[John Whitworth]

The Oldie Competition by Tessa Castro
IN COMPETITION NO 133 you were invited to write a poem called 'The Spare Room, in which something happens. The thing turned out to be pretty ghastly in most cases: Basil Ransome-Davis's strangling a cat and forgoing an inheritance was the least of it. PC Parrish had everything from 'A monster hiding on all fours,/ With furring lycanthropic paws' to 'A vial in which a potion steams, / A case in which the scalpel gleams'. Among the few more benign experiences was Kathy Steele's surreal ironing-day transformation of the spare room into an undersea scuba excursion, and Katie Mallett's narrator giving birth there alone. Commiserations to them and congratulations to those below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of a Taylor's of Harrogate tea and cake set going to Rita Duckham.

With shrapnel stare, she shows me to the spare room,
Bare room, their room, no room for me, a room to scare.
Gas mask on the bed, spare bed. Threadbare, horsehair
Mattress creaks squeaking springs that whinge despair,
My labelled suitcase still unopened in the gloom.

Try not to cry. Hang up your clothes. But then the dry
And empty wardrobe booms a ghostly battery.
In Battersea we'd had to share, my Mum and me.
No spare room there. I miss her bony warmth; and she,
Embracing at the station, could barely say goodbye.

I tell myself, 'Be brave, and vow to cause no trouble.
'It's not for long.' But I am wrong. For when, at home,
The blitzing bombs are done with crunching London bones,
Just like the room, I'll still be there, and spare, alone,
My mother's cuddle cold, beneath unyielding rubble.
Rita Duckham

I hope youve all you want, my hostess said,
Surveying biscuit tray, shower cap and books.
The blanket's on, there's space in those two drawers
And hangers in the cupboard, also hooks.

All I want? I have no looks or priceless
Jewels, and last year's dothes are far too tight
Oh well. I'll do my best to settle down,
Consoled by thoughts ot biscuits in the night

The house is quiet apart from an odd creak
So, after checking underneath the bed
And nosing through (non vacant) drawers, I feel
Assured there's nothing in the night to dread.

But then I sense a ghostly waft of air,
Hear footsteps, breath and, switching on the light,
Expose a cheery spaniel’s wagging tail
As he devours my biscuits in the night!
Sarah Wall

Though hard to turn in, or manoeuvre,
The place was spotless, free of dust:
And yet despite its weekly hoover,
The spare rooms scent was vaguely must.

One night, beneath its attic dormer
A car ran out of gas and pace:
My parents told the driver Warmer
In our spare room, just the place.'

Wrinkling nose, she sloped upstairs,
But spent the night in tears and laughter,
She blocked the door with broken chairs,
And raised the long-forgotten rafter.

Where she'd lain, the scent of attar
Filled the bed she'd dawdled on,
But what they thought a stranger matter
Was this. Come morning, I was gone.
Bill Greenwell

A sudden creaking of the outside stair,
The window, curtained, blotting out the sky,
A wax doll, filthy on a wicker chair,
A dotted web, a frantic, buzzing fly.
A naked mattress on an empty bed,
A darkened cornet God! there's something there
That conjures up an image from Jane Eyre:
‘It grovelled on all fours, it snatched and growled.'
What stands against the wall, macabre, cowled?
What rots upon the table, black with age?
A wedding cake, a dead bird in a cage.
And seated, groaning in decaying lace
A woman with despair writ in her face.
A child lifts up a hand; a raven cries:
O shut the heavy door the black bat flies!
The Gothic novel's triggered this, for sure:
Take a day off from teaching. Close the door.
G M Southgate