Cross words? (inspired by Apr 2026 theme: Crosswords/Magic)
The Police Sergeant sat in his customary seat in the bar of the Cross Keys, contemplating the cross-beams overhead with their decorative horse brasses. On one wall hung a fine picture of a pirate ship, the ‘Southern Cross’ brazenly flying the Skull and Crossbones at her crosstrees.
Before him stood a pint of Rhumney & Crosswells best bitter. He reflected on the brewery’s
ingenious logo - a racehorse with a beer barrel for a body, crossing the finishing line, leading the field, their slogan Rhumney & Crosswells, “Always |Ahead.” Clever.
“Look here, young feller-me-lad,” said Sgt. Crossley crossly, addressing the constable across the table, who, lolling insubordinately, arms crossed, was grinning inanely, exhibiting a dental disaster with more teeth than a cross-cut saw, “You say this accident occurred near the crossroads?”
“That’s right Sarge..”
“On the pedestrian crossing, then?”
“No, Sarge. Not exactly.”
“But you stated that there was a pedestrian crossing there; So it was on the pedestrian crossing that it happened.
“Sorry Sarge., Yes, there is a pedestrian crossing there but no there wasn’t a pedestrian crossing there, Not then , anyway.”
The Sergeant crossed his eyes in exasperation. Exaggerating his strabismus.
Why could this constable never give a straight answer. They always ended up at cross –purposes.
He tried again.
“This victim was a pedestrian, then?” he asked., even more cross this time.
The constable nodded.
“And she was crossing on the pedestrian crossing?”
“No.”
The Sergeant breathed deeply.
“If she was on foot, a pedestrian, like you said, why in Hell wasn’t she crossing on the crossing??”
“Never cross my mind to ask.,.. Guess she’d started to cross and changed her mind, like.”
“But you said she wasn’t on the crossing?”
“She wasn’t, then. She’d crossed on it before, like, something crossed her mind and she crossed back.”
“So she was on the crossing after all?”
“no, she wasn’t, Sarge. She’d crossed to Crosstones the Bakers, come out, started across the crossing again, turned and crossed back, diagonal-like.’”
“Why in Heaven’s name would she do that,?”
“She’d visited the Bakers for Hot Cross Buns and croissants and a can of soup from the convenience shop next door, crossed on the crossing, saw an item on her list which she hadn’t crossed off, and turned back and left the crossing to cut across to the Newsagents.”
“Soup, you say? Heinz? “The Sergeant was distracted.
“No Sarge. Cross and Blackwells.”
“Stupid woman, then. Who was she, anyway?”
“Mrs. Crosthwaite, lives in Crossways Cottage near the level crossing. A right cross-patch she is an all. Gets across almost everyone in the village, so they say. Call her cross-grained Crosthwaite, they do.”
“Describe her.”
The constable uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, embarrassed.”
“Well Sarge. She’s tall, blonde and’s got this enormous – and his hands made an expressive movement in the air.
Enlightenment dawned.
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen her. Well, let’s not dwell on that. My wife tells me that sort of shape’s achieved by something called a ‘Cross my heart ’but you’re too young to know about such things.
The constable wasn’t. Only last night his girlfriend, Rita Cross, had encouraged him, while cuddling in the shadowy back seat of the cross-Pennine service bus, returning from the pictures in Crossgarth, to cross that intimate tactile and erotic Rubicon. He had taken little persuading.
“Any other details?”
“Apparently she’s an expert Needle worker,.”
“Embroidery?” the Sergeant hazarded unwisely.
“No Sarge, Cross stitch.”
“Well,” the Sergeant groaned inwardly, cross with himself, “I asked for that one.
“What’s that to do with the accident?”, he growled.
“Nothing, but you asked. Plays Lacrosse, too, she does.”
The Sergeants took a deep breath and a deeper pull at his beer.
Desperately he recommenced his cross-examination.
“The vehicle that hit the woman, Then, an Austin Metropolitan, right?~””
“No Sarge. A Crossley.
Of course.
“Any damage to it?”
“Just a bent cross-member in the suspension and a crack across the windscreen.”
Seeking distraction , the Sergeant looked around the bar.
Muriel the buxom barmaid was leaning on the counter, arms folded across her ample bosom The gold cross around her neck contrasting with the lavish display of more cleavage than the Grand Canyon.
Further along the bar stood a vapid young man who he recognised as their new M. P... A man of firmly-held indecisive opinions, a born crossbencher..”
He eyed his beer glass moodily Almost empty. Time he set off across the moors to his home at High Cross.
One final question, then.
“You say Mrs. What’s-her-name doubled back to the Newsagent, and walked off the crossing?”
That’s right, Sarge.”
“Why?”
“She’d forgotten her paper. Said she wanted it for the competition on the back page, Never misses it.”
The Sergeant relaxed. Predictability at last.
“Don’t tell me, lad, Crossword?? Acrostics?”
“No, Sarge. Seduco.”
“Si monumentum requiris circumspice.” (inspired by theme: Not the Plan)
The year was 1674. Two gentlemen were enjoying a convivial pot or two of Sack in the Old Devil Tavern, Fleet St.
One was a celebrity. Sir Christopher Wren was not only a famous architect, recently engaged by King Charles II to rebuild St. Paul’s Cathedral, burned to the ground in the Great Fire, but he was also a founder member of the Royal Society, and a scientist of renown.
His companion, Sir William Turner, was equally important as the Lord Mayor of London. Sober of cut, his dress nevertheless indicated his wealth as a prosperous merchant. He had, it was rumoured, even advanced money to the King himself. A well-known and generous philanthropist, he was shrewd of eye and ruddy of countenance while his speech still held traces of his Yorkshire background.
He was speaking.
“Chris.,” he began diffidently, “I wonder if you can assist me?”
“His companion raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I’ve built a set of almshouses near Redcar, and I would dearly love to add a chapel to them. Your work is second to none, and I was wondering if you would design a small chapel for me?”
Sir Christopher pursed his lips.
“Life’s dreadfully busy,” he answered apologetically, “this St. Paul’s Cathedral business is proving an architectural bugger. When he’s not having it off with Mistress Gwynn, our gracious sovereign is hanging around the site offering what he thinks are helpful suggestions.”
His companion made sympathetic noises.
“And if that weren’t enough,” the architect continued, “The building’s got to be made of stone. After the previous one went up in flames, that’s sensible enough, but it’s the weight. The roof in particular. His Majesty wants the minimum of supporting columns inside. Traditional vaulting won’t be strong enough, and when I suggest a dome, like St. Peter’s in the Vatican, he’s insisting on some statue or other fancy ornamentation on top.”
“Where’s the problem there?”
“Weight again. If it is too small, from the street it’ll look like a boil on a baby’s bottom, anything of appropriate size will be just too heavy.”
“Tricky, but I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You’re the architectural genius after all.”
Sir William’s gaze had wandered to the street outside.
“Look, there’s an orange seller,” he said enthusiastically, “Her oranges aren’t a patch on Nellie’s, but they look juicy enough. Fancy one?”
“Good idea,” agreed Sir Christopher, eyes gleaming. I’ve got to loosen my laces a moment, and I’ll order some more Sack on my way. You go out and get us an orange apiece. Along with the Sack they might give me an idea for the dome, and by the way, about your Chapel at Redcar, wherever that is, I can draw up some plans for you, but can’t get away from London just now. Once you’ve started, I’ll send up an assistant to supervise the rest. Here’s some paper ready to hand. Good. I’ve got some charcoal in my pocket. I’ll rough something out while it’s fresh in my mind. Hurry up, or the orange Girl will have vanished.
Sir William hastened off on his errand.
When he returned, he was pink with embarrassment. There had been a misunderstanding as to which particular commodity on offer he wished to purchase. The matter finally resolved, he bore in his hands two fine examples of the lady’s merchandise.
Sir Christopher was still relieving himself in the jakes. On the table, beside his trencher, lay a sketch of the most exquisite chapel Sir William had ever seen. He gazed at it in awe and delight.
Presently, he became aware of the oranges still in his hand.
Absent mindedly, he took out his dagger to peel one.
There was a respectful cough behind him.
“Excuse me, Sir William,” a timid page dressed in the livery of the royal Household was trying to attract his attention, “I’ve been sent to summon you to Whitehall Palace. It’s urgent.”
Cursing inwardly, Sir William rose. Then a happy thought struck him.
Reseating himself, he placed an orange on Sir Christopher’s trencher and drove his cross-handled dagger through it, nailing it to the wood.
He rose again and left, picking up the plan for his chapel as he went.
As an afterthought, he generously threw the other orange to the serving wench who was bringing their pots of sack, entirely forgetting that both her hands were full. She did not know whether to be gratified or outraged when the golden missile lodged centrally in her half-exposed and ample bosom, but by then Sir William had departed.
Sir Christopher, returning from his expedition of relief, looked at his platter, and a slow smile crossed his face.
“Well, it wasn’t in the plan,” he murmured to himself, but it’s a damned good idea.”
And it’s there today.
Heroism, Histrionics or Hysteria?
I retired early that night, having finished a complicated zoological essay and with a nine o’ clock lecture in the morning.
Having moved into College for my final year I was now nearer to the Zoology Department so could stroll in for nine o’clock, avoiding the kaleidoscopic chaos of suicidal cyclists which constitutes Cambridge traffic conditions from five minutes to the hour to five minutes past during the working day, five and a half days a week in full term.
Scarcely, it seemed, had I switched out the light when I was rudely awakened by a banging on my door and James Mulvein, my roommate, later to become an eminent anaesthetist, was shouting, “Get up. The place’s on fire.”
I switched on the light.
James’s initial diagnosis had all the elements of veracity.
I was reminded of the sixth chapter of the book of the Prophet Isaiah. While the posts of the door did not actually shake at the voice of him that cried, the house was undeniably filled with smoke.
Donning spectacles, slippers and dressing gown and thrusting my wallet into my pocket, I proceeded along the passage in the general direction of Outdoors.
At the top of the staircase, with considerable presence of mind, I took a fire extinguisher off the wall. It might come in useful.
On the landing below I encountered much excitement.
A door to a set of rooms stood open with some half dozen onlookers loitering aimlessly outside while clouds of acrid smoke billowed forth enthusiastically, reminiscent of the days of Moses when the Ancient Israelites were preparing to move off to the Promised Land.
With an heroic cry of, “Make way, I have a fire extinguisher here,” and no thought of my personal safety, I launched myself into the room.
In retrospect I recall wondering whether I was being foolhardy, but consoling myself that at the very least I could expect to be personally thanked by the Master, Lord Adrian, perhaps granted an Honorary Degree, even awarded a Doctorate by the Vice-Chancellor, who knew what honours might be bestowed upon me?
God, it was hot in there. Dante’s inferno was a cooling zephyr by comparison.
Furthermore, where was the fire itself? It seemed to be taking its cue from Euclid’s point in reverse - it had obvious magnitude but no position.
Hastily I struck the knob of the fire extinguisher, pointed the nozzle in what I hoped was roughly the right direction and withdrew with throat raw and eyes streaming, encountering in the doorway the Cambridge City Fire Brigade. Large men in black helmets and heavy waders, with faces adorned with designer stubble. Some were dragging hoses behind them, others carried offensive weapons such as axes and grappling hooks. These were men not to be argued with.
I found myself unceremoniously thrust aside with scant recognition of my recent heroism.
Outside in the passage, having recovered sight and breath I began to realise that others had been almost as courageous as me. Some dozen fire extinguishers (all discharged) were lined up on the landing like dead soldiers, their owners in various stages of respiratory incapacity.
After a disappointingly short time the Cambridge City Fire Brigade dragged a smouldering but sodden sofa out from behind the door, and pronounced the fire extinguished. They implied that we would be doing them a collective favour by making ourselves scarce.
Before returning upstairs I took the opportunity to peep into the room.
The cumulative effect of the contents of several assorted fire extinguishers plus many gallons of Cambridge Municipal water, had turned a respectable set of rooms into what resembled a children’s’ paddling pool. All it needed was a few toy boats and some rubber ducks.
It was this superabundance of water which was, ultimately , the problem.
The rooms in which the conflagration had occurred were situated directly above Matthews’ Grocery Store, their bakery department to be precise.
Water must respond to the call of gravity, and that is exactly what happened.
These multiple gallons migrated downwards to the inevitable detriment of the assorted patisserie, fancy cakes, eclairs and other delicacies awaiting baking and subsequent sale the following day.
This happened, dear reader, at an educational establishment where a few months earlier a carefully drilled team of undergraduates had achieved the positioning of an Austin Seven motor car (admittedly sans engine) on the top of the Senate House roof, and where climbing the pinnacles of Kings’ College Chapel with the object of placing an item of bedroom convenience on the topmost pinnacle was, and, I am glad to say, still is a not uncommon pastime.
The university newspaper, Varsity, edited, printed and published by undergraduates was equal to this new drama.
On the Saturday morning it carried the immortal headline:-
Tarts ruined, Trinity Saved.
Hidden Gold. (Inspired by November's theme: Lucky Charm)
“Gotcha, there you are you little bastard. Forceps, please,” James Splycem extended a rubber-gloved hand, palm upwards.
Sister Maureen O’Hara, theatre superintendent, member of the Nursing Order of St. Andrew, pursed her lips behind her surgical mask.
“I’ll thank you to moderate your language in my theatre, Mr. Splicem,” she said authoritatively.
“Mr. Splycem was unabashed.
“Sorry, Sister, but he really was a right sod, that one.”
Sister O’Hara cast her eyes up to heaven and ostentatiously crossed herself.
The surgeon removed a bolus about the size of a golf ball from the patient’s inflamed lower bowel and deposited it in a kidney dish.”
“I hope her husband will think it worthwhile when he gets the bill,” he observed with satisfaction.
Simon Tumble of Tumbledown Property Developers Ltd. Was thinking much the same thing, as he sat in the Nursing Home’s waiting area but his concerns were less for his wife than his bank balance.
Five days ago, while consuming her pre-prandial Bloody Mary, his wife Marjorie had uttered a most peculiar sound. He had torn his attention from the Racing Post long enough to enquire, “Swallowed an ice cube dear?”
“Ice cube be damned. You know I never take ice. There must have been something in my drink. I wonder what?”
After a long pause and some metallic clinking, she gave her pronouncement.
“I’ve lost one of the gold charms from my bracelet. The little horse, I think. Damn and blast.”
Her husband was unsympathetic.
“You’d best watch your every motion, then. Those gold charms are too expensive to keep on replacing.”
After allowing sufficient time for peristalsis to do its work, the lady performed coprophic examinations at appropriate intervals without success.
Three days elapsed, constipation set in, then mild abdominal discomfort, followed by acute, agonizing pain.
Panacea Private Nursing home was telephoned, the patient admitted, the operation performed with the result outlined above.
A week later the Nursing Home presented its interim account.
At the first glance Mr. Tumble gasped; after a second he sat down and poured himself a stiff whisky.
In a small drawer in his study desk reposed the cause of the mishap, suitably cleansed of faecal accretions.
Tumble did some rapid calculation. There was the cost of the operation and nursing home fees, plus the likely expense of buying a replacement charm – Marjorie, unreasonably fickle and now fastidious, was demanding a new one. Why wouldn’t the old one do after all? The cost of this episode would be distinctly inconvenient just now.
He returned to his whisky and the runners for tomorrow’s meeting at Goodwood,
idly perusing the lists. A keen student of form, horses’ names, apart from providing a means of identification were irrelevant to him.
But now one leapt off the page.
“Hidden Gold,” he breathed, “it’s got to be, “What are the odds?”
He looked, and raised an eyebrow.
A hundred to one. A bit of an outsider, then, but if he put on £100 he’d clear the better part of £10,000 a nice little profit.
He dialled Honest Rogue, his bookmaker.
“Rog.,” he said, “I want a hundred to win on Hidden Gold in the 3.30 at Goodwood tomorrow. Yes, I know I’m over my limit, but when it comes in, I’ll be able to clear the lot. Right? Good bye.”
Ignoring the disbelieving expostulations from the other end, he rang off.
Sitting back he contemplated his good fortune, all brought about by his wife’s carelessness and slight discomfort. The fact that, according to the surgeon, she had almost died was a minor detail. Just think what he could do with his winnings, particularly since he had the original and could thus save the cost of a replacement. Now he could afford to take Tracey, his blonde, nubile and willing secretary away to the Caribbean on that fictional business conference. He imagined her in a minimal bikini and then again, without. He allowed himself to daydream.
The following day passed in a whirl of anticipation.
He had, of course, visited the Nursing Home, presented the obligatory bouquet of flowers, and professed undying love, promising that the charm would be replaced. He had even remembered to retrieve the bracelet from the bedside locker, ostensibly to assist the jeweller to make a proper match.
At four o’clock he checked his bank account. The £100 stake had gone out, but the near £10,000 winnings from Honest Rogue hadn’t come in. Puzzled, he telephoned.
Rogue was in jubilant mood.
“Easiest hundred I’ve ever taken, Mr. Tumble. Didn’t think you’d fall for a no-hoper like Hidden Gold. Thanks, and when are you going to settle up? Don’t need to get heavy, I hope?”
“What won, then” asked Tumble, in a tight voice, bile rising in the back of his throat.
“Whinny the Pooh.”
Appropriate really.