Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

February was a difficult month, with the temperature unremittingly cold and skies dropping pellets of ice at inconvenient moments. We provided hot stews and soups which the WI delivered to those in need. And if the odd sack of logs found itself loaded into a Ford Transit and dropped outside the home of those who couldn’t otherwise keep a fire going, I certainly wasn’t going to argue.
On a dark Tuesday afternoon I was battling with a set of truly complicated forms from our pension provider when Ben came in and shut the door quietly behind him. Something in the set of his chin said troubled so I saved what I was doing.
“S’up Benny.”
“We have a visitor.”
“Someone we know?”
“Nope. But he gives me the heebie jeebies. He’s very polite and all, but I get the feeling asking for the favour of a few words is rubbing him right up the wrong way.”
“Do you not want to speak to him?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like the cut of his jib. And anyway it ain’t me he wants to talk to.”
“Now I’ve got the heebies.”
The scent of flowers with an underlay of decay announced Esme’s presence. She spoke aloud.
“It’s all right Mother. This one means no harm.”
I blew her a kiss and she was gone.
Ben sat down in my visitor chair with an audible thump.
“I really thought Esme was gone. Haven’t had a sniff of her since Cherry went to the light.”
“She’s still here, love. I think she’s just been keeping a low profile because she thinks you don’t like her.”
“I do kinda like her. Even if I didn’t I’d tolerate her because I know she loves you. I was just surprised she’s still about, and sorry if she can’t find her way to the light.”
Esme’s laugh filled the air. “I’m okay Mister Ben I can cross when I want. I’m just waiting for something.”
I think she must have kissed his cheek because he smiled and put a hand up to touch his own face.
Esme spoke in my head. ‘For a man, he’s okay.’ Then she was gone.
“Come on Benny, stop flirting with girl ghosts. Let’s go talk to whoever.”
I checked my face and fluffed my hair, following Ben into the bar where a tall, pale-skinned, dark haired man stood up from his seat at a table by one of the wide windows. He had a chiselled, handsome face, was immaculately tailored from his tie to his highly polished brogues, and felt about as human as an iceberg. I walked forward with my head high and my spine straight. He unbent fractionally.
“Mrs Beckett. I hope you will excuse my turning up here unannounced. It isn’t the way I normally operate, but my errand isn’t exactly normal.”
I inclined my head. “Shall we have tea while you explain your errand?”
I noticed the spasm of distaste that crossed his stern features at the word tea, and grinned at him.
“Are you not a tea drinker?”
“Indeed I am not?”
“Would you prefer coffee? Or something a little stronger?”
He smiled narrowly. “I’d prefer a large whisky, but, as I am driving, coffee works be more than acceptable.”
“What variety of coffee?”
“Anericano please.”
Ben went to the bar and had a brief conversation with Morgan, who showed him an uplifted thumb.
“Shall we sit?” I suggested. “Then maybe you can tell me why you have driven from wherever, on a day as foul as today, to speak to a woman you have never met.”
This time his smile was a little warmer. “They said you would be a surprise and I begin to see why.”
Ben slid into the seat beside me. “I wonder what you have found so surprising in a perfectly reasonable question.” His voice was calm, but the underlaying threat was obvious.
“I’m sorry if you found my comment offensive. But the only information I was given about Mrs Beckett was that she is a beautiful woman who talks to spirits.”
Ben chuckled. “She also runs a hugely successful business, is mother to twin girls, and swears like a storm trooper with a bunion. However…”
“However indeed. What I was expecting was someone rather more dramatic and a lot more Celtic Twilight.”
I snorted. “I’m not a Celt. And I’m not fond enough of drama to create it. Life does that for me.” Then I added my own caveat. “I can produce a genuine Romany clairvoyant if you would like to meet her.”
He held up both his hands palm outwards. “No. Thank you. I’ll pass on that experience if it’s all the same to you.”
Ben snorted out a laugh and our visitor stiffened.
Fortunately for the civility of the encounter Ellen and Morgan arrived with coffee, tea, scones, jam, clotted cream and assorted cakes.
By the time afternoon tea was laid out in front of us, Ben had controlled his sense of humour and Mister Grumpy had wound in his neck.
I loaded a scone for Ben, and did the same for our visitor. His eyes met mine, and for the first time I saw a human being under the ice.
“Eat first, talk later,” I used my bossiest tone and he complied.
Once fed and watered, our visitor felt a lot less uptight and almost like an actual human. As soon as the girls had bussed the table he spread his hands on the polished wood and I studied the black hairs that marched across the backs of those hands while he marshalled his thoughts.
“My name is not going to mean anything to you, but for the record here’s my card.” He put a square of pasteboard on the table. “I’m an advocate operating in Edinburgh. In this case I am representing a gentleman who died late last year. It is my understanding that you met him once and facilitated his communication with his deceased wife.”
“I didn’t facilitate anything. All I did was show him where his wife’s bones had been found.”
Ben took up the narrative. “The aforementioned Romany clairvoyant helped to push aside the veil for long enough to give comfort to an obviously dying man. Other than that…”
“Whatever you did or did not do, my client came here deeply troubled and the bitterest human being it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. When he returned to Edinburgh he was changed. Something had gifted him with the grace to die in quiet acceptance, instead of carrying on an unending search for vengeance.”
“For that I’m glad.” I said.
“Me too.” Ben spoke quietly.
“I wrote his will and am the sole executor. It is in that capacity that I am here today. He left a sum of money for you to put to use in a specified way.”
“What way?”
He took a sheet of paper from his top pocket and read from it: “I leave this money in the hope Mrs Bennett will use it in memory of my dear Cherry. I would ask that she arranges something bright in the place where Cherry’s bones lay. Something bright and joyful. Something where children’s laughter rings and happy memories are made.”
Ben gripped my hand and I let myself sag against his strength for a brief moment.
“I can’t refuse, can I?”
Both men spoke together. “You can if it asks too much.”
Which braced me better than any amount of ‘encouragement’ could ever do. So much so that I could immediately see what needed to be done.
“How about an Easter Egg Hunt?” I said. “Easter Sunday afternoon. With afternoon tea. And enough chocolate to ensure children on a sugar high for days. Will there be enough money for that?”
“There is ten thousand in the pot.”
“That’s all right then. Have a big party and donate any leftovers to a children’s charity in Cherry’s name.”
Ben clapped me on the back and Mister Edinburgh Advocate opened and shut his mouth like a landed pike.

And that ‘gentle reader’ is why I’m sitting in the middle of what feels like half a hundred screaming children hunting chocolate in the thin, spring sunshine and why I said if Ben hadn’t bought the orchard none of this would have happened.

If you enjoyed reading about Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

“This is an intrusion into my dear friend Octavia’s privacy,” the woman said imperiously. “It is intolerable.”
Dai lifted his head to see her eyes flash with anger and felt the sudden insignificance of a being a mere non-citizen, provincial Briton in the presence of over a hundred generations of pure Roman patrician breeding.
“I – I apologise, domina,” he said quickly, eyes downcast.
“I should think so. And if you wish to keep your job you will be certain this does not make it into any official report – or unofficial one. If a single word gets out, I promise you that I will ensure you have no job and no licence to live in Londinium ever again either. Do you understand?”
Dai felt his throat dry up. She more than had the power to do precisely that if she chose.
“I understand you, Domina Lydia.”
There was a slight flush of colour then in her face and for a moment Dai wondered at it, then he realised that she had not thought he recognised her.
“I am glad you do,” she said quietly. “You can leave now. I will look after poor Octavia. But remember what I said.” 
Dai bowed again and moved towards the front door, as Octavia detached herself from Bryn and was scooped up into the arms of Domina Lydia who made soothing noises and stroked her hair whilst glaring over her head with cold command at Dai and Bryn.

They left the apartment block in stunned silence and it was only once they were walking back to their vehicle Bryn broke it.
“You handled that well, Bard, your poet’s charm worked a treat.”
Dai shook his head.
“I’m out of practice, is all.”
Bryn stopped by a street stall.
“Two portions of garum and chips, not wrapped.”
They stood waiting as the chips were thrust into paper cones and the pungent sauce poured all over them. Bryn paid with his wrist phone and they continued walking, eating the chips as they went.
“Did you notice something odd?”
“I noticed a lot. Like the way you buried your head in her tits for example.”
“More like she did the burying bit.”
“You weren’t exactly fighting her off. Can’t say I blame you though. Not every day you get to put your face in the perfumed cleavage of a Roman matron. Or not without having your balls sliced off for it. Must have made it almost worth the threats from that pompous bitch at the end. Like we give a cracked cack whether some Roman lives in the lap of luxury or not.”
“It wasn’t that,” Dai said quietly.
Bryn looked at him.
“Oh?”
“No. She was just terrified we’d seen her there. She didn’t ask what had happened to Rufus or even who we were, which means she must have known us. And I don’t know if you have a celebrity job on the side, Bryn, but I’m really not that famous.”

Part XIV will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

The biggers were at it again: something about a trip to the Muffdives being cancelled.
Mother Bigger was throwing one: something about her tan. The teenagers, of course, were completely over the top.
Big Bigger started shouting, and the gnomes all ducked as something flew through a window that wasn’t open.
Everyone fell facedown as a flatscreen tv wound up in the pond, where it made a peculiar hissing noise and sunk without trace.
Big Bertha ambled over for a look.
“Best none of us was here.”
The gnomes faded as Big Bigger emerged to see what he had wrought.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

She felt the lure of the Flame, like a soft caress against the edges of consciousness – a promise unfulfilled. It called to her from the deep – a primal yearning to seek the fires below, the fires from which her very soul was wrought. Like a lover seeking the beloved, she yearned to be reunited with the source of her essence – the living flame that burned in the deeps.
Each time she woke she would rise and stand at the point where she could best feel the warmth on her skin. Eyes closed, the rising breeze from the chthonic conflagration, she would murmur a silent prayer to the Gods of Living Fire.
Each time she did so there would appear the form of a Guardian Avatar of Flame which would rebuke her for her audacity.
“What makes you think you are worthy?”
“Why should you be granted the Living Flame?”
“How can you believe you should even hope for such a thing?”
Each question would strike her like a blow, then the Guardian Avatar would vanish and she would be left to dream of ways to defeat it and reach the flame. The days and years wound past, each the reflection of the last and the foreshadowing of the one that followed.
The same yearning, the same questions.
Alone in her underground chamber, she would dwell on them. The weight of longing in her soul more of a burden than the heavy chains than restrained her and held her captive.

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

Maisie panicked when Sheena collapsed.

For a moment she’d no idea how to get out to get help. Then Maisie remembered the dog door and pushed herself through it, her skin scraping painfully as she did so.

Then what?

The main road ran past the drive and she ran up it as fast as she could. But how to stop a car?

Only one way.

The man who got out sounded disbelieving. “There’s a pig in the road. Just lying there.”

But he followed her and called an ambulance in time to save her owner Sheena from a heart attack.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

I scarce can bring myself to greet you, my pupil.

The only reason I am setting out these words is from the profound sense of duty that every pedagogue owes to his most devoted students. In happier times I was renowned for my science-fiction work ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ – a light-hearted escapade of two heroes who could only ever conquer, written by one who then had a light heart, untouched by the ravages of love and loss.

For now I write to you from the very depths. This is a harsh lesson indeed and comes from one whose name is now sorrow, whose eyes see naught but pain, whose mouth tastes naught but ashes, and whose dreams are filled with tears. But this is no matter. Of such agony truth of writing cometh. Follow me and I shall lead you into a vale of tears from which your writing shall grow emotions of which you never hitherto dreamed.

Heartbreaks

In every story, in every lifetime, in every world, in every universe there is Heartbreak. Even should your compositional endeavours lead you to a place inhabited only by machines and sharply carapaced octopids there will still be unrequited love, or the gutwrench of a failed relationship, or death, or sickness, or the loss of all.

And as writers this is what we must deal with.

We must lift our prose to a plane from which sorrow drips like corrosive acid into the very souls of our readers. We must wring their withers. We must pull from them gouts of snot, bathfuls of tears, and sobs that leave their chests pained and torn.

We must use every adjective and adverb to our name. We must leave no emotional stepping stone untrodden, no hidden corner of sensibility unharrowed, no tiny morsel of love unstamped upon.

If we are to write grief, let us feel grief, let us cry ourselves to sleep as we contemplate the fate of our hapless lovers. Let us understand their hearts as our own breaks with them.

I offer a small sample that you may begin to understand…

It was a suburban garden, offering him little space in which to feel himself alone enough to allow the fullest extent of his misery to crash down around him like a tidal wave of unquenchable sorrow. Seeking solitude, and knowing there was no solace to be had under the unforgiving sun, he had crawled under the spreading leaves of a barren fig tree there to lie in foetal misery, too frozen to cry and too alone to face the world. Who knew how long he had been sunk in his own misery before he felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. Turning, almost not of his own volition, he allowed himself the luxury of another’s embrace. The comfort of a shoulder clad in unromantic and somewhat bobbled and faded wool. He lifted his eyes to the worn and unromantic features of his mother, thinking in some corner of his tired mind that he could not remember the last time he and this woman had shared anything except vague mutual antipathy. She seemed to comprehend his distress though, as she smoothed his hair back from his hectic forehead with gentle fingers.

“Hearts don’t break,” she said softly, “it only feels like they do”.

Until next time.

Whenever that may be…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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

Time. Thief of life
Celebrated in each tick
Clock faces smiling
Cogs turn too quick
Day climbs past night
Neither stops nor waits
No care for humans
Nor interest in their fate

©️jane jago 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

December arrived with frosty nights and a great deal of festive jollity, accompanied by a great deal of work. Even with the college students I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, which I privately enjoyed though I’d not want to do it permanently.
It was the Sunday before Christmas and we were just finishing food service when Ed came out to the kitchen wearing a perplexed look.
“Geezer in the bar, begs the favourite of a word with Mrs Beckett. Seems genuine enough. Says you won’t know his name, but you might remember him as the nurse.”
“Chunky guy? Looks like he can handle himself?”
“Yes. What’s to be done?”
“I’ll come and see him. Ask him to please give me ten minutes. And Ed, can you find Ben.”
“Can do.”
With the bulk of the food sent away and only a few desserts to assemble I had no reason not to leave the kitchen, so I washed my hands and face and removed my soiled apron. Neil came to stand beside me.
“Do you think it’s the guy from the shiny Merc?”
“I do.”
“He’s probably come with a message from his boss.”
“Probably.”
In the bar, I found Ben talking to a man I had last seen in the back of a black Mercedes ‘ambulance’. He spotted me as soon as I stepped out of the kitchen corridor and made a sort of half bow. Once I could see his face I knew at least part of what he had come to say and I offered him my hands. He bent his head briefly before straightening his spine.
“Mrs Beckett. My employer passed away on Monday.” He paused and I waited for him to compose himself. “It was a far more peaceful end than I would have anticipated before that strange night in a rain washed orchard. For that I thank you.”
My throat felt a little clogged, so I elected not to speak. He seemed to understand because his somewhat grim features stretched into a surprisingly gentle smile. He reached behind him and picked up a small parcel from the table.
“My old friend chose this small thing and made me promise to bring it to you after his end.”
I took the box from his hands and placed it carefully on the bar before untying the ribbon. With gentle hands I lifted out the tiny cherry tree. It was exquisitely made and yet not ostentatious, being delicately enamelled metal without precious gems or anything that flaunted wealth. I touched a pink enamel flower and felt a tear run down my face.
“Thank you,” I said. “I will treasure this.”
He bent over my hand then left on silent feet.
Ben watched him go before looking at the little tree. “That’s a charming thing. Though scarcely a Joss thing.”
“True. It’s a dust catcher extraordinaire. But I can appreciate the symbolism.”
“Me too. But what will you do with it?”
I was flummoxed at first, but then I knew.
“I shall give it to Roz and Allie. They can have a cupboard of small, beautiful things like Ellen and Sian had when they were winkies.”
“Still do have.” Ellen spoke from behind the bar. “And I even know where there is an ideal cupboard.”
“You do? Where?” Ben was flabbergasted.
Ellen nodded firmly. “Wait here.”
Morgan popped up from behind the bar. “Gin and tonic madam?”
“I think I could do with one. Ben too?”
He nodded his agreement and we had just got our drinks in hand when Ellen reappeared. She was grinning.
“Bloody thing’s too heavy for me to carry so I borrowed Dad.”
Neil came in behind her carrying a miniature library cupboard. It was richly polished dark wood with decoratively paned glass doors. I thought it was probably an apprentice piece.
“Where did that come from?”
Ellen grinned. “Mrs A found it years ago. In one of the many cupboards in the function room. She cleaned it thoroughly, put it in the store, and promptly forgot about it. Dad saw it a few weeks back and him and Sian polished it up. She was going to suggest it as a special cupboard for the twins.”
Ben swallowed audibly. “It’s beautiful and they will love it. Ellen give Sian and Star a shout. I reckon your family needs to give the girls their cupboard. Then Joss can give them the tree. After she and I have had a big drink.”
Which is how a funny little alcove not far from the fireplace in our family room now contains an exquisite miniature library cupboard. One that fits the space so well Ben and I are pretty well convinced it was made to go there.
And the cherry tree? That has pride of place and Roz and Allie clean it carefully once a month, singing to Cherry and her little family as they dust and polish.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

The apartment was less opulent on the inside than it appeared from outside. There was fine furniture and a couple of pieces of wall art, but it all had a worn look about it. Only the small niche where the lares sat gleamed with what looked to be several gold items, and one penate holding a cornucopia with jewels pouring from it. Dai wondered if he had interrupted her private devotions; as there was a small offering bowl visible and the slight smell of incense.
Octavia must have seen the direction of his gaze, because she walked quickly over to the niche and closed the doors, pulling the beautifully embroidered hanging over them. Then she turned to face the men, standing with her hands clasped behind her, almost looking defiant, as if engaging in the worship of her own household gods in her own house was something less than acceptable.
“I know you’ll think it all silly superstition,” she said, lowering her gaze demurely, “but I find it very comforting.”
Dai felt Bryn stir behind him and give a soft cough of embarrassment.
“Not at all, domina,” Dai told her, wondering how such a naive innocent could have wound up with a cunnus like Urbanus Hostilius Rufus. “Perhaps you would sit down and we can talk, there is something we need to tell you about your husband.”
She smiled and moved to one of the couches, arranging her stola with an easy grace and reclining on it completely, cradling her head on one arm as she looked at them with sky blue eyes.
“He’s in trouble again?”
“I am afraid it is a bit more serious than that. Do you have any friends or family near by? Anyone you could ask to stay with you for a few days?”
Octavia’s eyes glanced involuntarily at one of the inner doors and then looked back to Dai. She had coloured very slightly.
Deo Damnatus, Dai thought and exchanged a brief look with Bryn, she has a lover in the bedroom.
“He’s been arrested?” she sounded surprised.
“No,” Dai said, his tone flat. “I’m afraid he’s been murdered.”
Her mouth opened and she uttered a low cry came which picked up in pitch and intensity until it was a full-blown scream.
Dai found himself beside her, unsure whether he should slap her or hold her. She made the decision for him, sitting up and pulling him close, her hands gripping into his tunic as she almost stifled his face in her bosom.
“My Roo-Roo! My poor Roo-Roo!” she wailed.
With some difficulty, Dai disentangled himself and managed to hand her off to Bryn, who was not at all averse to having a beautiful young woman pressing herself against him as she sobbed.
“I’ll find you some tissues,” Dai said vaguely and moved to the door that Octavia had glanced at before. He was about to open it when she squealed.
“No! Not in there.”
Trusting Bryn to keep her from getting in the way, Dai opened the door to what he fully expected to be a lavish bedroom and a naked young man. Instead it was an undecorated room, with a simple double bed and cardboard boxes stacked up with clothes visible neatly folded in them. On the bed sat an elegantly dressed woman, who got to her feet as soon as she saw Dai. Her designer stola was draped in soft folds of silk about her. It took him a moment to place her, to think where he had seen her before. Then he realised he hadn’t, but he had seen pictures of her and the odd moment on TV when the news was covering some swish event. She had been on the arm of Tribune Decimus Lucius Didero.
Instinctively he bowed his head.
“Domina.”

Part XIII will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

Having to sit at home and talk to each other was highlighting the biggers’ mutual loathing, and big bigger had obviously decided to do something constructive.
He and middle-sized bigger waited at the gate while a lorry deposited a number of packages on the driveway.
Garry Gnome puzzled out the letters on the biggest box.
“Lux Yerry Tree House.”
“You sure Gaz?”
“Yup. And anyway there’s a picture of a tree house by the writing.”
The gnomes looked at each other in disbelief. How were the biggers going to build a tree house in a garden with no trees?

Jane Jago