It’s been a funny old year
When all is said and done
There’s been too much of Covid
And not so much of fun

There’s been a world turned upside down
By powers beyond our ken
And yet there’s been a lot to love
As people rise again

There may have been a lockdown
There may even have been two
But we’ve found ways to keep in touch
To reach out, me and you.

We discovered that this world
Of which we are so fond
Is smaller than you’d think, you know
We’ve Zoomed accross the Pond

We’ve made the best of making do
And tried in every weather
To care for those who needed care
To get through this together

So if you are now reading this
At 2020’s end
Remember that you should be proud
You’ve made it this far, my friend.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived allwheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the allwheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the allwheel back onto the road as the cliffedge approached at a frightening speed.

From the latest addition to the The Dai and Julia Mysteries, Dying for a Present, a novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

It was just past midnight, though the sky seemed extra dark
And all the little steam engines were gathered in the park
Then something broke the silence with a rattle and a creak
The oldest engine cleared his tubes, and he began to speak

“There are not many nights”, he said, “when we are gathered near
So I would tell a tale if you might have the will to hear”
The wheezing and the whistling was no louder than a breeze
And yet a tiny engine whispered, “Will you tell us please?”

“It happened very long ago, my father’s father’s story
When Owen Owen rode the rails to fame and shining glory
He was just an engine, and his livery quite worn
He pulled the ore from down the mine and worked from night to morn

But then one day in winter, he was give a big surprise
His driver and an engineer they fitted him with eyes
Clear and shining brass they were and bright to light the way
And driver said they made the mine as bright as any day

What Owen engine thought of them was never very clear
But those bright eyes they lit the miners way throughout the year
For two days every winter the pit was put to bed
And Owen Owen engine was left peaceful in his shed

He quite enjoyed the rest he felt his heavy toil had bought
And closing down his brassy eyes he sat in happy thought
Until one night when all around the fog was thick and yellow
His rest was interrupted by a fat and jolly fellow

‘Owen Owen’, said the man, ‘I’ve come to ask your aid
I’ve toys to take to children but the reindeer are afraid
They cannot see through this thick murk and fear to break their legs
Will you help us out dear chap? Or do I have to beg?’

And Owen Owen smiled a smile as wide as wide could be
‘Open up the shed’ he said, ‘that’s just the job for me’
And so it came about upon that darkling winter’s night
That Owen Owen guided Santa with his eyes so bright.”

And every engine in the park gave a quiet beep
Before they closed their iron minds and tumbled back to sleep.

©️jane jago

You can listen to this on YouTube too!

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook wish you and yours a truly festive day however you may celebrate!

Thank you for supporting the Working Title Blog.

(Poem by Jane Jago)

It had been six months since Bea went to live with Papa’s sister. Now it was Christmas time and her cousins were writing their letters to Santa. 

In her mind’s ear Bea heard Papa’s laugh and felt his hand on her brown curls.

“Be careful who you write to, my love. Santa is no more than a fairytale, but Satan is alive and real.”

She thought it worth a try and wrote carefully, kissing the screw of paper before throwing it into the hottest part of the fire. 

Her aunt sighed, but said nothing, knowing how hard this must be for one lonely little girl.

Christmas morning, while it was still dark, Bea felt icy fingers at her brow. She opened her eyes to see a narrow, cold sort of a gentleman sitting on the side of her bed.

“You wrote to me.”

“I did, sir. Can you make my wish come true?”

“Do you know what you are asking for?”

Bea nodded and reached for Papa’s hand across the divide.

Later that same morning, her aunt found her quite cold in her bed but with a smile that lit her plain little face and made her beautiful in death.

©jj 2020

It is Christmas time and Joss Becket with her beloved husband Ben, the co-owners of The Fair Maid and Falcon, one of the busiest pubs in the south of England, take their twin daughters on a walking Nativity…

Of course there was still a certain amount of work attached to the production of what seemed to have grown from a village event into something with rather more ‘reach’, but at least I was spared the organisational details. By mid-December the village had grown used to the presence of a camera crew and even a little blasé about the whole affair. For myself, I kept my head below the parapet as much as possible, only emerging to discuss such matters as ticketed suppers, hot mulled cider, and commemorative mugs. As to the actual event I was carefully incurious, feeling that if I wasn’t prepared to get fully involved the best thing I could do was keep my nose right out.
Then the big day came. It was the Sunday before Christmas. We were right in the middle of the countdown to the big day itself, and the weather was bloody freezing although that didn’t seem to be acting as a deterrent to the hundreds of people who poured into the village to,see the spectacle.
The play was to begin with the Announciation which would be enacted in the church, and then Mary and Joseph would progress through the streets, stopping to be turned away at door after door until they reached the Fair Maid where they would be directed to the barn for the climax of the story.
After a tea of soup and sandwiches I dressed the twins in their warmest clothing and the whole family, plus our head chef and his family, went along to see the fun.
There were crowds of people gathered outside the church, where two huge screens would relay the action from inside. As the crowd waited the speakers beside the screens played Christmas Carols into the cold air. We were among those select few admitted to the church where we were guided to our places by dark clad figures bearing torches. Promptly at six o’clock the church fell dark and a single bell tolled the hour. As the last bong sounded a light seeming to come from nowhere illuminated a young girl at a spinning wheel. She seemed unaware of our presence, singing a little song as the thread grew between her fingers. Then the light grew dazzling and a great voice filled the church. The angel dropped out of the sky on invisible wires and the oldest story of all begun to unfold. I will say it was brilliantly done and the villagers had been coached in their parts very well. So well, in fact, that it was hard to recognise them as anything other than Mary, Joseph, and assorted angels etcetera.
The crowd that followed ‘Mary and Joseph’ was surprisingly silent and even though it was many hundreds strong it somehow failed to impinge on the magic of this cold starlit night. When we arrived at the pub, most of the crowd was kept in the car park where more huge screens had appeared as if by magic.
In the yard fronting the huge barn where our Winnebago normally lives, we found there were straw bales to sit on as the sky clouded over and snow began to sift down onto our heads. As the first flakes fell the barn doors opened and we saw Mary and Joseph and the baby, and the patient donkey, and a few early lambs, and a couple of pygmy goats. It was beautifully staged, and we all awaited the shepherds and the magi with bated breath. Suddenly we could smell the smells of upland meadows and hear the melodious chime of cow bells as the humble shepherds came from the west. Mary looked at them and smiled, but instead of the ‘actors’ speaking the air was suddenly full of music.
Where Danilo had come by a gospel choir I knew not, but they were the real deal, and their voices told of the visitors and how they brought gifts to the infant king far better than speech could ever have done. Even I so far forgot my cynicism as to lean forward and listen enchanted. All too soon, it seemed to me, the barn doors rolled closed and it was over.
For a moment the lights dimmed to darkness and I could hear a rustling in the straw around me which I dearly hoped wasn’t mice. Then the lights came on – slowly getting brighter and brighter until it was almost daylight. All around me I could hear children’s voices and I looked at Roz and Ali each of whom had a tissue paper wrapped parcel in her lap. Lifting my eyes from their happy wonderment I looked about me to see every child in the yard had a gift and every child wore an identical expression of bemused delight.
Roz turned a face of binding joy to me. “Look Mummy,” she said, “a Christmas miracle.”

©️Jane Jago

They called it the monument when they bothered to speak of it. It had been in the city forever, and sometimes the young stopped to look at it  and wonder that it had neither purpose nor meaning.

Were the strange round things halfway down its mighty bulk eyes? Did it breathe through the holes in the strange beaky thing between them?

But it wasn’t of sufficient importance to occupy them for long and they soon scuttled off about the jobs they were allocated as soon as they dropped from their chrysalis.

Humans were yesterday and insects aren’t given to introspection.

©️jj 2020

It was all the vicar’s fault. She went on a pilgrimage to Oberammergau and came back fired with almost missionary zeal. And now Joss Beckett co-owner of The Fair Maid and Falcon, one of the busiest pubs in the south of England, is committed to organising a walking Nativity…

I picked up my phone and called Danilo Lovell. Danilo is a paranormal investigator and medium, who just happens to own his own tv production company and who owes me a number of favours. Of course he said no. So I called his grandmother, his wife, and his head of security – all of whom are friends of mine. Then I sat back and waited. It didn’t take long. Danilo called back.
“Bitch,” he said entirely without heat. “Why are you making me waste time and money on a bloody Nativity play?”
“But Danilo, it’s a walking Nativity play. And it’s currently a clusterfuck.”
He laughed. “So it needs sorting out. But why me?”
“I was rather thinking a documentary. If done right it could even net you yet another BAFTA nomination.”
I could have sworn that I heard the wheels turn as he thought that one through. When he spoke it was in an entirely different voice. Now he was all business.
“When can we meet with the clusterfuck steering committee?”
“They’ll be here on Thursday morning at eleven, thinking they are going to have to crawl to me for help.”
Danilo chuckled. “Meaning their gratitude to me would know no bounds. Better and better. I’ll be there. With Paula, and possibly Grandmother, in tow. Until then…”
He hung up and I leaned back in my chair, luxuriating in the feeling of a job well done. After a couple of minutes of self-congratulation I got down to payroll duties and consigned the whole Nativity play thing to the back burner.
It was nearly five o’clock when there came a tap on my office door. Recognising the small noise as being likely to be small people, I got up and went to open the door. My three-year-old twin daughters stood outside hand in hand, looking more than a little apprehensive. I crouched down to their level and wrinkled my nose at them.
“Is Daddy Beckett hiding behind you, my loves.”
They nodded their heads energetically. Ali spoke first “Yes he is. And he’s very frightened.” She stopped speaking and Roz took over. “He says,”she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “that he has been a stupid man, and you might be cross with him.”
I laughed and drew my darlings into my arms. After I had kissed their rosy cheeks and smoothed their shining blonde curls I raised my voice.
“Benedict Beckett, get in here and stop being such a wuss.”
He stuck his head around the corner and I could feel him all but tasting the atmosphere. When he found it calm and friendly he came all the way into the room and sat his bottom on the corner of my desk.
“Sorry Joss,” he said in a voice of real contrition. “I should know you have more than enough to do with a business to run and three kids to manage.”
Ali pulled firmly on my sleeve. “Auntie Stella did call Daddy a plonker,” she whispered in tones of deep shock.
I couldn’t keep my face straight any longer and I grinned at my little family. “I expect she did, because he did a silly. But it’s all right now because I sorted it out.”
“How do you mean sorted it out?” Ben sounded worried.
“It’s okay love, I haven’t thrown you to the wolves. I called in a favour and now the walking Nativity is Danilo’s problem.”
For a moment he looked at me as if I had grown an extra head, then the simple beauty of my plan dawned on him. “Oh, wonderful. He has all the resources and the expertise to make it something special. But how did you make him agree?”
“I sicced Grandmother and Bethan on to him.”
“That’d work. But will he do his best in those circumstances. I mean he don’t do anything for nothing, so what’s in it for him?”
“Another BAFTA nomination maybe for the documentary they are going to shoot.”
Ben’s grin spread from one ear to the other and he leaned between the twins to kiss me full on the mouth with much noisy enthusiasm. Roz waited until he lifted his head before pursing her pink rosebud of a mouth and patting his arm.
“See,” she said comfortingly, “me and Ali protected you.”
Ben picked the girls up in his big arms, kissing and tickling them until they were a giggly mess. “You did indeed protect me. Now shall we ask Mummy if she has finished work so we can go home for tea?”

To be concluded tomorrow…

©️Jane Jago

Pa grinned.

“You reckon to sell us a droid we can’t afford?”

“Easy terms if you sign up today.”

“Out’s thataway.”

“Don’t blame me when your outdated droid goes feral and kills your kids.”

“We got so blamed many he’d be welcome to one or two.” Pa put a booted foot up the salesman’s fat arse.

As he drove off Jimmy slid in from the back kitchen. Grinning.

“Had a nearly new XH150 in the trunk. Looks like ole George here is gonna get them knees and elbows what he needs. Plus a brand new pair of baby blue eyes.” 

©️jj 2020

The Fair Maid and Falcon is one of the busiest pubs in the south of England, and quite enough for one woman to run without the complication of a husband who finds it impossible to say no…

It was all the vicar’s fault. She went on a pilgrimage to Oberammergau and came back fired with almost missionary zeal. The parish should, she declared, put on a walking Nativity play. I regarded the whole idea with mild scepticism and tactfully removed my susceptible spouse from her orbit so he shouldn’t be infected with enthusiasm for this madcap scheme.
But I was too late, he had already caught the bug. He came home from a meeting that was ostensibly to discuss maintenance of the churchyard with the sort of spring in his step that I knew had nothing to do with mowing between gravestones.
As soon as lunch service was over, I beckoned him into my office.
“Okay Benny, what you got the wind up your tail about?”
He shuffled his feet a bit and looked shamefaced. It was all I could do not to laugh, but I kept my own face straight and waited.
“Umm…”
“I’m waiting, Ben.”
He came and sat on the corner of the desk.
“How come I can never get anything past you?”
I laughed up at him. “Could it not be just because I love you?”
“No. It’s witchery. And where are the gruesome twosome.”
“Your daughters are at nursery as you know perfectly well. Now stop trying to distract me and fess up.”
“It’s the walking Nativity thing. I might have said that they can finish the story in the barn here.”
“Might have said?” By now I was having extreme difficulty not giggling out loud, but I was determined not to let him off the hook quite yet.
He spread his hands. “It’s your own fault, you never came and protected me. And the vicar and the W.I. ladies ganged up on me.”
That tore it and I laughed until I was breathless. I calmed down to find Ben watching me with the kind of exaggerated patience I normally only get from our German Shepherds.
“Sorry Benny, it’s just that crafty old theologian having the nous to set Mrs Partridge on you.”
He sighed. “Why am I so scared of the chair of the W.I.?”
“I dunno, babe. Maybe it’s the blue hair.”
He thought about that for a moment then shook his head. “No. I reckon it’s the half glasses, and buttressed bosom, and the cardigans. My infant teacher was like that and we were all scared shitless of Miss Weeks.”
I patted him consolingly. “Never mind. Just tell me what you agreed to.”
He actually hung his head. “I ain’t agreed to anything. Except… A meeting here Thursday morning at eleven. Jack Ellis is of the opinion you are going to kill me.”
I sighed. “Tempting though it is to put period to your miserable existence, I couldn’t do without you. But why, specifically am I about to wring your handsome neck for you right now?”
“Because the whole fucking thing is a shambles, and if somebody with superior organisational skills don’t take it in hand…”
He took one look at my face and fled.
When I had stopped swearing and kicking furniture I had a bit of a think. The idea, when it occurred to me was so beautiful in its simplicity that I could feel a smile replacing my frown.

To be continued tomorrow…

©️Jane Jago