It’s been cold in the house since Karina left. There’s an emptiness. A Karina-shaped hole through my heart, just as the cushions on her favourite chair still show the marks of where she sat.

I never stop regretting the argument. What did it matter she’d bought herself a new shawl? 

If I could take it back…

I still light the lantern each night, I’d not want to think she might pass this way and miss the house.

Footsteps outside.

A knock.

I rush with hope to open the door.

No one’s there.

Just a basket – and a smiling infant within.

E.M. Swift-Hook

They called her Nanny Bee, although as far as anyone knew she had never been a wife or a mother, let alone a grandmother. But she was popularly believed to be a witch – so Nanny it was. She lived in a pink-walled thatched cottage that crouched between the village green and the vicarage. The Reverend Alphonso Scoggins (a person of peculiarly mixed heritage and a fondness for large dinners) joked that between him and Nanny they could see the villagers from birth to burial.
Nanny’s garden was the most verdant and productive little patch you could ever imagine, and she could be found pottering in its walled prettiness from dawn to dusk almost every day. People came to visit and were given advice, or medicine, or other potions in tiny bottles or scraps of paper – but they always had the sneaking suspicion they were getting in the way of the gardening.
But there again, digging is second nature to gnomes.

When the sensible wife of a well-to-do sheep farmer appeared at the back door with a request for a love philtre Nanny was surprised.
But she invited the woman in and sat her by the kitchen fire with a mug of camomile tea.
“It’s Amos. He don’t want me no more. Set his eyes on a chit of seventeen summers. With a big belly she swears is his.”
“Wouldn’t be Widow Wossname’s girl would it?”
“It would.”
Nanny sighed.
“You go on home and leave this to me.”
Once the woman was safely away, Nanny swore a bit and went out to talk to the bees.
An hour later a certain widow was banging frantically on the front door with a swarm of bees buzzing about her head.
“Help me, please.”
Nanny looked at her sternly.
“You and your daughter have got to stop trying to foist her brat on every farmer in the valley.”
“Well somebody has to take responsibility.”
“The actual father?”
“She don’t know who it is.”
“There has to be one that isn’t married…”
The widow spread her hands in a gesture of defeat.
“I’ll have her wed by Thursday.”
The bees flew away.

©janejago

Best sung loudly to the tune of ‘Clementine’

There’s a w****r, in a tanker
See him driving like a prat
Through the village, like a pillock
And he wears a silly hat

If I catch him, I will smack him
For he scratched my bloody car
I will shout him, and I’ll clout him
Send him crying to his ma.

Mister w****r, take your tanker
Never come this way again
Or we’ll grab you, make you blab you
Great big hairy stupid pain

©️Jane Jago

When the old man shuffled off this mortal coil his only surviving daughter was volunteered (by her tribe of heedless and unruly brothers) to inform the mother whose existence Pa had refused to acknowledge since a particularly acrimonious divorce some thirty years before. Prudence sighed, then picked up the mantle of duty.
Mother had taken the generous financial settlement that made Pa a free agent – a status he took full advantage of – and returned to her own people across the Atlantic in Scotland. And there she had remained—at first in her family’s draughty castle, but latterly in a home for bewildered elderlies of aristocratic descent. At least, Prudence thought, she regularly spoke to Mother, so a call shouldn’t endanger the old lady’s parlous mental state
She shooed her brothers out of the room.
“If I’m doing this I’m doing it without boos and catcalls.”
“What does it matter, she’s deaf anyway.”
“Precisely. Which means I’m going to have enough trouble making her understand without you lot helping.”
They went, laughingly playing pushy shovey in the doorway. But at last they were gone and the door was shut behind them.
Prudence dialled, and, after the usual small fuss of arrangement, spoke to the upright old lady whose gradual descent into dementia was more of a sorrow than the death of her blustering ex-husband.
“It’s not your usual day to call.”
“No. But I have some distressing news.”
“You have what?”
“Bad news.”
“Bad knees? That’s from crawling around after your bastard of a father.”
“No Mother. Not knees. News.”
The silence was dragging a bit before the old lady spoke again. Her voice sounding thinner and more strained.
“News? Bad news?”
“Yes. I have to tell you that Father died last night.”
“Your father lied? But he always lies…”
“Not lied. Died.”
“Took a bride? Isn’t he a bit old for that kind of foolishness?”
“Not a bride neither. He died.”
“What did he cry about.”
“He didn’t cry. He stopped breathing and died.”
“Whyever did he stop breathing? He’ll die if he keeps on doing that.”
“He did die.”
“Why did he do that? What made him think he had fish to fry?”
“Mother. Please try to listen. Last night Father died.”
A sharp intake of breath made Prudence think she had got through. But…
“What did he pry into? Your business or the boys?”
“Mother. Can you not understand me? Father is dead.”
“Your father has changed his name to Fred?”
“No. He has died. He is deceased. If you weren’t a divorcee you’d be a widow.”
This time the silence was heavier and more doom laden. While Prudence fought for balance she heard the sound of soft feet on the institutional linoleum and the gentle voice of one of the nurses.
“Your daughter is telling you that her father is dead.”
“Oh dear. But he was a monster. Pru can you hear me? I’m sorry I misunderstood and thank you for telling me. Although I can’t bring myself to much care.”
“No. I don’t expect you to care.”
“What about you? Do you care?”
“Not much. I don’t think anyone cares much.”
Mother’s chuckle sounded like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “I don’t think he understood caring. I can’t say I have any sympathy.” She sobered. “Do make sure he’s cremated, dear. We wouldn’t want him coming back to haunt us.”
Prudence pushed down the desire to scream, or giggle at the inconsequentiality of her mother’s reaction.
“I’ll make sure of that,” she said evenly.
“Good.”
After a little more small talk Prudence judged it time to ring off as Mother was sounding increasingly tired and frail.
As they signed off, Mother gave vent to her dry leaf chuckle once more.
“I just had the most diverting thought.”
“What’s that?”
“I outlived the old bastard. How he will have hated that. I think I can die happy now, knowing how badly he wanted me to pass first.”

Jane Jago

I keep hearing about some woman, called Merry Condom or some such, who appears to have written a rule book for decluttering the home. And people are paying for her wisdom.
What the actual?
One: lots of people like clutter. It makes them feel comfortable.
Two: if you don’t like clutter chances are you don’t have any
Either way this sort of collection of ‘inspirational quotes’ about clutter is the kind of patronising claptrap that has me reaching for a ciggy and a pint of something normally served in shot glasses.
Let’s get this straight. If you like the things you have, keep them. If you don’t like the things you have, get rid.
You don’t need to pay a thin woman with a self-satisfied smirk to tell you that. A fat old woman with a face like a scrotum can do it for free.

In A Cold Frame, a new release from Jane Jago, Grace finds herself caught up in murder, mystery and mid-life romance in the beautiful Cornish coastal countryside…

It takes a certain sort of courage to change your life at fifty-five. But Grace had never lacked chutzpah, so she took redundancy as a sign from on high. Within a month of the factory closing she had rented out her house, bought a campervan, and acquired an oversized shaggy mutt called Jeremy.
Bright and early on one of those April mornings where the sky is pale blue and the world looks washed clean, she engaged first gear and set out to find adventure.
The first couple of weeks of campervan life was interesting, as Grace learned the ropes and Jeremy learned acceptable behaviour. However, by the time May poked its nose over the horizon they felt like a proper team. As the weather was unseasonably warm, they settled into a shady pitch on a tidy little campsite in north Cornwall and sat back to watch the surfers, and walk the coastal path.
On day two of their stay, they acquired neighbours, who had a big orange muscle truck and a silver bullet of a caravan. Geoff and Mona were large, loud and friendly and they had a French Bulldog who adored Jeremy, even if she did bully him.
Most of the rest of the campsite was filled with youngsters, in tents and beat-up vee dubs, whose only interests appeared to be surfing and getting laid.
Grace wasn’t surprised that most of these youngsters chose to ignore her, though she was always pleased to chat to any polite enough to pass the time of day with a middle-aged woman and her ugly dog. This wary politeness changed to something warmer the day a group of lads discovered that Jeremy could play football.
It happened like this. The waves weren’t cooperating and a dozen boys were playing what Grace mentally described as mini Australian Rules when one of them kicked the ball too enthusiastically and it bulleted towards a newly-arrived, very shiny, very white caravan. None of the lads were close enough to stop the inevitable, but Jeremy was
“Catch boy.”
The ball was just passing over his head when the big dog jumped, catching it in his powerful jaws.
He brought the ball to Grace and dropped it at her feet.
“Who’s a clever boy,” she said, as she rubbed his rough head.
By this time the surfers had jogged over and were standing in a rough line about six feet from Grace.
“You can come and get your ball,” she said. “He doesn’t bite.”
The boys crowded forwards. They seemed to have elected the skinniest of them as spokesperson. Because he hitched up his colourful shorts and gave Grace a sort of a half salute.
“That was some catch. I reckon Buffon here saved our bacon.” He indicated the red-faced and bristling caravanner with a rueful thumb. “Thanks buddy.”
Jeremy looked to Grace for permission, and when she nodded he went over the the group of lads and indicated that they might make much of him. When he knocked two over in his enthusiasm, Grace whistled sharply.
“Gently Jeremy.”
He wagged his tail frantically, but moderated his behaviour enough to stop knocking people over. When even he had had enough attention he ambled back to the camper for a long drink of water.
“That’s some dog missis, what is he?”
“Nobody knows. I adopted him from a shelter because he and me seemed to suit.”
The boys thought that one over for a minute.
“Is he really called Jeremy? That’s kinda cool.”
“He was called it when I got him. The kennel-maid thought he looked like her uncle Jeremy.”
Grace threw them their ball.
“You lot have a game to play, but I don’t recommend playing near here.”
“No. We can’t expect Jeremy here to save us twice. We’ll get him a bone to say thanks next time we go into town.”
“He’d rather join in your game of football. He’s a mean goalie.”
“Yay. Keen. Coming boy?”
Jeremy looked to Grace for permission, and when she agreed he went gladly to the games field at the bottom of the valley.
Predictably enough, mister shiny caravan bustled over – only he didn’t come to thank Grace for saving his pride and joy from a football. Instead he chose to stand over her as she sat in her comfortable chair and loudly berate her for ‘encouraging rowdyism’. She put up with him and his bristling moustache for a couple of minutes before standing up so he was no longer looming over her.
“Go away,” she said quietly. “You are on my pitch, uninvited, and you are being rude. I have no desire to listen to you.”

A Cold Frame by Jane Jago is out today so you can snag your copy right now to keep reading!

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

I received a copy of this book almost a decade ago the first and only birthday present I got from my father after he left us for a better place (Bermuda as it happens). He had scribbled in the front of it: “I wanted to send you Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’ but they didn’t have a copy at the airport – this is almost as good. Life lessons, son, life lessons…” and then a scrawled initial.

For a time I used the voluminous volume to support my bedside lamp which was at an awkward height otherwise, its brilliance was shining directly into my eyes when I lay back on my pillows. The trusty tome did sterling service until I replaced the lamp. Then I read it, curious as to what precisely those life lessons might be.

My Review of A Game of Thrones by George Raymond Richard Martin

A loving family adopts a litter of wolf pups then is torn apart and mostly murdered. Self-seeking wins out over altruism. Lots of nasty things happen to nice people.

Highly recommended for being such a good bedside lampstand for so many years, hence four stars. 

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.

No one really understood why Rowena was so fond of the rose garden, but every day she would walk from her sheltered-home apartment across the busy main road to the park and sit there for a time. Even in winter when the gardeners had pruned the bushes to bare stumps with thorns.

People walking by were sometimes surprised to hear her talking to herself and even laughing.

One morning the gardeners arrived early and saw a young couple sitting on the bench chatting, laughing – then fading away.

Somehow they were not surprised to learn Rowena had died in the night.

E.M. Swift-Hook

They called her Nanny Bee, although as far as anyone knew she had never been a wife or a mother, let alone a grandmother. But she was popularly believed to be a witch – so Nanny it was. She lived in a pink-walled thatched cottage that crouched between the village green and the vicarage. The Reverend Alphonso Scoggins (a person of peculiarly mixed heritage and a fondness for large dinners) joked that between him and Nanny they could see the villagers from birth to burial.
Nanny’s garden was the most verdant and productive little patch you could ever imagine, and she could be found pottering in its walled prettiness from dawn to dusk almost every day. People came to visit and were given advice, or medicine, or other potions in tiny bottles or scraps of paper – but they always had the sneaking suspicion they were getting in the way of the gardening.
But there again, digging is second nature to gnomes.

The vicar’s cousin Luigi turned up on a visit.
Where the vicar was a portly, blunt-nosed khaki-skinned utilitarian sort of a critter his cousin was svelte and smooth with eyes of burning gold.
The village sucked in a collective breath and the sensible female populace gossiped behind its work-roughened hands.
The silly ones fell like ninepins.
Matters came to a head when the daughter of the blacksmith and the niece of the lady of the manner indulged in a bout of face slapping and hair pulling outside church on a Sunday morning.
Luigi found it all highly amusing.
Nanny didn’t share his amusement. She wandered over and stood with her hands on her hips.
Luigi curled his lip. “Was there something, gnome?”
“There was. Knock it off. Or else.”
“Or else what?” He belched a small blue flame.
Nanny took a handful of something out of a pocket and blew.
It’s stupid to underestimate an earth witch, and it’s even stupider to flame a handful of potato flour. The explosion ignited the dragon’s eyebrows, and was the cause of much rustic humour.
Luigi hasn’t been to visit again.

©janejago