A Kiss

It was the waiting that was the worst. He had eaten an evening meal with all his friends, and now he sat in the park, watching and wondering. The spring night was warm. Above him the two stars known as the Twins wheeled slowly westwards across the cloudless sky, and Orion began his descent below the horizon, but the heavens provided him with no guidance. What should he do? The longer he stayed there, the more likely it was that he would face an outcome too terrible to contemplate; and the more unavoidable it became; but still he did not stir. How could he go? And where?

He wondered how everything could have fallen apart so disastrously, and so suddenly. Just a few days before, he had scored an incredible popular triumph: the biggest of his career. He had felt invincible; the world at his feet. So how come he was now here, all alone; paralysed with fear and indecision? What could have gone so wrong? Had he made any mistakes? If so, what were they, and why did it now seem far too late to amend them?

There was the sound of footsteps brushing through the undergrowth: many feet were approaching. He looked up, and in the haunting light of the moon recognised one of his closest friends, but following behind was a party of armed police. He guessed what was going to happen, but, realising that his path was now set, allowed his friend to greet him with a hug and a kiss. The man then turned to the escort and said, “This is the one you want. This is Jesus”  

Resolutions

When the meal was finished, the bottles were passed round and according to the tradition Dilsan, who was the oldest member present announced, “Gentlemen! This is the occasion when we announce our resolutions for the coming year! I must remind you that the rules dictate that these should never be too serious, but I am sure you will agree that this year the unusual circumstances confronting us dictate that they should be exceptionally frivolous. Any member is free to challenge another on the charge of seriousness, with the accustomed penalties being imposed should the charge be upheld. So we shall go round the room, starting on my left, leaving me to go last. Amytar: you shall start”.

"My resolution is that during the next year I shall attempt to make love to every pretty girl I meet!" Amytar announced. "You may all mock me and jeer at me if I don’t!" Since he had to reputation of being rather shy, this naturally met with general approval and some laughter, except for those who had intended to announce the same resolution themselves, and would now have to think of something different.

Naturally, I don’t recall more than a very few of the resolutions that were proffered. There were some amusing comments when Manturian, who was notoriously unfit and lazy, announced his intention of walking right round the coast of the island. “You’ll never manage it!” someone hooted, “Even if you manage to keep going, there won’t be time for you to get more than halfway!” “That’d be pushing it!” came another comment, “I’d give you three days at the most, before you give up!” “Three hours, more like!” But Maturin, rather spiffily, took the banter seriously and said he seriously intended to do it.

The only unpleasant moment came when someone, I can’t recall who, said for his resolution that he would learn to swim. This was held to be in very poor taste. It provoked some bitter comments; one man even going as far to say, “What do you hope to achieve by that? Prolong your miserable life by half an hour, if you’re lucky?” In fact, things could have turned quite nasty if Dilsan hadn’t intervened by commenting, “Exactly! That makes his resolution extremely trivial, which is what the club rules are aiming at!” and fortunately this managed to calm the situation.

 

Finally, Dilsan himself rounded things off by announcing that during the coming year he intended to get drunk as often as possible. “You’ve made a good start!” someone called out. I was only surprised that no-one else had opted for this resolution, since under the circumstances it was a highly sensible thing to aim for. And so the proceedings should have ended happily, had not Dilsan, his mind doubtless slurred by the drink, announced as a final toast, “Gentlemen! To our next meeting!” and a quite unnecessary shadow of gloom was cast over the gathering; because of course we all knew there would never be another meeting. By next year, the great island of Atlantis would have disappeared for ever, and so would we.

The Coming

Yes, I was at the meeting when young Ben Maxwell read that epoch-making paper, telling how he’d been able to put a definite date on the crucifixion of Jesus. (“Young Ben” we called him. And of course now he’s forever young, isn’t he?) Old sceptics like me went along all prepared to scoff or ask awkward questions, but the paper he gave was brilliant and the evidence couldn’t be faulted. All those papyrus records had turned up in excavations in Palestine, like the Dead Sea scrolls only more detailed, and the team had spent years piecing them altogether; until there it was; a clear date: something that neither the Gospels or St. Paul had bothered to give us. It was stunning; that’s the only word for it.

   Of course, all sorts of weird groups tried to cash in on it, and they’re still at it. Do you remember that bunch who tried to prove Jesus was black? I ask you!

As for Ben Maxwell, it transformed his life. He was a very modest young man; shy, even. He turned down the offer of a C.B.E. for his achievement, though of course it wasn’t made public at the time. He was quite right, in my opinion: it’s the sort of award that’s given to retired sportsmen, and to people who’ve made donations to party funds. But he couldn’t so well turn down invitations to speak at academic conferences, and before he knew where he was, there were television interviews in the States, and then all over the world; and he started to find he enjoyed it. That’s what did for him in the end, of course: that dreadful plane crash. At least, that’s what they think it must have been, though no trace was ever found. Naturally, sabotage was suspected by the conspiracy-merchants, and others put it down to divine intervention. Was it just a fluke that the plane sank in one of the deepest ocean depths in the entire world, off the coast of Japan, or was something being covered up? And if so, by whom, and why? Assorted nutcases have claimed to see him alive, of course; but as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone; and so he’ll always be young Ben Maxwell, the genius who put a date on the most famous event of all time.

   The college thought of naming a building after him, but they were afraid of annoying the Moslems, or the Jews, or for all I know the voodoo priests as well, so all we got is one of those blue plaques. But he won’t be forgotten, ever.

Anyway, thanks to his work, we have a date for the crucifixion, and this year it’s the two-thousandth anniversary. All sorts of crazies out there are expecting the Second Coming at any moment, and the fact that they’ve always been disappointed in the past never makes any difference: they’re saying it’s got to be this Easter. But I’m not expecting anything, are you? When you look out at the stars on a night like this, millions of light-years away, it makes you realize how insignificant we are here. What grounds do we have for imagining things on this earth matter at all, as far as the universe is concerned?

Hang on; what’s happening out there? The stars ……       

LIGHT!  

The Sleeping King

Eight men sat round the table, lit by a strange radiance that appeared to pervade the whole cave. The boy crawled out from the narrow passage through which he had entered, but for the moment remained on his knees, amazed and awestruck. For some little time Michael, for that was his name, continued in that position, until he was able to nerve himself to examine the scene more closely.

          Facing him was a king, for he wore a crown, beneath which his hair was like the mane of a lion, though his long beard was streaked with grey. His hands, heavy with many rings, rested on the table before him, and between them lay the hilt of a great sword. His eyes were deep and piercing, and they bore down straight at Michael, with such intensity that he could scarcely dare to return their gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It was therefore with downcast eyes that he slowly walked round the table. Of the other seven men, some were in armour, and some in courtly robes. Their eyes too were open, but did not move, and their gaze remained fixed on the king.

          Michael knew who they were, for many times he had heard of them in legend and story, and now he had found them. They were the great king, the emperor, and his seven counsellors; not dead, but asleep beneath the mountain, awaiting the moment of their country’s greatest peril, when they would rise from slumber to save it. Now he, Michael and found them. Was it now his task to awaken them? Was indeed his country in mortal danger? How was he to know: he was only ten years old.

          He tiptoes further towards the king, and every time he dared to glance upwards, he sensed the king’s eyes following him. The strange light, which at first he thought came from the roof, he now realised radiated out from the king himself, illuminating the whole gathering. At last he stood at the king’s side, and hesitated, unsure of what to do; until, suddenly making up his mind, he reached out and laid his hand upon the hilt of the great sword.

          Abruptly, and horribly, everything began to change. First, the sword crumbled to rust beneath his hand. Then the table creaked and groaned as its massive timbers rotted and split. Like a creeping tide the infection spread to the assembled lords. Garments fell in shreds and armour collapsed. The very flesh on their faces blackened and shrivelled, exposing the bones beneath.  The radiance flashed violently, and stones crashed down from the roof. Last of all the disease reached even to the king, until his eyes blazed out as through a monstrous lichen, and the look in those eyes was of unforgiving hatred and despair.

          Then Michael awoke. The window of his bedroom was rattling in the violent wind, and outside lightning and thunder were raging. Guilt and anguish filled his heart. He knew it had been a dream, but nonetheless he felt that somehow the universe had been diminished by his actions. 

Waiting Room

It was a large room, more like a wide corridor, with various doors with name-cards leading off it. Doctors in white coats strode purposefully from one door to another, and every so often nurses appeared with clip-boards, summoning names for consultation. A few of the patients thumbed in a desultory fashion through the magazines on offer, but most sat passively waiting. I passed the time observing the couple sitting opposite.

                Judging by the remains of a teddy-boy haircut adorning his head, I thought he must be in his late sixties. His white shirt too had seen better days, and was now too tight for him, so that every button strained. But even so, he looked in far better shape than his wife sitting next to him. She was wearing a long coat, and a brown beret on her grey hair. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes gazed blankly ahead. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a chain. Her husband spoke to her, gently and continually, and too quietly for me to hear a single word. Not once did she respond, or even turn towards him. I only saw her move when she decided to put her glasses on, but this simple action defeated her, and he had to come to her assistance.

                Finally a nurse came and summoned her. She showed no sign of recognition, but her husband arose. With the greatest gentleness he helped her to her feet, and then took her elbow and led her away, following the nurse. My name was called soon afterwards, and I never saw them again. But still I was touched by this tragic yet beautiful picture of love. 

Low-level Cricket: a true story

For many years I took part in a "lads-and-dads" cricket team which played occasional matches in the evenings and at weekends. Some of the players were genuinely talented, others were not, and took part solely to make up the numbers. These, of course, are the ones I remember best.

We won a few matches; others we lost. Our most alarming moment came when we had a fixture at Keele University. We found the pitch occupied by a team of gigantic West Indians: one looked exactly like Clive Lloyd; another looked exactly like Charlie Griffith. They were hurling a ball around at 100 miles per hour and snatching it out of the air. They took one look at our motley crew and burst out laughing. "Oh, man, we're not playing you, are we?" they chortled in disbelief. It turned out they'd gone to the wrong pitch. We weren't half relieved. At the opposite level of ability, we once played against a team who did not possess the standard white kit. We never found out all their names, so our score-book contained entries like "Bowled Brown Trousers"

Aran, an Indian, impressed us at the start because he had an M.C.C. coaching certificate, but our favourable impression waned when we actually saw him play. For an enthusiastic sportsman, he was quite the slowest on his feet I have ever come across. Once when I was at the non-striker's end when he was batting, the ball eluded the wicket-keeper and I called him for a bye. He moved so slowly that fine leg had time to throw to the bowler's and and run him out. He was furious. "It is never the non-striker who calls for a run! It is always the striker!" he berated me, incorrectly. On another occasion he contrived to tread on his own hand whilst attempting a sweep shot and decided to retire hurt. He was scathing of the way I held the ball for bowling an off-break, telling me I'd never get it to turn. But the only time I saw him bowl was in a practice knock-around. Tony, who was a strong batsman, tended to dispatch anything on his pads into the trees; but when Aran bowled, Tony said the ball came through the air so slowly, and with so little rotation, that he could read the maker's name on it. Tony simply hadn't the heart to smash this bowling, and played every delivery with an exaggeratedly-correct forward defensive stroke. "Well, at least I kept him quiet!" said Aran afterwards.

My principle, when I was captain, was less to ensure a win than to make sure everyone who had volunteered to take part should get a chance to do something. Thus those who could bowl well might have to bat after the non-bowlers, and any volunteering would always be accepted. This sometimes led to odd results. Geoff had played very little recent cricket, but wanted to have a go at bowling. His first delivery, right-handed,was a wide. He then switched to the left hand: another wide. Finally he abandoned these attempts and said he would have to complete the over bowling underarm. Result: more wides! I don't think he played again.

Bill was no cricketer, but such an entertaining character when sober that it was always worthwhile picking him. He generally had difficulty in pushing up his batting average for the season to more than about 2. In one match he was told it was essential for him to defend his wicket as long as possible and not to bother about scoring runs. This suited Bill's unusual defensive procedure, which was to ignore any ball wide of the stumps; staying completely motionless at the crease and not even deigning to pick up his bat. He found this could be quite demoralizing for the bowler. On this occasion, Bill followed the instructions for some time, until eventually he received a ball which actually bounced twice before it reached him. Bill thought he was justified in having a swipe at it, and was duly caught. Once when Bill was bowling it occurred to him that the non-striker might have ventured out of his ground, and calculating there wasn't the time to turn and look, he held the ball behind his head and performed a back-dive into the stumps, driving them violently against the umpire's shins. Bill looked upwards amidst the wreckage with a smile on his face and enquired, "Oh, by the way, umpire: how's that?" First slip was so convulsed with laughter that he actually fell over. I used to have a photograph of Bill executing a square cut, which would not have been out of place in a coaching manual, so perfect was his position; but a spoilsport friend who also knew Bill asked whether there was any reason to believe that the bat had actually made contact with the ball. When I discussed this with Bill, he told me how he once overheard a conversation between two fielders while he was batting:- "He's only got one stroke". "He hasn't even got that!"

Most cricket is played at a much higher level than this, but we could hardly be bettered for entertainment value.

The wrath of the gods

As I write this page, it is six days since I saw the sun. Over us there hangs a pall of black cloud, lightning-crowned, and there is an evil stench in the air. Strange things fall from the sky. It is plain that we have incurred the anger of the gods. Perhaps I should have fled, as others did, but now it is too late: only thieves and murderers walk the streets. 
   I have locked and bolted my doors. I have sufficient food and drink, but it is tiring to read and write by the feeble light of this little lamp. But I should not have to wait long for the final doom: the death of this city; perhaps of the whole world. 
  I wonder; what did we do to so anger the gods? We always offered the prescribed sacrifices, with due reverence. Somehow, all unknowing, we must have committed a sacrilege so terrible that it shook the very foundations of the earth: so terrible indeed that the precise nature of it cannot be revealed even to us.
   My eyes grow tired. I shall cease writing and try to sleep. I wonder if I shall ever awake in this life? I do not know if anyone will be left alive to read this page, but I sign off thus: in the second year of the Emperor Titus Flavius Vespasianus; I, Marcus Barinius Scapo; citizen of Pompeii.