Two Women and Some Books
You are never too old to have something to say
Just tell it a little bit, some words each day
The older you get, the more you have seen
And the more you might say of the places you’ve been
It’s not always biography, but more like geography
That helps understand the lie of the land
That gives you the right and the clearness of sight
To see the bright glory of some simple story
You are never to old for this one simple choice
To lift up your pen and discover your voice
Friday night. A lot of tequila slammers. A very noisy club.
Reasons, not excuses.
Reasons why I woke up to find myself in a wide white bed with only the vaguest of recollections how I got there.
I sat up and had me a think, remembering a tall dark drink of water I’d been intending to have my wicked way with – until the arrival of his wife.
I was about halfway down a few more drinks to drown my disappointment when this suit turned up. All dressed in the most expensive threads with a big diamond winking on his pinky, and a bad case of attitude. Had big, bad bodyguards too, carrying if I didn’t miss my guess.
Scored himself him a VIP enclosure, and watched with a sardonic eye as the money bunnies just about turned themselves inside out trying for his attention. Ignored them. Invited me.
I only crossed the ropes to annoy the bunnies. Him being not my type at all and me being always cautious of heat.
So how’d I get here? My little nose smelled spiked drinks, and that pissed me off so I got out of bed. Somebody had been kind enough to fold my clothes and drape them over a chair. The thong was toast, but I put the rest on and then slipped a couple of things I might have a use for later in my tiny little handbag.
I carefully opened the bedroom door, but there wasn’t any immediately obvious way out as one of the muscle was sitting in a hard chair by the door. He smiled a raptor’s smile and I responded by waggling my fingers. He gestured to a corridor on the the left and I teetered off thataway.
I could smell bacon and hear voices so I walked quietly along the thick carpet towards an open door. As I got closer, the words became clearer.
“She’s precisely what we want. Pretty as a picture and dumb as a stick. He won’t be able to resist her. And I have two weeks to mould her into becoming the instrument of his downfall. It will be a pleasure. On so many levels.”
A woman chuckled. “And she takes the fall for us when he turns up dead?”
“Of course.”
I decided that now would be a good time to make some noise so I whistled a breathy little tune and wandered slowly towards the room making sure I still seemed a little woozy. The suit came out all in a rush, now dressed in designer jeans and obviously worried I might have heard him. I gave him my most dazzling and stupid smile. He bowed and offered me his arm.
Two hours later his driver was dropping me at the address on ‘my’ drivers licence. ‘Good luck with finding me here, boys,’ I thought. I walked in the front door, nodded to the uniformed concierge who dropped me the hint of a wink and made my way straight out the back. A taxi ride and I was at the station buying my ticket for the journey to Grandma’s gaff way out in the sticks.
She knew I was coming, of course she did, and my cousin Jethro awaited me – leaning on the bonnet of a truly filthy Land Rover. He uncurled his six feet odd of muscle and sinew and treated me to a sour look.
“Well here she is at last. I’ve been sitting on the station for three fecking hours waiting for you.”
I shrugged, which set a few things jiggling and was quite enough to coax Jethro out of his foul mood.
“Old lady losing her touch?”
“Not so as you’d notice. Says you been drugged and she won’t be in touch with you properly until all the shite is out of your system.” He turned his wide brown face to me. “Who,”he demanded in a voice pitched somewhere between awe and disgust, “just who was stupid enough to roofie one of this family?”
“I never did catch his name.”
“So he gets away with it?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Jethro chuckled and started the engine. It took us an hour to get to the place where a rutted lane branched off a little-used single-track road. As the Landy, whose mechanics were a good deal better maintained than the state of the exterior would suggest, crawled up the incline I breathed in the upland air and allowed myself a sigh of satisfaction. Jethro patted me with an understanding hand, but said nothing.
Grandma was at the gate of the chaotic garden around her little house. She indicated for me to get out of the vehicle and for Jethro to make himself scarce. Neither of us cared to argue the toss.
Over big mugs of ochre-coloured tea, I told her precisely what had happened. She wasn’t amused. She was not amused one little bit.
“What do you have for me?”
I rooted in my teeny little bag.
“Hair. Nail clippings. And this…”
I indicated the pink rubber balloon with a knot tied in it.
Grandma smiled although it wasn’t a nice expression, and I was reminded, if I needed a reminder, that my grandmother really wasn’t the sort of sweet little white-haired old lady that her age would suggest. She picked up the three items I had laid on the table between us and grunted out a laugh.
“Moulded indeed.”
When the muppet was finished she gave it into my hands in an oddly formal gesture.
“Mould it, my granddaughter.”
I laughed and ran my fingernails over that which lay on the muppet’s waxy thigh.
In the west end of London, a smooth operator in a Savile Row suit doubled over in agony clutching his testicles and screaming.
‘Moulded’ from Pulling the Rug iii, a collection of short stories and poems by Jane Jago.
Walk a while with me, my friend,
Along the far byways that wend
And wind deep in philosophy,
Where wisdom’s always said to be.
This world may seem a foreign place
Where we pass through and leave no trace
A moment now, my friend and I,
Will take before our passing by.
And we will share the tales and tears,
We’ll share the joys and halve the fears,
We’ll take the moments as they rise,
Sorrows bear and happiness prize.
So step out bravely on the road,
Forget you bear a heavy load.
A friend beside you makes this life seem
A sweeter world than you might now dream.
Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!
These used to happen only once a year – but now the yummy mummies are at the helm there seems to be one every bloody week. In support of this or that worthy cause, and, no doubt, well-attended by those with nothing better to do. However, one digresses.
Should you be foolish enough to be bamboozled into providing ‘something for the cake stall’ I have the following advice.
If you just want to get it over with choose any one of an almost infinite number of tray bakes for which you will find recipes on the darknet and bake it in a disposable tray. Voila.
However. Should you wish for cult status in your community there is a way. Chelsea Buns.
Spiced bread buns loaded with fruit and drizzled with white icing. The catnip of the cake world.
However there is a price to pay. A four in the morning start. But if you are willing…
At four in the morning.
Into the bowl of your trusty stand mixer place the following.
2kg strong plain flour
8oz caster sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons mixed spice
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
250g very soft butter
Mix gently while the kettle boils. In a large jug put half a litre of cold milk add half a litre of water just off the boil (this equals tepid) add four sachets of dried yeast. Pour the lot into the dry ingredients mixing slowly. This should make a fairly sticky dough. If it’s too dry add some more milk.
Crank the Kitchenaid up to number three and leave it to knead the dough for ten minutes. Then switch it off and crawl back to bed. Not forgetting to set your alarm for six.
When you crawl downstairs knock back the dough and divide into thirds.
Melt 250g of butter
Mix 1 teaspoon of ground ginger and one of ground cinnamon into about 150g of brown sugar
Open a bag of good quality sultanas (500g)
Roll a third of the dough into a rectangle approximately 18in x 9in
Spread a third of the melted butter across the surface. Sprinkle a third of the ginger/cinnamon sugar and a couple of large handfuls of sultanas.
Roll up from the long side. Cut into about 1.25in slices.
Lay the resulting spirals flat on a baking tray leaving about an inch all the way round (baking paper is much easier than greasing the bugger).
Repeat with other two bits of dough.
Cover with a clean old sheet.
Go back to bed.
Set alarm for 8
Buns will have doubled in size. Crank oven up to 220C (which will stink to high heaven if the oven isn’t clean – make note to self to have Mrs Thing clean oven when she comes in on Wednesday).
Bake buns.
They will take about 15 minutes (the way to tell is to pick one at random and eat it).
When buns are cool, make up a bowl of simple water icing (icing sugar sieved and cold water) drizzle over buns and top each with half a glacé cherry.
Done.
Alternatively. Find an independent bakery and order four dozen buns.
Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!
It was council of war time. The nomes had very long, very bad memories of Big and the things he called fireworks.
“It isn’t even November,” Granny snapped.
“Neither it is, but I doesn’t see what us can do.”
“There must be summat.”
The brangling went on for a while, but to no avail. Even the foreman of moles couldn’t see her way clear to do anything.
Night fell, and the house was full to the brim with drunken biggers. Big strode out into the darkness clutching something to his fat belly. He plopped it into the ground and ran…
Somewhere in a Wild West that never was…
It was still full dark when Cuchilo reined Hombre in. “We’re right about there, but I’m thinking we need to pull back a ways so we can see without being seen. And we need to cover our tracks.”
“We do. I hadn’t thought it through, but we surely do.”
Cuchilo threw back his head and howled. He was answered almost immediately and he threw Hombre’s reins to Mir before slipping to the ground. In the fitful moonlight she saw him crouch down just as the wolf sprung. They wrestled and played for a moment before Cuchilo bent to the wolf’s ear. Whatever passed between them, the rest of the pack emerged from wherever they were hiding and rubbed around Cuchilo as if they were tame dogs. When he had communicated with each one he got back into the saddle and kneed Hombre forward.
“There’s a cave. It’s dry and overlooks the draw. We will be able to stable the horses and watch without being seen.”
Mir spotted the deer before anyone else, she touched Cuchilo on the thigh and he followed her eyes. In a second he had an arrow nocked. The buck had just lifted his head when an arrow ended life. Cuchilo roped the carcass and dragged it behind his horse.
“Well spotted.”
Mir managed a smile, although being with Cuchilo after nearly four years alone was coming close to killing her. “I remember how much this lot like deer meat.”
The cave was exactly what they needed. Even so, by the time everyone was fed and sorted dawn was just pinking the sky. Mir yawned and Cuchilo motioned to the pile of branches and horse blankets.
“Sleep. I’ll watch.”
She needed no second telling and with wolves huddled around her for warmth drifted into a refreshing sleep. Waking who knew how much later, the warmth of the wolves’ bodies had been replaced by the feeling of hard muscle at her back and a long arm draped over her waist. She knew the feel of him as intimately as she knew her own hands and the craving that had never subsided lifted its head. Without conscious thought she turned into his embrace, rubbing her face against the soft flannel of his shirt. His response was as swift as it was flattering and the seduction of his hands and mouth were as potent as ever.
When it was over and she lay in his arms, Mir made no attempt to hide the tears that ran almost unheeded from her eyes. He was instantly contrite.
“Miri. What is it? Did I hurt you?”
“No. But you will. When you discard me again.”
He pinned her to the makeshift bed and stared into her eyes.
“What do you mean, discard you?”
Anger was Mir’s only defence, and she wriggled and fought in his hands. “You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Miri. No. It wasn’t me…”
There was a second of fraught silence, before they spoke in unison – both having the same thought and both finding the same difficult words.
“Why didn’t you at least tell me yourself?”
Cuchilo stared down into her face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I guess I am. But who?”
“Your sister.” Mir felt that like a slap. She had always known that Yael didn’t love her, but to actively try and ruin her life… She looked into Cuchilo’s eyes and saw the truth in him. He cupped her cheek in one hand. “Who came to you?”
“A shaman called White Eagle. I didn’t want to believe him, but he had your wedding ring.”
“Yael had yours too.”
“Only she didn’t.” Mir put her hand to the neck of the undershirt that was all she currently wore and drew out a chain on which there hung two rings.
“White Eagle neither.” The rings around Cuchilo’s neck were on a leather thong.
Mir buried her face in the strong brown column of his throat. “Oh, love,” she murmured. “Oh my love.” And then she really started to cry. He was wise enough, and tender enough, to let her cry it out before drying her cheeks with his shirt sleeve and offering her a rag on which to blow her nose. She complied and leaned into his warmth. He wrapped her in a hug.
“Better now?” he asked.
“Better than I’ve been for a goodish while.”
From The Redhead, the Rogue and the Railroad by Jane Jago which is available all through February for 0.99.
Life is unexpected at times
When nothing you do seems to fit.
You try hard as you can
But it simply won’t work
And in the end, you just give up and go and do something else completely different instead!
… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago
a slong (noun) – Gaelic drinking song with obscene gestures
Anywa (proper noun) – less known sister of Pocahontas who kicked a certain young British officer in the balls when he tried it on with her
beeter (noun) – person who hits vegetables
blof (noun) – pre blog status when trying to construct witticisms
chater (noun) – to converse about one’s unfaithful spouse
earleir (noun) – aristocratic listening device
inc ase (noun) – tattoo on butt cheek
nagel (noun) – celestial being much given to homilies and finger wagging
naybe (noun) – the act of not being
poliete (noun) – parrot food
questoon (noun) odd-shaped vegetable of dubious origin
scharacteromeone (noun) – garden gnome with attitude (bad)
shhabby (adjective) – of cats having slightly moth-eaten looking fur
teh – (noun) strange brown beverage made with ground leaves and hot water
thnakees (noun) – very low slung scrotum
udnerstand (noun) – wobbly milking stool
winteractith – (noun) pagan festival including naked snow fights and much raucous singing
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
Big Bigger was up to something. He was digging a hole in the veggible patch and singing. The nomes were suspicious of cheerfulness in one so normally morose.
“Wossee up to?”
A whisper ran around the garden, and Chigger crept closer for a look.
“He’s planting a tree.”
“A tree?”
“There?”
Brenda went to look for herself. “That ain’t no tree you higgerant nome. It’s. It’s… summat else.”
Big finished his hole and unwrapped the thing. It was wide and hollow and he firmed it in carefully.
The empty box read. ‘Acme rocket launcher – for fireworks.’
The nomes all flinched….
Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…
The rotation of Thuringen meant the local daylight and dark cycle matched one and a half Coalition standard days, which meant every third day the ‘City spent in total darkness or total light with a crossover day that saw a noon sunset. In any standard cycle it gave ten days of full darkness. Today happened to be a dark day and when Avilon left his low-grade accommodation, he walked through a drizzle of rain and streets sheened with silver as the wet surface reflected the lighting.
The block, where he had been allocated a one roomed unit, crouched beside one of the main thoroughfares which ran into the suburb. Private transport vehicles – he’d heard called PTVs – were exclusive to the wealthy. For the majority, there were the large public groundcars and those with funds to spare could make use of the fast-to-summon airborne auto-cabs. These, mostly dual-seater vehicles, skimmed past at high speed guided by their AI, leaving any pedestrian glad of the enclosing safety bars which spanned over the walkway, protecting from above and from the street.
Every day so far, since his arrival on Thuringen, unable to afford to hire an auto-cab, Avilon had needed to walk a short distance to the nearest public transport point where he could pick up a ride to his place of work on the far edge of the industrial area in the next sector of the city.That journey to and from work and a single brief foray to the local retail mall to purchase basic essentials, as his block was designated a delivery no-go zone, had so far been the extent of his explorations. He had spent any free time available to him, the time between returning from the plant and sleep, running through the Legion’s restricted-space fitness program. On occasion he had paid the link charge for accessing vidcast channels, or surfing social media and public infolinks, trying to make sense of the strange environment he had been propelled into.
He had also been looking for any trace of Jaz.
He did not have a lot to work with. Jaz had never had much to say about his life before the Specials. Not that it meant he wanted to keep anything about it private from Avilon, more because in the Specials anything anyone ever said was public to the Lattice. It meant you always thought about what you said and had to consider the consequences of whatever you might share. So the few scraps of information Jaz had given him had been precious gifts.
He knew Jaz had a family of his own, a woman and two children – boys – and they lived in Starcity. Jaz once earned his living as a mercenary – a good living, he said. His woman owned and ran a food outlet and Jaz always seemed proud because she served proper cooked food and not cheap, vat-prepared stuff such as they got fed in the Specials, or the more varying qualities of meal-synth productions he understood most people lived on. Whenever they were faced with another tray of something bland and indescribable made from rehydrated nutrient gel, Jaz would always go on about the good food she served there.
Avilon even knew the name of the woman – or part of her name -Tillsa. But no more than that. And in the ‘City, with an estimated total population of somewhere over forty-five million people, trying to find one food outlet with so little to go on, was never going to be easy.
He had made a start a few days before, looking on the local public links. There were around eighteen hundred food outlets listed advertising themselves as serving real food. Most were in large and popular retail zones or entertainment sectors. If he needed to check them all out, one after another, by his own estimation it could take over a year to do so. It occurred to him, the proprietor would probably be either Jaz or his woman. The first assumption led to no possible results – but a search on the name ‘Tillsa’ came up with just two options: a ‘Tillsa’s Place’, listed as being in one of the suburbs and the other with no name, just its address in the spaceport. The one in the port stood nearer his accommodation, but from the way Jaz spoke of it, Avilon had the impression of something more upmarket. So he decided to head to the one further out.
From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.
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