The Story of Frendalex

In the middle of the village square was an old barren tree. Its bark was gnarled and knobbled and for as long as people could remember the tree had never borne fruit. If you stood by the tree and glanced towards the Inn you would notice a strange face at the window staring back.

Sitting at a small table in the darkest corner of the Inn sat Frendalex. It had always been her place and she always sat alone staring at the old tree. No one could remember a time when Frendalex had not sat at the table. Nor could they remember a time when the people were not a little scared of her.

Perhaps it was her hair which was coarse and seemed dirty, or perhaps it was her eyes which had a glint of yellow and seemed to dart around the room from the shadows. Or perhaps it was her left arm that had no hand and which she usually kept covered with her raggety shawl.

Whatever it was that gave the people their fear, one thing was certain: there was something strange about Frendalex.

Some called it a gift, some a curse, but whatever it was the people were grateful for it. For whenever an animal fell ill the children would take it to Frendalex at her table.

If the animal was small Frendalex would take it in her right hand; if it was larger she would rest her hand upon its heart. She would close her eyes and make a small clicking noise. Then she would fall silent and all those watching would hold their breath.

Finally Frendalex would speak. "This animal needs lovage," she would say, or some other herb or lotion. Once the animal was given its treatment it would soon recover.

Sometimes Frendalex would have a darker voice. "This animal now needs its rest, it is ready to go on for there is nothing in this world left to hold it," and the people knew that death would soon come.

Frendalex would never take payment for her gift but she would ask for a service.

All who brought her a sick animal were given the same strange task. "Dig under the old barren tree and find me something that will bring me luck," she said to each and every one.

At first this had been easy as there were plenty of shiny stones and seeds in the soil to take to Frendalex. She would hold them briefly and gaze with her sharp yellow eyes before announcing, "This will not bring me luck," and she would cast it aside. Her voice was never filled with anger at these times, just disappointment.

As the years had passed by it was harder and harder for the children to find anything in the ground under the great tree. Its roots had been dug right round and the soil was fine and sifted.

One day a young boy walked nervously into the Inn. He did not want to have to see Frendalex but he knew that if he didn't his pet hare might die. Quietly he walked towards the dark corner carrying his hare in a basket.

Frendalex moved her eyes from the old barren tree and gazed upon the child. In the half light the young boy could see the coarse hairs that grew around the old woman’s mouth and he shuddered. Frendalex smiled as if she could read his mind.

Softly the young boy pushed the basket, with the sick hare inside, across the table and with tears in his eyes he said, "Can you help him?".

Frendalex placed her hand upon the hare's heart and closed her yellow eyes. The boy watched as a single tear rolled down her bristled face.

"Go and bring me something to give me luck," she said.

"But you haven't said what to do," the boy stammered. His father touched him on the shoulder and guided him out of the Inn. At the doorway the boy looked back and saw Frendalex stroking the sick hare and staring into its eyes.

The young boy ran to the old barren tree and began to dig. The soil was soft and easily removed but there was nothing to find. Deeper and deeper he dug until he was almost at the bottom of the tree from where its first root would have grown.

There, for a brief moment, amongst the thick roots he saw something. As the soil tumbled back into the hole it disappeared from view but he knew it was there. He reached his arm deep into the roots of the tree and pulled at a small silver chain. It held firm at first and then suddenly came away. Holding the chain up into the light he saw a gnarled and grubby shape hanging from it. The more he stared at it the more horrible it looked.

It was old matted hair with horrible black nails sticking out. He was going to tear it off and take just the chain to Frendalex but he didn't want to waste any time getting back to see his hare.

When he ran into the Inn he was breathless. People had gathered around the table to watch what would happen. Bravely he pushed them aside and walked towards the corner. An old hand was stretched out towards him so he rested the chain and its ugly pendant in her palm.

She shuddered as it landed on her skin and the people knew something was different. Within moments his sick hare was sitting bolt upright, its bright eyes looking at Frendalex. The hare no longer looked ill at all; in fact he had become the most magnificent buck hare the people had ever seen.

In one movement Frendalex ripped the chain loose and dropped the silver on to the table. She raised her arm and held the wizened pendant up in the air.

"You have brought me good luck,” she said, and with that she swallowed the strange object whole.

Now everyone who saw what happened that day has a slightly different story of the order in which the changes began, but all agree on how it ended.

First there was a shaft of golden light that made the dark corner as bright as a sunbeam. Then Frendalex’s missing hand seemed to grow back. But as the hand grew back she got smaller and hair began to grow all over her body. The whiskers around her mouth grew longer and lighter and her nose began to twitch.

It was hard to say at which point she became less like an old woman and more like an animal, but everyone agreed that, as their eyes became accustomed to the golden light, there in front of them was the most beautiful golden hare they had ever seen.

It was at that point of recognition that the two hares jumped from the table and through the door. The people raced after them just in time to see them both make a gigantic leap down, down, down into the roots of the old tree.

At once the same golden light spread through the roots and illuminated the tree. Within seconds, in front of their disbelieving eyes, wonderful golden fruit filled the branches.

So, there you are - that is the story of Frendalex. But please remember this: should you ever be in an inn, pub or tavern and someone old is sitting in the corner who looks a little odd, don't rush to judge them. You will have no idea what brought them there or who they really might be.

(illustration by Ellie Garratt)

(second illustration added on 8 August 2024 after being found in a diary from 2010 where it was sketched at a restaurant called L'esperance during a family meal)

More Bl**dy Days

For those who are curious, this is a long running saga appearing on Facebook of being trapped on an 'island' - previous days are on the blog

Day 105. When I was younger there was a fantastic programme called Tomorrow’s World. It used to show new inventions and science and probably taught me more that any school lesson. In some hazy childhood memory I remember a machine they showed that would aid my escape. It has taken all day but by using things from the shops I believe I have managed to recreate it. I walked to the end of the pier closed my eyes and placed my hand on the ‘belt’ and visualized where I want to be. After an hour I gave up and then remembered. The belt was from The Tomorrow People not Tomorrow’s World.

Day 106. In ‘The Adventures Captain Starner and the Gumleighs’ day 106 was when they saw the fish people emerging from the water. I am not in anyway superstitious but just in case I have moved into the Tower Room of the old Asylum. It is amazing how these old buildings seem to hold memories in their walls. I found myself sobbing uncontrollably as I saw a young girl story played out in the shadows. Sentenced from the age of eleven to spend all her days in the Victorian edifice. And what was reason for such confinement. Simply breaking the social norm of the day by challenging everyone she met with a flaming raison soaked in white spirit before stabbing them to death. How times have changed

Day 107. One of those wonderful freaks when the sun shines after days of rain. It makes me realise how affected by the weather I am. Constant grey skies really impacts on my mood but this sudden shaft of sunlight is like someone switching on a bulb driving out the darkness and pessimism in my brain. I must not waste this day. I must make the most of this sense of optimism, the feeling that everything will be ok. I took a chair down to beach and sat directly facing the sun and closed my eyes to let the light bathe my eyelids. Then I wrestled with the question that has bugged me since I got here and within three or four hours I had an answer to what appeared unanswerable. The Ashdowne Aylesham Mix is my favourite roof tile. I shall sleep well tonight.

Day 108. Thinking of your favourite things can be quite fun but does lead to intense self-questioning. My favourite Blue Peter presenter was John Noakes – does this make me sexist to rule out Valerie Singleton, Lesley Judd, Karen Keating etc. No, because my favourite Magpie presented was Susan Stranks. Oh god, but wait, was that because I fancied her? On potatoes I cannot decide between roast and chips. Roast. No, wait a minutes, chips. With eggs its scrambled or fried but if its chips then I should lean to fried. So is Noakes ‘fried’ and Stranks ‘scrambled’? Now that does sound sexist, a typical male comment. So if Noakes is ‘chips’ then Stranks is ‘roast’. I shall not get onto my favourite way to eat prawns.

Day 109. David Attenborough is 86, Julie Andrews is 77. David Attenborough is famous for sharing his knowledge on nature and is rightly lauded and Lorded but what of Julie. Without her I would have never know where lonely goat herds live. 86+77=163. What happens if I am still here after 163 days. In the night I though I heard the sound of a helicopter flying over. Today I have spelt 'HELP' out in stones on the beach. I have done it in a beautiful Pegypta font which makes it barely legible but does reflect the inner turmoil I am struggling with. Fonts can be so descriptive. This evening I discovered the key to the Off License.

Day 110. Having been inspired as child by listening to big bands on the radio I nagged my parents to let me learn a musical instrument. We were not a wealthy family so my requests for a trumpet, saxophone or trombone were turned down as being too expensive. Finally after much persuasion my Father said he would teach me to play the Euphemism. Oh the happy hours we spent as I learnt my craft whilst my Father encouraged me by saying how ‘special’ I was. Finally I was ready to practice with a band but unfortunately, despite my Father’s constant enquiries, no local band needed me and so I stopped playing. I was reminded of this after I finished my first twelve bottles of Babycham.  I think having the key for the Off License is going to help pass the time.

Day 111. Stumbling along the beach with a half finished bottle I recall that in cricket ‘111’ is called a Nelson and is unlucky. I remember scoring 111 against the West Indies. No wait, it was West Molesey. Their under elevens team was very good but it took them apart, I was twenty four. Suddenly I see it and life changes. There in the sand - a fresh footprint and it’s not mine. It’s daintier, smaller. An expression from my teenage years comes back as my body goes into convulsions “my god, it’s a bird”. I look up to follow the path of the footprints and there, staring back at me with an expression of fear is a Gannet. I start to run alongside the footprints so as not to spoil them and turn the corner of the beach and there, in the distance, a human figure. A woman.

Day 112. No matter how hard I run I cannot catch the woman in the distance who is seems to be just walking languidly. Or is it languidly walking? Oh for god’s sake don’t worry about that now just run harder. Once again she has disappeared from view behind an outcrop of rocks. As I negotiate the edge I look up and she has gone. Not only has she gone, so have the footsteps. I look back and can only see mine in the sand. Please don’t let her have been a, a, a …., I can’t remember the word in English only in French – a ‘mirage’. The light is playing tricks on the water. I rub my eyes hard and attempt to sober up but I’m sure, well pretty sure, that there is a boat on the beach. I this what that ghostly vision, that siren wanted me to see.

Day 113. It is a boat. I have been up and touched it. There is no one aboard and no sign of recent life but it looks seaworthy. This could be my route off the island and away. I need to go back to the town and pack provisions, but sensibly this time. I can check out what to take in the Library where there must be a good book on survival. It will take maybe ten trips but I can do it. I will just have to be careful about the tigers. They could grab me at any point so perhaps I will have to carry some form of weapon. Then I had a silly thought. I must check the boat each time to make sure a tiger has not got on board although even as I consider it does seem rather a stupid idea. Suddenly I feel hungry. It must be the drink and the running but why do I only want to eat some pie.

Day 114. The packing is going well. I have been sensible and used plastic containers from the Pound Shop. The ones in the hardware store seemed tougher and more durable but the price was outrageous. I have separated out the food and water from the rest of the supplies. I have got jackets, ropes, a penknife and other life saving elements from the walking shop. I have even got two compasses or is it compi just in case. I have taped them together so I won’t lose one. Now is the small matter of getting them to the boat safely. They are extremely heavy so I think just two trips a day. Keep an eye out for the tigers

Day 115. I am very conscious of the old legend of ‘Jarek the Oresman’ so in between my two trips a day taking supplies to the boat I have been building up my rowing muscles on a rowing machine. As the tale of Jarek says this is essential to avoid just going in a large circle. I say a rowing machine but it is something I have made by bringing suitable components together. It is an upturned kitchen cupboard with two tennis rackets but it certainly is hard work. All the physical exercise should mean I am sleeping well but my brain just won’t switch off. I spend my nights worrying about what might happen on my voyage but during the day I know that whatever occurs is going to be better than being stuck here alone for the rest of my days.

Day 116. I carried the final load of provisions to the boat this evening and secured the tarpaulin to prevent the tigers getting on board. Tonight will be my last night on dry land for god knows how long. I thought I would celebrate by doing things that I will not be able to do when I am on the water. I sat underneath a tree and rested my back against the trunk. I ran down a grassy mound onto the beach where I let the sand fall through my fingertips. I went into the local Post Office and imagined my self at the back of long queue whilst the queue next to me moved quickly. I went to the clothing store, held a jumper up and shouted “have you got this in large”? I shall miss so much.

Day 117. At first light I went along the beach keeping my eyes peeled for the tigers. They are at their most active at dawn and dusk but I want to make sure that I have the longest amount of daylight in the boat on day one. As I peeled back the bight blue tarpaulin I could hear their strange guttural noises in land. I was mightily relieved once I was on board and able to get on with things. I have packed all my food and drink provisions in individual Tupperware each labeled with a day. Rather than calling the first 117 I have reverted to number 1 as today is the start of a great new adventure. It’s about 8 or 9 in the morning but I wanted to eat lunch and I suddenly remembered that urge from school trips. What was it about getting on the coach that made you hungry?

Day 118. I have sat in the boat all day. The sounds of screeching gulls filled my ears. I began to imagine them as the echoed cries of the poor tortured souls lost at sea. These are not great thoughts just before a sea voyage. Made me feel sad. I hate seagulls - they're just pigeons on holiday. I have been in the boat for four high tides and none have got near the boat. I am beginning to think I should have noticed that earlier and certainly before I loaded it. I suppose it is why the boat has on the beach and not drifted away. I have two choices I believe. Dig a channel to the sea or find a way to drag the boat further down the shore. I cannot entertain not escaping this island now.

Day 119. After numerous attempts to move the boat I had in the end to come terms with the fact that I do not have the strength nor the ingenuity to shift it one inch. This leaves only one choice – a channel. I had forgotten how much fun it was digging on the beach as a child. It was hypnotic as you lost entire days making castles, burying people, digging holes and general playing as though the day would never end. It is not fun as an adult. I brought a good spade and shovel from the town and begin to dig a channel. It needs to be a straight run down to the sea. Thank goodness whoever left the JCB that was in the way left the keys in the ignition so I could move it a little to the left. 

Sweet Dreams

I suppose that when the world was first formed there was enough of everything for everyone. Enough land, enough food, enough water and enough sleep.

As we grew and more people were born it was obvious that the world would eventually run out of our natural resources.

So we started inventing. We found ways of building higher to make up for the lack of land. Then we added chemicals to our soils so we could grow more food from the same ground. We even found ways of storing water so there would not be many dry days. But some people knew that we were really only creating more problems for the future

There was however one thing we just couldn’t do and that was to make any more real sleep.

So at night there is still the same amount of sleep in the world as there always was – but more people want it. Every night there is only so much to go round which means some people sleep well, some people have disturbed nights and some people hardly sleep at all.

So here is our challenge. How do we find a way to share out the sleep evenly so everyone gets enough? If we can’t do that we are just going to have to get used to the odd sleepless night. Perhaps we could with the right thoughts in our heads as we try to sleep. 

Are you like me? Do you lie in your bed getting upset and angry when can’t sleep. Do you think “Why me?” as you toss and turn, “why won’t my brain just switch off?” and then “oh no, now why I’m worrying about that?”

Well try not to fret or get annoyed – it’s not that you can’t sleep, it’s that somebody else is sleeping for you. With so little sleep to go round in the world it’s just that someone has got some of yours for that night. So stop thinking about yourself and try to enjoy lying awake knowing that someone somewhere is sleeping really well because of you. Who knows, you might just drift off feeling better.

Then just imagine, if we could enjoy sharing sleep with others so everyone has just enough then perhaps we could do it with food and water and land and money and ………?

OK, it’s a stupid thought but forgive me I’m tired. I didn’t have a great night – but then someone somewhere did.

with thanks to Carol Wadsworth for the beautiful photograph in Swanage

'Profits Lost' by Milton Keynes

In the face of George Osbourne’s statement today let us remember Milton Keynes the famous poet economist whose influence is still felt in our more lyrical fiscal macroeconomic thoughts. His great work, ‘Profits Lost’, is still recited every morning in major investment banks.

Of mans first disinvestment, and the fruit


Of that forbidden deal, whose mortal profit

Brought death into the World, and all our woe,

With loss of Euro, till one greater Man

Restore us, and regain the blissful treat

That those with wealth shall be protected,

And those without to Debtor’s Inferno bound

A Christmas Tale

Boedlan and Carbenarge felt the cold terribly. They felt the damp even worse as their bones had grown old over the years. They sat, at ease with each other, staring at their small fire. Every so often one of them would raise their eyes from their labours and smile at the other. It was a smile of love, a smile of contentment and a smile of two people whose souls are totally at one with each other.

In the quieter months when the work did not take over their lives Carbenarge had said to Boedlan that she felt that true love was being able to read a book whilst in your partners company. Boedlan had understood without question. To be able to read because you were totally relaxed in the love that surrounded you, a love that did not need constant conversation to show interest. A love that was so deep that silence was truly golden.

At this time of year Boedlan and Carbenarge had little time to read. Whilst it was possible to do some of their preparations for Christmas in advance much of the work that they did had to be done at the last minute. It could only be carried out when true knowledge of what was required was known.

Boedlan lowered his eyes back to his efforts as, in perfect rhythm, Carbenarge raised hers, looked across at her partner and smiled. In the light of the fire flames she could see him as he used to be - young, vigorous and full of hope. 

The years had not been unkind to them but they both knew that their end was travelling toward them and gathering pace with each step.

“My goodness, is that the time?” said Carbenarge glancing toward the timepiece. “We should stop for now and get some rest. We have so much to do tomorrow”

“You go ahead,” said Boedlan, ‘I want to finish this tonight, there is a lot of pain to deal with here.”

“All right, but don’t you light another glowstick. It is plenty late enough and your eyes will suffer,” she said as she bent down to kiss his head.

Boedlan sat in the half-light his eyes moist with the knowledge he was grappling with. The fire was almost out as he rose and put the work to one side. He moved stiffly, each joint aching as the blood that had settled in his feet was forced to reluctantly make its way round his veins.

As he lay down next to Carbenarge and listened to her gently breathing he glowed with the feeling of how lucky he was to be with her, that they were still together. They hadn’t always been lucky, indeed many thought their lives tragic but it made them perfectly qualified for the job they had to do. As he closed his eyes he remembered the children. It was for them that they did their work.

As the sun rose so did they. After the briefest of pauses they were back in their chairs working. Sometimes it was easier in the sunlight to sort out the threads but sometimes the light made the finest so hard to see. With only one more day until Christmas Eve they knew what was needed.

Boedlan and Carbenarge’s work was hard, some thought the hardest, for their job was to create hope. A strong hope, a hope that could defeat the bleakest thoughts, a hope that could banish memories of sadness and loss. A hope that could fight off the awful loneliness that Christmas can bring for so many.

Boedlan and Carbenarge knew about loss, they knew it from that Christmas Eve when they had to face the fact that they had lost their child. An accident that had deprived them of hope, of belief, of memories, of everything it seemed.

It was as the clock struck midnight of that eve that they had stared at the bleakness of their lives and, holding hands, ended it all. Except they found it had not ended. They found themselves in a place where hope was made. A place where the sad find comfort in comforting others.

So now their work was creating hope to plant into the thoughts and dreams of those who face the lowest time over Christmas. Boedlan and Carbenarge have done it well, they have seen people brought back from the brink, rebuild their lives and smile again.

Now don’t think that Boedlan and Carbenarge put the thoughts of hope inside the head and souls of the suffering. No, they put it in the hearts and minds of their family, neighbours and community hoping that it is they that will reach out to the lonely and low in their midst.

Boedlan and Carbenarge’s work hard, very hard, and as they smile at each other as they labour they share one thought – that maybe, just maybe people will start doing their work for them without them needing to be reminded. So this Christmas perhaps we can make our own hope, our own kindness and our own generosity of spirit because Boedlan and Carbenarge’s are growing old and deserve our help.