John L, Bell Ringers Stone

John Lynham, May 2020, with apologies/thanks to Jorge Luis Borges ‘The Aleph’

Bell Ringers Stone

A wet-behind-the ears new boy at St Olaf’s Grammar School for Boys, I was entranced at our first assembly by an octet of older boys on the stage in the ancient assembly hall ringing handbells. The tune was new to me – Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes – but I marvelled how each boy came in at precisely the right time with his individual note. Of course I had no idea then that, ten years later, I would be writing an M.Phil thesis on the poetry of Ben Jonson, the author of the poem set to that tune; nor that, some years after that, I would be singing in a school choir in St Mary’s church Hendon, performing Fauré’s sublime Requiem scored for brass band – another musical curiosity.

This got me wondering about handbells, and if more ambitious scorings might be possible – say, Beethoven’s Für Elise, or Bach’s famous Chaconne for solo violin BWV1004. Clearly a larger number of players than eight would be needed, and some dexterity of wrist-movement. But given the extraordinary virtuosity of violinists such as David Oistrakh and Anne Sophie-Mutter, or cellists like Yo-Yo Ma and Mstislav Rostropovich, I felt sure that, given a sufficient degree of talent and no doubt arduous training, the dream that was slowly taking shape in my head might be achievable.

My college owed me a sabbatical, so I resolved to cash in the shares in De Beers Consolidated Mines inherited from my late great aunt Trilby and travel the globe, seeking out that talent wherever it might be. The Royal Northern College of Music kept me waiting in a draughty vestibule for three hours, until eventually I was informed by the offhand receptionist that handbells were not on the syllabus. The Royal College of Music in South Kensington politely showed me the door.  I flew to New York; at the Juilliard they laughed in my face.  The Los Angeles College of Music principal, biting his lip, said he’d be willing to look at any score – perhaps one for Mahler’s Symphony of a Thousand? Of course, I’m not a composer, I’m an academic. In the interests of science I realised it was time to turn my back on the West and its narrow, exclusivist thinking.

Visits to Tokyo, Seoul, Beijing produced similar negative responses. But as I was leaving a small but world-renowned conservatoire in Hohhot, a short bespectacled student rushed up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Tuva,” she panted. “Go to Tuva. And when I looked blank: “You’ve heard of their throat-singing?”

I had.

“They can do that with bells too. Split harmonics, frequencies that only dogs and bats can hear, multidimensional harmonies.” I drew back. She looked a little unhinged, and indeed spittle was forming in the corner of her mouth. “Go!” she repeated, eyes blazing; then dashed back up the corridor.

I boarded a flight to Irkutsk, and from there took a repurposed Tupolev transport plane to Kyzyl, where I spent an unsettled night fighting the bedbugs in the Leninsky Hotel. At breakfast over a bitterly sweet coffee I pressed the hotelier for information. By good fortune he was, like me, a keen amateur of all things Euterpean, but his bushy eyebrows arched in anxiety.

“You have a long, long, travel to make, my friend. Many go… Many do not return.”

I snorted at this old-world melodrama and slid him a dollar bill.

“Perhaps you could show me on the map?”

Shaking his head, he pulled out a yellowing almanac, found a map and with a cracked fingernail traced a route, up the Yenisei river, then striking across barren hill country to Mongun-Tayga, the highest point in that godforsaken land. “But you will need this, my friend.” And he lifted a chain hanging round his neck, from which hung a heavy, intricately engraved silver crucifix. “ Now go. Go with God.”

Settling my bill (a little too generously) I left the hotel and at a few paces’ distance found a bustling bazaar where I was able to furnish myself with boots, several layers of thick woollen clothing, and enough yak’s cheese and kumis to keep me going for a few days at least. My plentiful supply of dollars eased my path; and tedious it would be to relate the journey on the river launch, the shepherd-guided trek over the foothills, the bivouacking under the stars with only a dwindling fire to keep the circling vultures at bay. Suffice it to say that, after ten days of frozen nights and burning hot noons, desperately hungry and stumbling on with my pitiful last few thimblefuls of strength, I at last caught sight of majestic Mongun-Tayga, its slopes flecked with snow, its summit lost in the clouds.

Approaching a settlement of yurts, I was puzzled by how quiet it was. No shouts of children at play, no domestic animals, no sounds of sawing or hammering or other honest labour. I ventured further into the village, and was drawn to a sizeable yurt in the centre. Lifting a flap I was amazed to see young and old, men and women gathered in an apparent act of worship. Each was sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, holding a bell of a different size; each was stroking the bell with a small rod made of some crystalline rock: granite or feldspar, quartz or mica or malachite, I couldn’t tell. And, most remarkable, there was total silence – not a sound to disturb the air, in fact the air was thick with a silence…

…that was no longer silent. For my ears were now as it were focussing, tuning in to the silence. I heard the breath of a whisper, a flutter of wings in a wood, the delicate trickle of an underground brook. I heard a gull’s cry, and a kitten’s mew. I heard – I felt – a poppy bud burst and unfurl. I heard the slurping of a piglet at its mother’s teat. I heard curlews cry, chaffinches chatter, jackdaws cackle and the elegant fluting of a nightingale. I heard the stampede of wildebeest on the Serengeti. I heard the roar of a 747 taking off, and the sobs of a mother over a coffin. I heard the bubbles a child blew pop, I heard the Doppler effect of a siren, I heard a thousand glasses break simultaneously. I heard a Japanese girl group warble and Beethoven’s last string quartet hush to a close in a New York salon. I heard Austrian yodellers, and I heard myself laugh. I heard you breathe. I knew all these sounds, all the sounds of the living, breathing world, and infinitely more, sharp, clear, utterly distinct, and yet all blended and interwoven and varied upon in dazzling intricate combinations that had no beginning and no end, that seemed to lift me up to a place where all difference ceased to exist, where all contrarieties are resolved and everything is understood, a place where nothing remains (to apply a visual metaphor to the ineffable) but pure, white light.

The boundaries of my physical body dissolved; the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor of the yurt, an arm cradling my head and someone holding a saucer of fermented mare’s milk to my lips. The musicians (for so I must call them) had all departed, but the crone looking after me – who I later discovered was the community’s wise woman – forbade me to rise, bathing my brow and crooning in that strange guttural tongue of theirs. Later she took me into her home, where I slept for three days. On the fourth day of my recovery a deputation of elders came to visit me. By means of sounds, facial expressions and hand gestures, I was able to assure them of my honest desire to make their music and their singular stone known to the wider world, and obtained their consent. The headman’s daughter even gave me a beginner’s tutorial. The first time I caressed a bell with the little crystalline stick, it gave off a harsh discordant ring. With practice, however, and some guiding handholding from my instructress, I was able to vary the tone, pitch and volume sufficiently to make a recognisable tune. Imagine my delight when, after days of practice with that one bell, I was able to tease out the first ten bars of Bach’s minuet in G major!

When the day came for me to depart, the headman embraced me like a son and insisted I accept a keepsake: a single scintillating rod of that precious stone. I felt a squeeze of disappointment: how with that one small thing could I begin to make the music I dreamed of? And what of the bells? But the headman, divining my thoughts and perhaps even by some witchcraft of that region entering into them, gave me to understand that, with that one rod I could, with practice, replicate the whole world of sound in a single ordinary bell.

Bearing my treasure, I made the journey back down the mountain with a light heart. The river carried me on swiftly to the capital, from where I was able to get on a flight to Irkutsk, and from there fly via Moscow back to London. I resigned my professorship in anthropological musicology and have rented a small cottage not far from Ely where the only sounds are the susurration of fenland breezes, the lapwing’s cry, and the subdued bubbling of eels in the marshes. Colleagues occasionally call to ask if I’m well, and I assure them that I am, perfectly well. In fact, I’m busier than I’ve ever been. I’m preparing for the performance of the century, one which I’m sure will go down in the Royal Albert Hall’s annals, if they should commission me.

Yes, the performance to end all performances: Wagner’s Ring Cycle – four operas, score and libretto, orchestra and singers – for solo handbell.

                                                                                                            (1,650 words)

The Bell Ringer's Stone

I have to confess I googled, ‘The Bell Ringer’s Stone.’  It was niggling me, at 5 am this morning I lay in bed listening to the dawn chorus and trying to work out why it rang a bell with me!  I seem to be increasingly dwelling on such conundrums at the moment, lockdown is doing strange things to all of us.



Eventually I gave in and picked up my phone – another definite no, no, phones are for daytime and whilst in bed they should only ever be used in an absolute emergency.  Well, it was sort of, I would never get back to sleep unless I solved the puzzle.



‘The Bell Ringer’s Stone,’ at least the one I was thinking of, is a public sculpture in Borth, Wales.  It was carved in 2014 and stands on the shoreline overlooking a pre-historic forest.  I have never seen the sculpture, it was pre-2014 when my cousin took us to see the forest, but I remember reading something about it and it bringing back memories of our day in Borth.



My cousin lives in Aberystwyth, I’ve probably written about him before.  Some years ago he bought a tumbledown bungalow on a steep hillside overlooking the Rheidol valley.  The plan was that the bungalow would be demolished, a new home built and he and his wife would develop a smallholding together.  Somehow though it never seemed to happen.  Pipistrelle bats in the roof space delayed building for a number of years and when building did start they found a natural spring popped up under the foundations and suddenly the bungalow had its own small lake.  It was only last year that building began in earnest and I am yet to see the new house.



As for the smallholding, his wife bought a horse which she put to stud with the idea of selling on the foal and starting a business.  The foal stayed, as did the next, and the next, you get the idea.  He has, a couple of years ago, planted a cider tree orchard but as I pointed out to him, that’s not a short term project.



Despite the setbacks, they seem very happy on their Welsh hillside and every year they welcome us on a missionary trip to save them from going totally feral.  Getting to their place is an interesting journey in itself.  You turn off the main road and follow a very narrow lane for three miles.  Along the way you have to negotiate a lot of loose gravel, a 1 in 4 hill, a number of hairpins, two gates, cattle grids and of course, a lot of sheep.  All very hazardous on a motorbike.  It is well worth it though to sit on that hillside (weather permitting), a glass of wine in hand, breath in the clear Welsh air and marvel at the beauty of the valley.  Red kites soar overhead and in the summer you can track the path of the little steam train through the trees as it makes its way up and down the valley.



Over the years we’ve been visiting my cousin he has taken us out and about to nearby places, and one such trip was to Borth.  The town itself is pretty unexciting but the pre-historic forest is amazing.  At high tide nothing is visible but as the waters recede this weird and wonderful spectacle comes into view.  As we walked along the shoreline I wondered what to expect and as the first few blackened stumps came into view I remarked politely how interesting they looked but I wasn’t really that impressed.  As we continued to walk the stumps became more numerous and their size larger until laid out before us were the obvious remains of an ancient forest.  The blackness and density of the stumps as they rose out of the wet sand gave them an, eerie, magical quality and it was perfectly possible to believe that you were walking through the same forest that dinosaurs had once frequented. 



Apparently in the 1960’s the skeleton of a dinosaur was discovered here and the Bell Ringer’s Stone is carved with its image as well as with scenes of other stories associated with the area.  There are lots of folk stories about hidden cities and shipwrecks and looking at the dark forest stretching across the beach it is easy to see why.  The sculpture has a ship’s bell set in a hole at the top of it and people are encouraged to ring the bell to honour the dead.  I am missing family, I am missing motorbike trips and so perhaps, as soon as we can return to anything like normal, I will be able to return to Aberystwyth and together with my cousin and our partners we can make a return trip to Borth and ring that bell.



Alison

TREASURE HUNTING
by
Lynn Rishworth

Desperation. I can only think it was desperation that had Sally even thinking of leaving a child with me for the Bank Holiday. ‘Well,’ I told myself ‘what can’t be cured must be endured’ and immediately felt guilty and explained to myself that I wasn’t meaning to suggest that looking after the boy would be a tiresome challenge or anything.

Jordan (people seem blissfully unaware that jordan is another word for gazunder) was duly dropped off on Friday night. A very sheepish Steven (I clouldn’t see Sally in the car) told me that “He’s had supper. Don’t let him stay up late.” He stopped speaking but was evidently not finished. Eyes skyward, slight frown of concentration, lips readied for speech; he looked like a contestant on a game show. If he didn’t remember the last bit of the answer, he’d lose… what? “Ah! And” I felt disproportionately relieved for him then, like the kid in Chariots of Fire, he stopped. I gave what I hoped was an encouraging rather than inquisitional look. “I’m sure you know how to feed children - people. I don’t think you’ll poison him.” So; whatever Sally’s last instruction was, it never got passed on.

“Come on then, Jordan,” I extended an arm in a general gesture of welcome. He did not have to be embraced unless he wanted to. “Is that your bag?” He took the hint and brought his Junior Explorer rucksack indoors. He was about to deposit it in the kitchen doorway when I said “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” We watched a wildlife programme on telly then he said he was tired and went to bed unbidden. After a few minutes, I went to check that he was ok. I could hear him sobbing before I got to the door, which I tapped on lightly but didn’t open.

“You ok, Jordan?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Old people and children get up at silly o’clock. Apparently. Fortunately for the two of us, neither Jordan nor I conformed to that notion. He scurried into the kitchen, still pulling on his hoody, as I was filling the kettle.

“Have I missed breakfast?”

“Um” I glanced at the kitchen clock, “you’re just in time for brunch, I’d say. How about a ba… are you vegetarian?” He blushed.

“Well, I ama vegetarian at home but sometimes I have to have meat with school dinner. The…”

“That’s fine. Bacon sandwich, then? With tomatoes?”

“TOMATOES?”

“Ok, then; how about cowboy breakfast – beans on toast with bacon. Did you know that beans count as one of your five portions?” He laughed.

“How can baked beans be one of your portions?”

I was about to answer that question when an image flashed across my mind of Jordan telling his mum that “Aunty Bronwen says that baked beans…” and the ensuing unpleasantness could be imagined.

“Well, I count them as one of mine.” I gave him what I hoped was a conspiratorial smile and we enjoyed our ‘cowboy breakfast.’

The rest of the day was a good deal more challenging. It rained. Just a light drizzle and not cold but Jordan was unconvinced by my assertion that “we’re not made of sugar, we shan’t dissolve.” I tried personfully to amuse him and he tried his best to be patient. We both claimed tiredness and dashed for the sanctuary of our respective beds quite early. I sat for a while with a book open on my knee, thinking about how to amuse the child. After 27minutes and no page turned, I put the book aside and, trusting that Jordan would wake at a similar hour again tomorrow, set my radio-alarm.

JCB woke me at the requisite hour with a delightful piece for oboe (or maybe it had been written for flute and transcribed). I showered and dressed as quietly as I could then slipped out to the garden shed with my pencil case in my hand. I slipped a note in a fairly conspicuous but obviously ‘hidden’ place. Back to the kitchen and, since it was Sunday, I made a pot of proper coffee. The delicious aroma seemed to have the desired effect when I opened the door and let it waft up the stairs. Jordan came down a little while later and, over toast and home-made marmalade, I told him that I’d made a treasure hunt for him.

“With a map? Like the pirate film?”

“No. With clues to be solved. You solve the first clue and it takes you to the second one…”

“That takes you to the third one?”

“You’ve got it!”

“How many clues are there?”

“Well, you d… ok, there’s five. Five if you count the first and last ones, the treasure itself and the one I’m about to give you. First clue: you’d have to be blind to miss it.” It didn’t take him long to find the shed key tied to the cord of the kitchen window blind. He loved that it was a very old key, even a little ornate. I gave him some help to work out it must be the shed. I was still getting my shoes laced up when he called out that he’d found it. I trotted down the garden path, all ready to help him with the next clue. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by.

“That’s rubbish!”

“What is?”

“Your silly clue. Anyway, the museum won’t be open on a Sunday.”

“Museum?” I asked, “How did you get ‘museum’ from ‘do the flowers need watering?’ eh?”

He thrust a rather grubby piece of paper at me and flounced into the house.

“Jordan, where did you find this?”

“In the old box where you hid it.”

“No. My clue was in with the seed packets.” He handed me the piece of paper with the mysterious writing on it and looked at me suspiciously. “What do you suppose this is all about, Jordan? I wonder how long it’s been in that old box.” He peered over my shoulder.

“What you seek is in the Pottston Museum. Look for the man who will take away your pains.”

Pottston’s ‘living museum’ was by no means on a par with, say, Beamish but it followed that general model. They’d be foolish not to open when most people were looking for somewhere to spend their money so, off we went.

“A dentist, Jordan, do you think he might be ‘the man to take away one’s pains’ eh?”

“Hmmm, I dunno.”

“Well, I think we should leave no stone un-turned.” I had to explain that one to him as we climbed the stairs to the Victorian dentist’s surgery.

“Torture room, more like” was another visitor’s assessment and we all laughed.

“How will we know when we’ve found the clue, Bronwen?”

Feeling strangely grateful for the absence of ‘aunty’ I showed him the first clue again. “Look, it’s written on the back of a poster or advert for something. My guess is that the clues forma jig-saw puzzle which gives you the last clue.” He looked perplexed so I explained in a bit more detail. There didn’tseem to be anything at the dentist’s or the ‘snake oil’ man’s emporium. As we walked toward the – obviously private – doctor’s surgery, I explained about how people had to pay for seeing the doctor before the NHS and did my best to answer “what if poor people got sick and they didn’t have any money?” without political bias. We didn’t find any clues there either.

“So, Jordan, who else cures one’s pains?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, there’s only the pub or the church left. Shall we try the church?” I didn’t anticipate an enthusiastic response so I simply bustled in and the boy had to follow. I was kneeling in prayer by the time he caught up. As I stood up, I knocked a prayer-book to the floor and, as I picked it up, sometnhing fell out of it.

“It’s a” I put a finger to my lips “it’s a clue!” He whispered triumphantly.

The clue led us to a cafe conveniently on the route home so we stopped there for tea. We clouldn’t see any clues and were beginning to become despondent. I tried the ladies’ loo – no joy. So I sent Jordan to the gents. He came back with a glum expression but then, suddenly, brightened and pointed to where the usual flyers and leaflets were near the door. There it was. Unmistakeably a piece of our jigsaw. We put the three pieces together on the cafe table.

“There’s only one piece missing! We must be nearly there!” Jordan, thank goodness, was really getting into the swing of this.

“Come on then, what’s the clue?” He turned over the piece of paper with admirable dramatic effect.

“It says ‘throw out a line, someone is drowning. Meg and her sisters are watching.’ It must be at the seaside!” Oh, the double joy of solving a clue and the promise of a day at the seaside. I don’t know which of us was more thrilled.

I explained to Jordan that ‘Meg and her Sisters’ was a group of rocks just off the coast. I told him that they were made of harder rock than what had been around them and so, when the water and the weather had worn away the other stuff, they had not been worn away. They still stood there, with their feet in the water. I also told him the legend that gave them their names.

“But that’s not the truth, is it?”

“It’s a poetic way of telling the truth, making it easier to remember. Meg and her sisters were stronger so they survived.”

The RNLI shop was closed so I popped a cheque through their letter-box. “But how are we gonna find the clue?” Jordan seemed genuinely upset.

“It might not be the RNLI.”

“Church again?” His expression suggested that his day was going rapidly downhill.

“Sort of. ‘Throw down a line, someone is drowning’ is a line from a temperance lifeboat song.” I held up a hand to stave off obvious questions and suggested he join the queue at the ice-cream van. I went to spend a penny and, on returning, I told him about the people who disapproved of alcohol and how they formed ‘pretend’ lifeboats to, as they saw it, save people and… well, I confess, I got a bit carried away. I started singing the song in question. Jordan’s embarrassed tug at my skirt stopped me. “It’s alright” I announced to the bemused/indignant fellow customers “I’m not really anti-alcohol.” They laughed and I pointed out to Jordan a building which had ‘Curlsea Temperance Hall’ inscribed in stone above the door. It was now an amusement arcade. Jordan was not allowed in amusement arcades.

“Maybe we won’t have to go in. I’ll talk to the lady at the door.” We approached the little kiosk where the lady magically turned money into tokens which, equally magically, vanished into thin air.

“Look, look, Bronwen, look!” Jordan was beside himself. The fourth quarter of our picture was stuck in the window of the kiosk.

“Oh,that,” the lady sounded a little nevous, which added to Jordan’s excitement. “It’s just a piece of scrap paper I found. I put it there in case I needed to write something down. Of course you can have it.”

Initially, Jordan was disappointed that there was nothing on the other side of the picture but I pointed out that “It means it’s the last clue. We put the pieces of the puzzle together and…” We did just that.

“Carr Wood Sculpture Trail!” I tried to sound surprised “I bet that’s a great place to go.”

“But will we find the treasure there?”

“I think that is the treasure.” He took a breath to speak. “Of course, we won’t be able to go there. School tomorrow. You’ll have to get your Mum or your Dad to take you there next week-end.”

I made no attempt to influence matters any further.

The Great Stannington Toilet Roll Robberies

(- a tale of our times by Kevin Page)

(Carmel’s husband)

Detective Inspector Ian Pratt sat at his desk with his head in his hands. It was late March, but the world outside seemed to be clinging to the dreary memories of winter rather than leaping forward optimistically into spring. It was nearly time for the morning team briefing but Pratt’s brain didn’t seem to want to work today. The events of the past few weeks had left many people stunned and disorientated. The coronavirus pandemic had claimed many lives around the world, but it had disrupted many more; severing the connections between people that defined their identities and challenging many of the assumptions people had subconsciously made about how things worked and should be. It was not surprising that the police were feeling the effects too. However, there was still crime and that meant there was still work for his team. But this latest case was like nothing he’d ever come across before – not just because CID’s finest minds were baffled, but  also because it seemed to strike at the very foundations of human dignity. And if the foundations were destroyed, what could the righteous do? Pratt had a vague feeling that was a quote from somewhere – possibly the book of Proverbs in the Bible, but the memory eluded him. He sighed, looked at the clock and started making his way through to the briefing room.

Some of his team were self-isolating; staying at home. The remaining officers – detective constables Brian Stoker, Diane Jones and David Peters and Detective Sergeant Permjit Patel were already in the room. He noted the sudden cessation of conversation as he appeared in the doorway. What had they been talking about, he wondered. He knew what they called him behind his back of course. For the umpteenth time he wondered what his parents could have been thinking of when they gave him those two middle names – ‘Martin’ and ‘Andrew’. Perhaps it didn’t matter if the whole world was falling apart. He cleared his throat importantly...

‘Good morning to you all – let’s get straight down to this morning’s business. As you all know, the coronavirus outbreak has caused a lot of panic buying. For reasons best known to themselves, people have been buying lots and lots of toilet paper. In fact there have been runs on loo rolls all over the world. Locally, staff at the supermarkets say they have been running out within minutes of opening every morning. There have been rumours of a black market trade in loo rolls selling for high prices. It is said that each sheet of tissue is worth it’s weight in gold!’

‘So, not very much then sir?’ Brian Stoker can’t resist a cheap joke, but it probably won’t help his career progression! thought Detective Sergeant Patel. But Pratt was continuing on under a full head of steam;

‘... and we have evidence that FAKE toilet rolls are being brought into the country illegally from Eastern Europe!’ he held up a polythene evidence bag containing something that looked like a pink toilet roll. ‘Notice the complete lack of perforations!’ he fumed ‘It’s as blatant a forgery as any I’ve ever seen. Just imagine how you’d feel if you were on the loo and you found you’d been tricked into buying one of these! It’s impossible to tear it off in a straight line – you end up with something that’s ragged at both ends!’

There was a sharp intake of breath from the assembled detectives.

‘But the crime we’ve been asked to investigate is far more serious than even these hideous atrocities – and...’ a smug smile showed momentarily on his face ‘...it just demonstrates the high regard the Chief Superintendent has for us in this unit that we’ve been asked to investigate this one as it’s from the top of the pile! If we can pull this one off we’ll make a lot of people very happy. We’ve been asked to investigate the recent spate of toilet roll burglaries!’

Pratt paused for effect and there was a smattering of polite applause as that seemed to be expected. But DS Patel was frowning; ‘Excuse me sir, but it sounds more to me like this one is from nearer the bottom of the pile than the top...’

Pratt wasn’t having any of that kind of talk; ‘Nonsense Patel! It is obvious that you do not appreciate the cultural importance of toilet tissue in our society.’ ... and there goes your own chance of promotion too, sir! thought DS Patel.

DC Jones put up her hand. ‘Have we got any leads sir?’

‘I believe Sergeant Patel has the details’ Pratt replied ‘- Patel?’

Permjit Patel sighed and began. ‘There have been a total of fifteen reported break-ins associated with removal of toilet paper from household premises over the past two weeks. Strangely, there has been no evidence of a break-in at any of the properties. They all seem to have occurred in the North West of Sheffield – specifically the Stannington area. Reports from our uniformed colleagues  indicate that the thefts have led to exceptionally high demand for toilet rolls locally. There have been fights over loo rolls in both the Co-op and Go-Local stores and pitched battles on the village green. The library staff have had to barricade the library doors to prevent people tearing the pages out of books. There’s even to be a rally in the park on Saturday demanding Independence for South Yorkshire again.’

The Chief Inspector stood up and placed his fists deliberately on the table to lend weight to his words. He put on his best Winston Churchill voice; ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. Do not underestimate the importance of this case. If this continues there will be questions asked in Parliament about how we could let this situation get so out of hand. You MUST apprehend the perpetrators – and soon. The PM has only given us twenty-four hours. After that the army will move in.  So let’s get on with it. Sergeant Patel – I want you to take DC Peters to go through the reported burglaries in more detail to see if there are any common factors or other clues. Detective constables Stoker and Jones, you will do a house-to-house inquiry centred around the village green. See if there have been any more unreported break-ins or if anyone has noted anything unusual in the area. Dismiss!’

It was as they were walking to the car park that Brian Stoker had his brainwave. ‘I think we should  take Rex with us’ he said. Rex was the station’s sniffer dog. It was rumoured that Rex could detect any scent from at least a mile away. Diane couldn’t see how that could be helpful in the present operation but she went along with it because she quite liked the big DC. They collected Rex from the kennels and set off in the police van, heading north on the A61 before turning left through Hillsborough and up the hill to Stannington. They parked in the car park next to the Park and let Rex out. It was then that Diane noticed that Brian had also borrowed the fake loo roll.

‘You cannot be serious!’ she exclaimed as he pulled it out of the bag and offered it to Rex to sniff. ‘That’s ridiculous Brian!’ she continued, but in a more conciliatory tone, ‘How is that going to help?’.

‘You’ll see’ was the reply. ‘This dog is famous. She’s been on TV!’ And, surprisingly, by mid-morning they had turned up and confiscated eighteen more fake loo rolls and recorded five more burglaries.

They took advantage of the coffee morning at the Methodist chapel to review their progress. ‘I’m stumped’ said Diane ‘None of the burglaries show any signs of a break-in and the only connection between them seems to be that all the house-holders have cats – and don’t you dare suggest we should be looking for a cat burglar!’

Brian looked glum as he had been about to suggest just that; ‘But you have to admit that Rex is good at her job. She’s found lots of counterfeit rolls.’

‘Isn’t ‘Rex’ an unusual name for a bitch?’ Diane asked, her words somewhat muffled as she tried to talk round the rather doughy scone she was eating.

‘I suppose so’ replied her partner (who had a similar speech impediment – at least until he’d swallowed a mouthful of cake). ‘I’d never really thought about it – could it be short for something? How about ‘Rexana’ or ‘Rexina’? But Rex was unavailable for comment as she had been left outside, tethered to the railings.

By the end of the day they had covered most of central Stannington and collected a further thirty-six fake toilet rolls and recorded three more burglaries. Some of the householders seemed upset when they confiscated the forgeries. ‘You can’t leave us with nothing!’ they pleaded. Others were less polite.

‘We’re getting nowhere’ summarised Diane. ‘And we’ve only got until tomorrow morning to solve the case. How about a stake-out?’

‘You can count me in!’ said Brian. The thought of spending an evening with DC Diane Jones in a more relaxed setting was an appealing one...

They shared a large portion of fish and chips in the cab of the van, looking out across the park whilst Rex ate two battered sausages and a steak and kidney pie in the back. Then they took Rex for a walk in the park, nodding to other dog walkers (some of whom just glared at them). It was getting dark when they got back to the van but they could just see someone gesticulating wildly from the doorway of one of the nearby houses. It was an old man and he was holding his trousers up with his left hand and waving the other in the air; his fist clenched. A cat sat on the garden wall. ‘Thieves! Scoundrels! Dogs!’ he shouted, ‘I’ll get you! I’ve got a gun, I have!’ It was a good job he isn’t holding it now!’ thought Diane.

They managed to calm the old man down enough to ask him the crucial question ‘Did it have any perforations?’ Diane asked ‘No, it was a right nuisance in fact’ he answered, ’I couldn’t get a straight edge when I tried to tear a sheet off!’

‘A-HA!’ cried Diane, triumphantly. ‘Our thief has made his first mistake!’

‘Shouldn’t that be ‘His or Her’ first mistake?’ suggested Brian – ‘or is this not the right moment?’

‘This is the right moment!’ cried Diane seizing a fake loo roll from the van. ‘Come Rex, sniff this – now go find!’ The dog bounded off down the alleyway towards Greaves Lane with the two detectives in hot pursuit, then right into Acorn Hill and right again into High Matlock Road. In Wood lane they saw something fluttering in the breeze ahead of them. It was the end of a toilet roll!

‘We’ve got him now!’ cried Diane

‘- or her!’ panted Brian.

The pace was furious but luckily it was all downhill now and the roads had recently been resurfaced so it was easy running. Diane was in training for the Sheffield half-marathon and was in the lead.

Brian realised what she was going to do and gasped ‘Diane NO! – Don’t do it!’

But with a last effort, Diane reached out and grasped the end of the trailing toilet tissue. ‘There’s no danger of it breaking’ she called over her shoulder ‘because there aren’t any perforations - and even though it’s soft and long, it’s also very strong!’

They followed the trail of tissue for another hundred yards before it passed through a hole in a fence into a back garden. Rex leaped over the fence and started scrabbling at the door of a small outbuilding.

‘We’d better call for back-up’ panted Brain, reaching for his radio. ‘We don’t know how many of them are in there...’.

Security lights came on as they climbed over the fence and an old man appeared at the back door, brandishing a broom. ‘Who’s there?’ he challenged. ‘Police’ answered Diane ‘We’ve got the situation under control sir. Please go back inside and lock the door. We may want to talk to you later.’

Minutes later, two squad cars screeched to a halt in the road outside with lights flashing and four uniformed officers piled out and took up positions around the small building. A helicopter appeared overhead and flooded the garden with it’s searchlight, blowing two of the officers’ hats off and causing the door of the little outbuilding to swing partly open.

‘This is the police. You are surrounded. There is no escape. Throw any weapons out now and come out with your hands up!’

There was no answer from within the small building, but Rex had started making whimpering noises when the door began to swing open and she now padded inside in such a relaxed manner that the two detective stared at each other in consternation. How could she be behaving like this in the presence of a desperate criminal?

They carefully pulled the door further open. To their astonishment they saw not one, hardened criminal, guilty of the most heinous crime of the century so far; not even a burglar in dark clothes and a balaclava face mask, but four golden retriever puppies, sitting on a bed of toilet paper, one of whom still had a fold of toilet tissue wrapped around her body – and Rex standing over them and nuzzling them gently.

‘Um, I think I know which advert Rex appeared in on Television’ said Diane.

‘They used the cat-flaps!’ Brian exclaimed. ‘You’d better read them their rights!’

THE END

Earth Anchor by Helen West

So many of us feel adrift right now, bobbing about in a sea of uncertainty, whilst in lockdown to keep us safe and secure.    

I keep myself anchored through daily meditation and time in my garden.  I notice the wildlife and their (hopefully not) temporary liberation from the worst excesses of humankind.  Two adorable kittens joined our household three weeks’ ago.  Just in time to entertain us and provide company and joy.  The present moment right now is where I feel most grounded.  I feel grateful for my health and the health of my loved ones.  I feel grateful for my home and my garden.  I feel grateful for our friends and for my ability to work from home.  All these things were always there. 
 
Before, I would have walked past Martins’ bench, the earth anchor.  

 

Now, I choose to take the opportunity to stop. I sit upon Martin's proverbial bench.  I reflect and notice the abundance in my life.

My yoga teacher friend, Julia Poole, last night wrote a beautiful piece.  She lives on the coast in Cornwall.  The photograph is taken at Crantock Beach.  I'd like to share it here (with her permission).
  
It was almost dark as I rounded the corner. Felt like I’d left my walk too late. What was the point even? Somehow the hours had slipped away (again), a blur of social interaction at distance... a whirl of wonderings... a flurry of internet activity.
And then there it was, far on the horizon of this apocalyptic seascape. The Light.

The golden reflection caused me to gasp with joy. Then almost collapse sobbing. How could something so beautiful still be happening when so much else was dissolving? 

If no-one sees the cat in the box is it still purring? If the world as we know it is ending will any of the things we usually enjoy retain their pleasure? And who will still be here by my side to find out? 

Yes deep, darkish thoughts. Maybe the sky talking. I sort of trudged and sort of stumbled along the soft-as-butter furrows of the water’s edge, head dangling precariously towards the depths. 

It took wading into the water itself to surface and find it again, the hope that’s kept me relatively buoyant so far in this desert. Not like me to drift away from centre, not like me to struggle with the aloneness, but then I’m guessing not many are staying that securely tethered at the moment. 

So I’m sharing this tumbling to say ‘you’re not alone’ and to cut a swathe in my own alone-ness. And just as importantly to show how Mother Nature remains wonderfully intact. Maybe more so now we have grown still and quiet. 

Night night and may the blessings of the sun and moon meet within you 


Thank you