‘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!”