She had never liked roses.
As a child, her grandfather had grown them in his garden and once when she tried to pull a rich red bloom closer to smell the scent, its thorns had ripped her fingers, drawing blood as red as the rose petals.
Then she met Griff.
That first date he arrived with a bouquet of hated roses. She had put them in the bin before leaving the house.
When she got home. A smile still lingering on her lips, she rescued the roses, carefully arranged them in a vase and spent a moment enjoying their scent.
Word of the Day – Bratwurst
In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…
Bratwurst
- (noun – pronunciation note: brat first) Child-centric lifestyle wherein the offspring are consulted on every aspect of life. Example: Simon and Niobe’s bratwurst extended to family decisions about where to shop and who slept in which bed on any night.
- (noun – pronunciation note: bought worst) Those examples of kitchen appliance, white goods, vehicle etc where the eye for a ‘bargain’ was permitted to outweigh the fitness of the item for its intended use. Example: the stand mixer very quickly proved itself to be a bratwurst as it emitted a deep throated roar before ejecting its load of expensive ingredients across the kitchen ceiling.
If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.
Hooligan Child
The wind today is a hooligan child
Rip roaring up and down town
Driving the manicured gardens wild
And pulling the prim sunshades down
He chuckles at hats and brollies aleap
And clutches his belly in mirth
Rudely wakens old men from their walking sleep
To run now for all they are worth
The raindrops it carries are plumptious and bold
And they bounce on the gutters and roofs
Turning a warm summer’s day dark and cold
Rocking trees like an old rotten tooth
The wind today is a tantruming brat
Throwing teddies and toys from his pram
Whose bellowing breath pushes garden gates flat
As he shouts ‘Look at me. Here I am.’
The wind today is a mad politician
Abusing his power just for fun
Arousing dislike and inserting suspicion
Leaves chaos behind when he’s done
Weekend Wind Down – On The Beach
Augustus MDCCLXXXIII Anno Diocletiani
There were, Dai decided as his two children buried him in the sand on the beach at Traeth Abermaw for the third time that day, far worse times of year to be placed on gardening leave from his job as Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii.
It was not that he was under real suspicion, that had been made clear several times by the Magistratus Domina Agrippina Julius Valerius Apollinara, but the fact remained that Caeso Maol had been an acquaintance of his and he had not only been the one to find the body, but he had also been in the next room when the murder took place and so it was simply a matter of propriety and perception (her exact words) that Dai should be kept out of the gaze of both the public and officialdom whilst his wife Julia, who happened to be the other Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii, found out who had actually done it.
However, just because he was not involved in the investigation did not mean that, up to his neck in sand, arms behind his head, he could not spend some time considering it. The murder had taken place at an informal gathering of some of the well to do men of Viriconium. Dai had gone along as the guest of Paulus Vinicius Cato, a lawyer friend, who had virtually begged him to be there in order to make a gods-awful social commitment into something bearable.
“You can not imagine what these dos are like,” Paulus had told him on the drive to the baths, “everyone trying to both show off how wonderful and independently successful they are and all at the same time trying to get the support of others for whatever their present pet project in self-promotion might be. I have to attend as half my clients go.”
Dai could imagine, and had imagined, and had been close to making some careful social excuse to avoid the misery right at the last minute, but Paulus was a good friend and it was not a bad notion anyway for Dai to mix a bit with the kind of community that were attending.
They were almost exclusively Romano-British, with names that reflected the fact. Most had the defensive pride which many non-native Romans developed, seeing themselves one step up from their British neighbours, but never quite able to feel they were fully equal to a Roman citizen from Italia itself. And, to be fair, Dai knew that was not entirely their own fault. He, too, straddled that boundary and grappled with being seen as too Roman by the British and too British by the Romans. But he was fortunate in that his family was one that carried a lot of respect in the area and he had good friends in Rome, being married to a woman the Praetor regarded as a foster sister.
But for those without such advantages allowing them to maintain and deepen their connections in both directions, being Romano-British put them into an uncomfortable middle ground and, as a group, they tended to keep together.
That evening’s gathering reflected a painful awareness of their cultural insecurity. It was held at the baths in Viriconium and then was to include a meal at Aureum Anatisa, the Golden Duck, a very expensive caupona, on the banks of the river. The Duck was one of less than a handful of exclusive sub aquila places in Viriconium, a building where the eagle above the entrance declared it was reserved exclusively for Citizens. But, ironically, the Duck was renowned for its excellent British menu. Dai had a feeling that the owners had cleverly, and cynically, carved their niche, by playing on the insecurities of these cross-culture families.
He had no opportunity to find out though, because whilst they were all having a post bathe massage before heading to the caupona, a scream from one of the staff had shattered his relaxation. The woman was screaming because there was blood trickling out from a changing cubicle and when Dai had pulled the door open, the body of Caeso Maol had literally fallen into his arms.
There would have been no suspicion of Dai at all had he not needed to use the urinal and left the main party for a few minutes shortly before the body was discovered. Which meant, in theory, he could have had time to kill poor Caeso. It did not help that earlier Caeso had been regalling the company as they sat in the hot room with tales from his schooldays—schooldays he had shared with Dai as they had happened to be in the same class—and not all the stories had been that complimentary to Dai, who had been a rather shy and studious nerd at that time.
So, expressing her profound regret at having to do so, the Magistratus had told Dai to take paid leave of absence and enjoy the summer sunshine and his children’s company until the matter had been resolved.
He had decamped for the week to Traeth Abermaw taking his daughter, five year old Aelwen and her three year old brother, Rhodri together with their nursemaid, Luned and a discreet individual called Duggan—though whether that was his first or last name Dai was not entirely certain. The Magistratus had insisted on Duggan accompanying them to ensure their security. Dai had initially objected seeing no reason to have a bodyguard on a family holiday in the place where he himself had spent many happy such as a child, but Pina had simply knitted her brows and given him a stern look.
“Until we know what went on,” she told him in a tone that was filled with the gravitas of her Imperial heritage, “we have no idea whether your being a witness might place you at an additional risk.”
He could not argue that and to be fair to Duggan, the man was so little in evidence that Dai sometimes wondered if he had neglected his duty altogether and sloped off to the nearest taberna. So he was a bit surprised when he heard Luned say the man’s name and opened his eyes to see the compactly muscular, steel eyed Duggan looking down at him.
“Someone named Cartival, dominus, says he knows you.”
Dai tried to sit up, but the sand the children had packed firmly around him did not give way.
“Er—yes, that’s Bryn,” he said quickly, feeling acutely embarrassed to be stuck immobile in the sand. “Bryn Cartival is indeed a friend of mine. Thank you, Duggan.”
The man gave a terse nod and Dai was sure there was a grin breaking out as he turned away, but perhaps that was just his own humiliation.
By the time Bryn had strolled over, carrying five dripping ice creams, Dai had managed to free himself from the beach, with the enthusiastic assistance of his two children and was dusting down the damp sand with a towel.
From Dying as a Spy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook
Glossary of Latin and Other Terms
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
caupona – an inn or hotel
Demetae and Cornovii – Wales and several English Midland counties including Shropshire
domin-a/us – Ma’am/Sir. Used to superiors both in rank and social status
Italia – we would call it Italy
magistratus – senior official with legal jurisdiction over an area
sub aquila – literally ‘under the eagle’. An eagle above the entrance of any building means it is Citizen access only – aside for those who might work there of course
submagistratus – a more junior official with legal jurisdiction over an area, under the authority of a magistratus
taberna – pub/bar
Traeth Abermaw – we would call it Barmouth Beach
Viriconium – we would call it Wroxeter. The area capital of Demetae and Cornovii
Much Dithering in Little Botheringham – Thirteen
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
Ginny decided she had come out much too early to see the bats, either that or she had mistimed exactly when ‘sunset’ really was. From her ‘bat hide’ behind some bushes, but with a clear view of both the church and the belfry – at least she assumed it was a belfry – she saw the vicar. He was making his way through the churchyard and looked rather odd wearing a long duster-style coat as if he had stepped out of a spaghetti western or a Fields of the Nephilim video. He had a tank of something on his back with a spray gun in a holster. He also carried what looked like some sort of a gun.
Ginny was no expert but it looked like the kind of gun her cousin Bradley had posed around with shooting tin cans from the garden wall one summer holiday in her early teens. Bradley had used it to shoot at pigeons too. That had been the summer she’d become vegetarian. So she was pretty sure the gun was nothing very dangerous unless it caught you in the eye.
Or unless you were a bat.
But, surely not? This was a vicar not some crazy teenage cousin like Bradley. And Bradly was a semi-retired investment banker now. But the tank of chemicals on the vicar’s back spoke otherwise.
Frozen to the spot by indecision, Ginny realised that even if she called the police the vicar could kill all the bats before help arrived.
She wasn’t even aware she was up and running until she heard some mad-woman shouting abuse and realised it was herself and that she was running into the church behind the bat-hating vicar.
By the time she was inside he was unlocking the door to the belfry and he spun round. The lighting in the church must have been a bit odd because he looked as if his front teeth were too big to fit in his mouth properly and the whole of his face seemed to project towards her and she could have sworn his nose was twitching in anger. Then he stepped towards her and the strange effect was gone. His long coast swung back as he moved and she saw a wicked-looking hunting knife in a sheath on his belt.
“Ah, Virginia, so sorry but it’s a bit of a bad time. If you would like to join the flower arranging rota you’ll need to speak to Dolores St.John. She’s always keen for new recruits.”
As he spoke Ginny realised the gun – whatever sort it was – was pointing towards her.
“Uh. No. I wasn’t planning on–”
The vicar smiled, but instead of his usual rugged good looks, his mouth seemed rather narrow and in the subdued light, Ginny got the strangest impression of – fur.
“If it’s about writing a piece for the parish magazine, that would be wonderful. Thank you.” He took a step towards her which felt decidedly menacing. “You really should go now, Virginia, I have something important I need to do.”
“You’re not going to kill the bats.” Ginny had intended it to come out as a firm denunciation, but instead, it emerged from her mouth as more of a strangled squeak.
The vicar giggled.
“You’re not going to kill the bats,” he echoed mockingly. “Well that’s where you’re wrong Virginia Creeper. That is exactly what I am going to do. I’m going to eradicate every last flying rat from this belfry and you should leave right now.”
“But they’re protected!”
The vicar looked around theatrically.
“Doesn’t look like it to me. Not at the moment anyway.”
Common sense was sternly lecturing Ginny that this man was clearly deranged and that her best course would be to run from the church and call for help. But she knew if she did that the bats would indeed be unprotected. Instead, she took out her phone and started filming.
“If you do anything to the bats, I’ll show the world what kind of monster you are.”
Which was perhaps the worst – as well as the last – mistake of her life.
“Why did you say that, you stupid woman?”
The vicar seemed to bound across the distance between them in a single jump, knocking the phone from her hand. His face, thrust right into hers, was no longer human, but covered in soft brown and black fur, with round doe-like eyes. What had been his hair was now long ears.
The vicar was a giant rabbit.
The impossibility of that stunned her as the force of his bound hit her in the chest and Ginny was thrown backwards. She just had time to see the long yellow front teeth and the barrel of his gun caught the last rays of the setting sun through the narthex window as she fell, then her head hit the stone flags stones of the church floor and there was nothing.
Part 14 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
Fat Boy
The fat boy rode into town on a Fat Boy. After wrestling his pride and joy onto its stand, he ambled into the shade of the store. Two teenagers who leaned against the dirty wall of the boarded-up saloon grinned.
The smaller of the duo reached into one of his cracked boots and withdrew a screwdriver.
While his friend kept watch, he approached the machine.
The wail of an alarm split the air and the thief lay twitching in the dirt with a blackened tool in his hand.
The fat boy rode out of town on his Fat Boy.
Word of the Day – Fantastic
In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…
Fantastic
- (noun – pronunciation note: Fanta stick) Wooden ‘handle’ used to eat iced lollies made from a particular brand of sweet lemonade. Example: The fantastic was now covered in melting iced lolly, which was happily running down little Jenny’s arm and making the sleeve of her cardigan a soggy mess.
- (noun – pronunciation note: fanta’s tick) Insect vector of itchy scrotum disease found almost exclusively in the handlers of working elephants. Example: The population of the outlying villages was being decimated by the preponderance of fantastic disease among the young men.
If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.
Becca
Becca offered a silent prayer as the engine failed to catch then did. The car was too old but she couldn’t manage without it. Today, her day off, she had been temping as a receptionist. Tomorrow it was back to an early start as a home carer. But now she had to collect the kids from her mother’s. A neighbour’s daughter would babysit for her evening shift waitressing.
On the radio, a slimy politician sucking on his silver spoon was saying that poor people should get a job.
She wondered how many jobs she needed not to be poor anymore.
Word of the Day – Conjunction
In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…
Conjunction
- (noun – pronunciation note: con junction ) A system of road signs set up to lure unwary drivers into the hands of thugs and thieves. Example: the conjunction set up on the back road into town netted the criminals two sports cars a lorry load of cigarettes and an elderly whore with bunions before it was found and closed down.
- (noun – pronunciation note: c on junction) Leaves, frost and wetness on railway tracks leading to late trains and commuter chaos. Example: there just had to be a conjunction on the day he was due to defend his PHD dissertation, fortunately the board went ahead without him.
If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.
Dreamland
My basket here is safe and warm
I ride it, high above the storm
While mother thinks me fast asleep
I follow the dragon to the wizard’s keep
And all the clouds my sleep adorn
Til I arrive safe at the morn