew it out of my reach.  I struck out hard to swim a little closer, but then I was immobilised by an agonising pain in my right leg.  It was cramp, and I couldn’t swim another stroke.  I was having trouble, in fact, just to stay afloat – I was in real danger of drowning.

Sally, bless her, did her best.  She could only swim about fifty yards or so; and that was in the friendly atmosphere of the uni pool, in her spotted blue bikini.  Not in sweater and jeans, in a Channel swell.  But she tried, she waded in waist deep, but couldn’t reach me.

Then she saw Dad and Rosie, further along the beach.  Sally waved and called to them.  In a flash, Rosie had rushed past Sally and was by my side in the water.  With my arms locked around her neck, she pulled me clear into the shallows.  I’ll always be grateful that we’d gone swimming those years ago, and that she’d loved it and had become such a strong swimmer.  Not bad for a ten year-old!

Slowly recovering my breath, and rubbing my sore leg, I was a pitiful sight there on the sand.  But my arms were around both of my girls, who, between them, had saved me: Sally, my darling girlfriend and Rosie, my lovely red setter.

Open Letter – Hungarian Revolution

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HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION – 1956
Sixty years ago this month, overt rumblings of discontent began to appear in the cities of Hungary. Underground newspapers and newsletters began to be circulated more widely, which made the government even more alert to dissident activities. Of course the real action and killings started between the 4th November to the 31 December, which was well documented by the then eminent photographer, Erich Lessing and the world’s press. Soviet press was a different matter……

Although the killings were substantial in the capital, and the Prime Minister, Imre Nagy tried and hanged, the real number of sufferers were those who chose to escape. In fact 155,000 Hungarians tramped to the Austro-Hungarian border via an Austrian village called Andou. Thence to Vienna (Wien) to fly to Blackbushe airport, near Camberley in Surrey. The Hungarian Army removed the Iron Curtain twixt Hungary and Austria in May 1956.

Why am I telling you of this story? My girlfriend at the time was called Theresa whose father, Joseph Schrapf (1895-1971, and originally from Strasbourg) was an International Interpreter and spoke Hungarian. So we three went to Blackbushe in the evenings to welcome these refugees – me with cigarettes, and Theresa with sweets. Another Hungarian emigree from the Royal Aircraft Establishment and Schrapf worked very hard advising and calming shattered nerves. Convoys of army buses then took them off to temporary accommodation. One little child who came through (although we didn’t know it at the time) was Joe Bugner who later became a prominent boxer, now resident in Australia.

With 79,000 Hungarians in this country, perhaps it would a nice touch if you could put together a “Special” later in the year to commemorate those times. Lessing’s mono photographs are particularly powerful, and I am sure your specialists could interview many people involved, both in Hungary, Vienna and here in Blighty. Please don’t hesitate to contact me, I would be delighted if you want to talk through any points.

Yours faithfully
Dobra