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