THE MAN WHO TOOK HIS SECATEURS TO THE PUB - FLASH (MICRO) FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

Freddy’s daily stroll included a narrow footpath by a pub. Overgrown flower baskets hung outside, forcing pedestrians to dodge dangling stems. Freddy decided to act. 

One day, he took his secateurs. He stopped to snip off the stems. The new landlord came outside.

“What are you doing?”

“Snipping.”

“You’re a vandal.” 

“I’m doing you a favour. Someone could have a nasty fall. You’d be liable.” 

The landlord bellowed that Freddy was barred for life.

Back home, he told his wife. They giggled.

“How can he bar you,” she said, “when you’ve never been inside that pub in your life?”

 

NEVER CAUGHT BUT RUMBLED - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

My name is Harry and I am a shoplifter, working this morning in a department store. I call it work because it is how I earn a living. 

Shoplifter. Such a meaningless word. I am a thief. I have been a thief for nearly twenty years, proud that I have never been arrested. Think about that. In this era of CCTV overload, of security tags and bleeping exit barriers, I have not been caught. Ever. On some occasions, it was a close-run thing but what’s the point of doing a job like mine or any job if there aren’t thrills along the way.

Most of my possessions are stolen property. You should see my wardrobe and my kitchen appliances. The smallest object I stole was an engagement ring, the largest was a television set. No kidding! There’s always a way. If I want something, I just go out and get it. No money necessary.

Today, I need a birthday present for the lady who lives next door. Sadie is a good neighbour, very kind, quietly spoken. She used to work in fashion and shoe shops many years ago but is now retired. She does not have much of an income, so I try to give her little treats throughout the year. She has no idea that my gifts have not been paid for, but to see the delight on her face as she rips away the wrapping paper, warms my heart. If only she knew what a scoundrel I am.

In conversation, Sadie told me she would like a diary to keep in her handbag. I was browsing the stationery department for something elaborate. I know this store very well. I have studied its routines and escape routes. I have identified patterns of activity – when it’s busy and when it’s quiet. Managers, staff and roaming security people are creatures of habit. I have pinpointed blind spots where cameras are useless. Diaries and notebooks are displayed close to one such spot.

I am careful not to look suspicious, moving my eyes but not my head to see around me. The band of idiot thieves who get caught stick out like sore thumbs. I look normal, nondescript, never furtive, guilty-looking or nervous. Twitchy people attract attention. Years of experience have given me confidence. I know what I am doing and I am good at it.

Of course, rather like a member of the Magic Circle, I will not divulge my sleight-of-hand techniques. Trade secrets. 

A diary is in my hand. I sidestep three paces to the blind spot. The diary is secreted. I spend a few minutes browsing several displays before making my way to the front doors. Mission accomplished.

Sadie’s eyes light up when she unwraps the present. 

‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’ 

She beckons me over for a hug. The hug goes on for several moments longer than a hug should.

‘I know what you do,’ she whispers. 'It takes one to know one.'

 

 

 

THE 40TH ANNIVERSARY OF A DONE DEAL - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

‘If we make it to our fortieth wedding anniversary, then we call it a day. We go our separate ways. We spend the rest of our lives doing our own thing. We draw a line and become free spirits.’ 

 

That was the deal made in 1981 between Michael and Gwen. She had insisted they write it down, sign it like a contract

.

On the eve of the anniversary, they sat in the pub, avoiding the subject. 

‘An hour to midnight,’ Michael said.

Gwen looked away. He held her arm.

‘We don’t have to go through with this silly agreement.’

Gwen faced him. 

‘At first, it was lovely. Eyes across a crowded room. I fell for your charm, but that ebbed away. You had a crush on me, but the novelty wore off. I want to honour the agreement. I’ve wanted to leave for years but I am too much of a coward.’ 

Michael released her arm.

‘I thought we were happy together. Kids. Grandkids. Nice home.’

‘We were content,’ she said. ‘Comfortable. Not always happy. I felt there must be more to life than being married to the same person forever.’ 

Michael was close to tears. 

‘I feel faint,’ he said.

The walk home was awkward. When they reached their front door, Michael held Gwen by the shoulders. 

‘Let’s not do anything stupid. Let’s sleep on it.” 

Gwen backed away. 

‘No, Michael. It’s what I want. I’ll finishing packing the suitcase, and. I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. In the morning I’m going to my sister’s. She said I could stay for a while.’

‘You are packing a suitcase?’ said Michael.

‘I want to be ready for a quick goodbye.  No point in lingering.

Once inside, they went to separate rooms without saying another word. 

Michael lay awake all night in their double bed. From time to time he ran his hand over Gwen’s side. They had made love here, comforted each other here, laughed and cried here at various times in their long marriage. He could hear Gwen tossing and turning in the next room. 

She thought about what she was about to do, but refused to succumb to any remorse. It was an end and a beginning. 

Her alarm clock sounded at six. She got up, showered, dressed and had breakfast. Michael appeared at the kitchen door. He looked exhausted.

‘I never thought this day would actually come.’ he said.

He poured himself a cup of tea. As he sat down, Gwen stood up. 

‘I’ll be off now. I just heard the taxi. We have to make this amicable. Goodbye love.’

 

Michael stared at the table. He heard the front door close and the taxi drive away. After a few moments, he walked to the living room and looked in the mirror. Gradually his frown turned to a faint smile and then a teeth-baring grin. He clenched his fist, punched the air and shouted a triumphant:

‘Yessssss!’ 

SWEETHEART - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning at ten o’clock before closing the front door Bill would call out: ‘I won’t be long’. The supermarket was a short walk to the end of the street. The grocery list hardly changed. He was a creature of habit in his eightieth year and he would always take his time shopping, walking the same route around the aisles on every visit, buying no more than ten items. He became frustrated very occasionally when products were moved to different parts of the store but he muttered to himself not to get too cross with the staff. They knew him and he knew them. It was a friendly place. Bill did not want to upset anyone with petty complaints. The girl on the delicatessen counter was used to him asking for three thin slices of ham and a small pork pie. The fishmonger always cut his piece of cod fillet in half and bagged each piece separately. Bill liked to keep one in the fridge and one in the freezer. The lad on the fruit and vegetable section would always help Bill find the best quality potatoes and bananas. Nothing was too much trouble. Bill thought of himself as ‘old school’ with regard to good manners. He was polite to everyone but he had noticed a decline in people of all ages saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. It doesn’t cost anything, he thought and it’s not difficult to be nice. So this supermarket suited him very well with its courteous employees. They were good company.

In particular, there was one checkout operator, a nice lady called Diane, who always greeted Bill by saying, ‘Hello sweetheart’. In his younger days, Bill had found the overuse of chummy words like love, pet, darling, sweetheart and other variations to be quite irritating. But as he got older, he grew to like it, especially if it sounded sincere. Some shop assistants would say the words on automatic pilot without any warmth but Diane was genuinely friendly. She was his favourite. It was a bit of a let down for him when she was on holiday or off sick.

But on this day, there she was, sitting, waiting for the next customer. ‘Hello sweetheart,’ she beamed as Bill approached. He smiled back and the two chatted as the groceries were scanned. Tuesday and Thursday mornings were good mornings.

Back home, Bill opened the front door. ‘I’m back,’ he called out. ‘It’s a cold morning.’

He put his carrier bag on the kitchen table and walked to the living room. He looked at his wife, Betty, and blew her a kiss. He felt his eyes watering. ‘That Diane called me sweetheart as she always does, Betty. I think she fancies me. It always reminds me of you calling me sweetheart from the first day we met, all those years ago. Diane says it like you. She means it.’ Bill smiled at his wife’s face looking at him from the framed photograph. ‘I do miss you, Betty. I really do, sweetheart.’ 

First published 2018 by Fairlight Books

 

PREDICTABLE BURTON COGGLES GOES ROGUE - FLASH FICTION HUMOUR BY JOE CUSHNAN

It was too beautiful a morning for a conventional dismissal.  Burton Coggles, senior office clerk, was a model employee, strait-laced, no trouble, to some a little dull, a fixture like the exotic plant next to his desk. He was well known for his impeccable timekeeping and a full attendance record. He kept his head down, worked hard and always enjoyed high scores in performance appraisals. He was predictable. But all of that was about to change. 

Burton pressed the elevator button for the sixth floor, home to Human Resources. He had been summoned to a meeting with a manager about half his age and with less than one tenth of his years of service. He knew his time was up. He knew he was for the chop but felt relaxed and ready for mischief. 

Forty years in the job counted for nothing after the takeover. Loyalty and zero absenteeism were worth zip. The company, once fair and noble, was now owned by a conglomerate and staffed in the upper ranks by whizz kids sporting tiny but noticeable MBA lapel badges. It was not the company he joined decades ago. 

Burton exited the lift on six and approached the reception desk.

‘Burton Coggles, ten o’clock, if you please.’ The assistant ticked a schedule and asked him to take a seat. Almost immediately, Della ‘Dizzy’ Heights appeared, shook hands with Burton and escorted him to an interview room. He thought she was a bit too jolly for an executioner. 

Let the mischief begin, he thought, and as Ms Heights began speaking, Burton started to hum. When she paused, he paused. When she started speaking again, he started to hum again. He did not hear much of what she was saying. He could see the irritation and slow burn of frustration on Della’s reddening cheeks. Time for a change of tactics. 

Every time he was asked a question, he gave ridiculous answers.

‘Do you know why you are here?’

‘Ham sandwich.’  

‘What’s the matter with you?’

 ‘Sliced salami.’ 

‘Why are you being silly?’

‘Shish kebab.’

Della twisted in her chair and rolled her eyes.

‘Burton, I have important things to say.’ 

At that, he broke wind, and in the entire history of bodily gas incidents, this was epic, this was Ben-Hur times a thousand. It was noisy and noxious. Della shot up and threw open a window. Burton was giggling like a naughty schoolboy. 

‘Well,’ he said, ‘when you’re being dismissed, all bets are off.’ 

Della had a perplexed look on her face. 

‘Burton, no one is being sacked. I was trying to discuss a new opportunity with you. With all your experience, we have been considering offering you a general consultancy role to improve the wider business.’ 

Burton scrunched his eyes tightly. 

‘But, after this behaviour, I’ll have to report back to the directors. I don’t know what they’ll decide now.’ 

*

Burton Coggles pressed the elevator button and headed for the ground floor. Outside, he noticed that in an otherwise clear blue sky, a lumpy black cloud had formed just above him. He caught sight of his reflection in a shop window and he and the reflection both shook their heads in total disbelief. On this too beautiful a morning for a conventional firing, he had triggered his own dismissal.

 

---

  

THE GIRL WHO HAD NEARLY EVERYTHING - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

 

Shona had been born into a wealthy family.  She thought she could just cruise through life. She wanted for nothing and always got everything she asked for. Pre-teenage, her mansion bedroom was like a retail store, overstocked with toys, books, gadgets and jewellery. Many items hadn’t been touched since delivery. Shona had little interest in the stuff. She just liked to own as much as possible and, rather than sprinkle her affluence humbly, she flaunted it haughtily to the few awestruck friends she had.  She would stamp her feet and scream if she was denied anything.  She could rely on her soft parents to give in to her endless demands.

 

As she blossomed into an attractive young woman, Shona set her sights on expensive holidays, flashy cars, haute-couture and playboys. She lived the high life and the greed gene continued to drive her endless obsession with glitz and ostentation. This was the only life she knew. She was rich and she made sure everyone knew it even just by her appearance. On the rare occasions when she walked the streets, albeit with a bodyguard, she would physically turn her nose up at beggars and give them nothing. The beggars were probably well aware that Shona, bedecked in designer gear, was a heartless snob. She ignored them and they reciprocated.

 

At twenty-three, keen to grab a slice of celebrity fame, Shona married a famous rock singer and embarked on even greater and more expensive adventures. She dabbled in cosmetic surgery, frightened that she would lose her beauty, worried that her youth was ebbing away, aware that money could not control time.  The rock and roll life suited her and she joined her husband in all the before-and-after gig activities associated with fame and stardom. He taught her about drugs and booze, and she scored and got drunk with abandon.  In this heady phase of her life, there was no off-switch.

 

She toured the world with her husband, believing in her own celebrity but unaware that she was nothing but arm-candy for a sex symbol. As the months evaporated, she felt more and more isolated as media and fan interest were increasingly directed at the band and its music. She was not used to being ignored and here she was being ignored in public. It hurt. She grew tired of life on the road. The relationship began to crumble. There were arguments and tantrums on both sides. But, for reasons she could not explain, she stuck by her man.

About a year into the marriage she saw photographs of herself in a gossip magazine and they horrified her. The images were not the same as looking in the mirror where she could tilt her head and pull attractive poses. These photographs showed a haggard woman, stoned and wasted. Shona realised something that had never occurred to her before. She was the girl who had everything up to that moment. The only thing she had never possessed was any sense of remorse. 

 

WEDDING DAZE - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

Imelda loved the atmosphere of a wedding, especially the fashion, with everyone making an effort to get spruced up and look magnificent. Men seemed to be stuck with suits, but ladies could be as extravagant as they dared, and a wedding was one of those rare occasions when hats could be worn without the wearers becoming too self-conscious. Imelda’s was a yellow pillbox number while her friend Penny sported a crimson fedora with an enormous spider brooch pinned to the left-hand side. The whole event was perfect, a beautifully turned-out congregation, in a delightful old village church on a wonderful summer’s day.

‘Perfect, perfect, perfect’, thought Imelda, except for the groom standing near the altar waiting for his new bride to arrive. He was facing away from the pews, straight ahead towards the glowing stained-glass of the Resurrection. As well he might.
Charlie MacIntosh was the human resources director of a large retail company, successful in his career, fun-loving, a wine buff and general all-round good egg, and very, very handsome to boot. He was, as the kids these days say, ‘fit’. There he stood, on this very important, very special day, waiting for his gorgeous wife-to-be.

‘She’s the luckiest woman in the world, Penny’, Imelda mused in a low voice. ‘The only trouble is, dammit, she’s not me.’
Penny looked at her friend, grimaced a little and whispered back:
‘Oh Immy, you are a one. Anyone would think you have the hots for old Charlie.’
Imelda let out a tiny chuckle, trying to give the impression that she was only joking.

Charlie and Imelda had shared an apartment for a couple of years in a purely platonic, best-mates kind of arrangement. They lived their own lives, but often spent evenings together in the flat watching television, listening to music, and occasionally wine tasting and chatting about everything and anything. Imelda had introduced Charlie to a couple of boyfriends, although she was now free and single, and Charlie had done the same with his girlfriends. But his latest squeeze, Helen, seemed to be a bit more special than the others. He was enchanted by her, and when she came round for dinner for the first time, Imelda could feel the intensity of their relationship just from their body language and eye movements. This relationship was serious.

Imelda had never let on to Charlie that she was falling in love with him. She feared rejection and didn’t want to risk upsetting their apartment arrangements; she certainly didn’t want to ruin a great friendship. In any case, it was Charlie who rocked the boat, the night before the wedding. In the tradition of the husband and wife-to-be spending their last pre-wedding night apart, Charlie had opted to stay at the flat. Imelda cooked a spaghetti Bolognese and uncorked the first of a few bottles of Chianti. It was a nice evening. They talked and laughed for hours, and Charlie seemed relaxed. Imelda kept trying to resist any amorous feelings or any drunken slips of the tongue that might ruin the night.

But when Charlie said: ‘Immy, I have something to tell you, something I need to get off my chest.’
Imelda raised her eyebrows and wondered what was coming next.
Charlie said, ‘I need to whisper it in your ear.’
Imelda laughed: ‘You’re a right Charlie, Charlie! There’s no one else here but us chickens.’

Charlie moved over and sat down next to Imelda on the sofa.

‘I know that, but I need to whisper it because it’s a secret and I can’t say it out loud.’

Imelda waited for Charlie to declare his undying love for her at last, and then kiss her for hours.

‘Imelda,’ breathed Charlie, ‘Helen, my soon-to-be-wife, has been having an affair.’

Imelda recoiled and her head hit the wooden corner of the sofa.

‘Ouch! What? Are you mad? Do you know what you are saying? How do you know she’s been having an affair?’

‘Crikey,’ inhaled Charlie, ‘so many questions! But the real question is, should I go ahead and marry her?’

Back in the church on this nearly perfect day, Imelda’s eyes locked like laser beams onto the back of Charlie’s head. After his whispered confession, they had talked about it for a while before Charlie declared that he had forgiven Helen and that his love for her far outweighed any feelings of betrayal. The wedding would go ahead as planned. The new future which beckoned erased any past indiscretion. Over coffee the next morning, they had clinked mugs as Imelda wished Charlie good luck for the ceremony.

The organ signaled Helen’s arrival at the church, and Imelda thought that for a cheating, two-timing bitch, she looked stunning in every way. She was indeed the luckiest woman in the world. As Charlie waited for her to walk up the aisle, he continued to stare at the Resurrection window, maybe thinking that he had risen above a potential disaster.

The service washed over Imelda’s distracted mind, the words drowned out by the wrestling between her conscience and her desire. She was trying to be rational; trying to not feel spurned. Yes, she was jealous, but her next actions would require a cool head and a huge dose of courage. The minister addressed the congregation:

‘If any person here present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, they should declare it now.’

As usual, at this point, heads swivelled as people glanced about looking for any takers, but all seemed to be well – except for a movement from a lady in a yellow pillbox hat. Imelda stood up, prompting expectant gasps from the congregation. Charlie, aware of something going on, looked around and saw Imelda standing nervously halfway down the church.

‘No!’ he mouthed at her, but Imelda took a deep breath and started to speak.

First published 2021 by Spillwords

 

 

BROTHERS - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

When her father was drunk, he’d say, ‘I used to have a brother, you know’, and get this faraway look in his eyes. When he was sober there was never any mention of a brother and if questioned about family history, her father would quickly change the subject. She adored him and did not want to press or annoy him too much. On several occasions when he was out of the house, she rummaged looking for any photographs of him as a young man in the hope that this brother he kept mentioning when he was drunk, really did exist. There might be a couple of snaps somewhere, – even just one – of the two brothers posing. She found nothing. When her mother was alive, she hadn’t mentioned a brother-in-law. Vicky had asked about a wedding album but her mother said they couldn’t afford one back in the fifties. If there was a brother, he might have been best man. But neither parent confirmed anything. They were tight-lipped about this part of the past.

Guinness and gin loosened her father’s tongue enough for her to assume that he had something to hide or that his imagination was playing tricks. But why would he say such a thing? Vicky even booked an appointment at the register office to search birth, marriage and death records. She found documents about her mother and father but after following clues and links and trying to guess at possible dates, she found nothing in the official archives about an uncle. She only had a surname to go on and that proved not to be enough.

Then, as often happens, in the early hours of one morning, she woke suddenly, sat up in bed and pondered a possibility that had not occurred to her. She put the notion that no such man existed to one side for the time being and considered the idea that a person seemingly airbrushed from family history might have been some kind of embarrassment, a criminal perhaps. 

Vicky spent hours online searching old newspapers for any scrap of information. Old court reports were interesting generally but there was nothing specific about this phantom brother. She even wrote a short piece and posted it on Facebook asking if anything clicked with anyone. The mystery man was always on Vicky’s mind. So she stopped searching for a few weeks and got on with her life. On a coffee break at work some time later, she checked her social media accounts. There was a message waiting on Facebook. She clicked it and read: ‘Hi. I read your post about a possible uncle. I think I know the man you are looking for. He ruined my life. I was only thirteen. He ruined my life. Him and his brother.’

First published 2020 in Litro

 

TWIST - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

It was Chubby Checker who did it, as he has done many times before. As soon as The Twist started, the dance floor filled up. There were hoots and squeals, gyrating hips, flailing arms and a competition amongst some to see who could master the ‘round and round, and up and down’ manoeuvre. Most wedding receptions like a golden oldie disco, and this one hit the spot with Tamla Motown and rock and roll on the playlist. Robert sat this one out, nursing a bottle of lager, semi-hidden behind a pillar. He was fixated with the bride, watching her every move as she danced, witnessing her joyful relief that the marriage service had gone smoothly.

It had been a big wedding with sizeable numbers of family on both sides of the aisle and a large contingent of friends. The bride had entered the church to Labi Siffre’s It Must Be Love and she had looked beautiful. Her father had been proud. Members of the congregation had smiled, given the thumbs-up and blown kisses. The bride had beamed and blushed.

During the marriage ceremony, no one had fluffed a line. The subsequent readings included poems by Christopher Marlowe and Walt Whitman. Everyone had sung Lord of the Dance with gusto, with the priest fancying himself as Luciano Pavarotti, and not making a bad job of it.

As everyone was leaving the church, bells rang out in celebration, some small children blocking out the noise with their hands to their ears. There were hugs and kisses, chatter and laughter in the church grounds before everyone made their way to a nearby hotel for the reception.

The disco had moved on from Chubby to The Four Tops singing Reach Out, I’ll Be There with most people on the dance floor attempting the coordinated moves of a typical sixties soul group. A woman approached Robert and tried to coax him into joining in, but he resisted and she moved away. He was not in any mood to dance. He was still watching the bride.

In the speeches, some very nice things were said about the bride and groom. The best man told some funny anecdotes that entertained the audience, which was sometimes reacting with genuine laughter, but other times pretending politely that what they were hearing was hilarious, and occasionally groaning at a corny joke. Robert played along with the crowd. It was that kind of occasion.

In the middle of The Mavericks’ Dance the Night Away, the swaying bride spotted Robert and beckoned him over. He waved his hand to decline the invitation. She shrugged her shoulders. Robert stood up and left the room for some fresh air. It was a chilly night. The sky was clear. Stars twinkled. The moon looked like a sideways smile or a frown depending on how you looked at it. Robert sighed deeply. The bride was on his mind. The bride, his wife of a few hours, was deliriously happy. He was miserable. For reasons he couldn’t understand, before the day was over, he hated the idea of being married.

First published 2017 by Fairlight Books

 

 

LUNCH INTERRUPTED - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

The patio was a mess of sandwiches, Victoria sponge wedges, sausage rolls, potato crisps, broken glasses and bottles, leaking cans of beer and cola. In shock and disbelief, we stood looking up. The sky was like the opening of The Simpsons cartoon show, clouds moving in slow motion. Then we looked down at the body on the lawn. It had landed with an epic thud from out of the blue. The al fresco lunch had been upended by the four of us as we leapt out of our garden chairs. We were frozen, all of us rigid and staring until Colin shook his head, took out his phone and called the police.

We circled the corpse. It was face down but it looked male and, unsurprisingly, lifeless. We discussed whether or not to turn it over, but no one had the nerve.

‘We shouldn’t touch it,’ said Alice, Colin’s wife. ‘CSI and all that.’

My wife, Gemma, looked pale and unwell. She was on the verge of tears. She screamed. I grabbed hold of her and we hugged until she calmed down. Colin and Alice held hands tightly. We sat again and waited for the police, not once taking our eyes off the body.

‘A proper gate crasher,’ said Colin, attempting a joke. None of us laughed. 

A siren sounded in the distance, increasing in volume as it approached the house. I guided the two police officers to the back garden. There was no need to point to the problem. One officer knelt to examine it. He whispered something to his colleague and she stepped away to radio a message. The kneeling officer suggested we go inside as he was going to turn the body over and didn’t want us to see it. Colin, Alice and Gemma took the advice. I opted to stay outside. 

As expected, the man’s face was flattened and bloody. I rocked back and forth and felt an uncontrollable urge to vomit.  I decided to join the others inside.

Before long, a scenes of crime team and medics were photographing, taking notes, discussing possibilities. One of the police officers asked that we each write a statement about what we saw and heard. We were asked if we needed counselling. We all agreed we were fine for the moment but that we might when the full horror of the incident sank in.

After a couple of hours, the corpse was stretchered away in a body bag and the crime team, medics and police officers left. I poured each of us a large whiskey. We took our drinks outside and walked to where the man had landed. At some point, we would find out who he was and how and why he fell from the sky. 

We clinked glasses, raised a toast to this unexpected stranger, drank the whiskey in one, knowing we would never forget the man, even after the lawn had repaired itself and erased his perfect imprint.

First published 2020 by Spillwords

PARK DESIGNS: WORKSHOP & GALLERY, HATHERSAGE, DERBYSHIRE

 

Great morning today in Hathersage, Derbyshire. First time visit and it is a delight.

Chanced upon the Park Designs Gallery & Worksop and met the owner, Si Homfray, who also happens to be a creative genius.

Please take time to browse his website via this link - https://www.parkdesigns.co.uk - and you will see much evidence of this genius!

The range of products includes wall art, kitchenware, homeware, clothing, stationery and a splendid range that celebrates National Parks.

Open Tuesday to Saturday, 10am to 5pm.

Park Designs

3a Hathersage Business Park

Heather Lane

Hathersage

Derbyshire

S32 1DP

T: 01433 651562

E: hello@parkdesigns.co.uk

W: https://www.parkdesigns.co.uk

BOOK REVIEW: REPORTING THE TROUBLES 2 - COMPILED BY DERIC HENDERSON & IVAN LITTLE

 

Blackstaff Press 2022

https://blackstaffpress.com/reporting-the-troubles-2-9781780733258

Reporting the Troubles 2

More journalists tell their stories of the Northern Ireland conflict

Compiled by Deric Henderson and Ivan Little

Foreword by Bertie Ahern and Sir Tony Blair

This book (and its predecessor, Reporting the Troubles, published in 2018) is, on a deceptively simple level, a book by journalists about journalism. But it is so much more than that. Book 1 and Book 2 are recollections of some of the most harrowing and deplorable events that happened in Northern Ireland in relatively recent times.

"Reporting on the tragedy of what happened here in the last five decades was never easy. It took a certain kind of journalist to head off into the night to report from the scene of the latest murder, to listen to heartbreaking stories of the lives destroyed by the conflict, and to try to make sense of it all." (Mark Carruthers).

The memories of death, injury, destruction and brutality are told vividly and also with humanity for the victims and their families. These are people stories that I read with stirred emotions, often with a tear in my eye or with raging anger.  I was struck by many things but when reading about babies, young children and others who were killed by "mistake", followed by a blasé "oops, sorry, but our campaign continues" from paramilitary outfits, I could feel the intensity of my blood boiling.

On one side of these narratives, there is despair and everlasting grief. On the other, there is a clinging to a sincere desire that the current fragile peace in Northern Ireland will one day become something more solid cemented by hope.

Another running thought as I read these brilliant pieces of journalism was the attempts by some individuals and organisations to wipe the slate clean, to erase the past as if it never really happened or mattered. How wrong would that be? What an insult to those who died, those who can never forget and those whose pain and torment never fade!

"In Northern Ireland there is a word for dealing with the past. It is a word for the killings during the Troubles, the murders, assassinations, the abductions, the bombings, the dreadful mistakes, the people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We call it legacy. But legacy is difficult, because legacy lasts a lifetime. (Will Leitch)

This is not always an easy read but it is an essential book that (along with its previous companion) should be read widely for years to come. There is truth here, truth told by great journalists via exceptional journalism. Without these extraordinary people, quite a few dealing still with their own recurring nightmares, the past really would be forgotten. Journalism at this high level really does make a difference. 

"We dedicated the first volume of the book to the victims of the Troubles and they and their families are still at the heart of this second book. We hope that both volumes stand as an enduring act of remembrance." (Deric Henderson and Ivan Little).

An enduring act of remembrance, it certainly is. Highly recommended.