Two Women and Some Books
The cracks are there for a reason
They keep the heart intact
They show the passing seasons
And record each selfish act
On a day when the sun shines brightly
When it warms the ice-cold soul
Then a flower, gleaming whitely
Fills the crack to make us whole
For as long as Rebekah could remember September had been a month of terror, with her mother growing shorter and shorter of temper as each day passed. Then Michaelmas would come and they would stand in line at The Hiring, hoping against hope that they would catch the eye of someone kindly and decent. They almost always did, except for one memorably bad year when both mother and eight-year-old daughter toiled in the kitchens of a back-street whorehouse for little more than a hard bed and even harder words. It was only one year in the seventeen Rebekah had been alive, but the memory was strong enough to strike fear into a stronger heart than hers.
This Michaelmas was different, though. Mother had been hired for three years running by the same man, a grim-visaged merchant with an out-thrusting paunch and a hard eye for a bargain. Rebekah didn’t much like him, but kept her thoughts to herself. At least the beds were dry and there was sufficient food.
At the start of the September after her seventeenth birthday, their employer called Mother into his narrow counting room, where the pair of them had remained closeted for a very long time.
Mother came out looking even grimmer than usual. Rebekah hunched a shoulder and awaited a tongue-lashing. To her surprise none was forthcoming. Instead, Mother beckoned her out into the tiny strip of garden they tended throughout the year. She sat down heavily on the wooden bench and patted the seat by her side.
“Daughter. I would have speech with you.”
Rebekah tried to look suitably interested and yet modest.
“Mister Brown had a proposition for me. It is one I am minded to accept, but it depends on you.”
“How is that Mother?”
“He proposes marriage to me, but he will not adopt you as his daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if I accept the offer, you cannot stay here.”
“Oh. But where would I go.”
“You could go to the hiring. Or you could marry.”
“Marry?”
“You are young, and strong, and accustomed to hard work. There are always young farmers looking for girls like you.”
“You mean like a mail order bride?”
Mother nodded.
Rebekah bent her fair head, thinking hard. She turned a serene face to her mother.
“If I chose to be a mail order bride, would I have any say in which offer I accepted.”
Her mother frowned.
“You would if you wanted, but why would you want such a choice?”
“Mother. I am seventeen years old, it would not be fitting were I to find myself married to a man with children older than me. And nor would I wish to wed outside of our faith. If those are not unreasonable expectations I would choose to marry.”
Her mother regarded Rebekah with rare approval. “Not unreasonable. Sensible. Very well, child, Mister Brown and I will set things in motion. You do understand that naught will occur until after the Michaelmas Hiring.”
“I do so understand, Mother.”
Mother stood up and then bent to place a rare kiss on her daughter’s smooth cheek.
“I will make sure that your husband is kind.”
Then she was gone, leaving Rebekah to return to her duties with a calm face, but a very flustered mind.
The weeks leading up to The Hiring ran smoothly, with Mother settled and Rebekah resigned.
On the day of the Michaelmas Fair, Mother and Mister Brown went out straight after breakfast, leaving Rebekah on her honour not to leave the house. They need not have worried, as she had precious little taste for the noise and laxity of the street fair and no coin to spend had it been her wish to venture out. Instead, she brought her spinning wheel beside the kitchen fire and sat singing quietly as she worked. The only other living creature in the house was the kitchen cat who came and sat on the floor at her feet. It was about two hours before the street door opened and Mother’s voice called out.
“It is us, Rebekah, put the kettle to boil like a good child.” She sounded happy, and Rebekah hastened to move the kettle onto the hot plate atop the closed stove.
She returned her spinning wheel to the corner and quickly swept up the little bits of wool that flew from the wheel. She was just wondering what to do next when Mother and Mister Brown came into the kitchen. He regarded her sternly, and looked around the room for signs of disorder. Finding none, he so far relaxed as to smile, although no warmth reached his hard little eyes. Mother lifted her left hand, and Rebekah saw the gleam of gold. She cast down her eyes, lest anyone see her dismay.
“My felicitations Mister and Mistress Brown. May your union be long and blessed.”
She looked up to find both beaming at her. She must have said the right thing. Mister Brown even unbent enough to address her directly.
“Fairly spoken, girl,” then he coughed. “You must understand that my refusal to adopt you is no reflection on your character. For all I have seen you are a modest and hardworking female.”
Rebekah bent her head, and Mother actually chuckled.
“The child is unused to compliments.” Then she turned her attention to her daughter. “There are three offers for your hand that we deem suitable. It appears fair to both my husband and I that you should select from them for yourself. Sit at the table and read. I will make hot tea.”
Rebekah sat, feeling as if she dreamed, and her mother’s husband placed three packets at her elbow.
“We have,” he said in a surprisingly careful voice, “ascertained that these three men have a reputation for kindliness as well as being suitable in all other ways”.
Rebekah read the three letters carefully.
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
Dumbfounded.
Such a good word, Ginny decided. It was almost onomatopoeic as a descriptor for the way she was feeling.
“But, vampires aren’t real,” she protested at last when she saw from the expressions of the two women sitting at the table with her that they really weren’t joking. They genuinely believed what they were telling her.
And there was the minor fact she was alive and uninjured after that terrible incident in the church with the vicar.
Memory of which suddenly pushed even the ludicrous idea that she was now a vampire out of her mind for a moment.
“The vicar,” she said, “was a giant rabbit.”
Em just nodded as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have a giant rabbit as your local clergyman.
“Oh yes,” Agnes said. “A wererabbit as it turns out though I had a side bet with Lilian that he’d be a wererat. Would have suited him much better, in my opinion.”
Ginny gave a brittle laugh which she could hear had a distinct edge of hysteria to it. “Oh it all makes so much sense now. We women are vampires and the vicar was a wererabbit. Silly me.” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sudden sob.
Em reached over the table and squeezed her hand.
“It is a bit much to take on board all at once. Normally we’d have a careful selection and interview process for a new Sister, but it was something of an emergency in your case.” She wore a bright encouraging smile, as if willing Ginny to perk up. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of questions. Agnes and I can answer some now, but you don’t need to tackle this all at once. You have plenty of time.”
Plenty of time.
Of course.
Vampires were immortal.
Weren’t they?
Ginny suddenly found a slew of questions overwhelming the mixed up emotions, all pushing forward to be answered first. It must have shown in her face, because Agnes stood up quickly.
“I’ll make coffee, you’d better take Ginny up to the Office.”
“Good idea.” Em got to her feet and Ginny followed her back upstairs, along the landing from the bedroom she had been in and into a bijou study with walls lined with bookshelves and just enough room for a desk facing the window, which commanded a view over the churchyard. Ginny was wondering where she should sit and taking in the range of Em’s literary tastes – Jane Austin sitting next to JK Rowling, and James Joyce jostled in beside EL James – when Em pulled a large, leather bound tome (could it really be a Bible?) slightly forwards, and one of the shelf units swung back to show a modern looking teak and steel spiral staircase going up.
“I always wanted one of those,” Ginny admitted as she stepped into the attic area which turned out to be a spacious and comfortable room.
“What? A spiral staircase? A pain to clean I can tell you.”
“No. A secret door in a bookcase.”
Em laughed.
“So did I. It’s why I had that one put in.”
Ginny took a seat and found herself staring at a large map of the village pinned to the wall. Each house had a small label stuck onto it with just two or three words. Things like ‘arrogant wanker’, ‘spiteful gossip’ and ‘mostly harmless’. She found herself looking for her own little cottage and just before Em blocked her view by sitting in front of it, she was almost sure she read ‘wet hen’.
“Ask away then,” Em said, leaning back in her chair.
Ginny decided to start with the obvious.
“This whole blood-drinking thing, do I…?”
“You can survive very well on regular food most of the time, but we need blood to support the extras of being a vampire – heightened perceptions, healing, that kind of thing. And go too long without and you will become quite ill.”
“So I have to…to…bite people?” Ginny struggled to even think it let alone say it.
Em waved a dismissive hand and smiled.
“Oh goodness me, no. We don’t live in the Middle Ages any more. We get deliveries from the local blood bank. So even your vegetarian ethics shouldn’t be too offended as those were donations made freely by people who wanted to help others.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t quite what they had in mind when they went to give blood.”
“Probably not. But they all wanted to save lives and they are helping to do that. Besides which, we purchase what we get so we’re not stealing from the system.”
It was a rather loose ethical take on the situation, but Ginny decided it was a lot better than the alternative.
“So with the blood drinking, am I – er – are we immortal?”
Em considered for a moment before she replied.
“That depends what you mean by ‘immortal’. We can be killed by most things that would kill a regular human, like accidental beheading, being run over by a combine harvester or whatever, but we are immune to human illness, we heal much faster and we don’t age. Oh and we are fine in sunlight as long as it’s not for too long or too intense.”
“As long as we have enough blood?”
Em smiled warmly
“You’re getting it.”
Part 19 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
“Why does a handsome young man like you need a love potion?”
He blushed until his face was the colour of brick.
“She don’t want me. Says I don’t have enough money nor prospects.”
The witch held out a grubby hand into which he dropped a copper penny.
“Three days.”
He collected the bottle and went on his way. Whistling.
As he made his way home it was as if the scales fell from his eyes. He turned away from the cold one, back into the waiting arms of his childhood sweetheart.
There’s more than one sort of love potion…
Admirable advice from Madame Pendulica’s mystic moggy!
As the feline companion of a world-famous astrologer, one is in a unique position to offer help and solace to the hapless humanity who visit one’s human with their sad little problems.
Stops for a while to lick anal sphincter (or rear leg if we are being prudish).
Ah yes, where was I? Human problems, as solved by the wisdom of cat.
‘My husband doesn’t love me any more.’ This cri de coeur from Mona of Winchester elicited an outpouring of the usual wishy-washy claptrap about the incompatibility of certain star signs from she who floats round in bits of handprinted cheesecloth. None of which is any help to anyone – least of all a sad woman who appears as if she owns a lot of pairs of nude court shoes and too many rubber gloves.
Had she turned her guileless orbs towards the source of true wisdom, oneself, the poor, silly human might have been a little bit surprised by the answer.
The unloved Mona’s tale of woe and protestations of wifely perfection leaned heavily on how well she keeps his house, how she serves drinks and snacks to his friends when they visit, and how she never fails to do her marital duty every Friday night.
Even a neutered feline (more of which cause for hatred later) can see that this is precisely not how to keep a human male interested.
One’s own advice would be rather more realistic…
Take off your apron, Mona, and stop equating cleaning with affection. When the male returns from work, pour both of you a big glass of wine and order in a takeaway. When his mates come to watch football, leave a crate of Budweiser and a bucket of snacks and take yourself to see a male stripper. And when he wants a Friday night special tie him up and whip his pink bottom.
You might find out that, indeed, he no longer loves you. You might even find out you no longer love him.
Whatever the outcome, you’ll have had a bit of fun along the way.
Ambles off in search of tuna…
Ailuros the Mystic’s Mog predicts she will be offering more advice sometime in the future!
The music, provided by a string quartet, quivered on the air as much an accompaniment to the meal as the fine red wine. Standing at the door as if surveying a conquered city, the last diner arriving embarrassingly late, his hawk-like expression seemingly oblivious to it.
Between the tables, like supply ships visiting islands, waiters moved silently over the plush depths of the carpet. One detached himself from the flotilla to speak to the dark-haired gentleman , with an almost obsequious haste. Lydia decided this must be the mysterious Colonel Jermaine about whom everyone seemed to have so much to say, but apparently only behind their hands not to his face. She watched, curiously as the waiter led him across the dining room, then lost sight of them both as the table next to her was served.
Each table, discreetly placed to appear neither isolated nor too close to its neighbour, glinted and sparkled as the light of the crystal candelabra reflected on the silver service, the exquisite glassware and the plentiful and prominent jewellery worn by the ladies. From her lonely seat in the corner, Lydia noticed the conversation seemed to be sparkling too, causing short barks of manly laughter and softer feminine mirth.
“I see this seat is not taken.” The tone was matter-of-fact and definitely not a question.
Lydia looked up into the tiercel eyes of the dark-haired man and suddenly wished with fervour that she had accepted the offer of the Forsythes’ to attend another of their dreadful dinner parties that evening.
Take this exclusive opportunity to consult the wisdom of the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica…
You will be butting heads with everybody this month. Just be sure to ram home your point in every argument. Woolly thinking never wins!
This is the month you need to be bull-headed and stand by your decisions. If anyone accuses you of being stubborn just beef up your strong stance against those trying to horn in you.
You will find yourself in two minds about the best way to handle things. Don’t be divided against yourself – you can have your cake and eat it too!
You will be scuttling into some sticky situations this month. Be sure to snap up any opportunities and think laterally as that is always your strong suit.
People will be lionising your achievements this month, so don’t let any catty comments from work colleagues or loved ones dent your pride!
This is the month to finally start that project you’ve been meaning to get around to. Either that or have an affair. You need to stop blushing so much.
That decision you’ve been weighing up will need to be addressed. Whichever way you tip the scales, you will need to balance your work and your personal life.
Just when you thought things were looking good you will discover the sting in the tail. Don’t start anything new this month, you’re facing venomous opposition.
If you trot over to that attractive individual you’ve been horsing around with for a while now, you will find the pair of you could hoof it to sunnier climes. Take aim for the stars!
There will be a problem with your plumbing this month. Most likely a blocked toilet but it could be a major flood from a burst pipe. Good luck.
You’ve been thinking there was something fishy about that offer that seemed too good to be true. Now you need to decide if you want to be a big fish in a small pool or make the leap to waters new.
Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…
It was her memory quilt
With life in every line
Was beauty lovingly built
No thought of age or time
Kept in a camphor chest
Away from moth and dirt
Each stitch her tiny best
Showed every smile and hurt
Started as a bride
And ended on the day she died
This was one of the two major auction houses in Viriconium that specialised in antiques. It was also the place that, according to his own records, Vibius did the most trade. They had swooped on the owner just as an afternoon auction had finished.
Justina Cynddylan was a harassed-looking woman in her fifties, wearing a fine quality stola and a silver ring of Citizenship. She didn’t seem even slightly intimidated by an unannounced visit from the Vigiles when Bryn produced his ID, and flapped a hand to the stairs at the rear of the auction room when asked if they could go somewhere a bit quieter to talk.
“I don’t have much space, we can use the small store upstairs if you like. But I have nothing to hide, so why not just ask me here?” Her gaze moved past the two for a moment and she raised her voice. “Not that one, Carwyn. The dominus said he was sending someone to collect it.” Then she looked back at Dai. “I am sorry, but I do have a business to run here, so can we make this – whatever it is – as quick as possible please?”
Dai tried his best boyish smile. “Of course, I quite understand. And that is why I suggest we go somewhere quieter so we don’t keep getting interruptions that will delay us all.”
She didn’t quite melt, but the look of tense disapproval softened very slightly.
“Very well.” She led them to the rear staircase and then turned to call across the room “Gawain? Three teas and a plate of those vanilla fingers we had earlier.” A young man, presumably Gawain, put down the box he was carrying and scuttled off through a side door.
The ‘small store’ was well named in Dai’s opinion. It was a room with a tiny window, half full of boxes of bric-a-brac. The other half was occupied by an elderly leather settee and a couple of hard backed, un-matching, very British dining chairs set either side of a small pedestal-leg table. Justina perched on one of the chairs and gestured imperiously that Dai and Bryn should appropriate the settee between them. Dai did so and regretted it in the same moment as the seat sagged away deeply beneath him. He just knew that if he tried to rise he would struggle to free himself. Bryn was clearly a wiser man as he declined the settee and instead used it to display the pictures of artefacts they had taken at random from the internet.
“Do you recognise any of these, domina?” he asked before sitting on the other hard chair.
The auction room owner peered a little myopically at the images, then picked one or two up to look closely at them.
“This is in the collection of Minoan artefacts presently on display in Londinium and this,” she waved another picture, “went missing from an exhibition in Latium four years ago. The rest I could have a stab at their provenance, but I have no idea where they are now.” She dropped the pictures back on the couch and looked at Bryn accusingly. “Why are you showing me these?”
Before he could answer there was a tap on the door and the youngster Dai had seen downstairs brought in a tray of spiced fruit teas and cakes and placed it on the table, then retreated quickly from the room.
“Help yourselves if you want.” Justina waved towards the tray then looked back at the images. “I don’t see what any of these have to do with me.”
“They are not really, domina. Just some items that have been stolen over the last few years.” As Bryn spoke he offered a tea to Dai, who shook his head having decided that trying to drink whilst being swallowed into the depths of the settee would be a recipe for disaster. “We just wondered if you might recognise any of them.”
Justina glared at Bryn as if he had just propositioned her for a night of wild orgies.
“I don’t allow any stolen goods in my auction room,” she said, icily. “Everything that passes through here is checked as having the correct licences.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” Dai suggested and the woman snorted in disgust.
“Perhaps you Vigiles can make mistakes and think no more about it – those in positions of power often seem to feel that way about life. You just shovel your mistakes under the nearest carpet and carry on regardless, with no one daring to say otherwise. But I can’t afford to make that kind of mistake. This is my livelihood. Even if I avoided criminal charges for doing so, it would ruin my reputation as a dealer with integrity and that would destroy my business.”
Dai nodded sympathetically. “Yes. I can see that. So it must have been a bit difficult for you to find out that Josephus Vibius Anser, one of your best customers, was in fact up to his neck in the illicit art and antiquities trade?”
Her face darkened.
“You are not going to try and tie me in to that. Anything and everything that man bought from me had a full and legitimate licence attached. I can give you the entire list, with origins, previous owners, prices made at each sale, everything – solid as a blockchain.”
“Thank you,” Dai said, “that would be very useful so we can eliminate you from our enquiries completely. Perhaps you could email those to us before you go home today.”
He tried to get to his feet then but having his buttocks lower than his knees and the sagging cushion enveloping him it was a little undignified. In the end, he grabbed the edge of the settee with his hands and pulled himself up. Bryn was making little attempt to hide his grin behind a teacup, which he drained quickly when Dai caught his eye. Justina Cynddylan didn’t seem to notice. She was still frowning at them her thoughts apparently elsewhere.
“If you want my opinion,” she said as Dai finally gained his feet, “you would do better asking everybody’s friend, Tony Talog. If anyone is doing things the wrong way it’s him.”
Dai searched his memory and failed.
“Tony Talog?”
Bryn cleared his throat and picked up one of the cakes. “That’d be the man who runs ‘Rara et Vetera’ isn’t it? Your local competition, domina.”
“That – that creature is not any kind of competition for me,” she said firmly. “Half what he sells as pristine originals is heavy restoration. Some so heavy they are really reproductions. I have people attend some of his auctions and they tell me some horrific tales. But it is more than just that he sells bad antiques. One of his employees was close to quitting his place and joining me. The day she put in her notice someone kidnapped her dog and two days later the poor creature appeared on her doorstep stuffed by a taxidermist. She left Viriconium the next day, I believe, at least I have heard nothing more about her since.” She glared accusingly at Dai. “And your lot didn’t lift a finger, of course. I expect the Submagistratus is getting backhanders from Talog to turn a blind eye.”
“Not at all,” Dai assured her. “I am not in the corruption business, although I can’t speak for my predecessor.”
They left her with her mouth agape looking like a stunned sheep and walked quickly from the room, down the stairs and out onto the street.
An extract from Dying for a Vacation by JJane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook one of the Dai and Julia Mysteries set in an alternative modern-day world, where the Roman Empire still rules.
An everyday tale of village life and vampires…
Em heard footsteps and Agnes grinned at her with the sort of evil anticipation that might have earned a clip across the earhole – if there had been time. But given the imminent appearance of their new seventh, Em contented herself by snarking at her oldest friend.
When the door opened Em at least had the satisfaction of winning the private bet she had with herself about what Ginny would choose to wear.
“Come in and sit yourself down.”
She waved Ginny to a chair and Agnes sat opposite her. Em poured Bloody Marys for the three of them, keeping the glasses hidden from view while she added an unconventional ingredient to the one she put in front of Ginny.
“Bottoms up,” Agnes said cheerily, downing half her drink in one gulp.
Ginny Cropper seemed less keen, stirring the thick red mixture with its accompanying celery stick and looking about her with slightly narrowed eyes.
“Do you not care for Bloody Mary?” Em took a slug of her own drink and gave Ginny her least threatening stare.
Ginny stared back then seemed to reach some sort of a decision. “Oh well,” she muttered, “in for a penny.”
She all but upended the glass over her nose, draining every last drop before she crunched the celery.
“Seems to me that I’m being led someplace, and I find I don’t much care so long as somebody feeds me.”
Em went over to the Aga and took three plates of food out of the warming oven. The plates held large slices of tortilla with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms on the side. There was also a dish of bacon and a basket of warm rolls. The three of them set to with good appetites.
They had about cleared their plates, when Ginny broke the quiet with a tiny, genteel belch. “Oops. Sorry about that, but I think it’s been twenty years since I had anything other than granola and almond milk for breakfast.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Would somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Em found herself feeling the tiniest tad of respect for an odd, wispy female who was far away from what she had any hope of understanding, but was keeping her chin up.
“Yes. I suppose somebody does owe you an explanation. But where to begin? How much do you remember about last night?”
“I remember following the vicar into church. I knew he was after the bats. I remember him screaming at me and pushing me to the ground. And I think I remember a rabbit – but that might just be a consequence of hitting my head on a stone floor.”
Agnes took over with a smoothness that Em could see wasn’t lost on Ginny. “We were about a minute behind you. Or Em was. I’m too fat to run. The vicar completely lost it, and he shot you in the neck. When we had subdued him sufficiently to be able to look at you, your heart had stopped…”
“That’s perfectly possible. I have suffered with a vagal arrhythmia for most of my life. I’m just glad there’s a defibrillator in the village. Who shocked me back to life?”
“There is a defibrillator in the foyer of the village hall,” Agnes said, “but nobody thought of that. Em Fed you with her own blood…”
There was an appalled silence.
“Fed me? Blood? Shot in the neck?” For a second Em thought Ginny teetered on the verge of hysteria, and her fingers reached for the scar where the pellet had been. She flinched, but made a visible effort to hold herself together. After a moment she said in a small voice: “Is this some sort of Twilight thing?”
Em’s respect was growing. “Sort of,” she admitted. “But the difference is we’re real.”
Ginny studied her hands for a moment then gave Em a glare. “Okay, if I buy this, and I’m still deciding whether I do or not, what was in the Bloody Mary? The moment I drank it I felt as if I saw a lot of things clearer, and I also felt physically stronger than I have for years.”
Agnes chortled.
“Shut up Agnes.” Em ducked her head to disguise her own amusement. “Well, Ginny, it was a Bloody Mary. A real one. Yours just contained a thimbleful of blood. A drop from each of your six sisters to welcome you to our seven.” She watched Ginny’s face carefully as she dropped the last piece of the puzzle into place. “Virginia Cropper, vampire. How does that sound to you?”
Ginny shook her head as if to clear it. “Would you mind saying that again?”
“Virginia Cropper. Vampire.” Em and Agnes spoke together.
Ginny dropped her head into her hands then looked up with an exasperated expression. “But I’m a vegetarian… Doesn’t there have to be a joke in there somewhere?”
Agnes was obviously making up her own jokes, so Em leaned over and clipped her smartly over the ear before she could share them.
Part 18 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
Working Title Blogspot 