Poetry

The ballad of Denzil Tregallion by Denzil Tregallion.

Kevin and Goldie, the naughty dogs

smashed my hip on some oak tree logs

out rushed my wife Mrs. T

Goldie ran inside the house

Kevin had a pee.

''Get Paul'' I shouted, if you are able

''that's if he can hear me from inside the stable'',

said Mrs.T smiling as always,

well anyway, that's what Paul says

''I'll get there as soon as I've finished shooting,

it's a film about a lady that lives in Tooting''

''I couldn't care less if she came from Little Staughton

just get me straddled across my norton!''

One hour later he strapped me to the pillion

Mrs. T said ''oh you are a silly 'un''

''Why?'' I replied in a state of utter pain

''It's a darn sight quicker on the Penzance train!''

I think she had a point, she's a sensible type,

I burnt my bum on the stupid exhaust pipe.

This is not a poem, but a short story. I hope you enjoy it!

Reflections from the Lake

Flat! Flat! Flat! My mood is as flat as a pint of yesterdays’ bitter. Both flat and bitter! This has been a depressing Christmas and an equally barren Boxing Day. I walked to the little cupboard under the stairs and peered into the gloom, located my blue Regatta outdoor coat, slipped it off the hook, zipped it up, and turned up the collar.

Drawing aside the living room curtain I surveyed my world. A leaden sky, a swathe of monochrome trapped and held the landscape in a wintry grip: A deserted road, lined with leafless trees compulsively focused my gaze towards the small town of Rushden. The distant church spire was barely visible in the fine mist that had rolled down the valley. My destination, the lake, lay in the dip, unseen from my vantage point.

Lilly, watching my every move through one black eye and one white eye, (not for the first time I asked myself, ‘does she see everything in black and white?’), tensed herself in her basket. If I made a move towards her lead hanging near the kitchen door, she would explode into life, tearing around the kitchen; a mini tornado capable of creating mayhem in that confined space.

I pulled on my hiking boots, bending awkwardly to thread the laces, and then reached for the dog’s lead. Lilly launched herself from her bed, kicking it in one direction as she skidded off in the other. Scrabbling to keep her balance, she tore around the kitchen. When she stopped to draw breath, I lassoed her and made for the door.

Once out in the road, I saw Kellam, a seven year old who lives next door.  What can I say about the boy? He lives in chaos with his father, mother, brother and sister. The ‘Walton’s’ they are not! The original ‘Family from Hell’ is a more accurate description. Theirs is a turbulent household. They fight and argue loudly, they play football-chant music even more loudly; and, Kellam in particular, incessantly kicks, throws, or hits balls (depending which sport is in vogue at the time), into our garden.

The boy is the second youngest of the children. He seems to bear the brunt of his father’s outbursts. He is roared and raged at frequently. He appears to be the ‘whipping boy’ for every real or imagined calamity that befalls the family.

How shall I describe Kellam? Imagine if you will; a thin faced elf with blue eyes set close together in a pale pointed and frowning countenance. How can one so young have frown lines etched into his brow? His eyes tell you all you need to know about him. Those eyes haunt you. They have a sharp cautious, street-wise older-than-his-years look about them. He has seen too much for too long. Slight of build, his painfully thin frame seems only just capable of supporting a little closely-cropped head set at a defiant angle on his shoulders. His clothes are ill-fitting and not warm enough for this time of year.

 What irks me the most about Kellam and his siblings is the vexing issue of the balls. Over the years I have tried everything. I have told the children I will throw the balls back once a week. The result is that I spend a long time locating and recovering some fifteen to twenty balls hidden under hedges and between plants and inaccessible places such as the back of the fishpond. I have thrown the balls back every day as I see them land. The trouble is that it is easy to become paranoid and angry out of all proportion when you hear the thud of a ball being kicked and knowing that within a minute, that ball will be heading into your airspace. I have confiscated balls, and I shamefully admit to sticking a needle in one or two to see if that encourages the children to be more careful. These kids irritate the hell out of me so I do not speak to them unless I have to.

I stepped outside the door and started to walk, or rather was dragged by my ill-disciplined mutt, towards the lakes. Kellam was standing in the road outside his house. He had a remote control in his hand and was using it to guide a little red model car up and down the pavement. He deftly completed a three point turn and steered the car towards me.

My first thought was that he was trying to tease Lilly, who had twisted the lead around my legs in an effort to escape from this little buzzing guided projectile that was heading straight for her. I stopped: as did the little red car, right in front of me.

‘I got this for Christmas.’

He flicked the switch and spun the car around, looking into my face, trying to gauge my reaction.

‘Very nice.’ Said I grudgingly, forcing myself to speak and look at his toy.

, ‘I can make it do anything!’ he said. He then gave me a demonstration of his skills, executing swerves, turns, and reversing at speed.

I marvelled at the dexterity of his touch and his hand/eye co-ordination as he intuitively pushed, pulled and guided the little car. I was impressed. I felt a sudden and unexpected affinity with this little person 

I said, with genuine enthusiasm and warmth ‘That is a very fine car indeed. You really handle it well don’t you?’

His face lit up. I had seldom spoken to him apart from moaning about the balls. He suddenly picked up the car and regarded Lilly intently.

‘Where are you going with your dog?’

‘Just over the fields and down to the lake.’

The boy seemed as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it. He shuffled uncertainly whilst looking: firstly at the dog, then at me.

I wondered if I should help him out by asking him if he wanted to go with us for a walk. I was on the point of telling him that I would speak to his mum, but I could not say anything. What would his parent’s think if I asked them? I had never shown any interest in the boy or his family. They would be suspicious of my motives.

‘I have to go now Kellam, Lilly is getting impatient.’

I strode off towards the lake and did not look back. Tears were in my eyes and my heart was aching. I could not show this little unloved and fragile kid the simple pleasure of walking with a dog in the country; but he could show me how to handle a remote controlled car.

Ray Stear.

He got it wrong Ray

and went to Little Slaughter

nothing I could say

would make him do what he ought'a

but he did meet Mrs T there

and now they have a daughter