The Ship’s Ghost and Me

Pale, blonde hair picked up the back-scatter of the starboard navigation light and glowed a soft green. My watch-mate, Arne, tucked tightly into the corner of the wheelhouse, braced himself against the ship’s movement. Not a sailor, Arne was an activist who had come aboard for a specific purpose but doubled up as a watchkeeper.

‘Quiet,’ the captain said. ‘Can’t get a word out of him. I call him ‘The Ship’s Ghost’ because he never says anything. He just appears in the wheelhouse and stands in the corner.’

A student on his summer vacation, Arne had joined us to climb up the legs of an oil rig or to chain himself to something, as environmental protesters are wont to do, and I wondered if he’d been overwhelmed at being put on watch with the vessel’s master. I wondered this because, when Arne moved on to my watch, I couldn’t shut him up. Who knows, it could have been sea-sickness that kept him silent but, whatever it was, I’m glad he loosened up.

I can’t tell you all the things we discussed in the long watches of the night – not because they are secret, but because it was sixteen years ago and I can’t remember it all. And, anyway, at that time of day conversation can wander from swapping stories to inventing excuses about how the captain’s coffee pot got broken (It was aliens, have I told you that one?) and I hesitate to reveal how daft sailors are in the dark.

I do know that Arne had travelled in South America, been ill with dysentery and come home disenchanted. Not disenchanted with the places he’d visited or the people he’d met but with his expectation of learning something profound from different cultures. He’d gone hoping to find himself, he told me. He’d been looking for a sense of place.

I don’t know if the last coffee he’d made before he said that had contained water from Delphi or something, but suddenly I went all mystical on him.

‘Go home,’ I told him. ‘Go back to your mother’s farm in Denmark and hike out into the woods. That’s where you’re from and the landscape, the climate, the actual bedrock is part of what formed you. That’s where you’ll find your sense of place. Only then will you be able to comfortably absorb from other cultures.’ Arne moved out of the green glow of the starboard light and came towards me. By the faint glimmer coming from the gyro compass, I saw he was smiling.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I will do that.’

Today, sixteen years and many miles from that night in the Atlantic, I stood on the hill above my village. Whilst my dog snuffled around in the clover I turned three hundred and sixty degrees and I thought of Arne as I absorbed the life-force radiating from this green land with its red soil.

I was born in the next door county but we moved away when I was very small. I’ve lived in Oxfordshire, Berkshire, London, Norfolk, Gambia, Nigeria, Middlesex and many other places so I can’t say what landscape, what climate or bedrock helped to form me but here, in this village with my little house and my big, daft dog. I feel a strong sense of place.

I hope Arne found his.

 

Back On The Soap Box

‘I think it’s just a witch hunt now,’ said a woman, leaning over the newspaper rack where my sister and I were browsing the headlines. Before my eyes were three pictures, three well-known faces side by side. Stuart Hall, William Roache and Rolf Harris. Men who have been in famous since before I was born. Men who had been adopted by the British public almost to the level of National Treasures and now all three have been arrested for/accused of rape.

‘After all,’ the woman continued. ‘We’re talking sixty years ago.’

Actually it’s not quite that far back but even so …

‘I hope they’re innocent,’ I said (although Hall had admitted to most of his charges earlier that day) ‘But if they’re not, I hope they get put away.’

A human-rights barrister has commented that the age of consent should be lowered to thirteen to prevent the ‘persecution of old men.’ She has apparently said that child sex abuse crimes are ‘low level misdemeanours.’

Ah. So indecently assaulting a nine-year-old girl (which Hall has admitted to) is a misdemeanour? Silly me, I thought it was a heinous, sick act which scars it’s victim FOREVER. Naughty Mr Hall, don’t do it again.

I know there are shades of grey in all things but if one more woman says, in my hearing, that it was all a long time ago and the girls were probably asking for it I will not be responsible for my response. Funny, I have yet to hear a man make this sort of remark.

Moreover, yet another gang of child abusers has been jailed in this country. Young men this time. Young men who operate in gangs and prey on vulnerable kids and groom them before raping them and selling them into prostitution. The papers are full of tales of how the police missed opportunities to stop these creatures and at least one care home manager has been revealed as careless, to say the least. When a missing girl returned to her care home in a taxi, he refused to pay the fare so she got back in the car and returned to her abusers. Nice one, mate. Having said that, I did work with ‘looked after children’ as they are called. One of the homes I worked in specialised in children with problems arising from childhood abuse and I know from experience that it isn’t an easy job. A child who has been prostituted or raped is not big on trust. A child who has been prostituted or raped is not big on obeying the rules just because one in a long line of care workers says they must. So I can sympathise with that manager. I don’t know all the elements of that situation so I will do him the courtesy of keeping an open mind.

But … To the doctor who examined one of these wounded, traumatised girls whilst simultaneously conducting a phone conversation about his upcoming golfing trip I say shame on you. Shame on you, you heartless ****

During my Safeguarding training, before being let loose on vulnerable kids, I learned that we ALL have a duty of care for children. Yes, I am British and yes, this is a very Britain-centred post but wherever you are reading this, I would say that you too have a duty of care. Look around you. Is there a child near you that needs someone’s/anyone’s help? Is that group of people hurting children? Is there a cellar with unexplained noises coming from it? Has that man across the street really got three young women locked up in his house that he abducted TEN Years ago?

Don’t mind your own business. Don’t look the other way. And, whatever you do, don’t assume that when someone reveals that they were abused five minutes or five months or fifty years ago that they have got over it.

 

Bounce

Long shadows, afternoon sun oozing down the hillside like Golden Syrup and randy cock-pheasants guarding their harems from young would-be lovers in the fields. Spring has sprung.

Larks dash skywards from the clover when Eric and I enter the field for a game of fetch on the hilltop – well, I say fetch. What I really mean is, I chuck the ball, he runs after it, finds it and runs off in the other direction chewing it. I can shout, ‘here boy” or ‘gimme the ball, damn you’ but, unless I run after him and grab the ball from his mouth, Eric is going to chew it until all that remains are a few bits of rubber dripping in drool. The larks think that’s hilarious from the sound of it. They can laugh but that dog is costing me a small fortune in rubber balls. I thought I’d get one up on him. I’m a sailor, I can make him a ball. At sea we use a large knot called a monkey’s fist as a weight when sending a messenger line (aka a ‘heaving line’) ashore for mooring up. That knot is round and, when using a decent thickness of rope, quite hard-wearing when attacked by a dog’s teeth, But will he chase that? Nah. I throw my lovingly crafted ball and he looks at it, he looks at me and then he stares off into the middle distance looking for something ‘interesting’ to run after. My sister informs me that it’s because the monkey’s fist doesn’t bounce. Talk about picky!

So, I have thought about this and when I can afford it I’m going to buy a length of bungee rope. Hah! You want bounce, Eric? I’ll give you bounce. And… when making a monkey’s fist, it’s necessary to put something in the middle of it to stop it collapsing. Years ago, it was common to put lumps of metal such as shackles or large nuts in them but that was outlawed – something about rope-men around the world suffering fractured skulls – so we used to put a rag in the knot then soak the knot in red lead (an old-fashioned paint) but that too caused injuries to the guys ashore so now we are only allowed to put un-doctored rags in them. But, I’m not using my fist on a ship, I’m using it in a West Country field to amuse my fussy Doberman. Therefore I intend to put a small rubber ball in the middle. It’s one of those super-bouncy ones that I’ve had in the bottom of my rope bag for years. Watch that sucker bounce!

You let me know when you’ve got a ‘proper’ ball to throw

Please make him a ball he can chase, Lorraine. I’m fed up of running away from him

Look into my eyes, Eric. You are feeling sleepy. You want to chase a monkey’s fist …

Watch this space because I will let you know of my success (failure is not an option.)

 

When It’s Quiet

Eric the dog was restless tonight. We spent the evening at Little Sis’s and he cavorted all over the place with the other dogs Ernie and Floyd – well Ernie anyway, Floyd isn’t much of a cavorter – but when I got him home, instead of settling down for a snooze, he paced, played and pranced. Finally I asked him if he wanted to go out. From his reaction I guessed that he did.

My back garden has no fence at the end. I can walk up some steps and out into a field where a barn owl glides low over the tussocky grass and pheasants keep a wary eye on the neighbour’s cats. As his homing instinct is unreliable, Eric must be tethered. I made him a nice long lead with my best sailor knots but my garden is small and full of obstacles so I have to hang around and untangle Eric at regular intervals. Tonight, I thought he’d pee and ask to come in again but, no, he went up the steps into the field and stood stock still. Hovering in the pool of light by the back door, I watched him. What could he smell? What could he hear out there in the undergrowth? I held my breath and listened. The air felt fresh after yesterday’s rain and it was warm enough for me to go outside barefoot in t-shirt and jeans. There was no breeze but I did pick up the rustling of small mammals scuttling through the grass. A couple of fields over a sheep bleated and another member of the flock replied.

Eric turned. He came back down into the garden and followed his nose sniffing in all the corners. He spent a while staring through the fence into next door’s garden (hoping for some entertainment from their cats, I imagine) then went back up to the field. I watched. For twenty minutes or so I sniffed the air – just like Eric. And I listened to the night – just like Eric. In the clean, country quiet, the white noise in my head subsided and for the first time in an age the fist of tension inside me eased. I felt calmed. I felt the writer in me take a breath. She’s still alive then. I don’t know if she’s out of her coma yet but those precious minutes in the garden watching my dog brought me into contact with her and I’m thrilled. I hope she wakes up soon and I hope she wakes up hungry.

We came inside shortly after that, Eric and I. Now he’s fast asleep, curled up like a puppy and snoring like a chainsaw but I forgive him. He led me into an oasis of peace out there in the dark so I owe him. Cheers, Eric.

 

Moriarty’s Rap Sheet

A few weeks ago a reader asked who and what is Moriarty and why is he named after a master criminal? Well, be curious no more. Moriarty is a sleek black feline that my niece, Medusa, spotted among a litter of feral kittens some years ago. He clawed his way over his siblings to get to her and has clawed things ever since.

His brother, Geoff the God of Biscuits, went to live with close friends and for a while it seemed they’d got the better deal. A nicer, more placid cat you couldn’t wish to meet but then, Geoff was hit by a car and suffered terrible injuries. He survived – thanks to a truly brilliant vet – but he lost an eye and most of his teeth. His warm-hearted personality remains intact though. Meanwhile, Moriarty has led a charmed life. Signing a deal with the Devil has suited him.

Bird life and small furry creatures have all suffered at the claws of Moriarty. The mortal remains of West country wildlife have littered the kitchen floor and squelched between the toes of unwary, barefoot, early risers. Also, larger animals have come to dread his soft-footed arrival. Yes, even Rufus the Superannuated who is twice his size. Not that Moriarty dares to threaten the star of He’s Too Sexy. No, in his presence, Moriarty becomes ultra affectionate rubbing his head under Rufus’s chin and winding himself round and around until Rufus can stand no more and bats the black cat away with a huge ginger paw. Rejected and nursing a bruised ego, Moriarty saunters off to take his frustration out on Floyd – he of the short legs. Being small and close to the ground, Floyd uses the cat-flap when he needs to visit the garden and this gives Moriarty much amusement. He waits until the dog has gone out and then he sits directly in front of the cat-flap. Floyd is a brave dog but he’s not stupid, he knows that if he dares to re-enter the house, Moriarty will be on him with claws bared and teeth gnashing. The status-quo remains until a human hears the sad whimpering coming from outside and opens the back door to let Floyd in (And offers him safe passage past the cat).

For too long this bewhiskered villain has wreaked havoc. He’s a cuddly purr machine when occupying the lap of a fire-side human but he’s not the soft, silky, bundle of affection that he wants us to think. He is a small furry demon. But … the universe has balance – yin and yang, the pleasure-pain principle, equal and opposite reactions, etc – and now Moriarty’s nemesis has arrived. No, it’s not the great Sherlock Holmes, it’s better than that. I am talking of my one true love (well, one of several true loves if I’m honest), the equally naughty and equally black, Eric. Being a force for good, he bears Moriarty no ill will but greater forces are at work here and when a cat runs away from him, Eric is compelled to follow. At speed.

The howling, growling, hissing and spitting emanating from a far corner of my sister’s house alerts us that the two animals have met (despite our efforts to keep them apart) and we rush to defuse the situation. Eric, hackles up will be found straining towards some high point in the room where an arched, spiky shadow with pointy teeth is staring down at him.

Poor Moriarty, if Eric is around, the cat hides upstairs, or in the outhouse. With family unity affected by this state of affairs my sister, in her role of matriarch and chief animal-lover, stepped in. She concluded that if she sat in the front room with Moriarty on her lap and Eric in the kitchen, she could make a fuss of the cat and reassure him that his family still loved him. Moriarty wasn’t sure but Little Sis persevered and the cat relaxed. Until some dumb klutz (me) left the door open and allowed Eric into the room. Little Sis hung on to the cat determined to prove he was safe, even with my dopey Doberman in the room, but Moriarty wasn’t convinced. Sinking his fangs deep into my sister’s finger, he persuaded her to let him go. At this point, I am fighting a tug of war with Eric’s collar as I drag him backwards from the room but I wasn’t too occupied to see Moriarty scamper up my sister’s face and place himself on her head. She was wearing a cat-hat complete with ten hat-pins to hold it firmly in place. Dog and cat fell silent, they bowed before my sister’s ability to out-shriek the pair of them. Sorry sis.

I respect my sister’s knowledge, experience and ability with all kinds of animals but I too am at the mercy of universal forces and if you’re going to get between opposing universal forces, you’re going to get hurt. Therefore, my sister’s injuries and later trip to A&E were not my fault. None the less, Eric and I have been banished to live in a house by ourselves while Moriarty lounges in Medusa’s bedroom listening to One Direction albums and eating premium cat food. Hah! Evil wins again.

Kneel before me, human, for I am Moriarty the Master Criminal

 

Shedward Skywards

My New Office

Ta Da! Shedward is no longer a shed. Well, actually, he is but he belongs to my nephew Semtex now. Shedward the blog has gone up in the world. I have moved to a house less than two minutes walk from Shedward and I now live quietly with my dog Eric – and Semtex who seems to have come with me. I do try to send him home but his mother says ‘No, no, I don’t mind if he stays with you …’

The attraction of my little house is the attic where the previous occupants have created three small rooms. Semtex spent the first two nights sleeping in the largest of them and is not pleased that I’ve put my desk up there. To keep the peace, I have acceded to some of his demands and he now has shelving space in my bedroom to keep his change of clothes in and I have a number of plastic guns in the attic for when he is fulfilling his duties as a part-time sniper. His main target is the kid’s play-park next door. He can open the window, spy on his peers and shoot them if he’s of a mind to. Occasionally, he does play football in the park with his friends. I never open the window and shoot at him, honest.

Now that he is the new resident of Shedward, Semtex spends time there writing his pastiche of The Hunger Games. I choose to believe that the hours spent wearing my bluetooth headset, talking to the rest of his troop (in his imagination – the headset is not connected) and murdering passersby is research for his story The Gun Games. What does it say about me that the inside of an eleven-year-old boy’s head is not a mystery to me – except … I’d dearly like to know how it is that he always thrashes me at Frustration? Anyway, I’m on the lookout for a bedroll for when he wants sleep in the attic. And, I apparently have to get him a desk for his shed to make up for taking my desk, Mr Disraeli, away.

Being in a rural area means that, though there are a few houses in the way, I have wonderful views from every window, especially the attic ones. I look forward to spending a night up there but for now I’ll stick to my bed. I’m not as resilient as I was and, besides, Eric can’t get up the ladder.

The front view from the attic

The rear view

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll have to wait until there’s another grown-up in the house to mollify Eric and until I can find a super-thick, warm and comfortable bedroll to support old bones.

Oblivious to all of this, Eric is happy in his new home and spends his time trying to keep Semtex off the sofa.

It’s My sofa

No, no, it’s MY sofa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So much for the quiet life. Still, even dogs and boys have to sleep (and, boy, can Eric snore) and when they do I’ll climb the ladder to my new Shedward. I have no excuse now, I have the place and the space in my life to get writing and, in a land where your ‘shed’ is a euphemism for your mind, I will feel no guilt in continuing to call this blog Shedward. From my mind to yours, you are as welcome to share my words as Semtex and Eric are to share my home. Onwards and upwards.

 

 

 

Here I Come, Blinking Into The Light

I fell over in the mud a few weeks back. I came down harder than I realised on my right hand. It was neither broken nor dislocated but it doesn’t half hurt. That put blogging out of my reach for a bit especially when, one week later, our newest canine rescue bit me on the same hand. Oh how I love the A&E Department in the wee small hours… This was my first ever dog bite and, crikey, they are really painful aren’t they?

I should make clear that Ernie, a ten-month-old Collie that was apparently fed on Pot Noodle for much of his life, did not meant to bite me. He was protecting himself from Floyd who had ambushed him from behind and I was simply caught in the middle. I’m very Glad that Eric wasn’t involved! I dread to imagine the damage his jaws would have done.

Now, with a freshly-healed scar but a still-wonky wrist I am finally writing on my blog again – from a new bedroom! Yes, I have found a wonderful little home two minutes walk from my sister, Medusa and Semtex and after exactly a week after I moved in, I’ve got internet. Hello world, I’ve missed you!

As you have no doubt realised, this is a thinly-veiled list of excuses for my long silence but, hey, at least I’m writing something. If anyone out there is still reading Shedward, I’m working on a new post and will put it up as soon as I can.