Under Red Kites

.
.



We were treated to a wonderful aerial display of a red kite swooping down low over trees and being harried by two smaller birds which no doubt feared for the safety of their nests.

This is the secret of England: tiny country lanes that weave their way through the countryside and offer glimpses of ancient patterns of life when such great birds were once more abundant. Lanes that can take you back into the very heart of the past.

Our lane took us to a bridge across the River Nene. A crossing where many had once died in the attempt before Elizabeth I had a bridge built there. We sat eating chocolate cake were once parliamentary soldiers had marched across Elizabeth’s bridge scoring out her name with the points of their swords. This old bridge is now long gone and has since been replaced.

There is a church on the hill that dominates the scene. Tombs of ancients are interred therein; and nearby we climb an ancient mound, all that is left of Fotheringay Castle where Mary Queen of Scots was executed.

Someone has left a fresh bunch of colourful carnations by the entrance way. We have read the description of her death and even know of her acorn buttons and the ring that slipped from her finger engraved with the name of the one she loved.
Sandy Denny is singing her song in my head as we look across the meadows and down towards the peaceful flowing river.

It’s an odd place: a place where the road turns unexpectedly to the east and a place where the river turns to flow unexpectedly towards the north. There are blocks here. There is more than just the executioner’s block that Mary’s fingers fumbled to feel. This place has been stopped. The free flow of time has parted around this place in the way that a river flows around a stone in its course and leaves untouched it with eddies of its own.

Henry VIII’s wives knew of this place and walked along its shores. Long before them Richard III drew his first breath here. The place has been touched by wealth and grandeur which has now been robbed away.

It’s a place that jars time, and roughs up visitors with Mary’s pleas and tears that went unheeded.

A red kite circles the church as we eat chocolate cake. Then as we drive away we slip into the freer air and gentle peace of the surrounding countryside from which Fotheringay holds itself aloof.

minutes have passed another red kite attempts to impress us with an acrobatic display.

‘Nay,’ we say this time, and we don’t bother to stop and watch.

.
.

I'm in the Meemix!

.
.


What joy! I’ve finally found an internet station to replace Pandora.

I tried Last Fm and could not work out what was going on. It is obviously beyond the understanding of the likes of me.

Then I tried Jango. Jango froze on me. It also tended to play songs that I already knew, when what I really wanted were songs that I’d not discovered yet.
Then I tumbled into Meemix.

Oh Joy!

I’ve already discovered lots of new music such as:

Magnolia electric Co.
Great Lake Swimmers
Ben Harper
Gravenhurst
and Neil Halstead

All people I’d never heard of before.

Like Pandora, Meemix allows you to ban forever songs you do not like; but unlike Pandora it also allows you a sliding scale of response from -6 to +6.

It is also easier to fast forward songs you dislike, unlike Pandora that would only allow you to fast forward through just a few.

A nice touch is the video mode which links to Youtube. Brilliant. ‘Driving with Bert’ and watching the Canadian countryside pass by on the amateur video was hauntingly moving.

It is like walking on untrodden fresh white snow when you mark a track as a favourite and discover that nobody else has ever chosen it. You feel like a pioneer in its pristine splendour.

Then there are times when you mark a track as a favourite and you notice the someone else’s name or image is marked up next to it; one that you’ve noticed before; and you feel cheered that somewhere out there in the big wide world there are a few, just a few like minded souls that share the same taste in music.

Great Pandora, I so mourn your passing. Little Meemix, you are balm to the soul.
.

Different Paths

.
.


I am traumatised.

They have told me the most awful stories.

The bright optimistic article which I’d given them lies pushed to one side. No one is looking at the sunny picture of the little girl who had defied all the odds despite the difficulties of her premature birth and is now hale and hearty and thriving.

Instead they are telling me horror stories and sparing me no detail.
There is the boyfriend who had casually continued changing the cassette player in his car and had refused to take his partner to hospital even though she was miscarrying by his side.

There is the other boyfriend who’d insisted that his partner should get up, after just giving birth, and start doing the housework; only by chance was she whisked away to hospital before she’d nearly died from a severe haemorrhage.
There are other tales too gruesome and shocking for me to write down here.
Mobile Phone Lady tells me the worst stories.

‘Then there was that day when my son came into the room,’ she adds. ‘I looked at him and his cheeks were full like this.’

She takes a deep breath and blows out her cheeks.

‘And he had a lid in one hand and a bottle of turpentine in the other,’ she continues. ‘And as I watched he swallowed it in a big gulp.’

I’m horrified.

‘What did you do?’ I asked.

‘I ran.’ She said in a matter of fact voice. ‘I just left him. What else could I do? I ran screaming to my neighbour’s house. I couldn’t go back to him. My neighbour had to take him to hospital. I just sat in her living room and waited.’

‘How old was he?’

‘Only two.’

‘Then there was that other time when I just picked him up and threw him into his bedroom when he was driving me mad. I rang me mum and she said just ring for a taxi and bring him over here. So I did. And I sat in the front seat and he sat in the back seat. And he said “sorry mummy” and I said, “I hate you. Just don’t talk to me.”’

‘How old was he then?’ I ask

‘Only two.’

She tells me he is now a teenager in a school for children with behavioural problems.

I try to bring them back to the work. They have some simple sentences to write.
‘I can’t do this,’ Mother of Five complains. ‘It’s too hard.’

‘Well,’ I say helpfully. ‘You could write about what we’ve just been discussing if you like.’

She grunts and begins to write again.

Moments later she scrunches up the paper and throws it into the middle of the table. ‘I can’t do this,’ she says again and she storms out of the room in tears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to the group. ‘I chose this article because I thought it was hopeful and positive. I had no idea it would have this effect on you.
Mobile Phone Lady looks hard at me.

‘It’s because it is so happy and optimistic,’ she says ‘that’s exactly why it is so upsetting,’ and seeing my puzzled look she adds, ‘Well why couldn’t it be like that for our children?’

I look down at the picture of a hugging smiling family group on the last page of the article, a family that had held onto each other through the bleakest of times; and then I think of a small frightened two-year-old boy left standing alone in a house with his stomach burning with turpentine.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

Ice Cold Mints and Warm Brown Toffees

.
.


‘I’m not eating those, I’ll be sick!’ Mother of Five protests looking at the packet of chocolate Hobnobs.

‘Well, you don’t have to have one if you don’t want to,’ I say hesitating as I place them in the centre of the table.

They stand like a small blue monolith in the centre of the table. Nobody will touch them now. It’s as if they’ve been cursed.

Birthday girl eyes them greedily.

‘I don’t like them either, it’s those wheaty bits at the bottom,’ the lady sitting next to her says while simultaneously chatting loudly on her mobile phone, ‘I prefer chocolate digestives.’

‘I’ll bring some next week,’ I say wearily.

Mobile Phone lady goes back to her more interesting conversation on the phone, while I give out the worksheets and booklets.

The hobnobs had been on special offer,’ buy one get one free’. A bargain! Especially since I’d just been told that I wouldn’t be getting paid at the end of the month for the few meagre hours’ work that I’d already done; I’m having to watch every penny.

Mother of five is giving everyone icy looking mints. She doesn’t offer me any.

At the end of the lesson they get up and leave without saying a word or giving me a backward glance.

In the afternoon I’m working as a volunteer worker with a small group of women from Bangladesh and Afghanistan. They pass a bag of brown toffees under the table to me. They smile and greet me warmly as I try to help them understand the complexities of the English language. At the end they hug me and thank their teachers profusely for the lesson and the help they’ve received.

I am warmed by their smiles and leave to buy chocolate digestive biscuits for my cold hostile English ladies.

Great Lake Swimmers

Your Rocky Spine



I was lost in the lakes
And the shapes that your body makes
That your body makes, that your body makes
That your body makes

The mountains said I could find you here
They whispered the snow and the leaves in my ear
I traced my finger along your trails
Your body was the map, I was lost in it

Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you, and now you’re mine
Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you, and now you’re mine

I was moving across your frozen veneer
The sky was dark but you were clear
Could you feel my footsteps
And would you shatter, would you shatter, would you

And with your soft fingers between my claws
Like purity against resolve
I could tell, then and there, that we were formed from the clay
And came from the rocks for the earth to display

They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind blows a venomous rage through your hair
They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind rages through your hair