War Bride
A Boundary
Hens in Borough Market
War Bride Decidedly iffy from the beginning: mother fleeing father, spells in Homes back home from India, still thirteen when she finished school – deprived of a year by a day. Then work in lonely silence for the doctor and his wife, dreaming time away, the pay only just enough to cover the fares. True, there was a summer stint in Jersey at the guest house, walking out with Alec, till the war, the fall of France and threat of occupation goose-stepped in, so back to Hampshire – and her brother, home on leave with Fred, his navy pal, whose eyes lit up, who wouldn't take no. Now eighteen, she marries – and regrets it before the day is done. She has to choose her nuptial bed: with Fred and his brother or the three itching sisters? There were no lessons in literature or legend for a bookworm (who chose the sisters) to glean when faced with riddles such as this. Two years on, and toughened by service in the Wrens, she thinks that when the fighting's over she might just manage to break free – then finds that she's with child. Me. But I have no face as yet, no claim, so, desperate for some way out she takes a massive dose of purgative, hoping to dislodge me. It's when she reads the small print she begins to laugh. Especially beneficial for expectant mothers. Accidentally saved from sin, she loves the baby in anticipation. She doesn't know of all the happiness ahead when, after widow's grief and guilt, she and Alec meet again. For now, just her and this child. Copyright © 2015 Rob Lock
A Boundary My wife and I start walking the Stour Valley Path but when we stop and scour the landscape we seldom see the object of our interest; crops, a copse, more crops, church tower - approaching Long Melford, wild flower heaven - but the river itself will cower shyly out of sight hour after hour in Suffolk, while downstream, from Essex, the Stour is everywhere evident to the viewer. Egrets and anglers succumb to its lure - hearty ramblers to that of the brewer at a riverside pub, and amblers tour Constable Country no matter how dour the day. Down there the river is never obscure. Copyright © 2016 Rob Lock
Hens in Borough Market More Grecian Urn than Last Supper, the party at the large table turn to tableau as hundreds flood past the picture windows, struggling to escape some nearby horror – though the slaughter and self-sacrifice are truths instantly known, instantly carved in the gut of each guest – till Lizzie, silken flanked and garlanded, comes out with Sorry, got to go, nurses will be needed, and forces her way into danger. Welcomed through the cordon, she scans a scene as vile as any in the all too many action films she’s let herself - but won’t again - be dragged to, figuring where to start. An auxiliary ambulance, doors open, reveals a trainee, minus airline, flailing – so into CPR. This woman will live. The next has already gone. Hard to tell shoulder from shirt, so much blood. They put her into a bag. Paramedics now all round, Lizzie goes back to a still and ravaged bride. Copyright © 2017 Rob Lock