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ISSUE 246 Date: 20th July 2012

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Issue 246

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Proverbs of the Ndebele language of Zimbabwe. (Source material: Wikiquote and Wikipedia — CCA-SA licence)

The Northern Ndebele language, isiNdebele, Sindebele, or Ndebele is an African language belonging to the Nguni

group of Bantu languages, which are spoken by the Ndebele or Matabele people of Zimbabwe. isiNdebele is related

to the Zulu language spoken in South Africa. The Ndebele people of Zimbabwe descend from followers of the Zulu

leader Mzilikazi, who left KwaZulu in the early 19th century during the Mfecane**. The Northern and Southern Nde-

bele languages are not variants of the same language even though they both belong to the Nguni group of Bantu

languages. Northern Ndebele is essentially a dialect of Zulu, and the older Southern Ndebele language falls within a

different subgroup. The shared name is due to contact between Mzilikazi's people and the original Ndebele, through

whose territory they crossed during the Mfecane. (Mfecane** (crushing or scattering), also known by the Sesotho

name Difaqane or Lifaqane, was a period of widespread chaos and warfare among indigenous tribes in southern

Africa during 1815 to 1840.)

African Proverbs

Amajoda awela abangelambiza.

Translation: Fortune favours the foolish.

Kwabo kagwala kaulasililo.

Translation: Discretion is better than valour.

Ikhotha eyikhothayo.

Translation: It [the cow] licks the one which licks it.

As quoted in Rev. J.N. Pelling, Ndebele proverbs and other sayings, Mambo Press, Gweru (1977)

Inhlanhla kayiphindwa kabili.

Translation: Fortune never comes twice.

Inotho ngamazolo.

Translation: Wealth is short-lived.

Inyembezi zendoda zehlela esifubeni.

Translation: Men try to hide their sorrow.

Iqhawe lifela ebuqhaweni balo.

Translation: The way a man dies is determined by his occupation.

Sithi singalamba sidle utshani.

Translation: Necessity knows no law.

Umthombo kawugqitshelwa.

Translation: Do not abuse the hospitality of others.

Umuntu abozinuka amakhwappha.

Translation: Each man must recognize his faults.

Undawyi ufa lensiba zakhe.

Translation: Virtue is not lost with age.

Source material wikiquote : Rev. J.N. Pelling, A Practical Ndebele Dictionary, Longman Zimbabwe, Harare (1994)

The Republic of Zimbabwe is a landlocked country located in the southern part of Africa, between the Zambezi and

Limpopo rivers. It is bordered by South Africa to the south, Botswana to the southwest, Zambia and a tip of Namibia

to the northwest and Mozambique to the east. The capital is Harare. Zimbabwe achieved recognised independence

from Britain in April 1980. Zimbabwe has three official languages: English, Shona and Ndebele. The area of Zim-

babwe was first demarcated by the British South Africa Company in the late 19th century; it became the self-

governing colony of Southern Rhodesia in 1923. President Robert Mugabe is the head of State and Commander in

Chief of the armed forces. Morgan Tsvangirai is the Prime Minister.

Towers of Great Zimbabwe

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Overheard in supermarket ... ‗every time I hear somebody else has had their bene-

fits taken away or lost their jobs, I think that‘s another vote the government has

lost ...‘

All things pass given time.

Bit miserable? Reach for chocs? Desserts spelled backwards is stressed ...

Often those the most vocal about the work of others do precious little themselves.

Holiday fish sitting! Looking after a tropical fish tank turned out to be more fun than

anticipated. Watching fish is more than relaxing, it‘s soporific.

The most positive thing about funerals is how they can bring dispersed families to-

gether for a few hours of animated conversation.

Admiring a stone-carved owl, to deter pigeons, on top of a building - when suddenly

the head rotated ... a surreal moment.

gaggle n

A group of geese when they are on the ground or on the water.

Any group or gathering of related things; bunch.

lunacy n

The state of being mad, insanity. Something deeply misguided.

squirm v

To twist one's body with snakelike motions.

To twist in discomfort, especially from shame or embarrassment.

chicanery n

Deception by use of trickery, quibbling, or subterfuge.

(law) A slick performance by a lawyer.

Neolithic adj

Of or relating to the New Stone Age, from circa 8,500 to 4,500 BCE**.

bingo interj

Used by players of bingo to claim a win.

(informal) Used when finding what one has been looking for or trying to recall.

(informal) Similarly, used to declare "My point exactly!".

iota n

Name for the ninth, and smallest, letter of the Greek alphabet.

A jot; a very small, inconsiderable, quantity.

wreak v

To cause, inflict or let out, especially if causing harm or injury.

perforce adv

By force; of necessity; at any rate.

yammer v

To complain peevishly.

To talk loudly; to make an outcry.

** BCE = Before Common Era/Before Current Era/Before Christian Era

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Neolithic artifacts, including bracelets, axe heads, chisels, and polishing tools. Neolithic stone implements are by defini-tion polished and not chipped. Source wikipedia

CLIVE’s three free e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Issue 246

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Steph’s FREE poetry e-chapbook is now published on www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

The chapbook is illustrated by some of her original artwork.

She is a member of Stafford Art Group, 2012 winner of the Allardice Portrait Cup and has

exhibited some pieces locally. Next exhibition: Millbank Gallery, October.

Random words: cunning, stealthy, toothache, carriage, calling,

toilet, twisted, kippers, justice, theatre

Assignment: three children are sitting on a log by a stream, or,

write about a parent or grandparent

Assignment: encounters with nature

There can be few experiences with nature more breath taking than the

evening flight of starlings going to their roosting site. Television brings

it to us in close detail now, but you have to be there for the thrill of it all.

It happened for me on a walking holiday in the English Lake District.

Our usual contact with birds was ducks on the park pool or the

ubiquitous house sparrow.

Towards the end of a warm August day we were scrambling up the steep

hillside overlooking the tiny dark Wast Water, most birds had settled down

for the night, so on the still evening air there was the occasional chuck, chuck

to serve as goodnight, but nothing prepared us for what was to come in this

half light. There was a disturbance in the distance, not the great rumbling of

human activity more a wind born movement of rushing air in bird flight across

the small dark lake.

It was an amazing sight, a sight to lift the heart and still the breathing.

A massive dark cloud of a thousand birds swooping and diving, forming

intricate patterns, never still nor coming nearer but as one in a

choreographed dance. Then it was gone, all over and we non the wiser

as to what we had witnessed. It was magic. (EH)

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It was as they told him it would be, coming back.

No sound, no movement, no footsteps, just the

eerie silence and a gentle breathy sighing by the

lace curtains. It used to swing in the breeze at

the open window.

What had happened to him and the house he knew

as home previously?

Now by the stairs, no effort to climb as before, no need

to grasp the rail, he floated by without a shadow.

The view from the window from above was familiar but

in shadows, the doorway to the summer house invited

him in, and his name carved there proved his earlier

existence. Did they know he might be back?

'Dora,' called Robert from the bathroom landing, 'I have

a distinct feeling that some one has been here

while we were out at the funeral.'

EH Assignment

Assignment: write about a parent ...

‗Your grandpa was a jazz nerd, before

they had nerds, he was one. Bix Beider-

becke, an‘ all the great Deep South

blues fellahs with names like Sonny

Terry and Brownie McGee, he loved them

as well. Knew all the words to the old

songs, ―Sea-life woman‖, ―Little Red

Rooster‖. You name it, he had it in his

collection of 78s.‘

Jasper was getting bored. His dad

was like an old record stuck in the same

old groove. Every time he dropped by

with his shopping, he‘d start on about his

grandad.

‗Yes dad, I know. They carried his

coffin standing up right up the stairs of

the jazz touring bus so he could travel to the crem in style on the top deck blasting out Dixieland.‘

‗Pretty cool, that. That old boy had got style!‘ said Eric, a tear forming at the corner of his eye.

Jasper threw the frozen peas and fish fingers into the freezer. Every time, it was the same old sob

story. It wasn‘t as if he‘d even gone to his dad‘s funeral. The old fraud was inside at the time after

that ridiculous attempted robbery at the post office. The only one in the town not to have heard of

half day closing. It had been himself, Jasper then aged eight, creased with embarrassment hold-

ing grandma‘s hand as they followed a trombone player into the crematorium chapel following the

coffin behind a group of pensioners waving umbrellas and singing, take me back to the land of cot-

ton.

He‘d thought they meant Lancashire, they were learning about cotton mills in Miss Jones‘s

class at that time.

It was him, Jasper, who inherited the 78s. Hundreds of them. It was him who had been sell-

ing them on ebay which, no doubt, was the next thing his dad would be asking about.

‗Sold any more, son? Any rare ones? Got a good price, did you? Only, I‘m a bit short this

week.‘

stockfreeimage

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On tour comments from people taking part:

“I’d just like to thank you for coming and tell you how much we

all appreciate it. I love coming here.”

“They’ve all enjoyed it so much. Thank you. It’s a great job you

do.”

“Look at all their faces. They’re so proud to be in the book.

Great job.”

“They’ll be talking about this for weeks. It’s wonderful what

you do, you should be very proud of making everyone so

happy.”

“It’s a lovely book. The pictures are terrific.”

“That was so funny. Thank you so much for doing this for us.

You’re doing a great job.”

“Next time make the page numbers bigger!!” ... Noted!

“My daughter will be tickled pink when she sees this ... You’ve not done a bad job at all.

It’s all right, isn’t it? Come out well.”

Issue 242

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Issue 242

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Bluddschott Hall

‗Lionel, if we are to balance the budget. If we are going to have anything like a rea-

sonable standard of living, then you will have to give up something!‘ Annabelle,

Countess of Trentby, told her spouse. ‗Either that or get a position, or a directorship,

or something on a quango, that pays a decent salary.‘

Lionel, obviously, didn't like the idea of working for a living any more than he liked

budgetary restrictions. ‗If there are any decent positions open for someone in my

position, dear, I would, naturally, apply for them. I suppose... yes, I suppose my best

bet is to get onto the old Regimental network and see what, if anything's, on offer.‘

‗Hmm.‘ Annabelle wasn't at all sure about that, but she wasn't the daughter of a

food products millionaire for nothing. She knew a negotiating position when she

saw one. ‗I suppose, that that will have to do for a start. The other thing, and one

that you can do immediately, is stop drinking in an evening. The wine merchant‘s

bill alone is more than 20% of the household budget and,‘ she thumped her desk

for emphasis, ‗it has got to come down!‘

‗A chap is entitled to the odd little tipple in an evening, dear.‘ Lionel protested. ‗It

calms me for the night, helps me sleep; you know that.‘

‗An odd LITTLE tipple is acceptable, Lionel, half a bottle or more of three star

brandy every night is more than an odd little tipple. From now on you're to limit your-

self to one double per night.‘ Her pencil came up and ticked off an item on her list

of trim able expenses.

‗Now! There are some other expenses that I need to talk to you about. The Golf

Club and that Man's Best Friend Charity shop are examples.‘

Lionel just had to come to the defence of his two main escapes from Annabelle

and The Hall. ‗My dear, my activities at MBF don't really cost us anything you know.

Any moneys I do spend are reimbursed at the month‘s end, as you know. As for the

Golf Club. That's a bit different. You know that's a requirement for people in our po-

sition. We must show the flag mustn't we? Besides which; if I'm going to find a paid

position then keeping an ear to the ground up there will be crucial.‘

The Countess wasn't sold on that idea either but had to agree, that he had a

point. ‗Very well, Lionel, however, the one drink a day rule applies at the Golf Club

as well. Not one there, and one here, and another one somewhere else. We just

CANNOT afford large bills coming in.‘

Lionel had a thought. It wasn't often he did, so he usually acted without really

thinking all the way through. ‗My dear, we know a lot of stuff that Aunt Lucy left us

has gone missing. If we could find that, then, instead of being penniless we'll be

able to live how we want.‘

Annabelle shook her head. ‗As usual you're too late, Lionel. We've already looked

all over the estate. That's where and when we found those 200 gold coins. I'm sure

you remember those metal detectorists people who couldn't find their backsides

with both hands and a map, and that detestable old woman with a couple of wire

coat hangers who found almost all of it!‘

‗Ahha but I'm not thinking of looking outside,‘ Lionel replied. ‗We haven't had a

good look inside the hall. Lucy was basically confined to the house in the last year

or so; so it stands to reason that she's hidden stuff inside the hall. All we've got to

do is find it!‘

Annabelle indicated that she wasn't sold on that idea either.

‗I'm going to start at the top of the house and search every room until I do find

the missing jewellery and stuff.‘

Lionel was getting enthusiastic which, as Annabelle knew, was a dangerous sign. ‗I hope

you don't damage anything, Lionel. Remember the Hall isn't ours, it belongs to the Trust, if

you do any damage then we've got to repair it and that could cost a lot of money.‘

‗My dear, I wasn't thinking of using a hammer and chisel to find it.‘ That was an outright

falsehood; he'd planned on doing just that; with a good sized crowbar as a back-up tool for

the fine work.

‗A good look round,‘ he continued. ‗Maybe tapping a few panels in the library and in here

the study, some careful work in the passageways. Asking Mrs. Potts if she‘d noticed anything

unusual in Lucy's last couple of years, things like that. Detective work really. Nothing to dam-

age the fabric at all.‘

‗Start in the cellars, Lionel,‘ his wife instructed. ‗Lucy obviously had a thing about cellars. I

believe she used to take that young Grabble fellow down there quite frequently. No doubt she

had some perversion about young men and dark places.‘

Annabelle knew about that sort of thing; she had one similar. A woman had her needs after

all and Lionel wasn't up to much in that department.

Not, of course, that she indulged in it ... well, not often ... the budget wouldn't stand it.

Torch in one hand and riding crop in the other. ‗To tap the walls with to see if they sound hol-

low, dear,‘ he'd explained; his service pistol in the pocket of his floppy jacket... just in case...

wasn't mentioned; Lionel, and a tin of penetrating oil, won their fight with the lock and went

down the 'Butler‘s Stairs' into the cellars.

‗I'll be jiggered!‘ Lionel exclaimed when the flick of an ordinary light switch turned on banks

of fluorescent tubes and revealed brick built arches containing rack after rack of dusty wine

bottles. ‗There's got to be a few thousand quid‘s worth of liquid gold in here. Those gold coins

didn't disappear at all. That crafty madam turned it into an investment in wine. Aunt Lucy; I

take back half of the things I said about you!‘

Prowling the racks; not daring to touch anything and break the spell, noting the names

chalked on the frames. Du Pape, Cliquot, Vermille, Rhine, Rhone, Oporto and other great

names as well as some he didn't recognise.

Then 'Napoleon' jumped into his view. ‗I wonder what you are, you darlings,‘ he murmured

as he reverently withdrew a bottle from the rack, gently wiped the dust from it and read the

label. ‗1896? A whole bottle of 1896! The last time one of these came up for auction it

fetched six thousand and I've got,‘ he quickly counted, ‗TWENTY TWO bottles. That's One hun-

dred and thirty two thousand pound in my hands.‘ He did a little dance of joy in the aisle.

Prowling the racks to see what other 'liquid' money was, as it where, lying there undiscov-

ered, he spotted a door to another cellar. ‗Shut and locked and from the looks of it, no key on

the ring for that lock,‘ he said to himself after trying them all. ‗Now where would the old dar-

ling hide the key so that she and her toyboy could get at it easily? It's got to be around here

somewhere, and not too far from the door either.‘

After a frantic search he found it under a bottle. The lock worked without any fuss.

The interior was disappointing. It was a dusty school room.

True it had a dust sheet covered day bed against one wall but it was definitely a school

room. The table had a pile of books on it and a couple of chairs against it: there were piles of

paper lying on the 'Mend it Badly Yourself' bookshelves and a blackboard that had a series

of 'squiggles' and badly drawn birds still showing on the face. No sign of any salacious activity

at all. Lionel was disappointed. ‗Why a school room though Lucinda,‘ he asked the shade of

his Aunt. ‗And where have you hidden the cash?‘

‗A hundred thousand Annabelle. A hundred thousand!‘ Lionel said as he waltzed

about the study. ‗All our money worries are over!‘

Annabelle was a little more sanguine. ‗We've got to sell it first, Lionel. Don't get

too excited until the cheque's in the bank. Then we have to argue with the tax peo-

ple, they‘re bound to demand some of it. Capital Gains Tax or some such.‘

Lionel was deflated. ‗Righty-ho then, dear. I'll have another look in the cellar.

There's a lot of cellar down there that I haven't even started on yet.‘

‗Good idea, Lionel. You do that and I'll get onto the wine merchant and get them

to send somebody around to appraise the wine cellar contents. It could be that

those bottles are our salvation.‘ She smiled at him. Lionel had seen that smile be-

fore, it meant that somebody was going to have to do some serious work, and he

was the only person available.

‘While you're down there have another look around in that school room. There

could be a clue in there somewhere. You know Lucy's interests better than anybody

else, for all we know she could have written the hiding place down in those ancient

Egyptian hieroglyphic things she was so fond of. Do some drawings; get some pic-

tures of things so that we can check.‘

Lionel went off to see Mrs Potts to borrow a camera.

‗It's very simple to operate, Sir Lionel,‘ she said. ‗You just point it at whatever it is

you want to photograph, make sure you've got all of it in the picture frame that ap-

pears when it's switched on, of course, then, you press this button here!‘

Although she was doing a childlike 'Point and Show' Mrs Potts wasn't at all sure

of how much was going in between the ears.

‗Just to get the hang of it why don't you take some pictures in the main kitchen? It

does take a bit of practice. Once you're happy then you can use it. I'll need it back

tomorrow though. The next batch of visitors has been booked for the 'Bluddschott

Hall Tour' and it's my turn to be the guide.‘

Lionel wasn't at all happy about this, but the monthly tour was a part of the condi-

tions of occupancy so he couldn't argue. He cheered up as the thought crossed his

mind that a part of the tour was a drink and a sandwich in the main hall, and the

trust always put plenty on the trays.

‗I think I'm going to be available for this tour, Mrs Potts,‘ he said. ‗Meet the owner

was always a part of it with Lady Lucinda, wasn't it? I feel it's only right that I, or the

Countess if she's about, should continue the tradition. Please put out another glass

for me, Mrs. Potts, and I'll mingle at the end of the tour.‘

What Mrs. Potts thought about it she kept to herself but said, ‗Another glass for

you, and, one for the Countess I think you mean, Sir Lionel? Madam has already

told me that she'll be available.‘

‗Right you are then Mrs. Potts.‘ He was a bit disappointed; with Annabelle in the

hall a quick snort or six was out of the question, two was the limit. ‗Now, how much

do films for this camera cost? I'm going to be taking a lot of pictures and I need to

get plenty of film in for the project.‘

Mrs. Potts laughed. ‗You are a joker, Sir Lionel. Film indeed! You don't use film in

this type of camera. It's a digital camera and will hold about two hundred pictures

before you need to bother about it running out of space for them.‘

As she thought, Sir Lionel was hopeless. He had the attention span of a gnat on

hard drugs and all the co-ordination of a soft rubber hat rack. It took the rest of the

morning but, eventually, he got the hang of it.

‗Right, got it! Now for some serious stuff,‘ he said as he left for his mysterious er-

rand down in the cellar. There Lionel photographed everything that could possibly show some

sign of writing. Even the central heating boiler found its way into his photo shoot session.

‗Doctor Timothy Toogood! That's the man I'm going to see,‘ he told Annabelle. ‗He's the

Egyptology expert around here, or so I'm told. If anybody can recognise these hiero-thingy's

it'll be him.‘

‗Good afternoon, I'm Lionel Bluddshott, The Earl of Trentby and I'd like to see Dr. Toogood.

I'm told he works here,‘ he said; to the woman behind the counter at the Puss in Boots Char-

ity shop.

‗Good afternoon, Sir Lionel. If you'd like to come through to the back I'll ask him if he'll see

you,‘ she replied, not at all affected by his title. ‗He's at the rear of the top floor so it will take

a few minutes to find him. With your work at Man's Best Friend you'll know how difficult it is to

keep stock in good condition. Tim's working on that problem at the moment.‘

Once into the office she turned and berated him. ‗You utter idiot, Lionel! How many times

do you have to be told not to come here under any circumstances. The Earl of Trentby and the

Manageress of a Charity Shop in a sexual relationship, what that would do to my reputation is

beyond belief. What were you thinking of: if you were thinking at all!‘

Lionel was taken aback at the, to him, totally unfounded attack. ‗But, Cynthia my dear dar-

ling, I really have come to see this Toogood fellow‘, he protested. ‗He‘s the local Egyptian ex-

pert and I‘ve got some pictures I‘d like him to see. They could tell us where to look for the

missing cash.‘

Then a crafty thought slid into his mind. ‗If I'm right and find the lost money, and the other

stuff that Lucy squirreled away, it solves all our problems. Don‘t you see?‘

Mollified but not completely satisfied with his answer she wrapped herself around him and

gave him a quick kiss.

‗Wait here, Lionel,‘ she instructed him. ‗I‘ll go and get that clot Toogood, maybe something

good will come out of it after all.‘

Lionel‘s chubby cheeks blew out a long phew ... if Cynthia ever found out about his other

extra nookie relationship with Geraldine at Man‘s Best Friend he was going to be right up a

gum tree.

Tim Toogood was dressed in his usual lack of style. Glaring Orange flip-flops held together

with parcel tape and bits of string really didn‘t go with the dark grey cord trousers and a

green frilly shirt. The pictures on the camera got his attention though.

‗Get me some proper pictures of these,‘ he said pointing to a number of frames on the

camera. ‗I really can not be expected to give you an opinion with this sort of picture. Why

haven't you got a proper drawing or a good photograph?‘ Tim was a bit testy when his author-

ity could be in question. ‗Incompetence I suppose. Go away and get me a decent size of pic-

ture! When you come back I'll expect clear sharp images and a down payment of £50 in

cash.‘

Tim may have been a bit woolly when it came to daily living with his cats but he knew that,

basically, the market value of a professional opinion was whatever you can get away with. In

addition, he knew that it was no good trusting the value of the word of Lionel. Cash or nothing

was going to be his standpoint.

Cynthia came to the rescue of her lover. ‗I can print out Sir Lionel's pictures, Tim. Will that

be good enough?‘

‗Firstly we'll see what sort of fumble fisted excuse for a photographer it was who took

them.‘ Tim replied, still in a testy mood. ‗From what I can see I'd say that it's going to be diffi-

cult to find one without a finger over the lens or some such idiotic fault.‘

Ten minutes later: the till was £50 lighter in cash, £50 heavier on a cheque signed by

Lionel, the cash was in Tim‘s wallet, and a pile of pictures was lying in the printer‘s

out tray.

Skimming through them, Tim said things such as. ‗Useless. Out of focus.‘

‗Useless. Camera shake. Useless. The fool's got his finger in it,‘ and threw more

than half into the wastebasket. ‗Now that's interesting,‘ was the comment on four.

Those he concentrated on.

‗Well, Lionel, or Colonel, or whatever it is you call yourself, these are good and I can

make sense of them. The price for the proper translation is £200; however, I will

give you a preliminary one, a draft as it were, for the £50 you've already paid me.‘

Lionel, smarting under the various: ‗incompetents‘, 'idiotic' and 'fools', that had

been thrown around in last short while, said, ‗That should be good enough to get

me started, Dr. Toogood. I'll need something to report to free up the cash for the

translation.‘

Putting on his best lecturer voice, Tim read out the first few characters. ‗The first

line is clear enough, it says; 'Those, or all, who disturb the repose of the gods'. The

second line and third lines are indistinct but it's something like; take care or possi-

bly beware of something called the guardian of Dumilla, then something about hon-

our, dentition, and the family. They aren't drawn too well and some of the signs are

out of context. Is that any help?‘

Lionel seized onto some words and said to himself. The gods? That could be

something to do with that folly on the island, that's supposed to be an Egyptian god

of some kind. It could be called Dumilla I suppose. Take care; well it's falling down

so that makes sense. The honour and family bits I don't understand. The dentition,

too difficult. Get Annabelle to see what she can find out.

‗Thank you Dr. Toogood,‘ he said aloud. ‗Please keep the photographs and work

on them when you can. I'll get the cash to you when the estate is finalised.‘

Tim Toogood wasn't at all sure that the £200 would be found but said nothing. ‗I‘ll

get back to the top stock room then, Cynthia. There's been a leak, just a small one,

in the roof that needs some attention from the outside. I've put a bucket under it for

now but it's going to need a roofer to fix it properly.‘ So saying he left the room.

‗Does that solve the puzzle‘, Cynthia wanted to know.

‗Possibly, Cynthia. At least it's a clue as that says I should be looking on the island

in the lake.‘ Lionel was so taken by the answers he had received that he upset her

by failing to give her more than a single goodbye kiss.

‗How?‘ Annabelle asked as she entered the boathouse, ‗Can you possibly fail to

get a boat into the water?‘

In answer, Lionel pointed to the remains of the punt. ‗That came apart in my

hands as I tried to get it into the water, Annabelle. Those planks in the water there

were, until I tried to move it, a rowing boat. Then it not so much sank as became

that floating pile of soggy firewood. I'll have to find another way.‘

‗What about the underground passage? Where does that start!‘ Annabelle asked

in her, 'The Countess is not amused', manner.

‗That? Oh, that‘s just a silly story, my dear. When great grandfather built the origi-

nal folly, not the one that‘s there now, he put it about that there was one but there

never was. All you need is a pair of rubber boots and you can walk across on the un-

derwater stepping-stones. I did it a few times when I was younger.‘

‗What‘s to stop you doing it again now, Lionel?‘

‗I don‘t know if the stones are still there, my dear. Lucy may have had them pulled

up or they could have just fallen into the lake.‘

‗Find out, Lionel. FIND OUT!‘ When she gave that sort of order there was no gainsaying her.

Lionel nodded meekly and found some old Wellies in the rear of the boathouse. Clumping

along lakeside, he stepped, gingerly, onto the first stone, felt around with his foot, and using

all his concentration, found the second, the third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh. The eighth

wasn‘t there; but he didn‘t find that out until it was far too late.

All the splashing and clumping had attracted the attention of Reggie who decided that this

could be lunch. When he saw the portly figure struggling in the water he went into hunting

mode, swam quietly up to it and gave it a knock with his tail. There was a yell and lunch ar-

rived, delivered right into his teeth.

These fearsome sets of dentition worked one way. If something went in it didn‘t come out

again.

Annabelle stood by the stand of reeds on the bank watching circles of bubbles popping un-

til all was calm once again. ‗Hmm,‘ she said, ‗I suppose that means that I‘ll have to wear

mourning for a little while and black never suits me. I wonder ... that nice Mr. Grabble ... I bet

he‘ll know somebody who can shoot that crocodile for me? I‘ll drop around there tonight, I‘m

sure he‘ll be a great comfort to a grieving widow.‘

© Lightpro | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

http://www.aestheticamagazine.com/creativewriting for full entry details

Creative Writing Competition Win £500 and publication with the Aesthetica Creative Writing Competition!

Aesthetica Magazine is inviting all writers and poets to submit their work into the Creative Writing Competition.

The Creative Writing Competition has developed from the Creative Works Competition, which ran for four years, and is

hosted by Aesthetica Magazine, the international art and culture publication.

The Creative Writing Competition is a fantastic opportunity for existing and aspiring writers and poets to showcase their

work to a wider, international audience: previous entrants have gone on to achieve success and recognition across the

world. There are two categories for entry: Poetry and Short Fiction.

Deadline for entries: 31 August 2012

Winners and Finalists will be announced on the 31 October.

Prizes There will be two winners; one Poetry winner and one Short Fiction winner.

Each winner will receive £500.

Each winner will receive a selection of books from our competition partners.

Winners and finalists will be published in the Aesthetica Creative Writing Annual..

Winners and shortlisted finalists will receive a complimentary copy of the Aesthetica Creative Writing Annual.

How to Enter The Creative Writing Competition has two categories for entry: Poetry and Short Fiction. Entry is £10 +VAT and this per-

mits the submission of two works into any one category. You may enter as many times as you wish.

(RBW Comment ... NB: There is a £12.00 entry fee.)

POETRY LIBRARY UPDATE Latest News: Poetry Magazines received in May 2012 | 11-Jul-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=932 Sneak Preview of Peace Camp | 10-Jul-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=931 Items added to the Poetry Library in June 2012 | 09-Jul-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=928

A G M

Could anyone thinking of coming to the AGM please note the day

has been changed to Monday 20th August 2012 at The Radford at

12.30 for 1.00.

Sorry but could you please let us know if you are

still able to come to the (free) lunch.

We will also be launching the AD LIB poetry collection.

Many thanks.

Peter Shilston writes

The Staffordshire election of 1747 In summer 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, “Bonnie Prince Charlie” landed in Scotland with the aim of regaining the throne of Great Britain for his father, James Edward Stuart, “the Old Pre-tender”, the son of the late exiled King James II. He soon captured Edinburgh and headed south, through Lancashire and towards the midlands. His supporters were known as Jacobites (from Jacobus, the Latin version of James) This was not without preparation. France was at war with England, and Charles was hopeful that a French army would soon land on the south coast. He also expected that he would receive local support. A French spy in 1743 reported that Staffordshire was “unanimously at-tached to the legitimate king” (i.e. to James), and named four of the greatest landowners of the county, Gower, Bagot, Chetwynd and Wolseley, as likely rebels. All were strong supporters of the opposition Tory party against the Whig government. It was noted how they gathered every year at Lichfield races. Over the previous 30 years the county had witnessed many anti-government demonstrations, which often took the form of violent attacks on Non-conformist chapels. On December 3rd Charles’s little army of Highlanders reached Macclesfield and sent scouts forward through Congleton as far as Talke. They surely would have preferred to continue south through Birmingham and Oxford, but they found government troops under the Duke of Cumber-land and Lord Ligonier in force in north Staffordshire, so instead they moved eastwards through Leek and the moor lands to Derby. There they halted and, two days later, turned back. Charles had promised the clan chiefs that reinforcements would come, but there was no sign of the French landing, and not one prominent local potential rebel had made a move: not Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, a notorious Jacobite who owned most of north Wales, not Bagot, not Chetwynd and especially not Gower. He had committed the ultimate treachery: he had changed sides at the end of 1744 and joined the Whig government! He raised a regiment to fight against the rebels, with himself as Colonel, and was rewarded with an Earldom and a seat in the Cabinet. Charles, bitterly disappointed, withdrew into Scotland, to be defeated at Culloden the next spring. Meanwhile in January 1746 fourteen men and one woman were held in Stafford gaol on suspicion of high treason. With the failure of Jacobitism, Tory fury turned particularly against Gower, and this made itself felt in the general election of 1747. The Staffordshire election of 1747 was held with the memories of the late revolt still fresh in the minds. It was the first contested election for the county since 1715, and would be the last before the 1830s. The county, like all the others in England, returned two M.P.s to Parliament. Earl Gower accordingly put up two candidates: his brother William Gower and his son-in-law Sir Richard Wrottesley, aged just 26. They were opposed by the old Tory Sir Walter Wagstaffe Bagot of Blithfield and by John Crewe of Crewe Hall in Cheshire. Polling began on July 9th and continued until the 14th. The system to be followed was that five polling booths were erected in the town square, one for each of the five “hundreds” into which Staffordshire had been divided since Saxon times: Pirehill, Totmonslow, Cuttlestone, Offlow and Seisdon. These booths were manned by polling clerks, who were paid one guinea a day - good money for the time! The franchise for county elections was limited to landowners whose property had a value of at least £2 a year: the famous “Forty-shilling freeholders”. It was estimated there were at least five thousand qualified voters in the county. Any prospective voters had to come to Stafford to register their votes, and check in at the relevant booth. The sheriff of the county had had the onerous duty of drawing up a list of all the freeholds in the county, at his own expense, which he would then sell to the can-didates at 2/6d a time (this helps us to understand why the office of sheriff was so unpopular: like all jobs in local government, it was unpaid, and the local gentry were supposed to take it in turns to fill the post). In the booths, voters would have to take an oath that they were valid free-holders, and then declare their preferences: each man having two votes, though they could not both be cast for the same candidate. The candidates and their agents kept a close eye on things to make sure there was no fraud. There was, of course, no secrecy in voting.

In the 1747 election the polling clerks achieved the impressive feat of processing an average of 200 voters a day at each booth, and so after five days the queues had ended and the poll was declared closed (In some constituencies voting might drag on for over a month). The result was then announced:- Bagot 2,654 votes Gower 2,602 Crewe 2,433 Wrottesley 2,421 and so Bagot and Gower were declared elected. The Gower interest had retained one seat, but the Tory Bagot had topped the poll, reflecting the county’s Tory-Jacobite tendencies. This was not necessarily the end of the matter, because Wrottesley then demanded a scrutiny; meaning that the qualifications of every suspect voter would have to be examined, and bring the sheriff documentary evidence of his freehold; and as a last resort a losing candidate could even petition Parliament to have the result overturned on the grounds of fraud and corruption. Wrottesley brought together witnesses to challenge the validity of several hundred voters, but in the end he gave up. Realistically he could only ever hope to replace Crewe for third place; a somewhat meaningless triumph. In any case, the extensive electoral influence of Earl Gower soon led to his being compensated by being returned as M.P. for Tavistock in Devon. In August the Staffordshire result was declared valid. As well as the two M.P.s for Staffordshire, four towns in the county also elected two M.P.s each: Stafford itself, Lichfield, Newcastle and Tamworth. There was no poll in the election of the two M.P.s for the borough of Stafford. William Chetwynd and a lawyer, John Robins, were put up as candidates, and no-one cared to undertake the trouble and expense of standing against them. But this did not mean there was peace in the town; quite the contrary. On election day a hostile mob of about 150 people, led by a certain Mr Loxdale, in the words of the “Morning Advertiser”, “Broke into, defaced and demolished Mr Chetwynd’s house” and beat up supporters of the Whig government. 18 people were arrested for this outrage, but rioters threatened to pull down the town gaol if any of their people were locked up! The rioters were eventually sent for trial at the Old Bailey, but, in the words of the writer, “Mr Chetwynd forgave them, which was probably wise”. There were disturbances elsewhere in the county. In Lichfield, Gower found the voters “insolent to a degree you cannot conceive”, and appealed to the government to send in troops. In Burton, twelve men beat up a soldier, but were acquitted at their trial. Huge riotous demonstrations by Jacobite supporters marked the Lichfield races that year, with many wearing tartan to show sym-pathy with the Scots rebels: Gower’s son was beaten up, and the Duke of Bedford was attacked with a horse-whip. Great play was made of having a fox, dressed in a miniature army coat, hunted by hounds in tartan. Trouble continued in Stafford: locals jeered at the soldiers, calling them “monkeys”, and in June 1749, sol-diers in the town attacked people wearing the Jacobite badge of a white rose; swords were drawn and shots fired. One local man badly beat up a government excise officer: he was arrested, but acquitted at his trial. Lichfield’s most famous son, Dr Johnson, was a Tory and a Jacobite. When, many years after these events, James Boswell expressed his surprise at meeting a Whig in Staffordshire, Johnson replied, “Sir, there are rogues in every county”. Discussing his great dictionary, John-son said that when he defined the word “renegade” as “one who deserts to the enemy”: “I added, “Sometimes we say a Gower”, but the printer struck it out!”

Samuel Johnson c. 1772,

painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds

Wikipedia image

Issue 246

Page 24

Rosamund Marriott Watson

(1860 – 1911)

was an English Victorian poet and critic

who wrote for a while under the pseudo-

nym of second husband Graham R. Tom-

son, before adopting the surname of her

life partner, Henry. B. Marriott Watson.

Her poems were informed by aestheticism

and could be considered avant-garde for

her time.

A gifted poet, knowledgeable literary and art critic, and an acknowledged beauty,

the writer known as R. Armytage, Graham R. Tomson, and Rosamund Marriott Wat-

son (1860-1911) was a participant in what came to be called the aestheticism

movement and, to some, personified decadence. She produced six volumes of po-

ems many enjoyed for their subtle rhythms, use of vocabulary, and cadence. Her po-

ems appeared in prominent periodicals, Scribner‘s and Harper‘s in America to the

Scots Observer, Academy, and The Yellow Book in England. However, a scandalous

second divorce destroyed her social reputation. Rosamund was an unconventional,

ambitious, and talented woman living at the turn of the century. A life not confined

by convention. Her personal life was colourful by the standards of her day. She left

her first husband George Armytage to later wed the artist Arthur Graham Tomson.

She later left Tomson for Australian born writer, Henry. B. Marriott Watson, a

journalist, editor and Gothic author, in both of these early marriages she lost the

custody of her children. She remained with Watson for the reminder of her life,

though they never married. Their only son, Richard Marriott Watson, was also a

noted poet and was killed during the First World War.

Several of her poems were published in The Yellow Book. Her volumes of poetry

included Tares (1884) published anonymously in her youth, A Summer Night (1891)

and After Sunset (1903). A novel, An Island Rose, was published in 1900. Watson

also wrote prolifically on gardening, and several of her essays were published in The

Heart of a Garden (1906).

She wrote columns on interior design and fashion, some of which were col-

lected in The Art of the House (1897) before forsaking writing for a brief period of

religious fanaticism towards the end of her life.

She died at the age of 51. Her collected poems were pub-

lished in 1912 with a heart felt, respectful introduction by life

partner, H.B. Marriott Watson.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H._B._Marriott_Watson

Old Books, Fresh Flowers

Light on each slender stem pure blossoms rest,

Like angel envoys of the Heavenly powers ;

Of all earth's maidens these are first and best,

And all I love is here — old books, fresh flowers.

A double harvest crowns my granary :

From all light loves and joys my soul takes flight ;

My books are blossoms, and their bee am I,

And God's own volumes are my blossoms bright.

These and no other bosom-friends are mine ;

With them I pass my best, my calmest hours ;

These only lead me to the light Divine,

And all I love is here : old books, fresh flowers.

My books are tombs where wit and wisdom sleep,

Stored full with treasure of the long ago ;

My tender buds, that dews of springtide steep.

Like shining mirrors of the future show.

The present is so sad ! . . . . this dark to-day

Like skies with thunder charged above us lowers :

Ah ! of the past — the future — speak alway.

Tell me of naught but these .... old books, fresh

flowers.

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