Plotting a Novel by Harry Riley

‘Plotting a novel or short story’

by Harry Riley

So you’ve decided to create a story. In front of you is a blank sheet of paper or a blank word doc on your computer. You have a general idea of the subject and have thought of a good title. This is your starting point. What next? Authors come in all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life but they all have one thing in common, an urge to write a book that will grab the reader from beginning to end, and there lies the rub: how to achieve this desired result.

My own, unoriginal method is to study the works that have already succeeded and stood the test of time. I have heard it said that Charles Dickens would not have been published today. The narrative style is out. We have to show not tell. Dialogue is king! This may be true of good dialogue but you can walk into any bookshop today and still find copies of the classics on the shelves. People love a good story. If these books did not sell they would not be there.

Like Dickens, Thomas Hardy studied the often self-destructive traits of human behaviour. His stories brilliantly reflect the twists and turns of life and outside influences and are as relevant today as when they were first written. He could depict the highs and lows and choices that we make to lift us up or plunge us into tragedy. His characters often have failings of pride and jealousy, hate and revenge. A good story is one that strings together many of these elements so that the reader is hooked from the beginning.

Dickens developed pathos, sympathy and generosity of spirit to great effect. That great author also used love, wealth and poverty to show life’s treacherous inequality.

I believe we can learn so much from reading the tales that have entranced generations of readers. This is a lifelong task and there are many thousands of writers out there trying to create the memorable story.

To my mind the one thing that sets human beings above the apes is our ability to make choices, it is this one factor that dictates our fate and choice is often the pivotal point of a great novel.

In ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’ a drunken Michael Henshard chooses to sell his wife to the highest bidder, an act that comes back to haunt him with devastating consequences for the rest of his life. With ‘The Withered Arm,’ again by Thomas Hardy, a man chooses not to acknowledge his son until it is too late.

As we grow older in our own lives we may lament: If only I had done this or had not done that. If only: choices, choices!

Also in a great novel there are often sub-plots to grab or divert the reader’s attention. One such device is an unexpected letter containing a verbal bombshell; Wilkie Collins ‘The Woman in White.’ A threat or revelation is used to great effect: as is a ghostly intervention in the novella ‘A Christmas Carol.’

Authors have their own favourite ways to throw in red herrings and confuse the reader’s train of thought, particularly useful in the ‘who-done-it genre.’

The good novel is never predictable and a twist in the tale helps to make the story a memorable experience.

Plotting by this format will not guarantee you a best seller as there are many more ingredients to put into place, not least being an easily readable writing style but that is another subject.

Weekend Soldier by Harry Riley

‘Weekend Soldier’

by Harry Riley

This is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental

It was 1958 and Arthur my best pal, decided to join the army but I still had two years of an apprenticeship to serve so I couldn’t follow his lead. He had volunteered for the REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) and when he returned home on leave he was full of the excitement and adventure of it all. He would reminisce over a pint at ‘The Trip to Jerusalem’ Pub, about the great comradeship and talk about foreign travel after completion of basic training. He already knew he was going to Christmas Island. I listened eagerly but was stuck in a factory and couldn’t get away to join in the fun. So I decided to do the next best thing and become a part-time soldier. My plan was to join the Royal Artillery (My dad’s old regiment) There was a small Regimental Barracks within three miles of my home address and so I made an appointment and duly joined up for two years service in the Territorial Army. I had signed up for foreign-service duty if called upon and fully expected to do summer training abroad. There was talk we could be sent to Germany but it never came off.

It was now the ‘cold-war’ with Russia’s nuclear threat ever present: to vaporize us all at a stroke.

In the meantime Arthur sent back photos of himself lounging amongst the Pacific Island Palm trees, stripped to the waist and looking every inch the sun-tanned soldier. This was amazing because he was a ‘red-head’ like me and previously only ever went lobster-red and peeled

At least I was now getting involved in soldiering of a sort. I ought to have been grateful but my uniform was thick and incredibly itchy and the only chance I got for rifle practice was at the annual butts when we each had to fire old wartime ‘303’ bolt action rifles in order to qualify for the Bounty Payout.

Having a keen interest in motorbikes I had tried to become a dispatch rider but demand was high and so I chose to be a driver-wireless operator. Instead. Along with several others in our battery I would take my turn to crash the gears of a big truck as the instructor tried vainly to teach us to double-de-clutch up steep hills. It was all good fun but when I eventually became my Sergeant Major’s driver-operator he would only allow me to drive around the camp perimeter at five miles an hour, being doubtful of my ability to brake in an emergency.

Our regiment was equipped with 25 pounder-field-guns and a gun and ammunition limber would be hauled along behind a big vehicle to army firing ranges for weekend training. I soon made friends with a couple of lads who were not particularly educated or articulate but who were full of fun and always playing pranks. They were part of a field gun firing team, one being a Gun Layer and the other being a Loader. I would sit at my wireless set in the back of a jeep watching the guns from a distance as the four-man team swung into action. My two pals would swiftly complete their tasks and then kneel upright at attention with stiff, ramrod backs waiting for the signal to fire. My first close up experience of a ‘25 pounder’ shell being fired was never to be forgotten. There was a colossal bang and a sheet of flame leapt from the end of the barrel. Then the whole sky was filled with a mighty thunderous roar that threatened to split my eardrums as the shell passed overhead towards the distant target. I was scared witless and yet my two pals, right at the seat of the action never flinched, they were like stone statues until they swung into action again to set up for the next round. How they could stand this deafening roar never failed to amaze me. I swelled with pride to know such staunch warriors. These were the kind I thought who had helped us beat the enemy in the last war.

On another occasion I drove my officer to the observation post and sat in the hut along with the officers’ as a senior wireless operator sent down co-ordinates to the gun crew commander. With his crew he would then ‘lay the gun’ to these instructions and shortly afterwards if correct we would see an old tank explode. This was riveting stuff until the third round when we had a premature shell burst. One of the live rounds almost landed on top of us; the deep crater being only yards from our hut. We’d had a lucky escape!

It was a grim coincidence that as I returned home hot and exhausted after the weekend of training that the sad faces told me something traumatic had happened. Arthur my best pal was dead. He was only two years older than me and had survived the ‘H’ bomb tests in the Pacific and had then been posted to Germany. Being a heavy smoker it was thought that instead of sleeping in the tents he had chosen to spend the night in a truck loaded with tyres whilst on maneuvers, but in the night the truck caught fire and his remains were not discovered until the following morning. They said he must have fallen asleep in the back of the wagon whilst smoking.

My mind went back to that night at the pub when he’d come home on leave; we’d grown up together as brothers but he’d had a disrupted childhood after his mother died when he was only ten. From then on he’d been shunted about with relatives. At work he’d had a succession of jobs but then at the pub, eyes alight and proudly wearing his new uniform he’d confided to me that when he’d finally finished with the army he would have a proper trade to come back to. He would be a fully qualified ‘heavy recovery mechanic’ and could get a good job in a garage or even start his own business. It seemed so unfair and still rankles after all these years. I have often thought: why him and not me?

I spent four years in the ‘Terriers’ and enjoyed every moment of it, with lots of happy memories. Nowadays the Territorial Army trains and fights alongside the regular Army much more than we used to do and their weapons and skills are therefore geared to genuine battle conditions. We rely heavily on selfless volunteers like these in this dangerous, ever-changing world.

End.

Introduction to my mystery novel 'Sins of The Father'

Hello I’m Harry Riley

This is an introduction to my mystery novel called:

‘Sins of the Father’

(The haunted life of Doctor James Parker)

This tale concerns the lives of two young men whose paths were doomed to clash even before they were born, with devastating results for all concerned.

It is set in a small village in Northumberland, a village once considered to be the most dangerous place in England.

Now it is only the eerie call of the curlews and oystercatchers circling high above the river that pleasantly disturbs the clean air and tranquillity.

Nestling in a valley on the banks of a famous salmon fishing river…the River Tweed in the Scottish Borders, it is incidentally the village where I once owned a small cottage, I have simply made a few fictional additions such as a village pond and a Wesleyan Chapel to aid the storyline and changed the name of the village lightly, calling it Norbridge.

The ruined castle where John De Baliol, Lord of Barnard Castle was judged King of Scotland…swearing fealty to The English King Edward…the ancient church, still bearing the scars of Cromwell’s musket balls on its outer walls and where Robert the Bruce once sheltered…and the school in the village, really do exist, as does the old stone bridge across the Tweed…separating England from Scotland.

My story opens just after the end of the Second World War and progresses into the 1960’s; to a Britain still advocating the ‘hang-mans rope’ for the most wilful acts of murder.

For those who do not know this northerly clime it is a land where the smallest whisper of wind blowing gently over the hills and glens awakens the sleeping ghosts of history, and where the mighty clash of battle from two ancient armies still rings loud and clear.

Ruined castles spring up abundantly around almost every bend in the road and large fortified stone houses with high towers bear witness to the protection once needed from the ‘Border Reivers’ those lawless bands of raiders who crossed the borders mounted on swift horses to hack and wreck and rob and plunder, showing no mercy to man or beast. It is a special land that has produced and inspired some of the world’s most gifted writers like Sir Walter Scott with his classic ‘Marmion’ James Hogg (the Ettrick Shepherd.) with his many plays, poems and novels, John Buchan, he of ‘The Thirty Nine Steps’ and latterly Nigel Tranter, with his brilliantly researched historical adventure novels, plus artists such as L.S. Lowry with his iconic paintings of Berwick Upon Tweed and the poet…the National Bard of Scotland; ‘Rabbie Burns’ who upon crossing the bridge at Coldstream in 1787, alighted from his horse and recited part of ‘The Cotter’s Tale’ before walking over to the English side. The bridge bears a plaque commemorating his visit.

I have chosen the beautiful Coldstream Bridge between England and Scotland for the cover of my novel as it spans the winding banks of the silver River Tweed and is evocative of that fabled land; now thankfully at peace with itself after centuries of violent turmoil.

In my story Billy Turpin is a big strong orphan with a secret hate that sits on his broad shoulders like an invisible monster screaming revenge into his tortured brain. By a stroke of good fortune and evil cunning he acquires great wealth and builds a successful business empire. Slowly and with infinite patience he destroys his victims one by one until he has his main target-James Parker, securely in his grasp.

A long way from home and in a very bad place; the unadventurous James Parker tries to forget his troubles as he conveys the love of his home country to Carl Brandon, his new American friend in adversity. Such is James Parker’s passion for the fresh clean air and the small friendly communities of his native land that the sad and lonely American from The Bronx listens fascinated and becomes filled with a desire to see it all for himself. If only with his failing health he could survive the cruel treachery of the Congo Jungle.

Someone recently likened this melodrama of mine with its twists and turns and suggestion of ghostly intervention, as akin to ‘The Woman in White’ by Wilkie Collins. I did not know that story but have since listened to a version of it on audiotape and am surprised at the points of comparison. In my story I have an enchanted graveyard and a white angel and I make use of the device of important letters. I put James Parker, my main character, into life threatening situations that are almost impossible to escape from. I also bring in a sub plot or two to create mischief and muddy the water. There is Billy Turpin, a powerful friend who is really a vicious enemy burning up with hate and eventually there is the underlying suggestion of strange spiritual activity going on in the background. Doctor James Parker has often suffered from depression and at times of extreme stress he has been known to hallucinate. It is at these times that his mind seeks the comfort of the supernatural and conjures up visions of lost friends and family and in particular of Rosie, his dead and beloved younger sister. They say every story needs a hero but James Parker is not cast in the heroic mould and if there is a hero to my story it has to be the awesome historical countryside of Northumberland and the Scottish Borders and in particular the majestic winding River Tweed.

The author will be pleased to sign and dedicate books directly purchased through him-email: harry@harryspen.co.uk

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‘The Strange Whistle’

by Harry Riley

“But I don’t want to, I’m scared mum…”

“Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to worry about, death is something that comes to us all Edgar. Just go in there and do as he says, he has something for you, never mind the smell, it’s only medicine and stale tobacco. They haven’t had the windows open for a day or two whilst he’s been so ill. And listen…don’t go showing us up and doing anything silly, they’ll all be watching you!”

“But I can’t…can you come in with me?”

“No, there are too many people around his bed as it is, the doctor won’t allow it, and I shall wait in the front room with your dad. We are not far away so no screaming or shouting remember, he’s dying so you have to whisper.”

Two minutes later young Edgar Watson stood at the bedside as the doctor left off checking the old man’s open pyjama front with his stethoscope and made way for the awkward looking boy.

“You can have two minutes, mind and no longer” said the tall stern faced physician as he glared down disapprovingly at the youngster, “we can’t afford to tire him too much…he hasn’t got long.”

Edgar wondered why the doctor was so concerned, ‘what did it matter if he spent two or even twenty minutes or a whole day with his granddad if he was going to die anyway. And why had the nurse been tidying the sheets so carefully, she didn’t have to do the washing! Mum was right though; the smell was horrible.’ He felt like gagging.

Several uncles and aunts reluctantly made way for him as he entered the room clattering over a bed-pan in his clumsy way.

Remembering his granddad was deaf the ten year old boy shouted loudly down his good left ear.” It’s alright granddad, it’s me Edgar and mum says you’re to give me a present before you die.”

A bony hand reached out from the covers and grabbed the lad’s wrist in a grip of iron. Edgar was pulled down towards the frail figure in the bed by the surprising strength of his grandfather’s withered arm. Then his face was within inches of the old man’s slobbering mouth. He could hear the hoarse death-rattle in the sick throat as strangled words were forced out from between the broken gravestone of a tooth “Good-lad, don’t be scared, we all have to go, I’ve had a long innings…just open the top drawer in the cupboard over there and…and take out the silver whistle…it’s yours.” The dying man relaxed his grip and his head fell back on the pillow with a deep sigh as the effort took its toll on the shattered body.

Importantly: as on a mission, Edgar did as he was bid; hearing the whispered curse from his Uncle Roland as he trod on his foot in his rush to get at the old wooden chest.

“That whistle was meant for our George, mother, and this little tow-rag will have it now, it’s not right!”

Edgar couldn’t help hearing the hushed comment and noticed Uncle Roland’s face was puce with hardly concealed anger.

Opening the drawer the boy retrieved the whistle complete with silver chain and waved it over his grandfather’s face staring hard into the yellow rheumy eyes. “Can I keep it granddad?”

“Well done lad…now remember…always wear it round your neck…only blow it when you’re in real trouble.”

Unceremoniously Edgar was hustled away by the nurse as he shouted his goodbyes.

Three years later Edgar Watson was crossing the stepping-stones of a brook dividing two fields when suddenly he was set-upon by a gang of louts from his school. He was ruthlessly pushed to the ground and within seconds smothered in mud. His new Scouting Uniform was torn, he had a bloody nose from the beating the gang leader had dished out and his knees were grazed from the fall.

“Give us your money and your phone Watson or you’re dead meat!”

Painfully he dug his right hand into his trouser pocket and then remembered his whistle. He wore it round his neck but it had lost its pea, probably after his mum had sterilised it. He’d long since given up on trying to blow it as nothing ever happened. Now in distress he blew on it hard as the leader made a grab for the chain.

The little glass covered compass; set in the top of the whistle spun round dramatically as Edgar closed his eyes and puffed with all his might.

In the fast flowing stream the gang leader struggled to keep his head from being pushed under by the stranger holding him down. The rest of the gang had fled as the big tough looking gypsy with the wild hair and bulging biceps toyed with their mate. They wanted nothing to do with him. He was well out of their league. The man kept their leader’s head down until he was within an inch of drowning before releasing his grip and allowing the choking bully to sit up. Not a word had been spoken but the frightened lout scampered away with his tail between his legs and the gypsy vanished as quickly as he came.

Back at home Mrs. Watson was amazed to see her son home so early and looking like a drowned rat. Edgar gabbled out his story, omitting to say how the whistle had saved him. That was his secret.

End.

A Spiritual Experience by Harry Riley

‘A Spiritual Experience?’

by Harry Riley

First of all let me say that I was baptised in the Church of England but have since acquired no great religious leanings or spiritual convictions. If there is a God up there I cannot think why he would want to concern himself with our short little lives.

My mother was of Irish Catholic extraction and eloped from a nunnery to marry my father, the son of a Methodist Lay Preacher in a small Derbyshire village.

During the summer of 1982 when I was fit and in my early forty’s I was recruited as a salesman for T. C. Thompson, a large Manchester Engineering Works manufacturing the Thompson Crown and Regal lithographic machines. Then supplied with a new company car and a set of road maps I was told to go to it and bring in lots of ‘serious customers’ for on-site factory demonstrations of the many virtues of the British Printing Press. My working day was to be a mixture of fixed appointments and some cold calling.

One day I was in Stoke on Trent, one of the English Staffordshire ‘Pottery Towns’ on business and with a free couple of hours, having already fulfilled my quota of appointments, I decided to hunt around for printing works in the backstreets of the town. To me this was the fun part of the job, never quite knowing what I might turn up and if this day might bring me the ‘Big Order.’ I had never been to this region before and had no connections, friends or relatives living there, it being a good many miles away from my hometown.

As I parked up and walked further from the centre I saw the streets were lined with rows of neat back-to-back houses. Turning a corner I became rooted to the spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a cold chill running down my spine.

Looking to one side my gaze was drawn to a small red brick terraced house with a grey slate roof that showed no outward signs of having been modernised, unlike some of the others in the street. I instinctively recognised this dwelling as familiar. ‘I knew this house!’ The feeling was so intense it was déjà vu. Yet in truth I also knew I had never been to this town before. The building was so welcoming that I had the strongest urge to open the plain front door and walk right in. I had to literally drag myself away. This false memory, weird experience, hallucination, call it what you will, has lived with me since then. I hasten to add I am not of a nervous or excitable disposition and have never returned to that spot.

Science has given us many answers but it cannot explain away everything; for instance we know that gas and electricity are around us but we cannot see either. I have since learned, that over half the population have had this phantom feeling of déjà vu at some time in their lives. With some folk it has happened as a repeat conversation and with others it has been just like mine.

As it was a very personal sensation I was totally perplexed, unclear what to make of it, if anything at all, but the memory of that house just got stronger as the years went by and so to exorcise the demon and to try my hand at something entirely new, I eventually decided to write a novel that I called ‘Sins of the Father’ whilst building my own experience into the plotline.

The main character of the story is James Parker, a young doctor who feels very close and protective towards Rosie, his crippled younger sister. When she becomes hooked to a man the doctor believes to be a psychopathic killer he is terrified for her safety and yet no one else believes him. He is very intense and there are times when he hallucinates; he knows he doesn’t have all the answers and that some things remain a mystery even to modern medicine and so he questions if ghosts exist. Rosie is eventually killed and Brother James takes his own form of retribution for her untimely demise that lands him in the death cell awaiting the hangman’s rope. It is then that he seriously considers the merits of spiritualism as Madam Gloria, a Psychic Medium and relative of his cell guard, smuggles a note into the prison stating he will not hang. At a time of great stress he begins to believe his dead sister is watching over him.

I have just finished writing an anthology of short mystery and ghost stories, ‘Captain Damnation’ and other strange tales, exploring the paranormal theme in many different ways, suggesting ghosts or spectres really do exist, if only in our minds. This book will be released for paperback publication on 28^th. May 2010 by Pneuma Springs

~~~~~~~~~

A reader’s review of Harry Riley’s: ‘Sins of the Father’ Pneuma Springs Publishing.

A brilliantly executed murder mystery novel which is ideally suited to reading whilst either lounging under the hot summer sun or curled up in front of a fire on a dark winters evening. A book that is riveting and kept me engrossed with its sinister plot and many twists and turns. Set in the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, in a typical village close to the River Tweed the story sets a fast pace from the outset. The leading characters are believable and the author manages to draw the reader into the dark depths of the psychotic and terrifying mind of Billy Turpin. A strong and at times, enigmatic character, evoking varied emotions from sympathy to outright disgust. The other main man, Doctor James Parker is a complete opposite and one with which the reader can probably identify and sympathize. To begin with he comes across as an unassuming and timid character but his strength and tenacity shine through as the novel takes the reader first to the Congo and eventually to New York. There are numerous murders some of which are surprising and the plot keeps the reader on tenterhooks right up to the last page. I now await with eager anticipation a sequel featuring some of the other minor characters from the village of Norbridge. Review by Heather Webster.

‘Is Writing a Spiritual Experience?’

by Harry Riley of Nottingham England.

First of all let me say that I am Church of England and have no great religious leanings or spiritual convictions.

My mother was of Irish Catholic extraction and eloped from a nunnery to marry my father, the son of a Methodist Lay Preacher in a small Derbyshire village.

Apart from the fact that my mother was very superstitious I think I may have had a reasonably normal childhood.

During the summer of 1982 I was recruited as a salesman for a large Engineering Company making Printing Presses. Then supplied with a new company car and a set of maps I was told to go to it and bring in the customers whilst working from home.

One day I was in Stoke on Trent and decided to hunt around for printing works in the backstreets of the town. I had never been to ‘Stoke’ before and had no relatives living there. As I parked up and walked further from the town centre the streets were lined with rows of neat terraced houses. Turning a corner I became rooted to the spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a cold sweat running down my back.

I gazed at a small house and instinctively knew I had been there before. The feeling was so intense. Yet in truth I also knew I had never been to this town before. The house was so familiar that I wanted to open the plain front door and walk right in. I had to literally drag myself away. This false memory, weird experience, hallucination, call it what you will, has lived with me since then, getting stronger as the years have gone by.

We try and find our answers through science but science cannot explain everything. We know that gas and electricity exist but we cannot see them.

I couldn’t bring myself to write this down at the time as non-fiction, as it was a very personal experience so in order to try and exorcise the demon I eventually decided to write a novel called ‘Sins of the Father’ whilst building this experience into the plot.

The main character is James Parker, a young doctor who feels very close and protective towards Rosie, his young crippled sister. When she becomes hooked to a man the doctor believes to be a psychopathic killer he is terrified for her safety and yet nobody else believes him. He is very intense and there are times when he hallucinates; as a doctor he tries to find his answers through science but science cannot tell us everything and so he questions if ghosts exist. Rosie is eventually killed and Brother James takes his own form of retribution that lands him in the death cell awaiting the hangman’s rope. It is then that he seriously considers spiritualism as a Psychic Medium smuggles a note into the prison stating he will not hang. His dead sister is watching over him.

I have just finished an anthology of short mystery and ghost stories, ‘Captain Damnation’ and other strange tales, exploring this theme in many different ways and questioning if ghosts really do exist, if only in our minds. This book will be released on 28^th. May 2010

A reader’s review of Harry Riley’s ‘Sins of the Father’

A brilliantly executed murder mystery novel which is ideally suited to reading whilst either lounging under the hot summer sun or curled up in front of a fire on a dark winters evening. A book that is riveting and kept me engrossed with its sinister plot and many twists and turns. Set in the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, in a typical village close to the River Tweed the story sets a fast pace from the outset. The leading characters are believable and the author manages to draw the reader into the dark depths of the psychotic and terrifying mind of Billy Turpin. A strong and at times, enigmatic character, evoking varied emotions from sympathy to outright disgust. The other main man, Doctor James Parker is a complete opposite and one with which the reader can probably identify and sympathize. To begin with he comes across as an unassuming and timid character but his strength and tenacity shine through as the novel takes the reader first to the Congo and eventually to New York. There are numerous murders some of which are surprising and the plot keeps the reader on tenterhooks right up to the last page. I now await with eager anticipation a sequel featuring some of the other minor characters from the village of Norbridge. Review by Heather l. Webster. Nottingham.

A personal book introduction from Harry Riley to 'Painting and Poetry' by Don Brown

‘Painting and Poetry’

(a new lease of life)

by Don Brown 2010

ISBN: 978-0-9563030-3-5 paperback edition

Published by smileawhile-enterprise@hotmail.com

I have travelled the length and breadth of Britain during my work selling printing machinery to industry, large and small, and have met many hundreds of clever people but I can truly say hand on heart that the ones that have really impressed me would be very few. I am proud to say Don Brown is amongst those people, for he is an engineer with a terrific imagination and a love for his fellows creatures.

Don was born in 1925 and is still with us, fit and extremely active, with a wonderful zest for life.

I have only known Don a short time, since I joined the Eastwood Writers Group but in that time I have begun to see what an extraordinary chap he is with his diverse interests. In this true story of his humble beginnings in a Derbyshire village he gives us a glimpse of a time we shall never see again. He writes of Eastwood and Heanor, Langley Mill and surrounding area, of the family of David Herbert Lawrence the world famous Eastwood Writer, of other characters, of local sporting clubs, schools and colleges, of the war years and of Christianity, his own close relatives and of his likes and dislikes, with a frankness rarely seen in these days of clever hype and cynicism.

It is in his poetry and paintings that he bares his soul for all to see and lets us into a world of modest heroes (he was a distinguished fire-fighter) commended for rescuing three residents from a fearsome death in an horrendous house fire. Not once but three times he ran back into the dense, smoke-filled building to bring out the occupants. He has had a very incident packed life as his story so graphically illustrates and has known deep tragedy and severe illness along the way, especially with the sad death of his wife. But to really get to know the man you have to view his paintings and read his poetry. This is a great book and I feel it is the small things that bring it to life, for instance he tells us that apples are his favourite fruit and this strikes a cord with me, as I also am an unashamed apple cruncher.

There is so much more that makes this man tick, far too much for me to include in this brief introduction but if I had to pick out one thing that makes him so memorable I believe it is the infectious grin that rarely leaves his face. Read the book and I defy you too not to raise a smile or two.

'Past and Present' by Harry Riley

‘Past and Present’

by Harry Riley

We in Britain are facing an uncertain future in Election Year.

With the choice of the three main parties we are asked to trust one of them to get it right or perhaps if the outcome is not conclusive maybe there will be a ‘Hung parliament.’

At my age I have the luxury of being able to look back over the last fifty years and my own personal opinion is that although the ordinary working man and woman has better living standards with more luxuries we are not as happy and contented with our lot as we were then.

And why is that I wonder?

Well in the late 1950’s we were emerging from the austerity of the war years and the land was sparkling with promise, you could feel it as a tangible thing, there was excitement in the air. Where is the promise now? I cannot say hand on heart, that babies are coming into a safer, more stable, more caring world.

We expected continuous employment and invariably we got it. These days even a degree is no guarantee of employment with whole families thrown on the scrapheap, subsiding on state benefits.

We had respect for our neighbours, Respect for our parents and respect for the elderly. We had not much money but we had the family to fall back on in times of trouble, hardship and stress. Nowadays so many youngsters come from dysfunctional families whose parents have had so many partners that even the kids are confused as to their real father. Now we have so little respect for one another with knives and guns and drugs and alcohol on the streets that hard-pressed police officers cannot cope with the never-ending violence and carping criticism.

And who is to blame?

I blame the politicians for complacency and lack of long term vision and for squandering the legacy our fathers fought and died for-to make a Britain fit for hero’s.

‘Labour’ says the depression is a world problem so we shouldn’t blame them.

‘Labour’ wants us to trust them to get it right in the future…they have a plan! Okay what else do they plan to close?

‘Labour’ the party of the ‘working-man’ has failed to tackle crime and punishment and our gaols are full to bursting so they want to let them out before their time is up. Is this more Care in the Community?

New Labour came in with so much promise. Yes we said! Yes! Show us the way. And they did…their way of so much spin and so little substance.

They left the door wide open for sleaze and corruption with every man out for himself and took us into two costly wars, wars that we cannot win! Where is the leadership in that?

America is a staunch ally but we do not have to follow their every political move. We did not slavishly follow them into Vietnam and we should not have followed them into Iraq or Afghanistan. If they want to police the world then let them do so. We have done our bit.

America had 911. It was a tragedy of truly earth shattering proportions…but it was their tragedy not ours!

We were right to be supportive but we should not have gone to war in Iraq over it.

We should have retained the independence of being honest friend and sympathiser. Terrorism on the streets of Britain is a direct result of our mindless adventures into Iraq and Afghanistan and has cost the lives of too many brave British soldiers.

So will I be voting Labour on May 6^th 2010? No, I think not.

Who in his right mind would vote for a party that advocates putting up the cost of National Insurance when commercial businesses are struggling to maintain their present staffing levels against falling orders…forcing many companies into bankruptcy. Deregulating the banks so they could do what they liked without government interference, selling off vital utilities to foreign companies so they could shut down UK Plants, throwing thousands out of work, closing down many of the Nation’s Post Offices and sticking an extra ten pence on income tax in one foul swoop, selling off the gold reserves at bargain basement prices, What sort of addle-brained thinking is this? Do they not listen for God’s sake?

So what is the one big thing missing in our enlightened modern lives? What is causing the cancer in our midst?

We hear the answer in almost every case of street violence and often from the most disenfranchised, inarticulate young criminal as he utters the words “Respect man! He disrespected me, so I shot him or I stabbed him.” Respect is what people of all ages seek but seldom get and this goes to the heart of the problem. How can a person have respect for others when the government that controls our lives shows no lead…no respect for anyone but themselves.

End.

'Will a new phoenix rise from the ashes of Corus?'

Hello I’m Harry Riley

Welcome to Harry’s Five-Minute-Rant

‘Will a new phoenix rise from the ashes of Corus?’

‘We live in a land of free enterprise.’ What a sick laugh!

We really live in a land of get and grab, a land full of weak politicians who cannot see further than the end of their nose. They sell off the family silver and then offer useless platitudes when things go belly-up! Such as this latest Corus screw-up in the North-East. God knows, the politicians must have foreseen the likelihood of this sort of thing happening when Corus was initially sold off to a foreign company. There have been a great many industrial precedents; Rover is a prime example.

Why couldn’t our business Tzars have had the foresight to put in some protective stipulations such as not allowing companies to close down vital plants in this country while plans are in place to build in their own or other countries. What beats me is that often these foreign firms are given incentives to take over ailing UK companies, so why can we not ask that these handouts be given back if and when they decide to close down, if only to help ease the pain of redundancy.

I understand it cannot be done if the proprietors have gone into liquidation but that is not always the case, as with the Corus owners. Workers in the North-East Region are tough and resourceful and will take this closure on the chin as they always do but the bitter memories will surely live on.

I worked in Consett County Durham for a year in the mid eighties, commuting backwards and forwards from Nottingham every day and got to know some of those straight talking folk. They are gritty hard-workers who’ve had a raw deal and deserve better. I despair of the many gutless wonders we have now at the helm in politics. Other countries try and protect their own industries so why can’t we.

After the last war this seemed to me to be a land full of hope but I have to say it is now a land where our so-called-leaders make big mistakes through complacency and

through addressing issues only on a short term-day-to-day re-active basis. Where are the pro-active, inspirational leaders who can lift us out of this quagmire of misery, doubt and despair?

I really thought Tony Blair was going to guide us to a bright new future but he turned out to have feet of clay just like all the rest. Some industries are just too important to this

country’s survival that they should never have been put at the mercy of free market conditions. The Railways and the Royal Mail should never have been privatised. Look what it’s doing to our rural communities. Talk about a land fit for hero’s! My dad’s family were miners and voted Labour.

It was the only party for the ordinary workingman. When I first got the vote I was also proud to join them and vote Labour but not anymore New Labour or Old Labour, it can go shove it’s vote where monkeys shove their nuts for all I care! I suspect I’m now like a lot of other people of my generation, Disgusted and disenfranchised with the whole political process. It seems we are hurtling back to the soup kitchens of the thirties.

'Hearts of Oak' by Harry Riley

(Two old friends, Horatio Nelson and Cuthbert Collingwood meeting aboard the flagship HMS Victory on the eve of Trafalgar)

‘Hearts of Oak’ a tribute to our naval hero's by Harry Riley

“We’ve seen some changes you and I

And more are yet to come.”

We’ve carried battles to the foe

And watched him dance a merry gig

With gunfire all around

Let’s drink a toast to that my friend!”

We’ve seen men fight and seen men die

We’ve played Almighty God and still won through.

For King and Country-clarion’s call

Let’s drink a toast to that my friend!”

“Tomorrow we will test the strength

Of English Oak, and English blood

We’ll light a fire to warm men’s hearts

For a hundred years or more

We’ll make ‘em wish that they were here

And they could call the tune

For you and I are history bound

“Let’s drink to that my friend!”

“If Nelson wants, then Nelson gets…

You’ve brought us through the darkest day

With conquests all along the way…

“Let’s drink to that my friend!”

“Lord Cuddy, ‘truth your name will shine

And it will be the same as mine

If I should fall ere struggle’s done

You’ll pound the foe until we’ve won?”

“Aye, count on me, but please be sure.

Yer’ll not expire midst Trafalgar’s roar”

We’ll both be here as wise old goats

To teem more whisky down our throats’

“I’ll echo that my Geordie lad

Pipes are calling; drums are beating,

England’s fleet is boldly waiting

Hearts of Oak are deadly sure!

Let’s get to work and sink some more

We’ll drink a toast to that my friend

For the sake of Auld Lang Syne!”

'The Gardener'

‘The Gardener’

by Harry Riley

(this is fiction and resemblance to anyone living or dead, is entirely coincidental)

Reuben Ackroyd was a gardener, a very keen and enthusiastic gardener. He could be seen most days, summer and winter, rain or shine, pottering about in the garden at the side of his little cottage in the Yorkshire village of Bradstock, deep in the dales. Here was a man at peace with himself and content with his lot. He always had a cheery wave, a chat and a smile for the old ladies as they passed on their way to collect their pensions from the post office. He had lived here as long as anyone could remember. At first there were two of them, Reuben and his wife, but she had been a bad lot and had left, many years ago, along with the butcher’s son, one bright sunny day while Reuben was at work in the churchyard (he had been the gravedigger until the fashion for cremation made him virtually redundant) Now he would dig as a favour for the vicar and purely for free, to support the struggling church. Most of the flowers that filled the old Norman church every week came from his garden. He would fill up any remaining time doing favours for the elderly, gardening and odd jobs. If ever a man was destined for sainthood it was Reuben. He hadn’t harboured any ill will for his wayward wife or her young lover and had remarked, whenever taxed on the subject, that she was a lively young thing and “he hoped the two of ‘em were happy together and had a far better life than he could have offered in this sleepy little village.” He just wished she had kept in touch with a letter or a phone call now and again, so he could wish them well, like any true Christian should.

One of Reuben’s big successes was the fruit and vegetables, grown in his large greenhouse. He had built it himself and the whole of the ground inside had been lovingly nourished with organic manure over the years. He sold this tasty produce to the locals as they regularly beat a path to his door. There were juicy red tomatoes, melons, and squash, grapes and even peaches. Any surplus he sold to the local greengrocer. One day however, peace was shattered in the village as the lone pilot of a paraplane (a sort of motorised parachute) had a problem with his machine. He was flying quite low and a flock of geese got tangled up in the elliptical wing and brought him down with a crash, right through the middle of Reuben Ackroyd’s greenhouse. The pilot was declared dead at the scene by the medics and unfortunately so was Reuben, who had been spraying his tomatoes at the time. The dark, richly fertilized loam, that had been so brutally disturbed, now gave up a secret of its own. The rescue services were amazed to see the lids of two coffins, laying each side of the narrow pathway. The forensic specialist was later able to confirm the skeletal remains were those of Reuben’s wife and her lover, the butcher’s son. Reuben had conscientiously tended their graves, and in death they had helped to provide him with a little income.

End

‘The Five Pound Note’

by Harry Riley

(Note: The characters in this story are purely fictional and resemblance to any person living or dead is entirely coincidental)

I960 was a bad year for Police Inspector Andy Walker of Merebrook Central Division. The year had started with so much promise. First there was his promotion from Sergeant, after ten years in the force and a particularly fine piece of detection work on his part, in breaking up a vicious gang of thugs. A promotion his pals said was long overdue, and a few others though, had said, should never have come. It’d been his best year for personal crime results. He was a steady copper, didn’t cut corners, well not too many anyway, and he was careful not to rub his superiors up the wrong way (he was on first name terms with Superintendent John Smedley.) But then along had come the Chase murder and it all went belly-up.

On a routine patrol in the Victoria Chase District, in the early hours of Saturday morning, he’d caught site of Warren Lambert, a well-known burglar, with pockets bulging, just emerging from a dark alleyway. He’d signalled for Mike Henshaw, his driver, to pull over so they could have a word with the little wretch, but on hearing the car screeching up to him he’d bolted, back up the alley, the way he’d come. Andy jumped out and shouted for him to stop, as Mike drove round the corner to try and cut off escape at the other end of the narrow passageway.

As he came to a bend in the alley, Andy lost sight of his quarry and later emerged in the next street empty-handed, just as Mike pulled up alongside, simultaneously leaning across and winding down the passenger window. “Where did the little blighter go?”

Andy knew what must have happened; just beyond the bend there was a gap in the iron railings that bordered the old Victorian cemetery. Lambert must have seen his chance, ducked through and hidden behind one of the big, gothic style marble tombstones.

He would be long gone now. No matter, they’d have him tomorrow, at his digs on the Green.

Two hours later a call came through of a suspicious death, only two blocks from where they had seen Warren Lambert. When Andy and Mike arrived there was already a uniformed bobby at the scene along with the ambulance. It was the home of a wealthy entrepreneur.

They rushed up the stairs as indicated by the young police constable and carefully entered the bedroom. There sprawled on the bed was the heavily bloodstained body of a male. He looked to be in his early forties. Andy recognised him immediately as Brian Fallows, the owner of the property and a man whose features appeared regularly in the Merebrook Evening Post. He was quite dead.

“Why did he have to live in a poxy area like this, with all his brass?” Mike sighed.

Andy peered closer at the corpse. “I don’t know Mike, but he’s paid a heavy price. Been bludgeoned on the back of the head with something heavy by the looks of it and I bet I know where we’ll find the murder weapon - a burglars gemmy, I’ll warrant!”

They were told by the P.C. that a window on the ground floor had been forced and that the perpetrator had probably exited the same way, as there was blood on the windowsill.

Both Andy and Mike spent the next thirty minutes going separately through all the rooms of the house, hunting for clues, before departing and leaving the constable on duty outside the front door, waiting for forensics to turn up with their kit.

Andy was correct. As dawn broke they found a bloodstained gemmy shoved down a crack behind a broken headstone in the cemetery. It was placed carefully into a plastic bag so as not to disturb any fingerprints.

Forensics confirmed that the wall safe under the carpet in the parlour had been opened and that it was empty. The owner’s wife turned up at the police station in a drunken state and said she had been out all night at the casino and a taxi had taken her home to find her husband dead and all his cash stolen, some ten thousand pounds by all accounts.

Warren Lambert was easy to find and even easier to break down under questioning. Another good result for Andy, but the burglar insisted he had found no cash and had not located the safe, much to his annoyance. It was a matter of hurt pride with him. He put his hand up to the murder, as the victim refused to say where he kept his money and had clubbed him in a fit of temper.

A fortnight later the Superintendent had called Andy into his office and had stiffly informed him he was to be suspended. He was being investigated for theft relating to the murder at Victoria Chase and this was more than he ought to have been told.

Of course it was all nonsense but Andy could not explain how his bank account had been swelled by the recent addition of ten thousand pounds.

Andy knew he was innocent but mud sticks and back at the station they all knew he’d been experiencing financial difficulties and that his marriage was going through a rocky patch.

Quite clearly somebody had set him up, but for the life of him he couldn’t think who it would be.

He was used to a strictly regimented working day and had never been out of work so long. It was several months now and just before Christmas the Super had rung him to say that papers had been handed to the CPS and that he would be formally charged with theft.

Charlotte, his wife of thirteen years had just walked out after their last big row and had even taken Columbus, their pet spaniel. A letter had popped through the letterbox to say his house was being repossessed through non - payment of arrears. This had happened because his bank account had been frozen.

He had spent a very lonely and miserable Christmas trying to work out where it had all gone wrong. Even Mike, his best pal, had kept away. Andy Walker was a pariah!

He would be going to court and had been advised to get himself a good lawyer, but the evidence was pretty damning. He had been in the “Fallows” parlour; all alone and could easily have found the safe and stolen the money. The really damning evidence - evidence that would send him to prison as a bent copper, was that he had suddenly become ten thousand pounds richer.

Now it was the start of a new year and he walked disconsolately along the country lane and stopped to look over the five barred field gate at the bleak wintry scene. All he had ever valued was going or already gone. A figure stirred on the other side of the hedge and an old tramp appeared wearing a torn army coat and covered in muddy leaves, apparently from sleeping in the hedge bottom. He stared at Andy with damp rheumy eyes and approached the gate, dragging his feet. “Would you have a cigarette for an old army veteran mister?”

Andy replied that he was sorry but he didn’t smoke.

“Ha well, no matter, they’re killing me anyway, maybe I’ll last a few hours longer.” He coughed and continued in a wheezy voice, “I don’t suppose you could let me have the cost of a breakfast…to set me up for the day?”

Andy was touched, he still had food himself at home, in the fridge and the freezer, but all the money he had in his pocket was a five-pound note. He dug deep and gave the man his very last fiver. He had his troubles but this man had nothing. At least if they sent him to prison he would have a roof over his head.

“Thank you – god bless you mister, you don’t know what you did today, you’ve saved my life!” The old soldier gratefully took the money, saluted awkwardly, and shuffled slowly away.

Andy smiled, he felt better already.

The next day he received news that Warren Lambert had revoked his earlier confession to murder, claiming it was made under duress and also denied the gemmy was his, saying it must have been planted. Now his erstwhile colleagues were digging into his past and somebody had dug up a photo of Andy sharing a drink with the dead man at a shindig, in company with several councillors and businessmen. Tongues were wagging. “Who then, had murdered Brian Fallows?” It was as inevitable as night follows day, Andy Walker was accused of coolly planning and executing the murder before his shift began, and just after Mrs. Fallows had left the house in a taxi, headed for the gambling club, and of laying the blame at the feet of Warren Lambert, a man of slow intellect. Mike Henshaw was quizzed and admitted under questioning that Andy had not been his usual self for several weeks before the murder and that he had been quite crabby of late.

The trial by jury was pretty conclusive and Andy did himself no favours when he insisted, against his council’s advice, that he should give evidence in the witness box to prove his innocence. The Prosecutor had a field day. Andy was tied up in knots and quickly lost his temper. Sitting in court, listening to his future being decided he studied the faces of the jurymen and women. There was one man among the jury whose face seemed slightly familiar, especially around the eyes, the man was listening intently to every word spoken and kept glancing up at him, but no, this man was nobody he could place. He was found guilty and sentenced to death for murder. The judge, wearing his black cap, described him as the lowest of the low, a bent policeman, trusted to preserve the values of the community. There would be a lot of people dancing on his grave.

The prison chaplain was a friendly chap; he asked Andy if he wanted to confess his sins to the lord. There was something about this man, his voice and his watery eyes that troubled the condemned man. He had met him before, he was sure of that – but where?

There was to be an appeal but the prison Governor told Andy not to get his hopes up as they very rarely succeeded. The home secretary had to have new, solid evidence.

A lot though, was going on behind the scenes, Superintendent John Smedley received a tip off from an anonymous caller, began to have serious thoughts and ordered a watch to be put on Charlotte Fallows. She was seen leaving the casino one night in the company of

a policeman - Mike Henshaw and the pair’s movements were closely monitored. They must have suspected they’d been seen, for they were picked up at Dover trying to flee across to the Continent. Charlotte Fallows claimed it had all been Mike’s idea to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. He was jealous of Andy Walker’s success on the back of his endeavours and believed he was being overlooked. They might have got clean away had it not been for the anonymous caller and the fact that a scruffy old tramp had caused a big ruckus at the docks and had attracted the attentions of the police as he begged the two fugitives for money. Only a fiver mister, he had said, “just a fiver for an old war veteran, could you please?”

End.