Thoughts From A House Move

This morning, I was aware, in the quietness of a waking day that I was rousing the old wood in the cottage, and of its lazy creaking responding to my steps, welcoming strange feet. I wondered if the old new house we had left was as welcoming to its tenants.

The location of unfamiliar light switches to be learnt. Fumbling in the dark to find the toilet short lived by the miracle of memory.

A co-existence with nature the early morning birdsong accompanies the rhythmic rainfall on the conservatory roof. A relationship the old new place never allowed.

As I sit, the mountains that may have needed to be climbed yesterday seemed a non event, in fact they never appeared but we were protected. The precious magnificence of the preparing mind having already built unused foundations to cope if needed. We feed the dreams of a thousand situations. If we could but feed only these that really happen how much easier it would be.

The theatre of life moves on. A new act in the production, characters scarcely known to us dip in doing huge things in our lives and we trust them with the preciousness as they carry the table unaware of what’s behind the cup stains upon it.  The removers removed themselves. We gave them thanks. Our roles in each other’s play short by necessity. Closing the door on them leaving the crossroad of our time together begins to distance.

Loved faces joined later. Those who also understood the meanings of cup stains, and the rest of the plot. Safe, we’d gathered and shared fish and chips and heavily buttered thick sliced bread. But this was not until their work was done and they knew they had made us comfortable for the night.

So what of the days ahead, what love of life will be found here?  What has been carried from whence we came to be used in the new old place.  Our minds, our faith have moved with us as an ever present. But childlike we meet the unexplored, leading us to new things and mixing them with our experience and wisdom gives them our shape. The aroma of salt and vinegar and the red sauce stain remain reminding me again of last night’s communion at the breakfast bar. We have already produced an event to begin our history in this place. The first “do you remember when” moment?

The days of comparison will disappear. There will come with time, a moment of grounding, the concrete realisation we are not going back. The acceptance that there is loss of what we had be it bad or good, it is still loss. Our world will never seem quite the same again.

Don Russell

I Give You


I give you your stimulation,

But not my mind.


I give you your meal,

But not my labour.


I give you your wants,

But not my love.


I give you your way,

But not my truth.


I give you your importance,

But not my agreement.


I give you your visions,

But not my visions.


I give you your memories,

But not my dreams.


I give you your keys,

But not to my door.


Don Russell

Lest We Forget

The pained howl of a dog caused me to turn. The howl the result it appeared to be of dog paw meeting pushchair wheel. The father raised a hand of apology, his children already trying to soothe the animal by stroking it. The dog appeared none the worse and a shoulder shrugged smile from its owner reflected an acceptance, accidents happen. It was as I turned that I caught sight of it nestled amongst the clutter underneath the pasting table come stall.

I pulled it out, with its tired wrinkled brown leather top and crushed corners. It interested me. Intentionally I began slowly returning the item aware the seller was watching.  I casually made eye contact and with a degree of mock disinterest queried.

“How much for the old case mate?”


“I’ll give you two quid.”


I contemplated pushing for two pound fifty. Nah!

“Okay three. “

I was convinced it would match. If not, I was sure I could find some other use for it.

I already had two leather brown cases of similar style and wear. This smaller one was would complete what I needed for the display at the local travel agent’s window.

Getting home I checked inside for insects. It was lined in a lighter brown coloured material than the outside and there was a long cloth pocket of the same colour and material attached to the front interior edge. Instinctively I slipped my hand beneath the elasticated top of the pocket and slid it along. I felt something in the corner. My heart fluttered as I retrieved it. It was a small flat bag made from a piece of coarse tarpaulin which was folded across the top and sealed like an envelope.

I gently pulled the overlap and whatever was sealing it came away easily and lifting the flap I explored. Inside there were a few pages of writing, removing them I found them dated 21st March 1941.  The left hand side was ragged suggesting they’d been torn from some notebook or jotter.    The writing was immaculate.

It began –

Back at camp, safe for the moment. I am not sure how long a man is expected to suffer this way of living. Sometimes I envy those who have fallen. There is a peace for them, then I reprimand myself for such thoughts. They may have peace, I do not know, but like me they have families back home and I am sure their aim would have been to survive all this and be with to them again.

Today it was a long hard return march despite the initial elation of victory. The adrenalin had drained and we were men again. Dirty, muddy, tired, walking dreamlike, eyes battling to be allowed to close. Just men again. God had numbed our minds for protection. We would have gone mad if we’d to carry all the mental luggage. He’d sent it to rest in some back locker in our mind for another day, whilst we fought the more immediate battle of physically getting ourselves home.

We were sober drunk, our paths weaving with an over indulgence of tiredness. There was an unspoken conversation here. A silent love acted out in physical compassionate actions, the placing of our waning strength beneath the arms of flopping men who can go no further. The weight of war.

The road squelches as we journey. The roar from behind. We split going to our chosen side. No one rushes to clamber on board. Those who can don’t, those who can’t are gently lifted into the back of the truck.

No speech from the remaining, only an acknowledged glance to each other. This is a good thing to do despite the sacrifice. They are our brothers, love they neighbour, we have fought with them, we have the faith they would do for us as we do for them.

As we regroup back at the camp the gaps provide the reality of those whom we have lost. They are but memories, that is all we have left off them,this and sometimes the blood stains on our tunics  as we comforted them briefly in their dying moments before returning to the business of war. 

I carry his stain, he was from my street, we played together as we grew through times of laughter, pain, youth to man, just about men before we were called.

How I long for the greying smoking skies of home, smoke of production, not destruction. I am so tired I don’t know how much more I can take. I cry. An unseen voice mutters beside me, is it prayers to God for himself, or for me in my sobbing or does he mumble unaware in dreams from some back locker.

Continuing I realised I was now reading a rough draft of what I already read in the earlier pages but with scoring out and mistakes. I paused with an aching admiration at the resilience of this unknown man to strive for perfection in the midst of chaos. I was seventy years removed from all this but tonight I had been taken back to the 1940’s by this man’s poignant painful experiences and had shared an image of war I was unlikely ever to forget.

I carefully slipped the letter back into the tarpaulin envelope and placed it safely in the post rack by the front door for now. I picked the case up to put it with the others and I noticed a very faded name rank and service number stencilled on the leather base. Frank Doyle I had to find you a home……


Don Russell    19/03/17






Archie’s Gone.

Bones idly drew a line with the heel of his battered boot in the dust of the floor in the derelict. He sighed. Looking over at his companion he broke their silence.

“The kid could never keep his tin lid Bert.”

“He don’t deserve this Bones.”

“I don’t think the cop had a choice. The kid had been on the sniff and juice all the day before Bert. “

“Bones ah seen him afore, that cop. He’s a big bruisy bastard, keen with the baton. I tried to get the kid away. Get the fuck here Archie I shouted! No use he was on fire. Dent on the back of his head you could have rested an egg in. I went down to see him. Morgue on 27th and 5th.  I walks in. There’s a princess sitting in the waiting room. I say’s to the guy at the counter I’ve come to see Archie, I started to fill. I don’t know his second name.”

“Rogers, says this princess from behind. Archie’s mouth, sister or mother, quite tasty. Hooking up crossed ma mind but I threw it out before it settled Bones. Ye know, dignity and that.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time it happened Bert.”

“Na Bones, this princess had class. Outta place down our end.”

“Archie never said much about anything really Bert. Did you ask her who she was?”


“Did ya get to see him?”

“Ye Bones I seen him. I seen Archie, just lying there peaceful man, shaved, in a white robe, looked like Gabriel, washed long golden curly hair. The man at the counter told me the funeral was Monday over on the Jersey side. I’m not sure how we’d get there.”

“We knew the kid over this side, best leave it at that Bert.”

“She was still sitting there, the princess, when I came back. She looked at me kinda, sad. Ah remembered ah still had his cap, it fell off in the struggle and ah’d picked it up. Ah fiddled with it a while in ma pocket not sure, but ah took it out. Ah turned and handed it to her, I told her it was Archie’s and that he was a nice kid. She took it, kinda smiled, but said nothing.””

“That was a good thing to do Bert, have a slug of ma juice, calm the nerves.”

“Ta Bones. To Archie!”

“Steady with the bottle Bert you snake, you’re not that nervous!”