Worried About Geordie

It was grand out, one of those May mornings when the sun was shining, the birds were singing and the gardens were full of spring flowers. Earlier Bob Metcalf had called on his old mate John Simpson and as usual when the weather was fine, they were taking a mid morning stroll around the town, before taking a walk through the park and on to the Red Lion for a pint before lunch.

‘I’m a bit worried about old Geordie,’ said Bob.

‘Geordie?’ enquired John.

‘Aye, you know who I mean, old Geordie Green, three doors up.’

‘Oh, that Geordie, the one with the gammy knees.’

‘It’s not just his knees, the poor old sod’s rife with the rheumatism.’

‘He’s not that old you know, he’s only a year or so older than me, beside I’ve got a touch of the old rheumatism myself.’

‘Oh, you’d have to have something wrong with you as well.’

‘Are you incinerating that I haven’t got rheumatism?’

‘No, I know you’ve got rheumatism, but we were talking about Geordie’s rheumatism and it’s much worse than yours. Have you seen how long it takes him to sit down?’

‘Aye, I suppose your right, but mine hurts as well.’

‘It’s not just his knees, his memory’s going as well, poor old bugger.’

‘Who?’

‘Geordie, the one we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.’

‘Oh, aye, I passed him in the park on Tuesday. No, I tell a lie it was Monday…or was it Wednesday? … well, whenever, and he was talking to his mate Tomo.’

‘See, that’s what I mean, he’s losing it, Tomo’s been dead for over a year now.’

‘Who has?’

‘Tomo.’

‘Oh, Aye.’

Their circuit of the town complete, they turned into the park gates and were heading for the boating lake when Bob came to a sudden stop. ‘Oh, my God, he’s gone completely gaga.’

‘Who?’ asked John and then exclaimed. ‘Oh, aye.’ As his eyes followed Bob’s pointing finger.

There at the other side of the boating lake was the man they’d been talking about, Geordie Green. He was sitting on one of those little folding stools, with a fishing rod in his hand and his line cast into the middle of a large circular flowerbed.

‘Now what’re we going to do? We can’t just leave him sitting there,’ said Bob.

‘I’d tell him not to be so daft and to bugger off home.’

‘No, that would be cruel. We’ll ask him to come for a pint.’

‘Good morning, Geordie,’ said Bob, when they reached the seated figure. 

‘It is that,’ replied Geordie.

‘It’s thirsty work fishing when it’s hot and we were wondering if you fancied coming for a pint?’

‘Aye, I wouldn’t mind,’ said Geordie and before you could say, Red Lion, he had folded his stool, reeled in his line, closed his telescopic rod and was ready to go.

When they reached the Red Lion, Bob and John got the beers in and they sat at a table. Geordie took a sip of the dark brown brew, smacked his lips and said, ‘By that’s a grand drop of stuff.’

‘Aye, the landlord keeps a good pint of ale in here,’ said Bob.

They quaffed their pints in silence for a while and then John decided to humour old Geordie, ‘Did you catch many today, Geordie?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Geordie. ‘Only two.’

 

 

Copyright Ó Fred Watson August 2007

A  serialisation

Part 1

He stood on a low mound, the great golden orb, casting long shadows on the plain below as the sun God Amon Ra began his daily journey across a deep blue sky. His name was Hanno, a royal prince of the blood and he stood at the right hand of his boyhood friend Tutimaios, God King of the land of Kemet.

Hanno the youngest son of king Ahab of the Kena’ani people favoured his mother a former princess of Thrace. Red gold hair hung down to his broad shoulders, he had an open face with a generous mouth and a long straight nose. But it was his eyes as pale as the sky in the midday sun that set him apart. His clan inhabited the island city-state of Tyre that lay on the southeast coast of the sea known to the people of Kemet as the Wadj-Wer and were close allies and trading partners with the black lands of the great river.

At an early age as tradition demanded, Hanno, was sent by his father to live in the black lands at the court of the god king. So from the age of five he lived with and was taught alongside the favoured male children of the god, Tutimaios and Abados, and became like a brother to them.

Now Hanno stood next to Tutimaios awaiting the final confrontation far beyond the borders of Kemet and the victorious but battle weary army was about to come against a force that outnumbered them by two to one. Not only did the opposing army outnumber them, it was composed of mainly fresh troops. After already having suffered four defeats at the hands of Tutimaios’s forces, the war like Aamu coalition had raised a fresh army from amongst its many peoples and were more determined than ever to gain possession of the rich fertile lands of the great river.

Hanno knew that none of this would have mattered with Tutimaios and the shield in the fore; they would have dealt with this new menace as they had dealt with the others before. But disaster had struck.  The warrior priest Abados, half brother to Tutimaios had disappeared, along with the shield.  Yesterday Hanno had been certain of their victory in the upcoming battle. But now the outcome was in doubt, not because of a lack of leadership or courage on behalf of the Pharaoh. Tutimaios had at the death of his father inherited a country that was virtually lost to an enemy already living within its borders. Yet he had by force of will rebuilt the army, won his first four battles and had almost completed the process that would remove the threat of the Aamu forever. It was true that without the shield he may not have won through. But his courage and determination was such that he would either have succeeded or died in the attempt. If such thoughts raced through his head, he couldn’t but wonder at the turmoil that must surely inhabit the mind of his friend.  He looked towards Tutimaios and was amazed at the inner strength that allowed nothing of his friend’s feelings to show on his face.

Tutimaios stood with his legs slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He was simply dressed in a pair of stout leather sandals, a linen kilt that glowed white against his sun-darkened skin and on his head the blue battle crown of the sun god. A smile touched the corners of his lips and all the outward signs showed him to be what he was, the God of the sun come to earth, the supreme ruler and protector of the myriad peoples that live in the rich river lands of Kemet.

But inside an icy hand squeezed his great heart and for the first time he felt an uncertainty, a fear, not for himself, but for the people and the land he loved. For years the land had been the subject of misrule. Successive pharaohs had allowed foreigners to settle the rich river lands. Even his father had welcomed them with open arms and they had settled throughout the land.

But in recent years more of these immigrants had arrived to join their kin, until the north swarmed with them. The numbers wouldn’t have mattered if the newcomers hadn’t begun to ferment trouble. It had begun with disputes in the delta and locals being driven from their lands. And by the time Tutimaios had come to the throne the young Pharaoh had been faced with a country in turmoil, the northeast was ablaze and the troubles had threatened to spread throughout the land.

There and then he’d vowed to drive the Aamu from his beloved Kemet. But the peacetime army had been small and contained many of the foreigners within its ranks. He’d had to build a new army, one that he could trust. The task had taken nearly a year to complete, but the army had still been small and outnumbered by the Aamu. He’d needed an edge and the sage Ini had delivered it to him. It came in the form of a shield made from a metal that came from the Great Amon.   The sage swore that the ore he used to fashion the shield, came down from the sky glowing as bright as Ra himself and buried itself smoking hot in the sand of the Sinai.

It had taken the mystic many years to find the secrets of the ore, but eventually when he’d learned how to smelt and work the resultant metal. He’d made a shield shaped in Ra’s image and embellished it with gold and it was a thing of beauty and power. Since the shield had come from the god, the mystic made it a gift to the living god himself and taught him the secret of its power. A power so strong that it would surround and protect him, turning aside any blow, even one from the most determined enemy.

 Having gained the edge he needed to complete what had been in the beginning an almost hopeless task, Tutimaios began his campaign and true to his word he had in successive battles driven the Aamu from the land. In the first battle on a plain to the east of Bubastis his small army had split the enemy front, wiped out half of the enemy force and had driven the rest before them. 

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