Fishy Business

Some like to fish and there are many ways of pursuing the pastime/sport. Some like to focus on a particular species of fish, others are content to take what bites. A few will go to sea and seek out game fish. They like the challenge of hauling in a giant Tuna or Shark or whatever the choice may be.

Wilf belonged to the Salmon fishing fraternity. Though that is not the strict truth, he went alone. He would get upset if another turned up on ‘his’ stretch of water, so 'fraternity' did not enter into it. The Country of Wales was his preferred area and he rented a site where he kept his caravans, which was another of his passions. The second caravan was something he was restoring. These things took time and it was (to him) a labour of love; To others it was a botch job at best, simply because he would use whatever materials came to hand. The outside of the ‘van had, over the years, been patched with tin cans that he would split open and flatten out before using his pop-rivet gun to place them. Spray paint was anathema to him. A large brush and a tin of Dulux was his preferred method.

That Wales was a six hour drive away from where he lived did not deter him and, on his days off and for the holidays he was entitled to, he would drive overnight or leave early morning if he had been on the night shift. To most people the drive was only three hours using the motorway but Wilf serviced his own car and it was in similar condition to the caravan that he had spent so long restoring. Therefore, motorways were out and slow driving with frequent stops to fill the radiator, along A & B roads was his idea of heaven.

We dreaded the return of Wilf from his holidays or weekend excursions because we all knew what we would get when any of us drew the short straw and shared a shift with him – Tales of his exploits and nothing more. Being a slow talker with a slight accent, he was himself Welsh, which explained his passion for the place, he would tell anyone, anywhere, at anytime that he liked to fish and explain that there was no finer way to spend a day. When Doctors came to ask for keys – they Had to be told. A visitor looking for directions? They needed to be informed. A nurse looking for post? They would often be seen recoiling in horror as Wilf would talk AT them whilst he searched through the letters and parcels. Wilf, in his way was a bore, a twaddler, a tiresome individual.

Nevertheless, Wilf could fish; he had told us this on many an occasion and one day he proved it.

The ITU (Intensive Therapy Unit) held a fundraising day every year. They would push a bed around the town and the Nurses and Doctors (all in full uniform) would shake plastic buckets under the noses of the townsfolk and beg for money on the premise that you never know when the services of ITU might be needed… It is a very successful way of money-raising and over the years has bought many benefits to the Department. They would sell raffle tickets to as many as they could and relied on local stores and business to provide prizes. Wilf donated a catch he had made. The donation to the raffle was a simple act and something that he could talk about for years to come. As a prize, anyone would welcome a heavyweight salmon. It did look very tasty..

Wilf related (many times) about how It had put up a fight and, upon seeing the size of the fish I could well believe it; It was a giant! I had to endure the tale more than once because we shared the Saturday morning shift. Many others heard it that day and, as I was in his company, I heard it over and over.. Once the Salmon had been landed he had run back to the house nearby and after gutting and preparing it, dropped it in the freezer that belonged to the Landowner. For the journey home he had filled a large plastic container with ice and placed the fish on top and then covered it with more ice. As soon as he got home (he had driven non-stop) he had placed it into yet another freezer… Which is where I had seen the monster fish.

From time to time Porters are asked to do, shall we say… ‘unusual’ things. Things that on the face of it are clear cut, but the properties of the items in question are sometimes not the sort of thing that sits easy on the mind if one cares to dwell on it for any length of time.

The request was reasonable enough – Could I take an item from Theatre and deposit it in the freezer in the Path Lab? – Simple enough and it took only a few minutes to perform said task. The item in question was a section of bowel from a poor unfortunate who had cancer. It is often the case that sections of tissue are removed and put aside for investigation at a later date. Research is always ongoing and visible evidence that is available for study can be beneficial.

I took the small plastic container and wandered down to the Lab. Normal specimens of blood are put into a smaller fridge beside the reception. Items of an historical nature needed lower temperatures for fast-freeze so I bypassed the reception and made my way down into the labyrinthine set of Histology Labs. There, right at the back sat the enormous, green chest-freezer. It had a big chrome handle to open and close it and I had to give the lid a hefty heave to overcome the seal on the lid. Eventually it popped open with a sigh as cold air escaped..

And there it lay. The scales glistening through the plastic bag in which it had been placed, the one visible eye staring vacantly. The freezer was five feet long and the fish left only 18inches or so room!

Just how the winner of the raffle would feel if he or she knew how the leviathan had spent its time amidst a jumble of plastic containers filled with a range of human parts all neatly labelled to show their history is a question that (hopefully) will never have to be answered.

Footware

In the event it turned out not to be broken but merely heavily bruised. It came as something of a relief, but the pain was awful and equal to anything previously experienced. The Doctors had given their opinion and there it was – Strap it up, rest it as much as possible; but mostly - bad luck, look where you are going in future.

I look back and wonder at the silliness of it. I can see it happening and thinking – there, it was bound to happen. My excuse is I wanted to get out there. I wanted to experience some of that ‘wilderness’ that is supposed to occupy this planet. The forest looked inviting and it beckoned. So we went in.

Eduard Besson was born with the spirit of the mountains in his blood. His Father had climbed and conquered them and Eduard followed. His record of climbs growing with his years. When his brother died on a climb he lost the taste for the perilous predicaments he put himself in and he moved away from his home town and settled in the forests that surround Basle. From there he could take a short trip in the car and gaze upon the awesome peaks at his leisure and take comfort from the knowledge that they endured. It was habitual and almost ritual with him to take a walk in the forest at some point during the day. It didn’t matter what time particularly, just as long as he got at least an hour in.

He set off at lunchtime, taking a sizeable hunk of bread and a thick slice of cheese with him. By 3pm he had covered a good few kilometres and when he spotted a fallen tree he stopped and, sitting astride it, he had a late lunch. Languishing in the warm sun that filtered through the gap in the tree canopy where the tree had fallen. The sun and food and the delicious quietness of the forest turned languid into an art-form and he dozed as the forest life went on all around him.

There is something about an Old Forest. It has a presence, a sense of wonder that is apparent when the canopy closes overhead as you enter. Once embraced in the arms of the woodland it becomes incumbent to let the fears go. All those Issues or Worries we carry with us; dissipate as we adapt to the chronology of an Endless Forest. We learn to whisper and still manage to hear above the cacophony of sound that the woodland reveals in return for our impudence in entering. Birds call out a warning that humans are abroad. Deer prick up their ears and follow the heavy-footed humanity by sound as the alien species tramp through. Insects and bugs feel the ground tremble as we pass.

The airport was a relative ‘quiet haven’ after Heathrow, where we had embarked. The flight itself had been relaxed and short and within five hours from setting out from home, we had been safely ensconced in the flat and itching to get out to get a grip on the local surroundings; try to get a handle on the geography on the land; Switzerland.

We saw the forest approaching as we walked across the allotment area that is in use by the local tenants and farmers of the district. We had slipped our way through the labyrinth of paths and byways (each clearly marked with signposts and distances) with some degree of authority. We knew the name of the place we had come from so it would be easy to follow the signs pointing the way back. Meanwhile, the sun made itself known by filtering through the lush growth of summer and lit our way as countless footpaths opened their way for us.

Yes, I know…, we should have waited. We should have changed into more appropriate attire.. We should have stocked up on glucose tablets and a supply of water and a decent pair of walking boots and all those things that make a trip out - a Journey. Nevertheless, excited, we embarked outward… we were on a holiday, a trip out from base camp was essential to get a perspective on the local topography. WE didn’t even know of the forest until it presented itself, As we crested a sloping hill we looked down upon the vast woodland that smothered the valleys below. In the far distance we could see mountains rising, a grey presence against a green foreground. The nearest thing available to shelter from the warm sun was the forest and we ventured within. The climate changed as we walked and we felt the cooler air that gathered in the valley surround us as we descended in the fringes of the forest.

Just a short way in the path forked; WE turned to the right. At the next fork we turned left. Very soon we encountered a crossroads that presented a dilemma, so we took a chance and turned toward the direction of the silence… It was to the right I think… The birds sang all around us and we paused to listen and I adjusted the strap on my shoes. We kept the pace slow, the path was by no means an obstacle course but with the wrong shoes it became close. An hour later we paused to simply soak in the sound of a forest at work and that simple act caused the fall as my heel caught and over went my ankle resulting in the worst pain I have ever known. I screamed out and my continued cursing and ineffectual efforts to get up only served to scare the whole woodland area with a flurry of activity as animals ran and bird took flight. I think I was crying in pain.

Eduard came to from his doze, aware that not all he could hear was wildlife. His suspicion was confirmed almost instantly when he heard human voices. In his head the voices represented a violation of what he had come to think of as His forest; in reality he recognised the sound of someone in pain. He became fully awake and tried to locate the sound and succeeded when another cry came from his left just down the path. He set off to find the source of the anguished sound.

His German was of course excellent. My English is Very good. but the reverse could not be said. Whilst I can count to ten in German and say hello, goodbye and a smattering of swear words; My conversational skills are, sadly, lacking. Eduard, I think would agree.

He carried me. After a quick inspection of my ankle he hoisted me to my feet and almost slung me over his shoulder. I sort of protested but he could NOT understand me at all. I thought that maybe he thought his luck was in and he was carrying me off to his lair… Z hurried along behind. Trying to keep up with fast pace he set and trying to keep her feet to prevent another incident with a wayward ankle.

There was a firm purpose in his step and in short time we came out of the forest and past a few houses that I looked at with some longing thinking of a simple bathing of my ankle in cool water. He ignored the suggestions I made and continued with purpose until we came to his car, a rather battered Mercedes, parked at the end of a field of sunflowers, each of which seemed to watch as he dropped me into the passenger seat and waited with some patience for Z to arrive before starting the car and heading off to the nearest Hospital.

The Doctors tutted and shook their collective heads at the stupidity of an Englander in the forest wearing stupid shoes for such an excursion. Or, that is what I surmised from the way the efficient, but rather ‘cold’ way my treatment was conducted. Nevertheless, I have no complaints about the outcome. No bones broken and with it strapped up well I was able to hobble. I could expect some discomfort for a while but the painkillers would help there. All I need do is keep as active as possible and NOT let the foot atrophy through neglect. It was a lesson in humility – You went to far, now start again. And, wear suitable clothing!

The rest of the holiday was spent without incident. Visits to Basle and Lucerne and the walks around the two places revealed a delight of food and drink and friendly people who responded well to a crippled Brit in, by now, a semi-fit state and the whole served to make up for a rather splendid aside from the everyday life ‘back home’.

On the day before we were due to fly home we decided that we just had to take another walk across the fields to the forest. Despite the injury, which by now was a shadow of its former self and was fading into the mists of time, a nice walk would be good and allow us to catch up with the magic that the forest had presented. I donned a pair of trainers designed for the arduous task of walking (it said so on the box, and should anyone doubt the Brand with the swoosh?).

We spent the day well. We had taken our lunch with us. We even had a good supply of water. We walked for miles. And the return journey proved even better as we trusted the signposts and veered some way off course. We came upon deer. We stopped and attracted woodpeckers by tapping the trunk of a tree with a stone. The deer seemed to keep us company as we slowly made our way back through the vast expanse of woodland. They knew that we posed no threat and continued their browsing without regard to us. The woodpeckers got agitated by spurious signals (sent by us) and gathered around argueing among themselves… The sun shone though a filtered layer of leaves and all was well with the world.

All days end and as we left the forest and wearily trudged our way back for the last night in Switzerland, the fields near to the flat gave way to the houses and, as evening closed, we gave thanks for the sight of electric lights.. It would mean a warm bath and clean sheets on a comfortable bed.

We waited at the pedestrian crossing for some time. In Switzerland and Germany it is considered BAD form to cross against a red light even if no traffic was about. So we waited. Just before the lights changed and the green Go light came on, a silver, battered Mercedes that looked familiar somehow, came up the road. We waited for its passing but instead the driver drew to halt beside us. We tutted at the silliness of this and proceeded to walk round. The window came down and a voice called out in broken-English. The voice was known to me and carried with it a message.

After delivering the words the driver pulled away. Though not before recognition arrived, and NOT, sad to say; before the window was closed and the car drew away leaving me unable to respond and utter thanks to a Good Samaritan.

Eduard waved out of the window and vanished around the bend. Each syllable was carefully enunciated and hung in the evening air; The words still echo in the mind. "Those are Sensible shoes!”

Hands of Time

We all have those moments when the past reaches out and touches us. Sometimes the memory is painful and we hastily brush it aside. Other times we smile and put our head to one side whilst we pause to recall. On occasion the past stands in front of us and will not be ignored. At such moments we are suddenly aware of the fact that TIME passes and we look up to see how the years have fared..

<<>>

That the woman was pregnant was NOT in doubt. Her belly was in danger of busting open right there in the ER room of A&E as the kicks and movements of the baby confined within displayed a yearning desire to rid itself of the barrier that held back the life that was yet to be.

The Mother-to-be grunted in pain from another source. She had been a sufferer of rheumatism for some years and had not really expected that one day this, ‘Miracle that was Life’, would be something she could experience. But her delight was self-evident and she stroked her belly trying to soothe the rage within. Her hands had become at the age of thirty two, something that she now referred to as claws but she used them to great effect as she talked to the baby and continued to stroke her swelling.

Sister explained to me that we needed to get her over to the Labour Ward where she could have her baby in the proper surroundings of a specialist unit. She had been admitted because of an almost severed toe. Alice, the Mum-to-be, had dropped a pair of kitchen scales through her hands and they had landed on her toe which though broken, was now the least of her worries. The loss of blood perhaps or the trauma of the excitement had brought on the immanent arrival of baby who, despite the eye-catching evidence of the swollen belly was not in fact due for three weeks!

Whilst we waited for her notes to be written up I stood and chatted with Alice. She held onto my hand and I tried in my way to reassure her. Truth to tell though, she was calmer than me, if perhaps a little excited that she was going to have her baby at last. We got on well, she told me all about herself and I responded in kind by telling her about me. We swapped tales of gardening and cooking and shared in the moment by being friends in what is after all a rather hostile place – A Hospital.

To get to the Labour Ward from A&E was quite a long trek. Corridors, lift up three floors, more corridors, a link-bridge to the Maternity Unit, another corridor, a lift down one floor and the final corridor to the Labour Ward itself… The warm coloured paintings on the wall, the soft music that played in the lobby area, the big-hearted laugh of the Ward Sister gave an immediate feeling of calmness as we wheeled Alice into room one. Light and airy with minimal furnishing it could have been cold and clinical but instead held an almost Zen approach and everyone breathed easier for being there. Sister Rose, who hailed from the West Indies had been in charge of the ward for more years than anyone cared to remember, she WAS the Labour Ward. All others bowed to her knowledge and common-sense approach to the delivery room.

Alice asked if I would stay. Her husband was a salesman and was somewhere in Leeds at the moment, though following a phone call he was more than likely to be halfway down the motorway by now; And she would appreciate the company and if I could hold her hand she would like that very much…

Despite her best intentions Alice did not have a good time. She screamed a lot during the delivery and despite the pain she had in here hands she crushed my fingers and swore a great deal. Sister Rose ignored it all and simply told her that all was well and told her when to push and when to relax and Alice tried hard to follow orders. She still uttered the occasional expletive though! And then all of a sudden there she was – Eve arrived. Her screams and protests far louder than her mothers. The wet hair on her head lay quite thick across her scalp and her wrinkled face creased even more as she bellowed her welcome to the world. Her pudgy little fingers groped as the midwife passed her to Alice who beheld the squawking bundle with delight and tears and pressed the tiny body to her bosom. The mouth that yelled soon became the mouth that suckled and silence, save for the heavy breathing from Alice soon overtook the room and the midwives left her to settle for a while.

Alice looked at me at smiled a weary smile. “I did it”, she said. “Thanks for staying.”

I sat with her for another hour. I held the baby in my arms while the midwives did their bit with Alice by washing her and changing her blood-soaked gown. All to soon it was time to leave because the bleep gave a signal that I was required elsewhere. We exchanged a hug and a kiss and said goodbye and I went about my job. I wondered how to write up the occasion in the Report book.

<<<>>>

I was on my way to the Canteen to grab a bite to eat. The day so far had been busy and I thought that if I grabbed a sandwich or, if they had any left, a baguette I could take it back and eat whilst I finished off one of the reports requested.

Outside the Pharmacy a whole host of people waited for prescriptions to be made up and I had to negotiate my way through the throng. My way was barred by an attractive, twenty-something, year old woman who stood foursquare in front of me. “Hello”, she said.

I looked and saw a complete stranger. Nevertheless, I said a rather brusque ‘hello’ in return and tried to step round her. She sidestepped and was still in my way. “You don’t know me do you?”, she asked rather unnecessarily. I had to admit that she was correct in her assumption. But then she asked me another question. A question that threw me a bit and I paid attention.

I listened to her question and it seemed harmless enough and truth to tell, I could use the event to take my mind off work. So I followed her as she led me across reception to meet her Mother as per the request.

The figure in the wheelchair had her head bowed so I could not see her features. But I could see that she was disabled by her twisted hands and feet. The younger woman spoke again. “Mum, I think I found her.”

‘Mother slowly twisted her head to one side and lifted her face to look at me and she smiled . “Hello Amanda.”

I tried to be calm and courteous but the puzzled look on my face gave me away and the woman laughed a delightfully musical laugh. “I suspect that you do not remember me. But I remember you.” Then she burst into song, the first line from Sgt. Pepper by the Beatles. “It was twenty years ago today.” And she laughed again. “You helped me make the world a better place. You stayed with me while I gave birth to the beautiful child beside you.” She indicated her daughter.

She went on at length about what a delight her daughter was to her and she had grown up into a wonderful woman and was good to her Mother. The girl blushed and muttered warm words of admonishment to her mother, she was obviously used it. I learned that Eve Cared for her Mother in almost every way because of the disabling disease that had reached far into her body and limbs. But the warm smile was always present, she smiled fondly when she told me of the passing of her husband and how the two of them had attended the funeral, Eve supporting her Mother as by now she walked unsteadily.

Mother went on, “I was a bit wrong singing that song you know. It was Twenty Two years ago actually. Twenty Two years ago, you and I shared a moment. Remember?”

And the years rolled away and I rubbed my hand at the memory of her vice-like grip.

HEY!

“Hey! You were working last night weren’t you?” I couldn’t deny it.

“Thought so.” He said without waiting for the answer. “I remember you outside when those louts came up to A&E. My Partner is just getting some paperwork from the Sister about it.”

His tall frame fitted out the uniform well and his boots shone. His radio made noises and he turned the volume down. “I suppose you do a week on nights then?” A glance back up the corridor to check his partner had not reappeared. He went on, “We do the same shifts. A week of early a week of lattés and a week of nights. You get used to it don’t you?” The merest hint of a pause, “We have brought another one in for you, but I don’t think he will be much trouble, he is too drunk. Do you think it will be a Home win for the footie on Saturday? I reckon it will mean trouble for us if we lose!”
I couldn’t help but wonder as to why he asked questions but did not wait for answers. I put it down to his youth and obvious eagerness that everyone should know he was a Policeman. I idly supposed that his eyes hid his own uniform from view.

“I better get on. Maybe I will see you later. You never know what the night will bring do you?” He turned on his heels and marched back up the corridor.

I resumed my way to the Path Lab, the specimen in the plastic bag had a limited shelf-life. I passed through Reception and down the corridor to the lab where the Technician waited and I handed over the bag.
“Keep them coming” He said, “I need something to keep me awake. Things are slow tonight.”

It was true. Sometimes it happened that way, nights got slow. Not that I minded, There are books to read, music to be heard and right now… food to be sought. Time for a raid.

If, upon being given a set of keys that in theory open every door in a Hospital, and one does not use them; it shows a certain lack of curiosity.
Which is an odd justification for being nosey I know, but I did use them and am pleased to report that I have at some point been in every single room in the Hospital. Further, I have, in my time, used every single, outermost, remote toilet. Even the ones in the accommodation block.

A small claim, but in the context of quiet night-shifts, a big deal. I once, and this is confession time, I once sat in the leather chair behind the desk of the Hospital Director and used his big mahogany desk to roll a very large joint which I subsequently shared with Duff up on the roof. I also rolled them in the Mortuary, the Canteen, a cubicle in the Maternity Ward and many other outlandish places. Including behind the reception desk in a busy Accident & Emergency, simply to prove to myself that people just don’t see what is going on under their noses. Though in that particular case I may have had my judgement clouded by the one I had rolled and smoked earlier in the evening.

In this instance having delivered the specimen I hastened toward the kitchen. When the munchies strike food suddenly takes on an urgency. It pays to know the right people no matter where you work. I had been left instructions – a note had been put in my locker. “On the right as you go in. Plated and ready to be zapped.” To the unknowing reader this would mean little - to me, as a friend of the Chef it meant a lot!

Gary was a dear chap, he had a liking for beer and the music of Jethro Tull, and was very tolerant to those that liked to smoke. I had happened to mention one night in the pub that I liked to crumble hash into an omelette… Not being one to miss a hint he had from that day forth whenever he was on the late shift and I was on nights, whipped up an omelette and sprinkled it with a liberal dosage of the aforementioned herb. He would wrap it in Clingfilm and place it in the fridge ready for me when I started nights. Friends in the right place see…?

I liberated the plate from the padlocked cooler and headed out into the canteen carefully locking doors behind me. Already eating at a table in the corner were two Doctors and a Staff Nurse. I made use of the Microwave and took my now steaming supper/breakfast across to join them, greeting each in turn.

The discussion they were engaged in concerned the forthcoming changes within the Hospital. It was inevitable, it would mean Big changes all round. Many of the Ancillary jobs within the newly-formed Trust would be palmed off to outside Agencies.

If I was to stay, then I would find myself working for a National Unified Workforce. I did not relish the idea and so had made plans to move. I was headed for the Switchboard, a department that was to stay under Trust control. My Portering days drew to an end.
All three of my supper companions agreed that it was a shame that the changes were going to happen, and we all agreed that no good would come of it. – Hindsight shows that this conversation proved to be prophetic.

Supper finished and the devilish delight of eating a herb-laden omelette in front of unsuspecting doctors and nurses added an extra zing to the effects the drug took.

The night took on a mellow outlook and I went out into the grounds to begin a so-called Security round. It so happened that the security clock had inexplicably broken down during my last set of nights and as yet had not reappeared from the menders. I momentarily had a thought that sand in the winding mechanism had obviously gummed it up nicely and a pang of guilt flashed through my mind, tho’ that thought didn’t last long.

In the far corner of the site sat an old house that now served during the day as a crèche. It was the garden that drew me and I wandered around it for a while, delighting in the moonlit flowers that glowed and the scents that some of them gave. I sat on the Troll Bridge – a small structure that spanned the tiny pond – and smoked a cigarette and let my bare toes dip into the cold water. The goldfish nibbled at my toes. Life was good.

I replaced my shoes and continued round the back of the accommodation blocks. Various lights showed that even at this late hour some were still awake. The sound of a radio played softly as I passed the Doctors Mess and through the window I could see a doctor pacing up and down, reference book in hand that he glanced at from time to time. Exams loomed for the Juniors and throughout the previous nights I had come across three or four Doctors similarly engaged up in the Library on the top floor of the Main Block.

As I rounded the topmost corner and started to head back I heard the sound of a window opening. I stopped to look and saw that someone was not letting in air, rather, he was letting himself. The dark clothing gave hint that this was not quite right, the screwdriver he held in his hand as he eased up the glass gave another clue. I edged back around the corner and let myself in through the fire door and ran down the corridor for the nearest phone.

The Police could not have been far away because they arrived within minutes and the driver made for the window when I pointed it out to him whilst the other followed me in to the block and I opened up the door to the room.

I stood back and let the Officer enter first, I followed from a safe distance and could see that the burglar had dumped a radio/CD player and television onto the bed and was unplugging a PC… As the lights went on he jumped and then started for the window at a run, the figure of the Policeman stood there framed by the darkness outside and he drew up and put up his hands.

Handcuffed, he was marched off. I closed the window and made sure the bolts were tight then closed the door behind me. Outside I was greeted by a familiar voice.

“Hey.” Said the voice and I groaned inwardly. “You think we got nothing better to do?” He at least had a smile on his face while he uttered the words. “I expect you thought that we would be at the station drinking tea?” He laughed at this uproarious joke and went on, “As it happens we will be now. Got to lock up the baddie you sent us.” He kicked a stone into the gutter. “See you again.” He waved a hand and returned to his car.

I thought that while I was out I would do another walkabout. It was all ammunition for the report book… But the joint I smoked on the round would remain unmentioned in that battered tome.

Back in the Lodge the rest of the crew had gathered and tea was being made. A time of talk and social gathering. – Sid tried to see if he could beat his record with the Rubik Cube he usually carried about his person. Geoff squinted at a newspaper, holding it close to his face and peering through myopic eyes. Andy was prodding fingers at his new computer and sat with a puzzled frown. I pressed go on the cassette player and lay back to relish in the music of Miles Davis. Geoff frowned at first but he was a musician (trombone payer in a Brass Band) and he soon began to appreciate the feel of the music. I was slowly educating him away from the stifled world of Classical music!!

Time passed, a few jobs came and went and we began to think about a few minutes of shut-eye. Geoff took himself off to stretch out on one of the reception seats. Andy chose the warm corner over by the pharmacy and lay down with his Walkman plugged into his ears. Sid just sat by the phone and his head fell forward to indicate that sleep had taken him. I decided on another toke.

I was on the roof watching the smoke dissipate into the night and beginning to feel the full effect of a well-loaded smoke when the bleep sounded. The job, upon enquiry when I climbed back through the Library window was to see if I could help find a runaway Patient from A&E.

Sister Hils explained; He was in jeans and T-Shirt, came in as an overdose and was waiting for the team to assemble to give him a washout. He came to and legged it up the corridor, so he is inside the Hospital somewhere. The Police are already here and having a look.

I felt a bit put-out by having Police running about in MY Hospital… nevertheless I set off in pursuit. I took the lift to the top and walked down the stairs checking for unlocked doors as I went and poking my nose into the Ward areas in case anyone had seen anything. I made it down to the 1st floor and was checking the admin offices that overlook the reception when I heard the, by now, familiar voice.
“Hey!”
I could have screamed.. I hate being called Hey. I checked the door at the far end of the balcony and made my way to the Policeman who stood looking down on the Reception.

“Hi again. We must stop meeting like this” The hearty laugh grated, and he stepped forward to face me, his young features all aglow with delight. He was here on Official business and lost no time in telling me so.
“We were passing and we got the call. So we headed in to see if we could help. I expect you need it.” A reply on my part was cut short. “I know it must be tricky for you to know what is going on in such a large area, so we will do what we can to find him.”

I resisted the urge to push him over the balcony. Instead I told him I had checked down from the top floor and had mostly finished this floor.
“Oh, never mind about that. This is a drug-crazy we are after here. Never know what they will do. But he should be easy to spot. People on drugs usually are.” His experience of life so far was going to be explained to me, I just knew it…

His radio crackled and he responded in the staccato voice that radio-users use. They had found the escapee outside on the main road heading for town. I was happy to hear it, I could get back to Miles Davis or maybe put on some Steve Hillage and let the night wash over me. PC Plod had other ideas. He was ready to regale me with facts and figures about life in Uniform and the drug-crazed persons he had met.

“It is easy to tell them you know..” A rare pause, and without thinking I asked why?.

“The eyes.” He explained looking straight at me. “Eyes give it away. Especially with Cannabis. The eyes go first and glaze over. It is easy to spot them after they have had a smoke. That, and the fact that most of them get violent.”

I nodded wisely accepting all he had to offer. “I think you ought to tell the Doctors, they could use this knowledge.”

He looked long and hard at me. “You know? You are alright. You got your head screwed on.”

I wondered at the man. I could not really believe in the somewhat surreal position of a Policeman telling a ‘Stoned’ Porter how easy it was to spot a drug user and totally failing to see one in front of him. I could only think of the one phrase. An old one it is true. Not original at all, but all that came to mind is – Aren’t our British Bobbies wonderful?

Ada

Ada Brooks was not so good on her feet any more but, the frame the hospital had given her since the hip replacement had enabled her to get out and about to a certain extent. Her other hip joint was not good but the Surgeons wanted to let the first op' mend before starting on it. In the meantime she was still just about able to shuffle her way up to the corner shop to fetch the evening paper.

She noted that the skies were getting a wee bit lighter – Spring would be here soon. Her late husband had liked spring, he used to say it made the sap rise; she smiled at the memory. It was he who had always fetched the paper every evening because it had the horse racing results. He had been fond of the occasional flutter on the gee-gees, and old habits had died hard. Now, once a week, she too made the short trip to the bookies to place a few pounds. She rarely won of course, she lacked her husbands knowledge of the horses. Nevertheless it brought him closer for a moment or two and that was something.

She was a little bit later than usual and she tried to hurry herself along. The frame and her hip limited her speed she soon discovered and she had to pause for breath.

She didn’t hear a thing. Not only that, she hardly felt a thing either; All she recalled afterward was a bright light exploding in her head and seeing the ground come up to meet her face. Mercifully she lost consciousness before her nose broke on the pavement.

The Police got to the scene in a very short time as did the Ambulance. A witness had called 999 and was on hand to say what had happened and give a description of the protagonist.

Thieving is bad enough; said the Policeman: Hitting and snatching a bag from a frail old woman was, he said, as low as anyone could get. Everyone within earshot could not disagree. Each of them hoped that the assailant was caught soon. Some voiced the opinion that he should be castrated and made to eat his own testicles… Again, no one could find fault with the idea.

Paramedics had patched her up at the scene. Because she had lost consciousness it was essential that she go to the Hospital to undergo a thorough examination. An X-Ray to her head being most important.

She held my hand tight as we wheeled the trolley into the X-Ray. She clung on to me while the Technician carefully rolled her to take the pictures of her hip and her nose. Both turned out to be broken.

She still held my hand when back in the cubicle and would not let go while the Doctors gave their verdict. I listened with her as they said that her hip was probably now beyond the repair that had been planned. Her nose would remain crooked because the bones had shattered and they could only do so much. My hand felt hers tighten and I watched as the tears rolled down her bruised cheeks.

Eventually the pain-killers they gave her kicked in and she fell into a troubled sleep…

With some difficulty on my part I reluctantly let go of her hand. Hilary, the Department Sister came in and laid a hand on my shoulder; She tried to tell me that it would be ok and Ada would be out of here in no time. She did her best to console me but the truth is, the more she tried the worse it got. I fled. I ran down the corridor and let myself out through the nearest Fire-Exit to take deep breaths of the cool night air and to dry my tears.

Mercifully a bleep saved me from myself. I pulled myself together and answered within a few moments.

For an hour or more I was kept occupied so had no time to dwell. By the time I got back to A&E things had got busy and the first thing Sister asked me was to take a chap in a wheelchair to X-Ray who had managed to spike his leg on a railing. He explained on the way as I pushed the chair; He thought he would show off to his mates in the park and hop over the fence. The fence was higher than he thought and he came down on it and the top of the railing pierced his leg. – It had too, blood soaked his jeans and still dripped. A trail showed the path we had taken. The cleaner shook her head in a very disapproving manner and followed behind with a mop. I wracked my brain, but could think of no park in the town that had railings. I have no idea why, but I smelled a rat…

As luck had it – I say luck, the fact is that it was a death; Whilst I was waiting in Radiology I was bleeped by Switchboard who said that the Police were bringing in a body and could I open the main gates? ETA, about five minutes. The X-Ray Technician handed me the films and I pushed the injured youth back to A&E and left him in a cubicle, searched out Sister, gave her the films and told her I would be back soon.

Death is something that one has to come to terms with. It happens. Part of the job is to deal with the ‘unseen’ part. The moving and handling that goes along with it. Relatives sometimes get to see their loved ones laid out and view the body with a sheet covering all but the face. They say their goodbyes and shed their tears and they leave with their grief often apparent. They do not give a thought to those that handle the body; and indeed why should they. Those that do it are there to do a job and there it ends. It so happens that those people are human just the same. Doing these things does have an effect, it is not always apparent, it is pushed away.

Ada had made a deep impression and I felt sadness rising as I made my way to the front gates. I opened them and gazed up and down the road but nothing could be seen yet so I headed to the Mortuary to prepare a tray from the fridge for the body. Opening up the office I made ready the Log book and pulled the property book from the draw. As soon as the Police and the Undertakers arrived I was ready and waiting and in short time we had done all the required administration and the body was put away in the fridge leaving only farewells to be made.

As the Police were there, I asked; Had they caught the guys who mugged Ada? One of the Policemen knew Ada in person because he had lived next to her as a kid. He immediately got on the radio to enquire how things were going.

The response told us that as yet nothing had been heard. I asked if they had a description and as the reply from Control came through with the details, I began to feel better about Ada. I ushered the Cops out of the Mortuary and requested they meet me in A&E. A few minutes later they drove their car out from the lower ground and I locked the gate and ran around the front of the building to meet them as they came across the car park.

Inside the Department I explained to them my theory which was of course based purely on gut-instinct. They, to their eternal credit went along with it; I took them to see the Sister in Charge. She gave me a hard look that I wasn’t sure how to interpret but was probably to do with Patient Confidentiality. I shrugged and just mentioned Ada. Hils came over all soft again and led the police to the cubicle that housed the rat I had smelled earlier.

They peeked in and conferred quietly. The spoke again with Sister. She spoke with the Doctor. He went and spoke with the youth. He followed this by speaking with Sister who spoke to a nurse who went into the cubicle and patched the guy up. The Doctor waited while this happened then he re-entered the cubicle and told the young man that he was able to go. He handed over a prescription for whatever medication he thought was right and discharged him.

As the youth limped his way out trailing his damaged leg two Policemen fell into step beside him and asked him if he would accompany them to their car as they wished to ask a few questions…. The panic showed in his eyes and he would have probably bolted but he realised that his leg was not going to co-operate.

An hour later I got a call. He had been arrested and charged.

The next call I got was from Hils in A&E – could I come and take Ada to the ward?

The moment I entered Ada smiled and said hello. She looked pale, the bruising on her face was severe and in truth it was awful to look at. She held out her hand and I took it in mine. She squeezed gently and uttered a thank you. She talked to me all the way up to the ward. She continued to chat as we transferred her from the hard trolley onto a comfortable bed. She carried on chatting as I helped push the bed into its place back in the Main Ward area. I held on to her hand throughout much of this time. I lost count of the number of times she said thank you to me. I really did try to explain that she should be thanking the Doctors and, more specifically, the Nurses; but she waved such ideas aside and she just patted my hand and said that I was the one.

Bill had accompanied me said he was going back to the ‘Lodge’ to sort out the rubbish round and would cover for me. He has a good heart has Bill. I gave him my set of keys and he took my bleep as well. I sat down with Ada and let her soft chatting and effusive gratitude wash over me.

It was a few minutes to six when Ada began to doze off. She would start a sentence then trail off for a moment until she woke herself to complete what she had to say. I could see that pain was beginning to get a hold of her. She kept wincing and uttered the occasional groan. It got worse and I pressed the button for assistance. She began to lapse in and out of consciousness, her hand relaxing and then tightening. Staff nurse appeared and took a look at her, she ran off and summoned the Doctor on call.

A moment of clarity for Ada came and she pulled my hand and whispered, Thank you.” Then she began to shake, the colour drained from her face completely and she cried out in pain. I yelled for the Nurse who was in fact already behind me. She threw back the covers and from the trolley she had wheeled up with her she grabbed a couple of paddles….

The voice I heard seemed to come from afar… - YOU HAVE TO LET GO!

The Doctor was prising Adas hand from mine. He shouted in my face. LET GO! Then, as the world came back to me and reality hit me in the eye I stood back and watched at another attempt to save a life.

Seen it all before, me. Been there, done that, I wear the T-Shirt.

But, sometimes; just sometimes there is something that gets caught in all the shrapnel that passes. Just occasionally we stand by as God puts out His hand and takes His own to Him.

Ada was His. She always had been. She had been given 70 something years here, but she was His. She told me that. She told me of her life. In the few short hours I knew Ada – she, a total stranger, touched my heart.

Cricket; and its glorius nature

There exists in the annuls of broadcasting many timeless moments. None more than in the commentary of cricket.

I have listened (and watched whilst listening) to many cricket matches over the years. Some moments are treasured.

It is difficult to express the joy that cricket can bring. Radio tries hard to bring it to the listener but sometimes it falls over itself. The moment when I.T.Botham tried to get out of the way of an errant ball and knocked his wicket, springs to Mind.

Brian Johnston was a regular broadcaster on radio until his untimely death. Johnathan Agnew is still with us; He and Brian can take the responsibility for the Botham moment. He (Botham) had tried hard to avoid a ball and twisted himself round and in the process managed to knock his wicket and the bails fell. Johnathan Agnew described the scene and said, in all innocence, that Botham had failed to get his leg over.

Any further commentry was lost as the duo dissolved into laughter that continued for a considerable time.

He was right of course. But the implication was there… And it remains a splendid moment in broadcasting

All these moments have to be heard, simple blogs do Not do them justice. They are in the category of – I guess you had to be there…

And so it was with the effortless moment when the simple act of describing who was doing what, fell to the hapless broadcaster (Brian Johnston again, bless him) for the immortal moment when one Peter Willey was batting for England in a Test Match against the West Indies in 1979.

They (West Indies) had a particularly fine bowler named Michael Holding who terrorised England with his accuracy. He had taken a few wickets already and he ran in to bowl with Peter at the wicket ready to take him on…

One of those ‘Moments' happened as the run-up began –

Brian Johnston described the action. He was accurate in his description.

He uttered the immortal line…

"The bowler's Holding the batsmen's Willey".

Robert Mugabe is a Liar

Preamble…
I read a blog the other day

http://www.madtv.me.uk/goneaway.aspx

and was struck by it. It mentions Good Men.
I read it over a couple of times and it reminded me of something else that I had read. Something that deserves to be read by others because it concerns another Good Man who tried in his way to do something.

1987
"I,.....(Robert Gabriel Mugabe).......do solemnly affirm that I will faithfully execute the office of President of Zimbabwe and will to the best of my ability preserve, protect and defend the Constitution and the law and that I will devote myself to the service and well being of the people of Zimbabwe"

The Liar!

A few days ago toward the end of February 2007 that same Robert Mugabe celebrated his 83rd birthday. Zimbabwe as a Nation did not share in his celebrations.
A lavish feast was laid on for him at a cost of some £600,000 ($1,166,932). 10,000 of the Party faithful attended the obscene gathering and 38 cattle were slaughtered for this one feast and many tonnes of cornmeal produced. it is said that many of the citizens came simply to gaze, because of the amount of food was so staggering to behold. The rest of Zimbabwe try to do their shopping in stores with empty shelves.
Food is something that his (Mugabe) people see little of. They are a starving Nation. Inflation in the Country is currently at 1,600% and is set to rise to 4,000% later this year. Unemployment is at 80%. Fuel and even the most staple foodstuff is in short supply and medicines for the ravaged people are almost non-existent and as a result thousands have died.
The reign of terror that the man leaves in his wake is testament to the impotence of the EU and the UN. World opinion is in this case nothing more than that – Opinion. No action is taken to rid Zimbabwe of the tyrant.
Against all the above, which is after all an average year for the power-hungry little toad; I give you the following. The simple act of a man who cares and is prepared to do something however small it may seem in the face of the World.


THREE DAYS IN MUGABE’S HELL HOLE

I began to keep a diary of this experience but, while in police custody in Harare’s Central Police Station I had nothing to write on, not even toilet paper.
The diary began thus:

Friday 8th August 2003 Bronte Hotel 16:40

First I must explain how I came to be here.

About two weeks ago during our Thursday Bible and Prayer fellowship in our Honiton Methodist church we were praying for Zimbabwe and studying the 40th Psalm (Hymns and Psalms v17 and 18).

“Be pleased O Lord to deliver me ....... Let those who seek my life to take it away be put to shame and confounded for ever.”

I think I said something like, “The psalmist is expecting God to do things which he ought to be doing himself. If I was talking to God about Zimbabwe and if the best I could do was to hold up my hands in despair saying God, “it is your problem not mine”, what would He think about that?”

Anyway I woke early on Friday morning and found myself saying to myself “What are you going to do about the situation in Zimbabwe?”

I can’t do much, I said, because I haven’t got any money to go to Zimbabwe. Oh, but you have! What about the £3000 which Mrs. Robinson left you?” (I knew she would be chuckling in heaven because when she died she left £40,000 to the ANC in S.A.). “O.K.” I said, I’ll go down to Baker Dolphins, the travel agent and book a ticket.

“All the flights are booked for weeks ahead” said the helpful agent.
“I must go,” I said, “on compassionate grounds.” She didn’t seem to want to know who I intended to visit but, had she asked, I would have said it was out of compassion for the people of Zimbabwe.

There were lots of problems including getting a visa quickly (actually there should have been no problem at all because you can buy one at Harare Airport).

I then had to decide why I was going and what I hoped to do. I had to decide whether I should act non-violently, as I had done when we got independence for Zambia from Britain. But that was all comparatively simple because both Kaunda and I knew that Britain would be a pushover. Britain had always said it was holding Zambia “in trust” until such time as Africans could run it themselves. Zambians were not really ready to take over but Britain knew that she did not have enough force to hold down the Zambian people indefinitely.

Not long after Independence Kaunda was faced with Lenshina’s people moving down the Luangwa Valley killing and murdering the people. No chance that Non violence could work there and he had to send in the troops to shoot a few Lenshinas which he did and the whole thing fizzled out.

In Zimbabwe Morgan Tzvangirai acts non violently with marches and strikes but where is it getting him? The churches here in Zimbabwe are acting non violently by persuading Mr. Mugabe’s party to sit down with Morgan’s MDC and hammer out a compromise, but trying to negotiate with a satanic force is supping with the devil.

It seems to me that Dietrich Bonhoeffer was right to believe that force was needed to topple Hitler.

The more I thought about it the more I found myself in agreement with Peter Tatchell that Mr. Mugabe should be arrested and charged with crimes against humanity. But no one is listening to Peter because he is a marked man and would never get within sniffing distance of Mr. Mugabe.

I finally came to the conclusion that Britain, with the agreement of course of the UN should do the job because of her long association with Africa. The situation in Sierra Leone and Liberia makes me believe that what Africa needs is an international peace keeping force to step in when things get out of hand.

I had already drawn up the letter which I intend to deliver at noon tomorrow.

I quickly realized that Mr. Mugabe would have to be taken completely by surprise so secrecy is of the essence which meant that I could not discuss it with anyone (still no one knows except the person who booked the flight and all she knows is that she has organised a compassionate flight.

Then I thought it would be a dotty thing to go out with only one suitcase because I am allowed to take 30 kgs - that was when I got the idea about the bread flour.

For the past 3 years I have been trying to persuade our little elderly congregation in Honiton to focus their prayers on Africa hence the web site http://www.angelus-for-africa.com.uk/ .

I have also been hammering on about the miserable amount of money we put in our Benevolent Fund. I regularly quote that saying of Father Tissa Balasuriya, the Sri Lankan Catholic who said something about “...a billion flawed Eucharist’s that take place where we share bread with on another but still refuse to share our bread with the world”. But no one seems to be listening. How could I find some symbolic way of fixing the bread thing in their minds? In a curious way, what I am going to do is not just about Mugabe, it is also about Christ’s followers sharing bread with the world.

The Holy Communion has links with the feeding of the five thousand so after the sacrament last Sunday I asked Marilyn Tricker our Circuit Superintendent if I could have some pieces of the consecrated bread and ask God to multiply them.

What a palaver it has been getting 15 kgs of organic bread flour to Harare!

When I asked the agent to book me a hotel in Harare she replied that since there is no petrol in Zimbabwe there are no taxis to take passengers into town. They might try to book me into a hotel at the airport but since these hotels are sometimes targeted by terrorists it might not be such a good idea.

OK, I said, then I’ll walk, imagining the airport to be about 3 miles out of town. But how to drag 15 kgs of flour plus my suitcase that distance? Then I had one of my brilliant but impractical ideas. In my garage I have a battered 90 year old suitcase which belonged to my father-in-law Douglas Gray (his name is still painted on it) but it does not have as modern suitcases do, wheels to drag it along. I spent a morning trying to find a shopping trolley in our numerous charity shops but to no avail. Then I remembered that I had fixed four casters on the bottom of my recycling bin. I took them off and fixed them onto the aluminium suitcase.

It was much too heavy for me with my injured back to lift but I got the taxi driver to get it to his car. At the bus station in Exeter they said it was over the 20 kgs limit so I had to flatter the baggage man on his biceps. He proudly showed me what a strong man he was. I did have problems especially when the lifts at Heathrow were not working but I always found someone to help.

Of the 300 passengers who boarded the jumbo jet for Johannesburg only a handful were black and yet to my amazement I found myself sitting next to a young black woman. “You lucky dog” I thought “you are right in Africa even before the plane takes off”. Even before we had buckled on our seat belts we had introduced ourselves and we hardly stopped talking until they brought our evening meal. Before she pulled her blanket over he head, as do all Africans everywhere before they sleep, I touched her hand. I had to say thank you to God for letting me meet, out of all those 300 passengers the one person who could make me quite sure of Africa’s future.

She was petite and smartly dressed. A woman of about 40 with a daughter called Xolile who is an electronics engineer in Indonesia. Both her brother and sisters are lecturers in the University of Johannesburg.

I asked her how she came to be on the plane. She said “I am the Director of Health Promotion at the National Department of Health of the Republic of South Africa. I am returning from an international conference in Helsinki where 40 nations have been discussing the problems of nicotine and how we can reign in the voracious appetite of the tobacco companies who seem determined to decimate our population with cigarettes.

What amazed me about Zanele Mthembu was her clear-eyed certainty that her country, South Africa, had joined 40 other nations in a crusade which they felt quite certain they would win.

(Subsequently on the plane from Johannesburg to Harare the man who gave me a lift was a Zimbabwean doctor who had been attending the same conference. Zimbabwe is the 4th largest exporter of tobacco in the world and they export 80% of their crop overseas! I began to see one reason why Zimbabwe’s economy is in such a mess because it is the expertise of the white farmers which underpins their economy.

In the plane from Johannesburg to Harare I shared my little problem with a fellow passenger Jephat Chisamba. He found the prospect of an 83 year old dragging a suitcases full of wholemeal flour from the airport to town highly amusing. He said actually it is 20 kms into town but since his wife was coming to meet him in a car for which they had obtained a special ration of petrol, he would be happy to give me lift. So here I am.

When we called at the Trinity Methodist Church to leave the aluminium suitcase we found the whole place a hive of activity. There was a woman minister there. I said I would come back at 9.30 tomorrow for one of their four morning services. She will unpack the suitcase which I said is a gift from Honiton and I will explain that we are sending this gift as a parable of our concern for the people of Zimbabwe. I think she thinks the case is full of Bibles it is so heavy!

I know this is all a risky business and nothing may come of it but I wonder what Mr. Mugabe will do?

1. He may just ignore my letter in which case I shall fast outside State House until he does.

2. He may arrest me for disparaging his Presidency but he will have to think twice before torturing a British citizen.

3. He may just deport me back to the UK but the cat by then will be out of the bag.

There may be a 4th alternative but I do not what it is.

10th August 2003 Bronte Hotel 08:45

I am ready now to walk to the Methodist Church - about a mile away to meet the people there. In my bag I have
- the magnificat “I will put down the might from their seats and exalt the humble and meek”
- My Hymn Book
- My toothbrush
- My passport and my Warfarin tablets.
The Lord’s Prayer should be sufficient for all my spiritual needs.
The hotel concierge warned me to be careful because there are always thieves lying in wait for an old white man like me walking along with a couple of bags. Anyway I persuaded one of the hotel porters to accompany me, just as well as the church is 20 mins walk from the hotel.

They had taken Douglas Gray’s aluminium suitcase into the vestry of the church. On the wall were the names of previous ministers and there was his name: - Rev Douglas Gray 1910-1912

The steward, a tall broad formidable lady, who chewed gum all the time said to me, “You can have three minutes at the start of the service to offer your gift”.

When my turn came I stood up by the altar and placing one carton of flour on it I said “Greetings from the Methodist Church in Honiton. I salute you in the name of Douglas Gray who was the minister here in 1910. We have heard of your sufferings so I have brought 15 kgs of organic flour so that you can have a party”.

Everyone clapped and I sat down.

During their final hymn I asked if I might have one last word before I left. The preacher allowed me into the pulpit. I said “I would like to read you a letter I have brought to deliver to Mr. Mugabe at State House. There is a copy for your Presiding Bishop, Tony Blair, The President of the Methodist Conference, Rev. Dr. Colin Morris et al.

Dear Mr. Mugabe,
The sufferings of the people of Zimbabwe are an abomination in the sight of the Lord. I am praying that the British Government arrest you and charge you with crimes against humanity.
Yours faithfully
Merfyn Temple

“You may be wondering why I have done this, so I will give the top copy of my diary to your Presiding Bishop. If there is anyone here with a computer you can copy it for to all to see.” I said my protest was a ‘personal’ one so I hoped no one would accompany me on my walk to State House.

Everyone laughed in embarrassment and we all went into the adjoining school room for a cup of tea. No one spoke about the letter and after 10 minutes I asked if someone would direct me to State House. They said that if I went up the main road to 7th Avenue and turned left I would see State House.

I had left all my possessions in the church and carried only the small canvas shopping bag. It was quite a long walk and I saw nobody as the streets were empty at that time of day. Finally I saw a European man and his African partner so asked the way.

“Keep going and on the right you will see the road leading up to State House”. Then he laughed, “but you won’t get anywhere near it, it is surrounded by the army”.

Then I saw what seemed like a very high fence topped with coils of barbed wire. Both sides of the road were lined with bushes and tall banana trees and in their shade I saw a soldier marching with fixed bayonet along the perimeter fence. I walked quietly along the other side of the road thinking at least I would have some shade if Mr. Mugabe kept me waiting a long time for an answer to my letter. I wondered if someone from the church might have followed me at a discreet distance and whether he/she might bring me a blanket at because the nights are cold.

I walked a little further and saw another soldier who called out, “What are you doing here? Come over the road”.
When he asked me what I wanted, I said, holding out the letter in its white envelope, “I want to give this letter to your President”.
“Why didn’t you post it?”
“Because when you post a letter you can never be sure it will arrive, so I thought I would deliver it by hand”.
“You should have made an appointment. There are notices everywhere saying you should make an appointment”.
“But I am also a busy man and anyway I only want to deliver this letter”.
There were now three soldiers surrounding me at bayonet point. One of them went off to find a senior officer. I was glad of the shade of the banana trees as it was getting towards noon which was the time I had written on my letter.
Noon, Sunday August 10th 2003.

The senior officer arrived in his land rover and told the soldiers to march me off to the gates of State House being sure to keep on the road while they walked in the shade of the banana trees. We came to some high barred gates and I was let through by the police who guard the inner sanctum of State House while the army guard the outer perimeter.

When they had searched my shopping bag they found my passport and read that I was born in 1919. They then began the questions all over again. There were about eight police by this time each armed with a police notebook about the size of a large diary. Every policeman wrote down laboriously everything I told them.
“Please just take this letter to the President and I will wait outside in the road for his answer”.
They handed round the letter, every now and then holding it up to the light of the sky, I suppose to make sure there was no bomb inside. They searched my bag meticulously, and then let me sit down on a seat by the gate while somebody took the letter to the security guards in State House. After what seemed a long time a man in mufti came back and I went through all the questions again.

More senior police officers arrived in a land rover. More discussions, more questions, then the security man said.
“We would never deliver a letter like this to the President himself without opening it first to read it ourselves. Everyone, but every one, crowded around as he ceremoniously unfolded it. He did not read it out loud, he just passed it round for all to see. It took time for the contents to sink in then suddenly all hell was let loose as they shouted,
“Who do you think you are delivering this letter to State House?”
“We don’t want you here white man”
“Go back to Blair ....”
Perhaps one of the senior police officers saw that things might get out of hand. Within moments a police pickup truck arrived and I was bundled into the back and we drove off at high speed along a very bumpy road. There were two others in the back a young man and a young woman “She said I raped her” said the man “but it is not true”.
“Oh yes you did” said the woman.

None of us knew where we were going. I tried to sit on the spare tyre but I kept being bumped off onto the floor. Finally we came to a group of houses somewhere in the bush. The security man got out of the front and disappeared. We just waited wondering what was going to happen next. Finally he returned. More bumping over atrocious bush roads until finally we were on tarmac again for the long smooth drive to Harare’s Central Police Station.

With a policeman grasping my arm I was marched into a room with 150 numbered kit bags hanging on the wall. One was allotted to me, No 137.
Into this I had to put my shoes and socks, my clerical collar and my watch. I was allowed to exchange my clerical black shirt for a grey pullover. The other things, soap, toothbrush, bottle, medicines, hymn book, the Magnificat which I had torn from my Good News Bible “.... He shall put down the might from their seats and exalt the humble and meek ....”, my pen, my diary, my biro and my reading glasses (which didn’t really matter since I had noting to read).

From an old exercise book they tore out a piece of paper the size of a large postage stamp on which was written my name and number. Temple is a difficult word to pronounce in Shona because it has three consonants together in the middle so they called be “Tembo”. Someone had made a note that I should take my medicines every evening, so once a day I would take my piece of paper downstairs to my “locker” room and take my pills.

I was on the ground floor of a four storey building centered round an extensive courtyard measuring probably 80 x 80 yards. They marched me up and down innumerable concrete stairs and along interminable corridors until we came to the Department of Law and Order. I stood in front of a desk at which sat a genial fellow in a cloth cap. On the wall were ten cup hooks but only two carried police revolvers. There were four or five other policemen there and one police woman. They all carried notebooks and wrote down my replies.

“What is your name?” “Merfyn Temple.”
“Spell it out please, slowly”.
“Where do you live?” “Honiton, Devon, UK.”
“Why did you come here?” “To deliver a letter to your President.”
“Why didn’t you post it?” “Because it is always safer to deliver a letter by hand than to post it.”
“Who sent you?” “Nobody, I just came by myself”.
“We don’t believe you”. They looked at my passport.
“How can a man of 83 just get on a plane in UK and fly to Harare?”
“Who paid you to come?” “Nobody. I just bought the ticket myself.”
“How did you get through immigration at the airport”. I had my visa and said I was a tourist on holiday in your beautiful country.”
“But that was a lie. You should have shown them the letter.”
The interrogation went on and on and my feet got colder and colder on the cement floors. The police of course all wore brown shoes. Finally they said that more senior officers would interrogate me the next day and I was marched upstairs to my cell.

When I arrived at the barred gate of the cell I was met by a sea of black faces all peering at me through the bars. The iron gate opened inwards so the other inmates had to step back to let me in. The gate clanged shut and the warder taking out a large bunch of keys locked us in. (I noticed as the days passed that the warders never seemed to know which key fitted the heavy padlock on our door. They kept trying one key after another until they found the right one). Five times a day we lined up in the corridor and were counted and every time the warders went through the same palaver with the keys.

The cell was designed for six people. Three bunks on either side, each with a flimsy cotton mattress and a red cotton blanket. The first bunk started two feet from the ground, then two feet to bunk number 2, then two feet to bunk number 3, then two feet to the ceiling which was truly filthy. It was covered with smears of blood where the inmates had squashed the bedbugs and the lice. Sometimes somebody had found a piece of chalk and written graffiti over the blood stains but it was all in Shona so I did not understand what they had written. On the last day the man on the top bunk wrote in large letters “TEMBO” but what he wrote after that I do not know.

There were two concrete benches on either side with room for three to sit during the day as there was no room to sit up in the bunks. In the corner by the door was a shit hole. Long ago the lid had gone missing so someone had torn off the corner of a mattress to cover the hole but it itself was soaked in foul smelling urine. There was a brass tap from which we could drink, but sometimes the whole prison had no water.

We were 18 men in the cell. As I came in the man nearest the door was a big man as tall as myself but stronger. He wore a khaki shirt and shorts and his head was as bald as a coot. He never smiled but with his eyes. Everyone recognized him as boss in the cell and he it was who decided where we slept, two top and tail to a bunk and six on the floor. He seemed to take a shine to me and just before we bedded down for the night he said,
“I am a Roman Catholic and my name is Emmanuel”
“Good” I said “that means ‘God is with us’ even in this shit hole”.
“Will you bless me father?” he said.
“Of course”, I replied, as he knelt down at my feet
“May the Lord bless you and keep you and make his face shine upon you and give you peace”.
For a moment I wondered whether a Roman Catholic priest would have said something different but I doubt that God was too bothered.
Emmanuel said, “You can sleep next to me on the floor by the gate”.
I lay down beside him with another man as big as he on the other side of me.
We couldn’t move unless we all moved. After a while I couldn't bear it so I said to Emmanuel,
“It isn’t working is it? We are all too big for this tiny space”.
A small man on the 2nd bunk overheard our conversation and without a word gave up his place on the bunk to me and lay down beside Emmanuel. My real problem was that I had no pillow for my head, but it seems to be no problem for my African companions who simply tuck their hands under their heads and drop off.
When the cell door is open during the day air comes in from the corridor but at night when the door is closed the only ventilation is through a tiny grill measuring one foot by one foot high up in the corner above the top bunk.

Monday 11th August 2003

Our jailer unlocked the cell door and we all trooped out into the corridor. Emmanuel signaled to me to stand beside him and I felt encompassed by this small sign of his friendship. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, in Shona of course, so I sat hunched up in one corner of the seat and waited to see what would happened next. Apart from the tiny shaft of light from the grill, our cell was lit night and day by a neon strip light in the ceiling above the barred gate so since no one had a watch we never knew what time of day it was.

I heard a warder shouting above the sound of conversation “Tembo, Tembo”. The cell grew silent for a moment and a warder came to unlock the gate. He was a tall thin man with an entirely expressionless face. He wore a cap on his head which made him seem even taller and he always carried a leather strap in his hand. I followed him down stairs to the charge office and waited with six others on a wide concrete bench. We watched while the police brought in the people whom they had arrested during the night.

One man lay on the floor crying out in pain. He was shouting and shouting something in Shona which I did not understand, but after a while he crawled across the floor and sobbing lifted himself beside me on the bench. I put my arm around his shoulder to comfort him but he brushed it off.

Barefooted prisoners seemed to be coming and going all the time and one quickly shoved a large bundle of notes into my hand. I had no idea what he was doing but not wanting to incriminate myself I shook my head and he went off to plant his Zim dollars somewhere else.

They brought in a man in handcuffs and made him squat down on the floor - they kept shouting at him and kicking his ankles. Finally they took off the handcuffs twisting them ruthlessly as they did so. He came whimpering to sit beside me, rubbing his swollen arms. He told me he had been in handcuffs for three days.

I never saw my warder beat anyone with is strap, but if he found a new prisoner in a leather jacket he would take him round the corner and the thwack, thwack of his belt would reverberate along the corridors. Everyone would suddenly fall silent.

Another warder came and said “Tembo follow me”. Again we climbed up and down the stairs and once cut diagonally across the wide court yard to another department of Law and Order. I was ushered into what seemed like a small conference room. There was a plush blue carpet on the floor and a long table which might have sat about six people on either side.

At the head of the table sat a policeman in full regalia on either side of him were two other officers in smart mufti. They asked me to sit down on an upholstered chair at the end. They said they had been trained by the FBI in methods of interrogation so we might as well be friends.
“Tell me about yourself Mr. Temple. Where do you live in the UK and who are your friends?”
“I live in the small Devonshire town of Honiton”
“May we have your address please”.
“36 Orchard Way, Honiton, EX14 1 Hotel, Hotel”.
They exchanged knowing glances and I wondered what was significant for them about Honiton.
“Have you ever been to Africa before, especially Zimbabwe?”
“Oh yes, I lived in Zambia for 31 years from 1943-1974 and I sometimes visited Zimbabwe”.
“Now please tell us exactly the dates and the places you visited”
“The first time was in 1946 when I came to Umtare (Umtali) for my honeymoon. I am a member of the Methodist Church and during the next few years I used to attend our Inter-District Committee.

Sometimes in the nineties I went to Binga to visit Dr Peta Jones to talk about donkeys and Oh yes, in 1998 I came with my daughters to visit my grand daughter who was teaching at a school near Bulawayo”.

They faithfully wrote all this down in their bulky notebooks and then said

“How did you get from the airport into the town?”
“I met an African man on the plane who said his wife was coming to meet him and he would give me a lift into town”.
“What was his name?”
“I can’t remember” (this was true because I can’t remember anyone's name until I have heard it a dozen times or more).
“Where did he take you?”
“First to the Trinity Church to deliver 15kgs of flour and then to a hotel”.
“Which hotel?”
“I can't remember, but if you go to the Methodist Church where I left my suitcase which is unlocked you will find the receipt”.
“You may think you know a bit about Zambia and yet you know nothing at all except by hearsay about Zimbabwe. You talk in your letter to our President about “the sufferings of the people of Zimbabwe ...” what are these “sufferings” which you are so concerned about?

“First you have an inflation rate of about 300% and ordinary people cannot even get enough bank notes to buy food.
Second, three years ago Zimbabwe was a net exporter of food, today it is a net importer”.
“Where do you get this information from?”
“Mostly from the Guardian newspaper”.
They laughed “Nobody here believes a word that is written in the “Guardian” we know it is all rubbish.
“Who paid for your ticket? You say nobody sent you, it was all a personal matter. We just don’t believe you. You expect us to believe that an old man of 83 who knows practically nothing about Zimbabwe would walk out of his house in Honiton, go to Heathrow and catch a plane for Harare without telling anybody that you were coming, neither in the UK or here. It is just too crazy for us to take seriously. You are a spy for Bush or Blair.
“Why do you think I am a spy?”
“We have to believe you are 83 years old because your passport says you were born in 1919. But we believe nothing else. We think you are a spy for three reasons
· You are tall and you look like a retired brigadier.
· Your arms are very brown so you must have spent many years in Africa.
· When you gave us your coded address in Honiton you said Hotel, Hotel. That is the kind of language the army uses when it relays messages.

I didn’t say anything but I wanted to burst out laughing.
“We have wasted a lot of time interrogating you and we find you increasingly provocative. You had better go back to your cell and we shall see you again tomorrow.” (They never did).

At midday and in the evening relatives are allowed to come to the prison gates to pass food through the bars to their relatives inside. Some cell doors are open and it is a kind of time of association when you can wander about a bit. I went along to the cell next to ours which also had 18-20 people in it. They called me over and asked what was my charge? There was no warder about so I said,
“No one has told me what I am being charged with but I guess it is because I said something which Mr. Mugabe didn’t like to hear”.
“What did you say?”
“I tried to deliver a letter to State House which said the people of Zimbabwe are suffering and I think the British Government should arrest him and charge him with crimes against humanity”.
It took time for my words to sink in and somebody said “
There is an MP on the top bunk”. He waved to me and everyone was grinning.
I said “I think Mugabe is shit”.

They laughed and stretching their hands through the bars for me to shake but I saw a warder coming so I skedaddled.

Back in my cell I found that quite a few of my companions could speak English so I let them tell me their stories.

First, was a shortish man and a taller one who was his brother.

“We are from Liberia. We escaped to South Africa and were given refugee status. I am a Pentecostalist and want to go to Britain for further training so that I can set up my own Pentecostal church there when Charles Taylor is deposed. My brother is an electrician who also needs further training. We crossed the border into Harare but were picked up by the police for illegal entry and that is why we are here. One of our Pentecostalist friends who was deported with us is now training in London.

“How did he get there?” I asked
“He had brought money from Liberia. In Johannesburg he was able to purchase, on the black market, a fake Zambian passport. He used this to get out of South Africa and into Zambia. He went to Lusaka where he purchased a ticket to UK. (I wondered whether he had smuggled diamonds out of Liberia?) At the end of his journey he went to the toilet, tore his passport into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. When he arrived at Heathrow he became just a Liberian refugee with no papers. Somewhere he is being trained as a Pentecostal Minster and will return to set up his own church in Liberia. That is what I want to do. I am a “born-again Christian” and I am sure that God wants me to be one of His pastors”.

Second, an elderly man was thrust into our cell. He sat on the bench opposite me. Soon word went round that he had raped an eleven year old girl and before long other prisoners were at our barred gate jeering and mocking him.
After a while I went to sit beside him and this is the story he told.

“I was working for a certain white woman as a garden boy. She kept promoting me and I became her driver. I drove her truck and her car. I married two wives and I have 16 children. They all managed to go to school and many have good jobs. One of my daughters is a lawyer in Johannesburg and another in London. One is a doctor and some are trained nurses.

When the white woman retired she gave me the truck so that I could set up in business myself. All my family helped me and I bought a shop. I joined Morgan Tsvangirai’s MDC (Movement for Democratic Change). Mugabe’s thugs came and stole all my goods and trashed my shop. They drove away my lorry using it to bring their members to Party rallies. They are the ones who accuse me of raping that girl but it is not true.”

Putting my hand on his knee, I said “At least you have a couple of lawyers in your family and I am sure they will help you out.” He said “It was a white woman who enabled me to send all my children to school and she gave me that truck. I don’t think my African brothers would do a thing like that”.

Third, “I am married with two children and I worked in the “Bata” shoe factory. But it went bust and I lost my job. All our food was finished but I had enough money to buy a bus ticket so I came to Harare to see a friend. When I got here my friend he had left and gone somewhere so I had no food to eat. Everyone is shoplifting now so I stole a pair of shoes. The police caught me and brought me here. If I can pay the fine of 5,000 Zim dollars (about £2.50) they will let me go. But how can I find Zm$5,000? Could you help me Tembo?”
“I would love to help you” I said “but I have no money here in prison. I do have money in the case I left in Trinity Church but I have no way of getting it before your trial on Wednesday.”

Fourth, once when I was waiting to go into the locker room I saw a man with a crutch sitting on the floor. He was the only prisoner in the whole prison allowed to wear one shoe and that was on his gammy leg - he had polio as a child. His name was James and I asked him why he had been arrested.
“There is a rule in this country that no one should be seen drinking in a public place. I was begging and someone gave me half a can of beer. The police saw me drinking it so I was arrested. I have been here for three days and my trial has been put off until Wednesday because Monday and Tuesday are public holidays celebrating our freedom from colonial rule by Britain.

“How much is your fine?”
“Five thousand Zim dollars. Could you help be Tembo?”
Once again I had to give him the same answer I had given to the shop lifter.

Fifth, in the same anteroom with James was a handsome young man with a bright intelligent face. He told me his story.

“Until last week I was in the Zimbabwean Police Force but I made a mistake and I have been arrested. When I get out I want to go to the UK for further training. Can you help me Tembo?”
I explained that it is quite difficult to get into the UK these days unless you have a work permit or someone to sponsor your training.
“I have a relative there in the UK but he is black and the immigration authorities won’t listen to him. You are white Tembo and that would make all the difference.”

He said he had noticed me in prison and wanted to talk to me about something else, about a “Constitutional Forum” which was suggesting that the two conflicting parties - Mugabe’s ZAPU party and Morgan Tzvangirai’s MDC should work out some compromise which would allow Mugabe to become the equivalent of our Queen, a kind of constitutional monarch.
“Mugabe is not clinging to power” he said “He is prepared to step down at any time”.
Once when walking behind a warder along an endless corridor I asked him if he liked his job in the police force.
“Yes”
“How much to you get paid?”
“Enough” he answered smugly.

Suddenly I realised how Mugabe sustains his dictatorship of terror. He sells his army to the Congo to support the regime there. They pay him in diamonds which enable his ministers to buy up farms and live in luxury. Mugabe pays inflationary wages to his vast army of police, army and security guards. He has already built himself a multi-million pound palace which is surrounded by the army and police. The idea that he would step down from his position of absolute power is ludicrous. If he did so he would be dead in five minutes. Meanwhile he drives his country to ruin.

Someone, I think it was Emmanuel, said if you don’t get a lawyer quickly you don’t stand a chance. The next time a warder passed our cell gate I asked him to arrange for me to have a lawyer. He said he would do so. Some time later, how long, I do not know, but Emmanuel said that the warder had gone off duty. For some reason the cell gate was unlocked so I went down stairs to find another warder. He was chasing a couple of prisoners down the corridor back to their cell. I said to him very politely,
“Please will you get me a lawyer and let me see you write it down in your book”.
“You don’t need to see a lawyer”
“But I do”.
He took no notice so I shouted in a loud voice “I want to see a lawyer, I want to see a lawyer, I want ....
“Shut up” he said “You are being provocative. If you are not careful I’ll start hassling you. I guessed he might be serious so I joined the two other prisoners and we fled in panic up the stairs to our cell. I sat panting on the edge of the bunk while the warder locked the gate. I said to myself “You are in a right pickle now Merfyn. No one knows you are here, no one has been to visit you or brought you any food and no one has told you what you are being charged with. I just don’t know what to do”.

A warder unlocked the gate and said all the prisoners were to go up to the fourth floor for their daily food which was a lump of maize porridge and a spoonful of beans. Although I had eaten nothing since breakfast in the hotel on Sunday I didn’t feel hungry so thought I would add of bit of fasting as a protest. When the other prisoners returned they could not understand why I had not taken food with them. It was not that I didn’t like maize meal and beans but I explained that unlike those of you who seldom have enough to eat I came from an affluent world where there was always plenty of food for 3 meals a day and no problem about money to buy it. I needed to lose some weight so they need not worry that I was going to fade away and die (perhaps at the back of my mind was the thought of that dreadful shit hole and no loo paper either).

Suddenly I heard the man with the strap shouting “Tembo, Tembo”. He lead me over to “Law and Order” and there was a young black woman from a private local law office who began to take down any details. She was quickly followed by another young man who immediately took charge of the situation demanding that they give him a room where he would interview his client in private. He had another young lawyer with him called Susan and when we were settled the young man and the first woman left. I said to Susan,
“Please I want two things. First that you get in touch with my family. My daughter’s phone number is in the suitcase which I have left in Trinity Church. Second please find out what is the charge against me. I then dictated from memory the exact words of my letter to Mr. Mugabe.

She had with her a document which contained legislation passed only last year about speaking disrespectfully of the Head of State.
She said “If you plead guilty, and undoubtedly you are, they will make you pay a large fine or put in goal. (I didn’t know then that under international law no one over 80 years old can be kept in prison).
I said I would plead “Not Guilty” because I wanted my lawyer to say in court exactly what are “the sufferings of the people of Zimbabwe” under the dictatorship of Mr. Mugabe.

Before we went to sleep that night Emmanuel asked me to bless him and all the others in our cell. Everyone knelt down because in Zimbabwe everyone is either a Roman Catholic, or a Protestant or one of the “also rans”. I said shall we all say the Lords Prayer in or own language. English or Shona or Sindebele or Liberian. I said it in Zambian Chi-tonga.

When all was quiet the man in bunk number 2 opposite me began talking and at first I thought he must be preaching but I quickly realised he wasn’t by the response of his audience. They grunted in agreement, or asked a question or laughed or swore. It was like being in a village round the fire at night when a story teller tells a story. It was all in Shona or course so I didn't understand a word of it.

That night I was thinking about the Lord’s Prayer which we had just prayed together. Had we just prayed it by rote or had it expressed some sense of the comradeship we had shared together?

What was happening to me so briefly was happening to the people of Zimbabwe all the time. God wasn’t “putting down the mighty from their seats” and He wasn’t “exalting the humble and meek” in fact the exact opposite was happening. “The hungry were not being filled with good things and the rich were not being sent empty away”.

One evening, I can’t think why, I was sitting in the Charge Office. In the centre of the room was a raised dais on which sat the Senior Police Inspector who is in charge of all admissions and controls this whole section of the Central Prison. He was a big man with the most highly polished brown shoes I have ever seen.

In one corner of the room were two very large cardboard cartons. Squatting on the floor beside them was a squitty little man in handcuffs. There were two police officers - one was lifting out the contents of the cartons while the other entered them laboriously in his notebook. The first was an Epson computer, then numerous telephones both standard and mobile. He must have had a wonderful shop lifting spree. Now and again one of the police officers would ask him a question and if he didn’t get the right answer he kicked the man’s ankles until he got what he wanted.

The big man slouched in his chair watched in a disinterested sort of a way what was going on. He made some remark to me and we got talking.
“I think I am going to retire from the Police Force quite soon”.
“And what will you do when you retire? Will you be a farmer?
“A farmer” he snorted “Our family has lived in this town for three generations. I have no intention whatsoever of going back to the land. There is no money in that.
Tomorrow I shall be meeting my wife off the plane from Heathrow. She is a nursing sister there earning a good salary. Go back to the land? You must be joking”.

Tuesday 12th August 2003

Very early in the morning when the fetid atmosphere in the cell was almost too hard to bear I climbed on the bunks and put my face to the grill taking deep breaths of sweet fresh air.

After roll call in the corridor we came back into the cell and I found that the iron bars of the gate were like the bars along the side of a gym perfect for any number of physical exercises. The other comrades watched me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

The man who had told the story in Shona was still lying on bunk number 2. I asked him if he could tell me the story in English. Haltingly with much help from others I began to piece together some elements though much remained obscure.

“Two black men lived in Las Vegas. One called Jephat and one called LeRoy. LeRoy got a job with the Mafia as a garden boy. In one corner of the big garden was a very small house, he peeped through the window and saw a naked white girl. She was very, very beautiful and he fell in love with her. They managed to steal a car and escape together but the Mafia saw them and gave chase. Guns were fired from both cars and LeRoy managed to shatter the windscreen of the car which followed them.

They finally reached a sea port and boarded a ship. The captain could not understand how a black man could be in love with a beautiful white girl. One night when they were both asleep he entered their cabin and gagging LeRoy squeezed him out of the port hole. Fortunately the ship was passing an island and LeRoy swam ashore. All the inhabitants were white so for a time he hid in the bushes. However, one white called Erskin was a good man who took pity on LeRoy and asked him to work as a cook in his kitchen.

Meanwhile the captain of the ship fell in love with the beautiful white girl and said he wanted to marry her. He said they would have a very big wedding party. He asked for a hundred wedding cakes to be baked and they would choose the best one. Mr. Erskin on the island heard about the competition and asked his cook to bake a cake and ice it. LeRoy divided the top of the cake into four sections each one depicting a scene of the escape.

1. LeRoy peeping through the window of the little house and seeing the beautiful white girl.
2. The car chase and shattered windscreen.
3. Arrival at the seaport.
4. LeRoy’s disappearance through the port hole.

When the beautiful girl saw the cake she immediately understood its significance. She fled from the wedding and ended up in LeRoy’s arms.

That evening I went down stairs to get my medicines but when I asked for a cup of water to swallow them I was told that all the water in the prison for some reason had been cut off. I happened to be with “Papi” my Liberian friend who had come down to the prison gate to get some food from a friend through the bars. He saw I was upset and said “Don’t worry Tembo, I’ll get you some spring water. Just wait”.

Within 20 minutes he was back with a half litre bottle of spring water. I think he must have asked his friend who came to bring him food to get it for me from a shop. No tap water came back until about 10.00 the next day. How I treasured that sweet spring water!

As we prepared for bed that night the hum of conversation through the prison died down and for me a wonderful thing happened. In the cell next door they began to sing. First the cantor then the deep rich voices of the men. Cell by cell they joined in and then from far away in the corridor upstairs came the sound of women’s voices taking up the chorus. When they sang all the men stopped singing. For a moment it was like being with the shepherds on the hills by Bethlehem.

Wednesday 13th August 2003

All the cell gates were opened and we trooped upstairs to the big Assembly Room. The roof was held on nine pillars and I estimated it to be 48ft x 48ft. Down two sides, high up on the wall were about 30 narrow spaces like arrow slits in a castle wall through which the sun streamed making a bright pattern on the concrete floor. Most men stood or sat with their backs to the wall. The only furniture was two upright, very rickety dining room chairs. Papi was sitting on one of them and when he saw me come in he offered me his seat. It was indeed a flimsy perch but better than the floor. Quite suddenly it collapsed and I was spread-eagled on the concrete. No one laughed but there was a chorus of voices saying “Sorry Tembo, sorry”.

Anyone who has lived in Africa knows that when you are walking along a narrow bush path and you stumble or hit your foot against a stone your companion will say “Sorry, sorry”.

A warder told us all to stand up to attention because the Senior Police Officer the Chief Superintendent would speak to us. Of course he spoke in Shona and I have not the faintest idea what he said, but Emmanuel said it was the day when the judges would be sitting. No one was allowed paper or pen but he had scribbled a telephone number on the flap of a cigarette packet. He said “Tembo, I know you don’t have any money, but I need to pay a lawyer, so when you get out please send something to this number”.

Papi also managed to get a tiny scrap of paper on which he wrote “Papi McClaine from Liberia” (He has that name because of course Liberia started as a colony of freed American slaves).

We all sat in the cell waiting for a warder to call our names. Everyone else was talking but I heard a voice say “We shall miss you Tembo”. That gave me a warm feeling as I sat waiting to be called. Everyone knew, except myself, that I would never come back. They repeatedly told me that I would be OK

I was wondering how my lawyer was getting on with the preparation of my case. She had said that when the judge asked why I had come to Zimbabwe, I should simply say that I had come to deliver a letter to the President because I was concerned for the sufferings of the people. Then it would be her turn to describe those sufferings. I expected them to put me back in a regular goal. I did not know then, what I know now, that there is an international law, no doubt subscribed to by Southern Rhodesia long again in colonial days, which says that no person over 80 should be kept in goal.

Above the chatter we heard the warder shout “Tembo, Tembo”. Everyone in the cell stopped talking but they looked at me and with smiling eyes nodded. The man with he strap arrived and after going through his keys one by one, opened the gate and led me up and down stairs to the Department of Law and Order.

Two people were standing by the prosecutors desk. One was Susan my lawyer and the other was man with a white face. The only other white man I had seen since my arrival was the white man on my way to State House. At first I did not recognise him but gradually the truth dawned. It was Bob, an old Zimbabwean friend from long ago and he brought me a bag of food which is wife Beryl had prepared for me. While Susan talked with the prosecuting officer I asked Bob how he had found me. He said,

“Beryl and I had no idea that you had come to Zimbabwe (of course I had not told them lest they be accused of supporting me). However on Monday evening your daughter Patricia phoned me to say that she had heard nothing from you since you called her on Saturday from the Bronte Hotel telling her that you would be attending the morning service at Trinity Methodist church on Sunday morning.

I immediately rang the Presiding Bishop of the Methodist Church but was told by the person who answered the phone that the Presiding Bishop had gone to a funeral in the south of the country and a white man was seen to be accompanying him. That put me off the scent. However, later Patricia rang again to say she thought you were in prison so I made further enquiries and heard that you were in custody in the Central Prison. What I cannot understand is that 300 people in the church on Sunday morning knew that you had gone to State House taking the letter which you had read from the pulpit. It appears that no one came to visit you, no one brought you any food and no attempt was made to get you a lawyer. I didn’t know you had a lawyer until I met her just now. Anyway have some food.”

“Sorry Bob I have vowed not to eat anything until I know the final result of my case.”

At that moment Susan came over and said they had withdrawn the case and decided to depart me. I would be charged under a “miscellaneous law” and the fine would be 5,000 US dollars.

Why I was deported I still don’t know.

“OK said Bob “ you can eat your food now”. I know from long experience that you have to be careful when you are breaking a fast. The very best thing is a few spoonfuls of honey. I found in Beryl’s bag two bananas, two oranges, half a bar of chocolate and some potted meat sandwiches. I ate the bananas and oranges and gave the rest to the warder who reluctantly gave me back my shoes.

Somehow Bob and Susan and the thin, unsmiling immigration official got my ticket changed from Thursday to Wednesday. It seemed to take hours rushing up and down stairs from corridor to corridor signing innumerable forms before I finally emerged through the prison gates.

We only had an hour to spare so Bob went to the airport to try and hold the plane until I arrived. Fortunately, Susan had come with a male colleague who had a reasonably fast car. He drove it at breakneck speed and arrived as they made the last call for my flight.

When I got to the desk they said that my ticket from Johannesburg to Heathrow was OK but I would have to pay for the flight from Harare to South Africa. Of course, since Mugabe’s government was deporting me, they should have paid but by this time with the prospect of freedom 5 minutes away I took out my own credit card and paid up the £170. Mugabe will have to whistle for his fine of 5,000 US dollars.

Merfyn Temple
September 2003
Honiton, Devon