The Brumology

By Andrew Sparke (ed.)

An anthology of short fiction themed around Birmingham  written by authors attending the Author City 2023 event at the Council House Birmingham on 15th July 2023. Stories by Lee Benson, Jill Griffin, TG Campbell, Andrew Sparke, Pat Spence, D.G. Torrens, Martin Tracey, Punam Farnah, Mike Chinn, Maggie Fogarty, Jane Andrews, Catherine Hytner and Darren deToni.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215338179

Book preview

THE

BRUMOLOGY

THE AUTHOR CITY BIRMINGHAM ANTHOLOGY

EDITED BY

ANDREW SPARKE

APS Books,

The Stables, Field Lane

Aberford, West Yorkshire,

LS25 3AE

APS Books is a subsidiary of the APS Publications imprint

www.andrewsparke.com

Copyright ©2023 Andrew Sparke

All rights reserved.

Andrew Sparke has asserted the right to be identified as the editor and compiler of this work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published worldwide by APS Books in 2023

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the publisher except that brief selections may be quoted or copied without permission, provided that full credit is given.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The German Market

Jill Griffin

To Cut A Long Story Short

Martin Tracey

Beyond The Catacombs

D.G. Torrens

The Case Of The Contradictory Corpse

TG Campbell

Birmingham: City Of Song

Pat Spence

Threshold Of A Dream

Mike Chinn

Dragon Realm

Punam Farmah

Eyes You Could Drown In

Jane Andrews

Ratty’s Revenge

Catherine Hytner

Cannon Hill Park 1967

Lee Benson

Buttons From Brum

Maggie Fogarty

The Opportunity

Jill Griffin

My Dad

Lee Benson

Rag Market Rave ’91 (Love Among The Ruins)

Darren deToni

Walking Northward Past The Midland Bank

Catherine Hytner

The Lost City

Andrew Sparke

THE BRUMOLOGY

AUTHOR CITY 2023

The place to be is the mass Author Signing Event from 10 am-4 pm on Saturday 15th July 2023 in the Banqueting Suite at The Birmingham Council House in Victoria Square, Birmingham England. Most of the authors whose work is included in this anthology will be there and about seventy others besides. Tickets available from Eventbrite or see our Author City Facebook page.

THE GERMAN MARKET

JILL GRIFFIN

––––––––

I’VE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD to Birmingham’s Frankfurt Christmas Market, and tonight’s the night.

It’s the start and highlight of my run up to Christmas.  Frantic present buying, partying outside with family and friends, and then running to catch the last train home.  A warm feeling spreads through my body.

Having such fond memories of our time here with the boys, I worry that this evening may not live up to my expectations, especially as Liam doesn’t seem himself lately.

Liam’s always been a lot more sensitive, kind and individualistic than his younger brothers.  Therefore, I can’t understand what he’s doing working for Big Bastard Bank.  I had expected him to be saving the planet or doing something noble to help poor people!  But, as long as he’s happy that’s all that matters. 

The last time we visited with the boys was years ago, when they were small. Buying baubles and visiting the outdoor ice-skating rink was all we wanted then, especially as they could all skate.  Being scared of falling over, I stayed at the side holding firmly onto the rails.

We are lucky to have the Birmingham Christmas Market which is the largest authentic German Christmas market outside Germany or Austria.  The city always comes alive each winter and for us the market is a sign that the festive season is truly on the way.  Who doesn’t love Yuletide!

With over eighty stalls, it’s an ideal place to meet families and friends and look for unusual trinkets and drinks.  We often come here for a night out, eating Pretzels, schnitzels and bratwurst, and then washing it down with Glühwein and Weissbier.

With the boys, we drank hot chocolate.  But this year we’ll go for something a bit stronger!

There’s always live music in Victoria Square and lots of presents for you to buy: handcrafted wooden decorations, delicate glass tree decorations, crystal lamps, toys, jewellery and much more besides.  I hope it’s as I remember.  I want tonight to go well.

Liam our oldest and tallest, is distracted tonight and his auburn hair seems longer than usual and is tied back in a bun.

What’s with the bun? asks Dennis, who is just a couple of years younger, with shorter fair hair and the brightest blue eyes.  He’s always friendly and is trying to include Liam in the conversation.

He’s hard up. Surely long hair’s not allowed in the Big Bastard Bank.  What will Mr White say? says Peter, our cheeky youngest who’s at Uni, drinks a lot and has a keen eye for the girls.

Shut up you two, Mum tell them to stop.

Come on guys behave.  You don’t want to mess with me now, do you?

You’re all of five-foot, Alice. I don’t think threats work anymore. says Frank.

Don’t forget to stay close to me, I put my arm out to guide them through the station and across the roads towards the market.  I can see them all grimacing, and I know they’ll be thinking, We’re not ten years of age anymore. Still, that’s what mums do, isn’t it?

We’ve just eaten a curry and are wearing our traditional jumpers festooned with reindeers and Santas. As we arrive at the entrance to the market, a band is playing carols.  The outdoor wooden stalls are brightly lit and decorated with bunting and Christmas trees.  There are people all down New Street and the mundane shopping thoroughfare is transformed by fairy lights and glowing messages of goodwill.  Even though we’re full, the smell of German traditional Gulaschsuppe and Bockwurst sausages is enticing.  Whilst I’m not a great fan of sausages, I’m glad I’m not a vegetarian tonight.

As we arrive in the bar area, we can hear a variety of different languages. Birmingham is so multi-cultural and a well-known tourist attraction these days.  Most of the stall holders are speaking English with a Midlands twang, but there is definitely a European vibe tonight.  The combination of languages is alluring and as the night goes on, it sounds mellow and seductive.

A German choir is now singing Silent Night and the atmosphere is electric, the music is making me nostalgic with memories of Christmases long ago.

Frank interrupts my thoughts. What are you drinking?

Beer, shout our sons in unison.

Hot Glühwein for me, I say.

Frank collects our four beer jugs and my cup saying, At a three pounds deposit for each, no breakages this evening, or fewer presents on Christmas Day.

OK, we shout almost in unison.

Over here, shouts Liam.  He’s still being quiet again, which is out of character for him, especially when he’s with his family.  I have tried to find out what’s wrong, and he said, Nothing, but I know him too well.

As we weave through the crowd, we rush past a homeless person sitting on the pavement.

Liam says, No one cares about the people left behind by the consumer society.

Frank says, We all do, but how can we change things? as he bends down to give the man five pounds.

Liam mutters, Don’t know, but I’m doing my bit.

I don’t know what he means, but that can wait until another day.  I need to lighten the mood; otherwise there could be a row brewing or endless debates all night.

Let’s take that path between the Christmas trees to the log-cabin drinking dens.  If we can find one, I can put my drink and coat down and rest my legs.

There’s one coming free - rush Dennis!  It’s directly outside the Council House, so we’ll have some protection from the wind and rain, says Frank.

It won’t rain tonight, but it sure is windy, I’ll get it.

Well done son.

We put our drinks down and just breathe in the atmosphere.  Liam notices that someone has left their shopping in our hut, so I scan the crowd to try and see them.  They’ve disappeared so we watch their bag hoping they’ll return.

Our conversation turns to holidays, football as usual, life and Christmases past.  As we get merrier, we start swaying to the carols.  The boys must have drunk too much.

I take a picture.

What time are you getting up on Christmas Day? asks Liam, who always wants to sleep in till one o’clock, just before dinner is served.

Eight-thirty is the latest you can lie in this year if you want to do the Park-run at nine o’clock, I say.  And you’ll have to wear Santa hats for the run.

Peter sighs, OK.

Let’s go somewhere quieter, says Liam. I have something to tell you all.  We head for one of the emptier huts on the edge of the Christmas Market.

With tables and finally chairs, we try to relax, but I can’t concentrate as I’m waiting for Liam to speak.  His brothers don’t seem to notice the silence and talk about their girlfriends, uni, what’s happened this year and their future hopes.  Thinking back, I remember the time when all they wanted was the latest Game Cube or Xbox and life was simple.  I have enjoyed the camaraderie we have built up over years and hope it lasts for ever.  I’m dreading what Liam is about to divulge and the suspense is killing me.

Liam says, It’s now or never.  I have to tell you.

We all look up.  What is it?

I’ve been embezzling money from work to give to the local homeless shelter, because I thought the big bosses at work were greedy capitalist bastards and they wouldn’t miss it.  Unfortunately for me, audit found out two months ago that the total amount I stole was a hundred and eighty thousand.  I’ve lied to you and I have to go to court tomorrow to be sentenced.  My barrister says I will do time.

My head is in a spin.  I’ve failed and like a trapped animal I want to crawl into the foetal position, cry, and wake up to a new day.  Perhaps I can rewind the day and cut out this section!  A deep sadness washes over me as I remember my little boy now all grown up and the urge to protect my young kicks in.  I go to comfort Liam, but he pushes me away.

I’m sorry, he says.  I thought I was helping people and never thought work would find out.  I covered my tracks well, or so I thought.  The bastards.

You’ve always thought of others before yourself.  If only you’d talked to us, son, says Frank, his voice shaking, disappointment and bewilderment written all over his face.

Liam you’re a modern-day Robin Hood.  An honourable act, but you had no merry men to help you.  You should have told us. I’m crying softly.

Dennis and Peter look stunned but hesitantly hug their brother.

I never gave a thought to the effect on the rest of the family.  You’re really important to me.  I’m sorry.

Mum, let’s have one last dance before tomorrow.

We dance to eighties tracks.  I cry silently to myself as Liam and I hug.

The boys are trying to stay strong, but they can’t take their eyes off their brother.  Their banter and laughter are false.  They are trying to be there for him.

In a small circle they do the Dad Dance.  Frank looks tired, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

My hopes of a future full of grandchildren and wonderful Christmases are all up in the air now as I fear for Liam’s future. 

The next morning, we wake up with hangovers and slowly get ready to accompany Liam to court.

The German Market did exceed expectations, until the moment of Liam’s revelation.  Then it was like being on another continent and in a now-forgotten dream.  Reality has kicked in and our lives will never be the same again.

As I take a pain killer, I reflect on life, relationships and the importance of making memories that may have to last you a lifetime.  I look at the carefree photograph I took of Frank and the boys swaying to the music, before Liam shared his news last night, knowing that you have to make the most of now.

I pick up my bag and we head out of the door to meet Liam.

The road to the Court House is blocked by homeless people holding banners saying, Liam’s one of the good guys. 

As Liam gets out of his solicitor’s car, we can hear shouting.

Liam, we’ve been called as character witnesses.

Liam, we’ll miss you at the soup kitchen.

Good luck; we’re with you.

Liam waves to us though the crowd and I know that my caring son’s future is now in someone else’s hands

TO CUT A LONG STORY SHORT

MARTIN TRACEY

––––––––

FACT: In the late 1970s-early 1980s the Blitz nightclub in Covent Garden, London was a hotbed of anything goes fashion – in fact the more bizarre the better. It was also a catalyst for expression and talent, including musically, and many of the pop acts of the eighties grew from the roots being planted in the fertile soil of Blitz: Visage, Boy George, Jeremy Healy, Marilyn, Martin Degville and Spandau Ballet included. However, this New Romantic sub-culture began to sprout up in other cities and towns and the musical talent was most definitely not exclusive to the capital.

Birmingham had the Rum Runner as its Blitz equivalent and a band named Duran Duran were beginning to lead the rich Birmingham music scene before going on to conquer the world in just a few years’ time. Spandau Ballet were booked to play a gig at Birmingham’s Botanical Gardens but incredibly their manager didn’t take kindly to a band from Birmingham being tipped to support his musicians at the performance – no matter how good they were and even though it was in their own back yard.

Duran Duran weren’t the only band in Birmingham at that time.

What follows may have happened....

Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Double-J. Double-J is not my real name of course. My given name is John Jones but that doesn’t really work for a famous pop star. Not that I am a famous pop star. Yet. Double-J probably doesn’t fit the bill either but at least it’s a step in the right direction. Looking at my initials I’m sure you can work out how the name Double-J came to be, but it really stuck with me two or three years ago when everyone had Saturday Night Fever. Double-J was one of the main characters in the film and so that was that. I too got sucked into the disco scene but I was still at school then so never really got to attend what I’d call an actual bona fide disco with an illuminated dancefloor and mirrored disco ball. Not that it matters now as I’m way past wearing flares and practicing sophisticated dance moves in the mirror. Since Saturday Night Fever I’d become a Punk. Well I tried to be. I guess in reality I was kind of a pseudo-Punk. My parents refused to let me colour my hair, although I did manage to spike it to about two inches high. They wouldn’t let me wear safety pins on my clothing either, so my tame punky attire peaked with me wearing fluorescent socks and decorating my coat in badges of bands like the Sex Pistols, Generation X, The Clash and Sham 69. To be honest the whole Punk and it’s three chords thing didn’t really work for a keyboard player anyway and as a musician I felt a bit isolated. Now I’m in a Ska band things are much better. Yes, I’ve quickly turned my back on Punk to reappear as something between a Mod and a Rude Boy.

We would like to be firmly positioned in the recently developed Two Tone genre, like another Brummie band The Beat and The Specials from just down the road in Coventry. Their line-ups blend musicians from both black and white cultures but unfortunately, we don’t know any black kids who want to join our band, which puts us at a bit of a disadvantage compared to our West Midlands rivals. We’re struggling to settle on a name for the band as well which isn’t going to help us claim world musical domination.

There is also another problem with our band. Unfortunately, Dave, that’s our guitarist by the way, is well into heavy metal and rock music. He is a little frustrated that Ska music doesn’t really allow him to express himself with a Jimmy Page type lead break. But at least Clint is happy. Clint is our bassist and he loves to crank up his amplifier as he belts out the most perfect walking bass lines. Clint is called Clint because his dad is a fan of Spaghetti Westerns.

As a band we look the part and we love the clothes. Well most of us do, the exception being Dave who still likes to wear denims or leathers with his long hair draping over them. The rest of us in the band wear polo shirts, two tone suits and trilby hats.

I mentioned that I am no longer at school? I’m 17 now and I attend college studying a couple of A levels; Music and English, along with a couple of subsidiary O Levels. Makes sense really as I fancy myself as a bit of a songwriter. My dad isn’t thrilled by me being at college. He wanted me to get a job so I could bring in some money to the house, and although he was once a Teddy Boy, he sees no point whatsoever in me studying music. My dad had even sorted out an apprenticeship in the factory where he works and when I refused to do it, well, let’s just say his language turned the air blue. My mom is a lot more supportive regarding my musical dreams of fame.  She somehow managed to convince my dad that classical piano lessons were a decent thing and I started at the age of six. This happened following the gift of an upright piano from the Doctor whose surgery my mom cleaned. The Doctor upgraded their piano and handed down the one we have to us.

Now, it may surprise you to discover that in actual fact music is not my favourite lesson at college. My favourite lesson is my O Level Drama class. Why, you may ask? Well, let me tell you. It’s because Drama is the lesson where I get to see the most amazing and beautiful girl that I’ve ever set eyes on; Juliet. Primarily, Juliet is studying A Level Art but fortunately for me she also chose O Level Drama to complement her studies. I didn’t take Art because I can’t draw or paint. I suppose I can’t act either, but I had to choose something to fill up my lesson diary. Juliet can do all of the above. Like I said, she’s amazing. I think I’m in love with her. She doesn’t know I am. In fact, I’m not even sure she knows that I really exist. She does smile back at me when I pass her in the corridor as she’s carrying her portfolio of artwork or is it a folder? Anyway, I don’t know how she manages to carry whatever it is she keeps her artwork in because it’s almost as big as she is!

Although she returns a smile, something she does to everyone by the way, I’ve never said anything more than Hello to her. Yet I’ve rehearsed it in my head many times. How I’ll ask her out, that is. It’s kept me awake many a night and I’ve even spoke to myself in the mirror trying to find the coolest way I possibly could to say just seven short words: Juliet, will you go out with me? One day my dad caught me practicing, which of course made him laugh even more than he does when he watches On The Buses. Even his teddy boy quiff – yes, he still has a greasy Duck’s Arse haircut – seemed to be laughing at me that day. But who am I kidding anyway? Juliet would never go out with me. She’s totally out of my league, and although I go through these stupid rehearsals, I think I’d rather dream of what it would be like to be with her rather than to face the rejection of her saying no. Probably after she had also finished laughing of course.

Anyway,