Weekend Wind Down – Lies

From the third Dai and Julia Mystery Dying for a Poppy by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

Dai watched the familiar countryside roll by and tried to forget, rather than obsess about, the fact that he was lying to his bride of less than a month – and on two issues. Well, lying by omission. He had promised himself he was not going to keep anything from her about his working life. She had lived it herself and her security clearance had been higher than his until his sudden promotion.
Even his friend, and newly appointed Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had warned him. Slapping him on the back the day before Dai’s wedding as they were taking a final drink in the Londinium taberna that had seen so much of their custom over the previous eight years.
“Two bits of advice from a long-married man to one about to take the plunge. One is never forget she is always right, even when you think you are and two – never – and I mean never – keep secrets from her.” Bryn burped loudly and adopted a fatherly look. “You see, if you get to the day you think you’re always right and she’s wrong or start finding there are things you can’t tell her – well, that’s the day your marriage hits the rocks.”
“You can’t tell your wife everything,” Dai protested. “I mean half the stuff from work is -”
“Everything she wants to know,” Bryn cut over his protest, then dropped a heavy wink. “But then my Gwen she’d know if I was keeping things from her. She’s descended from a long line of Druids on her mother’s side.”
The trouble was Bryn was right and these were things Julia would want to know – things Dai wanted to tell her. But it was not in his hands. These were secrets he had been ordered to keep from her.

***

The first had arisen in a conversation with the Tribune in charge of the praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero, foster-brother to Julia. He had summoned Dai on the pretext of a meeting about some legality around the marriage and had not been at all repentant about his duplicity.
“This is serious, Llewellyn and is a big part of how I swung this post your way. Our intelligence people are saying that a lot of dangerous contraband is getting in through the coast there and Viriconium is the hub of it. We need someone who is accepted by the British community and who we can trust. You fit the bill.”
“And here I was thinking I got the job on my merits as an Investigator alone.” Dai made no attempt to keep the cynicism from his tone. He had been wondering why this had come his way and was not too surprised to find it had been for reasons other than those put out for public consumption.
Decimus grinned at him.
“Well my sister falling for your baby-blue eyes helped as well,” he admitted, then he switched back to the clipped tones of before. “As if the smuggling isn’t enough we are talking a major anti-Roman group somewhere in the area and they have their fingers deep in our pies. We need to know who they are and how they are being financed and supplied before they start out on a major terrorist campaign. I’m sending you out with twenty of my lads under their own decanus, a good man Brutus Gaius Gallus. You may need them. We have no idea how high or deep this thing goes – even the Magistratus is not in the clear. So trust no one there and I mean no one.”
Dai took a moment to digest the implications. He had known it was going to be hard enough taking on a post he had been over-promoted to fill. But he had been looking forward to learning his way in and doing so with Julia’s sharp insight and wisdom to help. But Decimus had just taken that fond daydream of a bucolic honeymoon easing into things and blown it away. He realised now why, when he had asked for permission to relocate with some of his old team he had not met with more resistance.
“Julia will need…”
“Julia will not be told anything about it, Llewellyn.” Decimus sounded almost ferocious. Then he drew a breath and sighed. “She has been through too much, I am not having her dragged into this. She needs a chance to have some simple happiness with no more to worry about than what colour she wants to paint the guest bedroom.”
Which, Dai reflected rather grimly, probably showed more of wishful thinking on Decimus’ part than any true understanding of what Julia would want or need.
“I think she might notice Brutus Gaius Gallus and his men hanging around,” Dai said pointedly. “My wife is many things, but she is neither unintelligent nor unobservant.” And you of all people should know that, he added in the privacy of his own mind.
“Relax, Llewellyn. They have an official reason for being there and wandering around wherever. Amongst his other talents, Gallus once served as a bandmaster and all the men with him can play instruments. They are going to be there to learn some traditional British music as part of a ‘Hearts and Minds’ Arts initiative – a real one, believe it or not, from those effete, money-wasting idiots in Rome. But it gives them the cover we need for this, so some good comes out of it.”
It was sounding more and more complex and Dai’s heart plummeted.
“So you are pitching me in against smugglers, terrorists, corrupt Roman administrators, and whoever is behind them?”
Decimus pulled a face.
“You about have the size of it. But you are not exactly going in alone. You’ll have my praetorians and your own people and as soon as you have anything solid we can act on I’ll bring half a legion in to clean up if need be. But we can’t pounce until we have a target.”
“Don’t you have undercover people doing that kind of stuff? I don’t see how I’m going to succeed where they have failed.”
“This is deep Britannia, Llewellyn,” the Tribune reminded him. “The arse end of the Empire, hanging over the edge half the time. Hell man, you should know you grew up there. These are people who only trust someone they have known from birth and who has a British pedigree you could unroll from there to Londinium. We don’t have that many such people just lying around – in fact we have one. You.”
There was no answer to that and Dai had finished the meeting being briefed about what little was known of the situation in Viriconium and along the coast. It left him in a foul mood.

E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

 

 

Jane Jago’s Daily Drabble – Three Hundred and Fifty-Five

The townsmen chained her to a charred wooden stake and ran away. 

It wasn’t long before the sound of leathern wings foretold the coming of the beast.

He landed before her and she lifted her chin and stared into his eyes.

“Afraid?” the voice echoed in her head.

“Afraid of an overgrown gecko?”

She heard a sound like a thousand kettles boiling and it came to her that the dragon was laughing.

“Come,” he said and she climbed onto his back.

As they flew away she understood his nature. He would not eat her but she would never return home.

©jj 2019

Love is…

Love cares not for grand estate
For lords and ladies tall and great
The pauper with an empty plate
May even so adore his mate
Love cares not for dresses silk
Nor yet for skin as white as milk
As even those of beggars’ ilk
May find that love their ‘betters’ bilks
Love is cool when in the sun
Yet warms the soul when day is done
A demon child that gets its fun
By making fools of everyone

© jane jago 2019

Madam Pendulica’s Indispensable Guide to the Ideal Musical Entertainment for Each Zodiacal Sign

The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica… You can listen to this on YouTube.

Aries. 

This sign sheepishly admits to being peopled by lovers of light opera and Europop.

Favourite tune: Fernando by Abba

Taurus.

Slow and stately, this sign is fond of Germanic opera of the sort that takes most of a day to listen to.

Favourite tune: Welch’ wunderbar Erwarten  from Das Liebesverbot

Gemini.

Any kind of a duet will suit Gemini. The soppier and more romantic the better.

Favourite tune: Save Your Love by Renee and Renato 

Cancer.

In spite of the characteristic sideways scuttle of this most crepuscular of signs they are drawn to the musical excitement of the female marching band.

Favourite tune: Congratulations – played on the xylophone 

Leo.

Lions are creatures that deeply value their sleep therefore any lullaby will do.

Favourite tune: O mio babbino caro

Virgo.

The primness of the Virgo psyche is perfectly matched by the innocence of nineteen fifties popular music.

Favourite tune: Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen By The Sea, by Max Bygraves

Libra.

Weighing up the relative merits of styles of music has been a Libran preoccupation for many years culminating in a passion for Amazonian nose flute terpsichory.

Favourite tune: Anything nasal

Scorpio.

The Scorpio affinity with fast motorcycles, black leather and bad boy sex means that nothing but rock will do.

Favourite tune: Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf   

Sagittarius.

The Sagittarian equineness predisposes them to the enjoyment of intensely rhythmic music. Notably that of Germanic extraction.

Favourite tune: A Walk in the Black Forest by Horst Jankowski

Capricorn.

Capricorn is the rock and roll sign, and the zodiacal goat can be pacified in almost any situation by the application of Elvis Presley.

Favourite tune: Jailhouse Rock by the above gentleman

Aquarius.

Aquarians like smooth flowing watering music. 

Favourite tune: Orinoco Flow by Enya

Pisces.

Pisceans have surprisingly catholic musical tastes. They will listen to anything as long as it is loud and immersive.

Favourite tune: Brown Sugar by The Rolling Stones

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Jane Jago’s Daily Drabble – Three Hundred and Fifty-Four

They called it ‘choice’, but in truth she had none. She could refuse to marry a wealthy parvenu and see her family face ruin. Or she could do her duty.

Her father knew her well and expressed neither surprise nor gratitude when she assented to the marriage. 

What nobody expected was how fiercely loyal she was to her merchant-born husband.

It was many months before he asked her why. She pressed his hand.

“At first, loyalty was the only coin with which I could repay your kindness.”

“And now?”

She blushed like a rose and he kissed her strongly….

©️jj 2019 

Coffee Break Read – Toast, Jam and Family

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

Once breakfast had reached the toast and jam stage, Anna smiled at Bill.
“I think you should tell Sam all about your family. So he can get them straight in his head before he meets them.”
“Yes. I should. If I don’t he may be so surprised by the twins that he runs away. I wouldn’t like that. I’ll start with Daddy. He is Uncle Rod’s twin brother, but he isn’t nearly so big. Grandma Cracksman says he is the runt of the litter. I think that’s rude, but Daddy laughs. He says he may not have the family brawn, but he did get all the brains. Is that right Anna?”
“It is, except that the smallness is relative. Jim’s a chunky six five as opposed to a rangy whatever Rod is.”
“Six nine. But we’re interrupting Bill.”
“Mummy next. She’s beautiful. Blonde and cuddly, and with the biggest blue eyes in the world. She sings when she’s happy and hearing her sing makes us happy too.”
Rod patted his head.
“She’s a belter and no mistake. But she’s a big girl with it, and there’s nobody can cuss a blue streak like Patsy Cracksman.”
Bill laughed.
“You are right. She does swear beautifully. My brother Jaimie is next oldest. He’s fourteen. I like him a lot, because he is patient and explains things when I don’t understand. He is very clever with computers. Just like Daddy. Then comes the twins. They are twelve-and-bit, and they are very difficult to explain. Sometimes I like them and other times I don’t. They are quite rough and quick-tempered, and they only really like each other and Mummy. Their proper names are Matthias and Cyrano, but mostly people call them Matt and Cy, or Twins. Except for Anna who calls them Dickhead and Shitface.”
Anna coloured.
“To my eternal shame. I called them it once when they were about seven and I was at my wits’ end. Since when they have tormented me by refusing to answer to anything else.”
Rod grinned.
“I call them ‘you pair of fuckers’, so I got no moral high ground there. They are just like me and Jim were at that age. Intolerable. Inseparable. They will be easier to handle, and easier to prise apart, when sex rears its ugly head.”
Bill looked from Anna to Rod, then shook his head wisely.
“If grown ups can’t deal with them, it’s no wonder me and Charlie mostly avoid them. Charlie is my little brother. He’s only five, but he’s very, very smart. He learns things so fast it frightens some of his teachers. But he is kindhearted and helps the others in his class when they don’t understand their work. His class teacher told Daddy that he was already better at teaching than anybody else in our school. But the head teacher don’t like it that he is so smart. He don’t care, though. The only reason he don’t tell her to feck off is that he promised Daddy he wouldn’t. Then there’s Gandalf and Eller, who are Mummy’s dogs, Daddy’s dog Benni, the cat who is just called Cat, and Jamie’s parrot Cap’n Flint. That’s all of us.”
Bill sat back in his chair, with the air of one who has done a good job. Rod clapped his hands softly.
“A masterful dissertation, young Cracksman. Now. Are we all finished. I’ll get the bill…”

Jane Jago

Jane Jago’s Daily Drabble – Three Hundred and Fifty-Three

The cobbled street shone in the light of the electric sun and all the little houses were perfect replications of a small town in the old world. We took turns peeping through the hole in the ‘sky’ at the tiny perfection under its glass dome.

We looked longingly, but it was too expensive a toy. 

Mama took us to the market, where we bought juicy fruits that we ate on the way home.

We forgot about the diorama. Except for Kitty, who went every day to stare. 

Then she didn’t come home.

Sometimes we see her playing on the cobbles. 

©jj 2019

Artwork by Cindy Tomamichel

Coffee Break Read – The County Show

You can listen to this on YouTube.

The small round tent with it’s stippled canvas sat under the spread of an oak tree on the edge of the showground. All around rural folk talked rural patter about lambing and brewing, the price of rape by the acre and the eroding of environmental subsidies.
I didn’t feel as though I could bear another hail-fellow-well-met conversation with another farmer, which would begin with a friendly smile and end with a polite one, painted on just as they beat a rapid retreat back to the beer tent or the show ring.
the conversations followed an unavoidable and inevitable pattern.
“So what you going to do with those acres up on Claw Moor now you’ve bought them? Farm sheep?”
“Farm wind.”
A moment of confusion which would change to a quickly hidden hostility.
“The Moor is a beauty spot you know.”
“So is the world.”
A puzzled frown.
“I don’t see -“
“No. Very few do. I quite understand.”
Then the choice between rancour and retreat. Retreat winning most often, to my relief.
So the fortune teller’s tent seemed to me as much a place of temporary respite from all that as a possible entertainment for a few minutes. Besides, I could do with the promise of a tall, dark stranger – especially one who didn’t run away as soon as I started talking about my farm.
Inside it was cool and dim, the scent of verdigris and myrrh gentling the air. The fortune teller was young, not the wise old woman I had expected. She said nothing, nodding regally to the chair opposite her and then lifting a crystal ball from the table between us and holding it in her hands. Silence spread into the sounds outside and absorbed them as my gaze became fixed on the young woman’s dark eyes.
Was it vision or speech? I will never now know, but for a moment reality was banished to the sidelines and something happened. I saw a barren earth devoured by her children, embraced beneath the sleeping flood of rising oceans and the moon riding the skies as sole witness to the coming of a time that did not know humanity.
Then I was standing under the oak tree in the shade that cast me apart from the sun soaked showground, the jollity of ice cream vans and warm real ale, listening to the announcer telling us the winner of the Waggiest Tail contest…

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jane Jago’s Daily Drabble – Three Hundred and Fifty-Two

Gareth was bathing. For the first time since he won his spurs he had a chance to be really clean and he revelled in the coolness of the lake.

The eyes that watched him from the reeds were interested in the lean muscular length of the young man, and in his mop of yellow hair.

She swam to his side and lifted her head out of the clear, brown water. 

Gareth’s dagger flew to his hand, and the nymph laughed.

The young knight dropped his weapon and dived beneath the water where his hands became tangled in her greenish hair. 

©jj 2019

Jane Jago’s Daily Drabble – Three Hundred and Fifty-One

Matilda Whitethroat was brought to bed with the landowner’s child on a brisk autumn morning. Lord Edric summoned the parish priest to Matilda’s bedchamber and legitimised the babe as soon as the women had washed off the sweat of childbirth.

Then he rode off to the wars. 

Matilda moved herself and her infant back to her father’s house. And watched.

When Edric rode home he brought a wealthy young wife with him. 

Within an hour, Matilda had left the town.

Twenty years later, Eudric was bested in the tourney by a handsome young man.

“Ill-met father.” Tors Edricssen snarled.

©jj 2019

 

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