By Ray Wilson
Henry’s father wasn’t one for simple explanations. Not that he believed every rumour, but because history had taught him that governments sometimes admitted the impossible, but not until long after they had denied it. And every night he sat by the wireless, newspaper clippings spread over his lap, tracing patterns through declassified scandals: Iran. Chile. MKUltra. COINTELPRO
“Don’t start from belief,” he said to Henry. “Begin with what has been proved.” And then he would ask the important questions: “Who profits? Who’s in control?
Why do some reports get deleted while others multiply?”
His father never claimed to know what had happened when the village later spoke of “The Summer of Rockets”.
Henry heard the voices before he heard the words. He was eight, lying awake in his small bedroom while downstairs the modern transistor radio murmured. Their grey tabby family cat, Suzy, was curled up beside him on the bed. Suzy, or Nosey Parker, as Henry’s dad called her.
“She’s a nosey one; maybe she’s a spy,” he joked. Henry’s father was adept at making the ordinary mysterious, at making Henry wonder. Later years would find Henry looking back on those nights with Suzy and his father and wondering if there was something more to the stories they told than met the eye. She alternated between sleeping in his bed and, more frequently, in his younger brothers’ beds. The grown-ups thought that he and both his brothers were asleep.
It was October 1964. Harold Wilson had just become Prime Minister.
“Maybe now things will settle down.” His mother sounded hopeful.
His father’s chair creaked. “I hope so, but you’re not the prime minister, you know, and prime ministers don’t run everything, anyway.”
“You sound like one of those men in the pub.”
A small laugh. “No. I just mean that governments or their PMs don’t act in isolation.”
“Like?”
“Iran, for example. Mossadegh nationalised the oil, and then he was gone.”
“People say the Americans and the British had more to do with it than they’ll ever admit.”
His mother nodded, a worried look in her eyes. “That’s just gossip, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
A pause.
“But the intelligence services have long memories.”
“You always think there are spies everywhere,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
“Not all the time. “Only where governments think they have something to lose.”
The wireless sputtered its output as just background white noise for their conversation. Then came Guatemala. “Yet another elected government brought down by pressure and propaganda.
“It’s the Cold War,” his mother said. “Everyone’s scared about communism, the A-bomb, the rockets and the missile crisis.”
“It’s a dangerous time,” he stated. “And it will only get worse – you can’t compare Britain with all that.”
“Can’t I? MI5 has always watched communists.
“If you’re in politics or the unions, I’ll bet someone’s got your name in a file,” his mother added. “It’s a different kind of threat, but it’s still there.”
“Of course they’re watching real extremists.”
“I hope so.”
Another pause. “But once the secret organisations decide who’s a threat, who will watch them?”
“Parliament.”
“Parliament only knows what it hears.”
Silence. A moment, then his mother spoke again. “You make it sound as though elected governments hardly count.
“They’re significant. But governments are temporal.”
“Wilson’s not a revolutionary, exactly. But civil servants and generals and intelligence chiefs still are.”
“No. But he’s Labour.
“Alone, that is, some will not trust him.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Maybe.”
The wireless hissed softly.
“Remember the Congo? Too many powerful countries had interests there.”
“Africa’s been in turmoil ever since the empires started leaving.”
“Which makes outside interference all the easier.”
“So Britain, America, and Russia. You think they’re all playing the same game?
“Different approaches. Same principle.”
His mother sighed. “That’s a rather bleak view of the world.”
“It’s better to be surprised by good news than bad, and I don’t like the idea of us getting into Vietnam.”
Another pause. “Well, I still say Wilson ought to get a square deal.”
“Me too.”
“You do?”
“Voted for him.”
She laughed. “Well, don’t worry until the poor man has had time to unpack at Number Ten.”
His father laughed as well. “Fair enough.”
They began to talk about emigrating to New Zealand, to join Henry’s dad’s brother and his family. Henry’s dad thought it would be a more natural and safe environment for the boys to grow up in than the uncertainty in Britain – the rising price of bread, then football, then neighbours.
Long before the end, Henry had fallen asleep. Years later, he would remember nearly every word. It was never the rockets that were the riddle. It was the avalanche of certainty that followed.
On a bright Saturday morning in July 2026, the old transistor radio crackled cheerfully. Decades of news had been filtered through its superheterodyne circuits into its speakers, but the memory of a particular conversation still lingered in Henry’s mind as mindless words spilt from the radio speakers.
“Perfect weather for Splashout Saturday! Fresh pastries, local coffee—and bargains everywhere. I only went in for trainers and came home with a new smart screen,” joked the smarmy one.
The presenters laughed.”Get out, enjoy the sunshine, and make a day of it. We’ll be back after the traffic update.”
Henry reached across and turned the volume down. “Idiots.”
Outside, Seamus—the enormous ginger tom Henry jokingly called Muskovich, or on occasion Muskie—stretched across the garage roof and lazily swiped his head as he walked beneath before meowing softly and slipping in through the door.
The garage was now home to both Henry and Muskie.
Rainwater tanks against a wall. The solar panels sparkled overhead. Salvaged timber shelves held repaired radios and computers, battered tools and half-finished inventions. His aim was freedom from unnecessary dependence rather than self-sufficiency.
Seamus slid out from under the workbench holding a battered envelope. Inside was one of his father’s tattered papers. Sketches and calculations filled most pages. The last one had two sentences in big, bold letters. “Don’t chase the rockets as they weave pretty, scintillating patterns in the sky; watch what people are persuaded to believe about them.”
Stop subsidising the future you don’t want – and start subsidising the future you want. Henry folded the faded papers. Slowly. Outside, Agatha grew tomatoes, beans and herbs spilling joyfully over the beds. The blacksmith’s forge rang out again just beyond Willow Crescent towards Furnace Wood Road; the carpenter had a waiting list, and the cobbler’s workshop was busy for the first time in years.
The change had started quietly. Not from protests, with purchases. People were fixed instead of replaced. Bought from neighbours, not from corporations. Borrowed it, fixed it, grew it and shared it. Slowly the aisles of the superstore emptied and the village workshops filled once more.
One evening in Willow Crescent as the heat of the day began to fade, the smell of fresh bread baking in Agatha’s oven wafted through the air. The sense of unity and self-sufficiency that had been lost for so long was slowly being restored, bringing a new found sense of pride and fulfilment to the village. Basil saw Henry sitting outside the garage drinking strong dandelion-root tea.
“You really think it makes a difference to buy differently?”
Henry smiled. “History says markets follow habits. One family doesn’t change anything. One turns into ten. Ten becomes a hundred, and a hundred turns into a thousand.”
He looked towards the workshops, warm light spilling out onto the street. “That’s not shopping. It’s power.”
Seamus purred at his feet, as if recovering forgotten things, old crumpled jottings, and old skills; it had always been the most natural hunt of all. The power to change the world lies in the collective actions of individuals, like drops of water forming a mighty river.
These are the official references.