An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

It was Angela Pendle-Burton the owner of the village shop who enlightened Ginny as to what had been going on at the church the previous day.
“Bats,” she said, elbows on the counter clearly enjoying her role as passer-on-of-news. “You’ll see a piece on the telly about it today I expect. They’ve found some rare bats in the belfry of the church. So we had conservationists in, ringing.”
Ginny thought about that a moment. It sounded rather unlikely.
“Why would they be ringing the bells with the bats there? Wouldn’t that scare them away? And, besides, why not get in campanologists? I’m sure they’d do it better.”
She was just wondering if there was some special way of ringing bells to affect the bats when she realised Angela was struggling not to laugh.
“Ringing the bats,” she said, “not the bells.”
“Ringing the bats? But how…?” Then Ginny realised what she meant and felt the colour rush into her face. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” For a moment she wished the floor would open beneath her or she could just vanish into thin air. But neither option was available and Angela was looking at her with amusement, but backed with kindness not the secret malice the likes of Lucinda would have displayed.
Angela also suggested she might like to have a cleaner in once a week, something that hadn’t occurred to Ginny. In her London apartment the cost of hiring a professional through an agency was prohibitive.
“Oh everyone does it around here,” Angela said airily, making it sound as if Ginny would somehow be odd or letting the side down if she didn’t. “It’s only people from the village so you help boost the local economy too.”
So it was letting the side down if she didn’t. Not quite sure she really wanted to, but very sure she would lose social points if she refused, Ginny agreed to ‘interview’ someone Angela knew who would be perfect to work for her, that afternoon..
On the short walk home, Ginny passed the church and took the time to walk up to the door. To her surprise it was not locked and she let herself in to the cool and quiet of a very pretty typical English church.
Having looked around and admired the architecture, she tried the door to the belfry and found it was locked after all. Which was a shame as she would like to have seen the bats. One of the reasons she had moved into the countryside was so she might get a chance to see more wildlife. So that badgers and hedgehogs and – well, all those other animals, would stop being pictures in articles and start being real in her world.
She picked up a copy of the parish magazine which was for sale with a trust-tin at the back of the church, added a donation to the box for the restoration fund and let herself out, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. It was then she noticed a path that led from the church into the small wood that backed onto her own house.
Sure enough the path turned out to be a shortcut. She decided there and then that when it got on to the end of the afternoon she would take a thermos and a blanket and sit in the edge of the churchyard where she could observe the belfry and maybe catch the flight of the bats as they set out on their nightly hunt for – for whatever it was bats ate. 
She had just finished clearing away from lunch and was making herself a cup of tea, wondering idly if her vague plans to write the Great British Novel which would explore and explain the intricate weave of heritage and modernity, the rich palette of race, creed, sexual orientation, gender and ethnicity, yet embrace the undercurrents of alternative eco-aware counter-culture, needed to be amended to something a bit more prosaic.
The tap on the door distracted her, for which she felt oddly grateful.
“‘Ello, you Missus Cropper?”
It took Ginny a moment more than she liked to remember where she had previously seen this scrawny girl in leggings and a long T-shirt emblazoned with some cultural symbols of the USA. It was Chloe from the Ladies Association meeting, the one who had spoken of the evictions happening on her estate.
“Er, yes,” she admitted. “Can I help you?”
“Missus Pendlyburt  from the shop said you was looking for a cleaner.”
Ginny managed a smile.
“Come in, I’m just making tea.”
“Thanks. White no sugar please. I’m Chloe. You wus at the meetin’ last night too.”
Ginny was glad that since the initiation she had received at the hands of the removers she had taken to keeping the makings of what most people in Little Botheringham seemed to think was meant by tea.
“I was and I’m Ginny,” she responded automatically as she found the needed teabags. 
“Yes, Missus Cropper,” Chloe said brightly. “You just moved in?”
“A couple of weeks ago now.”
“You from London? You must miss it bad. Nothing here like that. Just fields.” She sounded almost wistful. Chloe looked to be in her early twenties. Few people of that age were going to see the benefits of living in a village.
“I love it here,” Ginny told her presenting the mug of tea. “It’s so peaceful. Makes me feel bucolic.”
Chloe had started to slurp at her tea but put it down quickly and stared at Ginny in horror.
“You need to see the doc about it then. My gran used to have to take tablets for that.”
Ginny smiled weakly and agreed she really should register with the local GP.
Chloe left a little later saying she would ‘do’ Ginny every Tuesday afternoon but she had to leave at half-two sharp to pick up Kanye from the primary school where he was in the reception class.
A gnawing certainty that she was being trained into the ways and expectations of the village by the other residents, Ginny felt almost rebellious when she grabbed a blanket, topped up her travel cup with a fresh brew of ginger root and lemon, then with ear-buds playing Vivaldi she set out to go bat-watching.

Part 11 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Deep Breath

Growing older is sometimes quite fun
When you look back on all that you’ve done
And can take a deep breath
At each shibboleth
You once suffered but have now overcome

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Duty is not a popular concept nowadays. It is usually viewed much as the albatross around the neck of the Ancient Mariner, a heavy burden which must be fulfilled if one is not to be crushed by guilt. That is certainly true for oneself when contemplating the growing pile of books my students and others have sent me, asking me to cast my eyes upon pages of pallid prose and turgid tropes so as to bestow even the merest flutter of words in a review.

If you are one such, awaiting my good offices, be sure I have not forgotten you, whoever you are and your book will be quite safe for years to come in my keeping.

However, there is one duty read I find myself unable to escape. A mercifully thin book produced by the cohabiting creativity of the two dreadful females whose blog I so kindly support by allowing them to host my words free of charge. I was poorly repaid for this act of generosity by being presented, around this time last year, with a copy of their (then just released) novella, with the unspoken expectation that I should review it. 

My review of Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

What an appalling fiasco!

To begin, we have a setting which is in the modern day (indeed, with tantalising hints of futuristic devices and transport), but then we are also assaulted by  inaccurate Latin, as the rather ridiculous premise of the tale is that Merry England is not English – it is a mere province of the still existing Roman Empire. As if!

I was so shocked and appalled by the idea that anyone could cast aside the entire glorious history of my nation and substitute instead a shallow national grave on the ebbing tide of civilisation, that the story itself seemed barely to matter. Something about athletes being murdered and fish sauce…

Avoid at all costs.

Duty called, I have answered.

One star for a clever-sounding title.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Sing a song of summer
Braising in the sun
Barbecues and double gins
Having lots of fun
When it is the weekend
Heading for the sea
Playing beachy volleyball
And having chips for tea

Mother’s in the shopping centre
Spending lots of money
Daddy’s had a load of booze
And thinks he’s really funny
The kids are in the paddling pool
Dabbling their toes
And nanny’s in the garden
Sniffing something up her nose

Jane Jago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

I left the office feeling truly exasperated and beckoned a passing servant. I asked for Demoiselle FitzRoy. The servant’s mouth tightened and I sighed inwardly. Not another spoilt princess.
Turns out she wasn’t quite that bad. More a little mouse of a girl whose formidable duenna wasn’t out to make friends. She tried to impose her will on me but when she found out I couldn’t be pushed, bullied, or frightened she relaxed fractionally.
“Maybe you will be some use after all,” she muttered.
I raised one eyebrow and the girl seemed to shrink even further into her hooded robe.
“Do you ever go outside?” I asked the cringing girl.
“She does,” it was the duenna who answered for her.
I turned slow and easy. “Madonna, when I want to speak to you I will so indicate. Until that time do us both the favour of remaining silent.”
The woman bulked her muscles and all but bristled with annoyance, but she shut up.
“Please don’t mind Bella. She is only like this because she loves me.”
“Even more reason for her to keep a still tongue in her head and let me try to sort out your safety.”
Bella inclined her head and I turned my attention back to my client.
“Where do you go apart from your lessons?”
“I walk in the garden daily to keep my lungs clear.”
“Which garden?”
“The one in the centre of the academy. The one that’s safe from the outside world.”
I looked at Bella. “Do you stay with your mistress at all times?”
“I do now.”
“Good. Keep it up. Because I’m really not at all happy about the security in this place.”
Bella smiled, albeit grimly. “Me neither.”
“I’ll have to see what can be done about it. In the meantime keep your mistress close.”
I put up the hood of my grey robe and walked on quiet feet towards the solitude of the garden. I badly needed to think, and to talk to Moth and Mandrake. There was a slovenly looking sentry at the garden door. She barely looked up when I passed through onto the manicured grass. Even it the depths of winter the hot springs under the earth kept this garden warm and verdant and I lifted my face to the sun.
The next thing I knew for sure was waking up with a dull thumping pain in the back of my head. I was laying face down in a fast-moving vehicle with my wrists and ankles tied in one bunch around about the small of my back. I could have sworn I made no sound, but somebody was very alert.
A voice from the front seat grunted.
“Demoiselle FitzRoy is awake. Give her the injection. We can’t afford for her to make any noise.”
“I could just give her another smack.”
“Do as you’re told or I’ll give you a smack.”
While I now understood that I was here because somebody wasn’t even efficient enough to make sure they kidnapped the right female, I was fairly sure that wasn’t going to be of much help. I could only put my faith in Moth and Mandrake. Even as I thought, a needle was shoved very roughly into my left buttock and I knew no more for a longish time.
I woke a lot more slowly the second time. My head hurt, my mouth was dry, and I felt as though I was in a different vehicle. Whether that was right or not, I was now propped upright in the rear seat of rather a large car. My ankles and wrists were still tied but now my hands were in my lap and my bare feet were on what felt like an extremely dirty floor. I had the sense of inimical entities around me. Weres of some sort I was sure, but I couldn’t bring my head together enough to even hazard a guess what.
There was something big sitting beside me. I could feel breathing and smell stale tobacco breath.
I felt whatever lean forward and the voice identified him as male.
“I’m hungry.”
“Yeah. Me too. We’ll stop for breakfast in about a half hour.”
“What about sleeping beauty here?”
“What about her?”
“What we gonna do with her while we eat?”
“Leave her here. She ain’t going nowhere.”
“What about if she wakes up.”
“She won’t. The collector gave her another shot before he handed her over.”
“He liked the needle didn’t he?”
I picked up on the past tense and the worm of worry in my gut wriggled some more. If my captors were killing their confederates to make sure nobody knew where I had been taken I was in a lot of trouble.
The driver laughed. It was an ugly sound.
“I wonder what she done to earn the big man’s anger.”
A third voice spoke. It was deep and cold and it chilled me to the very bones.
“The woman did nothing. It’s her father the Lion is wroth with. He was fool enough to renege on a deal. So she pays the price. Lion intends to kill her with his own hands. Slowly. Then he plans to send the pieces to her old dad. Just as a reminder of who it doesn’t pay to trifle with.”

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The bright lights promise welcome warmth. The stomach remembers satisfying food while other parts recall the innkeeper’s buxom daughter. Two cloaked men slide into the smoky taproom.
Unasked, the girl brings them ale while her father places wooden bowls of aromatic dumpling-rich stew on their table.
It takes a while, but when their stomachs are sated they beckon the plump girl. She comes, seeming willing enough, and perches on the big man’s iron thighs. His fatuous smile falters as his head drops on the table.
“In your dreams,” the girl laughs and returns to her station behind the bar.

 Jane Jago

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this picture on ART with IAN.

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

If you would catch a husband, they said
You must be compliant in bed
But once in the sack
He just lay on his back
So she made him a sandwich instead

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

A couple of hours later, Em put out her best crystal glasses, a platter of cheese and fruit and a bottle of exceedingly nice sherry. Then she sat down to wait. It wasn’t many minutes before a perfunctory tap on the door heralded her visitor. The bishop’s secretary/supernatural liaison officer came in, walking very softly. Em reconsidered the sherry, opting for her best brandy instead. She poured two goodish snifters but said nothing.
“We have a problem Emmeline.”
“Aside from the bats thing?”
He took a fortifying swig of brandy before replying. “Yes. That would be easily dealt with. But.”
“But Doug Turner isn’t quite what he seems to be?”
“Indeed he isn’t. Only…”
“Only what?”
“What indeed? I was hoping you could help me there.”
“If you are sniffing around whether or not he’s one of mine. I can set your mind at ease there. He isn’t.”
“Oh. I rather thought that would explain why he wants rid of the bats.”
“Why would….” Em waved her hands distractedly. “Never mind. You think he’s a supe. I think he’s a supe. My friends think there is something not right about him. That leaves two questions. What is he? And why the heck isn’t he registered?”
“In a nutshell. That’s about the size of it. And it is disturbing.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “We will find out what is happening. Bishop Enoch is not about to have an unregistered supernatural being on his turf, so this will be resolved quite quickly. However. In the meantime…”
“Will I and mine keep an eye on him?”
“Yes. But. Keep your distance and no heroics. Whatever it is feels insane to me.”
“Yes. I’m not about to get in a fight with an unknown quantity. I’ll just put the Indian sign on him. Now eat some cheese if you are going to pilot that stupid little car of yours after a stiff brandy.”
When he had gone, moving as quietly as a wraith, Em cleared away the remains of his repast before staring fixedly at the phone. It didn’t ring. Instead a car horn tooted merrily outside. Agnes had arrived.
“I was on my way home,” she said accusingly.
“This is important.”
Agnes subsided into a chair and Em put the kettle on. Once they were provided with tea Agnes leaned her elbows on the table.
“Tell me then.”
Em outlined the salient points of the evening. Agnes’ eyes narrowed and her chin seemed more prominent as she took in the implications. 
“Right. I’ll make sure the girls know he’s under suspicion. And you keep your bloody distance until we know what we’re up against. Now shut up while I compose a text.”
She got out her phone and her thumbs flew. Em watched, amazed as always by how fast her oldest friend typed – or texted if that was a verb. When Agnes put her phone down Em grinned at her.
“How do you do that so fast?”
“Practice. Now. Tonight’s meeting. The Crapper woman turned up. She’s a bloody mess. Kind of okay underneath but a jumble of insecurities, worries, and angst. Depressive if I don’t miss my guess. I’m sure she’ll be a worthy regular member but certainly not recruit material. And. She sat next to Lilian who says she smelled Harmsley-Gunn.”
“Yes, well that miserable old bastard was bound to be sniffing around. Anything else of consequence?”
“Yes. There is something not right at the housing association. People are being threatened with eviction.”
“Are they indeed? On what grounds?”
Agnes showed her teeth. “That’s what we need to find out. Fortunately I have a great niece who works in the council offices.” Agnes’ phone bleeped four times. “Right. That’s the reverend under surveillance. Now I’m off home.”
She bent to kiss Em’s cheek before bustling away. Em grinned at her departing back.

Part 10 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Flowers

For life is a garden of flowers
With each bloom that you pick for your bowers
The right colour or scent
Just has to be meant
Then the finished display you empowers

Eleanor Swift-Hook

It was a wet weekend so I was poking through the crumbling and dusty ancient tomes in Mumsie’s personal library, some of which even date back in history to before the early 1990s, in search of something worthy of my attention. As I pulled out a slender volume of poetry, a rather wide and heavy paperback was dislodged and fell from the shelf to impact my naked toes.

After I had finished hopping around and cursing my maternal parent for the disorganised teetering piles of books she has adorning her shelves, I picked up the book and examined it. In the absence of anything else appealing, I decided to read it.

My review of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

The first thing I noticed is that all the major characters in the book are dead. Which one would think might mean they were thus safer than those who were alive. Indeed, the few who first appear alive usually do wind up dead, but those who are dead also end up deader. Confusing? I think it is meant to be.

For example, there is a little girl who starts being alive, then is dead but still a character active in the book – and then is dead and no longer a character active in the book. Except in the past tense where she remains very active.

The hero of the book is truly Byronesque, bemoaning the nature of the human condition – for those humans who are dead as he is. His nobility is the only saving grace of this book. That and the erotic elements. And Lestat.

Read it if you have a wet weekend that needs filling and have no streamed TV series left to binge on.

Two stars – one for each day of that wet weekend it filled and a bonus star for the attractiveness of the real hero, Lestat.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.