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…

Good morrow mes estudas.

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author, raconteur, bon vivant, and lover. You may know me for my classic work of science-fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ but I am not defined by any one genre or style. For me, the entire plethora which fills the vast panoply of literature is my veritable playground.

Ah yes, play! From the innocent games of children, to the mature games we adults play, the make-believe and imagination we hold within can be ejaculated upon the page by the skilled and talented writer, such as one is and you, dear reader who writes, aspire to be.

Which brings us to the topic of my next eloquent endeavour in education.

Erotica

Today we shall tackle the ticklish topic of erotica. A topic more top-full of dilemmas than almost any other.

Firstly we ask ourselves if we should indeed commit to metaphorical paper the most lustful and libidinous and licentious workings of our brains?

Should we decide in the affirmative we must ask ourselves how detailed are our explorations to be. How explicit shall our histories become? How much do we tell and how much leave to the fevered imaginations of our readers?

Having set ourselves such boundaries as seem good, our next quandary is how far we delve into our own personal experiences and fantasies. Should we tell all? Or are we morally obliged to invent and to speak only of our inventions?

Our last question is the delicate matter of gender specification. Can a man write as a woman, or a woman as a man? Is one’s genius able to carry such opposition?

Having settled each question in your mind and to your own complete satisfaction there leaves only to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard and create for your reader that hotbed of chaos and unthinking sensation that is the experience truly erotic. That world of touch, and smell, and stinging slaps, and kisses, and the caress of the flogger, and the forgiving benison of The Act itself. Bring your reader each subtlety, and each affront to previously held notions of decency. Teach him the fear and the ecstasy.

Make him want as your protagonist wants, or you shall have failed.

I offer a small snippet of words to conjure such feelings in the virgin breast as were unknown before.

Conceive if you will, gentle reader, of a holiday cottage somewhere in the depths of rural nowhere. It is as sparsely furnished as such places tend to be, and of creature comforts there are none. Also imagine, if your poor enfeebled brain allows, that the one brought to this place is virginal in all but the very basest sense of that word. That this child comes with untouched sensuality, with eyes wide in both need and fear, with trembling hand, with heaviness in the pit of the stomach, and with a need neither understood nor yet assuaged. Imagine the joy this simple child feels at the hand of that person who sets the self up to be both lover and teacher. Feel with our protagonist the soft caresses that turn the knees to water and the lions to fire. Hear the arousing sound of a hard hand meeting and pinkening the fairest of skin. Feel the kiss of the cat and the bite of the binding rope. Hear the cries of joy as orgasm follows orgasm. Experience the texture of skin on your tongue. The taste of the ultimate gift as your hero drinks of his lover’s joy. Rejoice. And feel envy…

Next week, my students. Ah, next week. Next week, what? That is a mystery in itself. Await my words with baited breath and painful loins and a heart that feels too big for your chest. Await me thus, and you shall see.

Until then.

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.

When did it get to be September?
Where did the summer go?
The wind’s slid out of the gentle south
As autumn begins to blow
The earliest trees are painting their leaves
In hues of russet and gold
While busy squirrels fill their cheeks
And watch the nights unfold
The air round our ears is sharp and clear
Though the sky is still duck-egg pale
It feels like the days at this end of the year
Hear the whisper of winter’s cold tale
When did it get to be September?
How are the nights so cold?
Whose is that wrinkled face in the mirror?
When did we grow old?

©️Jane Jago

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.

I was a bit over optimistic when I spoke of finished business, but at least the hanging ends tied themselves off with no unseemly drama.

As August rolled into September, and the kids went back to school, we received a visitor. Danilo turned up just before lunchtime on a cloudy Tuesday in the company of a stocky guy with a big beard, a leather waistcoat, and a lot of tattoos. Danilo offered his best television smile and introduced Bartley Proudley.
“He is the newly elected baro rom of his family and wanted to come and build a bridge with you if you will.”
I looked at the set of Bartley’s chin, and the muscles that rippled under his tattoos, and wondered what ‘elected’ actually consisted of. I kept the thought to myself, though, and smiled as graciously as I could.
Ben inclined his head. “The baro rom of the Proudlys is welcome to our vardo. Though I would like to be assured that the woman of his household who chose to declare war on me and mine is no longer in a position to aggravate me.”
Bartley showed a set of very white teeth in a wide grin.
“You have my word. That one is now the wife of my brother and under the eye of my own wife.”
I understood the bleak implications of that and leaned into Ben’s warm strength. He gave me a quick squeeze and I made my escape to the kitchen where I donned an apron and helped out in the tapas kitchen. It wasn’t too long before Ben came to find me.
“It’s okay to come out now. Mister Proudly has departed. Danilo too. Although Danilo wasn’t best pleased to be leaving – I think the tapas was calling. But Proudly doesn’t eat in the vardo of gadjos.”
“Normally I hate to lose a sale but I’ll make an exception for that guy. I thought him misogynistic, nasty, and firmly stuck in the nineteenth century, so I bailed out before I lashed out. Sorry.”
Ben pulled me in for a hug. “No need to apologise. You did right. Mister creepy even complimented me on having a properly behaved woman. I accepted the compliment, before telling him, in my best berserker tones, that I was prepared to let bygones be bygones. This once. And only as long as there was no backsliding. I think Danilo enjoyed that bit, as he reminded Proudly that this family is under the protection of the Lovells, and the Smiths, who would take a dim view. Even Mister Inky didn’t fancy that and he gave me his word, backed by a rom vow.”
“So. Do we think we’ve seen the last of his shitty little family?”
Ben’s smile was that of a very happy predator. “We do. Especially when Finoula turned up and harried the retreat. It was beautiful to watch.”
That cheered me no end, as a true Romany clairvoyant putting the fear of god is an irresistible force.
“Is Finoula still here?”
“Yup. And Jed. I talked them into tapas with us in the private garden.”
“Do you need me here?”
Neil shook his head. “No. Were okay, though the extra salads will be a godsend. Bugger off the pair of you. I’ll send over tapas and wine.”
I stripped off my apron and threw it at him. He caught it in one big hand and pretended to mop his brow with it.

Fortunately the autumn weather turned cool and dampish, so trade tapered off from the absolute mania of a record-breaking summer and we had leisure to look about us and make such changes as we could to bulwark the business against further surges. By the middle of October our various protectors had returned to their day jobs, except Simeon, of course, who spent every hour he wasn’t working trying to persuade Morgan to marry him.
I worried that this was a stumbling block in their relationship, but another part of me thought it was a game they both enjoyed immensely. Ben laughed at me, and at their antics.
“They’re young,” he said, “but they know they are meant to be together. For now, it pleases Morgan to pretend she doesn’t know it, and it pleases Simeon to try and trick an admission of commitment out of her.”
I must have looked mulish because he kissed me fondly.
“Morgan has had a lot of shit in her life and she needs to enjoy just being Morgan before she makes an honest man of Simeon.”
“I see that. But does Simeon.”
“Yes. Very clearly. He understands and he loves her enough to let her have her fun.”
“And we know this because?”
“Because he talks to me about her.”
With which I had to be satisfied, until Morgan wanted to talk to me. We were in the office sorting Christmas menus and setting upper limits for party sizes. Etcetera. We finished and I stretched my aching fingers.
“In October I loathe Christmas. But when it comes around I rather love it. Even more so since we have Roz and Allie.”
She tidied her stack of papers and looked at me a bit wistfully.
“What is is, love? What’s put sad in your eyes?”
“It’s Simeon. He wants me to commit to him. To us.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“I do want to. But I’m a bit scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“I’m scared I might love him too much. And I’m scared we’re too young.”
She looked at me like I was the Delphic oracle, which might have been scary if I stopped to think about it. So I didn’t stop.
“You’re nineteen aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“And Simeon is twenty-three?”
Another nod.
“So. When I agreed to marry Ben. I was twenty-one and he was twenty-five. I would have said yes before, but we were interrupted by a small misunderstanding over a predatory female who took flirting as an invitation, and who wanted anything that was mine.”
“How did you manage to get over that?”
“I waited for the scales to fall from his eyes. Which happened pretty quick. What took much longer was him forgiving himself enough to hope we could be together.”
Morgan looked at me. “But you’re never jealous even when Ben flirts outrageously.”
“No. I’m not. I know now that he doesn’t see anybody but me. Also I love him without restraint or restriction. In my book you’re never too young to grasp happiness and you can never love too much.”
She launched herself into my arms and wept a little weep.
“You don’t know how much you helped me. I can’t talk to Mum about this stuff because she’s going to worry if I do and I don’t want to spoil her happy pregnancy with my silly dithering.”
I gave her a little shake. “Debs is wise enough hot to worry about a bit of maidenly dithering, as is Simeon if I don’t miss my guess.”
We left it at that and got on with the work.
Much later, in the comfortable warmth of our bed, I talked to Ben about Morgan. He heard me out in silence before kissing me tenderly.
“I think that about covered it.”
“And I didn’t do wrong by mentioning our little bump in the road?”
“No. You were just explaining.”
I don’t remember what I was going to say next as he distracted me. Masterfully.

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.

It had got dark and by the time Dai had picked up Bryn it was well past time for the evening meal.
“Don’t worry, Bard, we’ll grab some chips and garum when we’ve done this,” Bryn said cheerfully. “So this woman is a real patrician and she was married to one of the sleaziest of sleazebag bad-boy Romans you could ever come across? You have to wonder how that could happen. I thought them families had all kinds of laws that said unless the entire gens agreed, three augurs all peed purple piss on the kalends and the lares farted ‘Salve Oh Divine Augustus’ in harmony, the marriage wasn’t valid?”
Dai grinned. After the day he had just been through it was good to have Bryn’s caustic humour.
“Something like that,” he agreed. “But maybe our friend Rufus just bribed, conned or blackmailed them all.”
“Poor bloody bitch, if so. Would mean she’d been sold off to a wrong ‘un, a real bad boy.”
This apartment block was almost the twin of the one Dai had visited with Julia earlier that day. The same placid exterior, the same mosaic floors with the same designs. It was like having a bad repeating dream. Except this time there was no corpse to welcome them at the door.  Instead, there was a slightly sleepy looking, extremely beautiful girl. She had light brown hair piled up in a very fashionable style, and the most exquisite blue eyes which were set off by the lapis jewellery she was wearing. Dai regretted that so far they could only see her face on the screen by the door.
“Vigiles?” She barely glanced at the ID Dai offered and did not even ask their names. Dai had the feeling this was something of a routine event in her life. “What’s Roo-Roo done now?”
“Can we come in please, domina?” Dai asked politely. “This is something we need to talk about in person.”
“Well, you could,” she said smiling and then put a ripe strawberry in her mouth and licked the juice off her fingers.
“Uh, thank you,” Dai said, a little uncertain when the door remained closed. The face on the small screen smiled at him.
“You could,” she repeated, “but Roo-Roo would kill me if I had any men in the house when he was away.” She looked very serious.
“This is a very important matter concerning Roo-Roo – concerning your husband, domina. Please let me in, or if you insist I can send for a female vigiles to speak with you?”
Her expression changed and she screwed up her nose as if the very idea disgusted her. It seemed an extreme reaction.
“I’d better hope Roo-Roo doesn’t come home whilst you are here then.”

Part XII 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…

Big Bertha had a headache, which meant that most of the gnomes were walking carefully. But there’s always one idiot.
Today it was Norbert, who was voicing the latest conspiracy theories loudly and nasally. He had got to the lizards in human costume who were invading somewhere called the White House when Bertha appeared. She stomped over and squirted something between his teeth.
The ensuing silence reigned unbroken until Bertha disappeared.
“Superglue,” someone whispered. “He’ll be okay in a year or two. If he learns his lesson. Don’t piss off Bertha. And. Listening to biggers is deleterious to gnomely health…”

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

askhole (noun) – mouth

beliveable (adjective) – of a fixer-up house, the state it will attain in about five years

brois (noun) – compulsive liar

canservative (adjective) – self-serving (see brois)

carrit (noun) – measure of orangeness 

delsion (noun) – unsatisfactory explanation 

drafth (adverb) – to drag out unnecessarily as in his accusation was both drafth and probably baseless

freght (noun) – someone else’s luggage found where you expected your own to be

hadnsome (adjective) – a man who may have been good looking in his youth, who is now rather jaded and ragged at the edges

lotal (adjective) – humourless and with a leaning towards religious obsession (Example: The Lotal Singing Nuns of Saint Crumplesham)

otherircumstances (noun) – puzzling twist in a fantasy story usually heralded by the arrival of a mysterious wizard

plitics (noun) – the shenanigans in government that surprise the electorate so much they can’t even say ‘oh’

pointsome (adjective) – handsome, but only in small areas of the body (eg navel, or the baby toe on the left foot)

prinisple (noun) – one of a number of redundant nipples

politcal (adjective) of cake, heavy and tasteless

qween (noun) – very old woman who likes a nip of gin

reep (noun) – the cry of the lesser-spotted blabberbird

somaething (verb) – trying to smoke a damp cigarette

trcik (noun) – a special karate move

uwswall (verb) – the rinsing of one’s mouth at the dentist

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

Aunt Artemisia had long been the repository for family secrets. Telling her something, was as safe as talking in your own head. A visit to her house. A nice cup of tea. Sharing the burden.

It even continued when she moved into residential care. Until one day, while sharing marital issues, Jack got a shock.

“Yes dear. Marianne hates you shouting at the telly.”

Secrets were no longer sacrosanct it seemed.

This changed the family, who started talking to each other.

“Such a shame. Her mind’s gone,” they said.

Artemisia smiled inwardly. She had wanted to do this for years.

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…

Bonjour mes braves,

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV. The teacher beloved of your hearts and minds. The author of the remarkable and much remarked upon science fantasy ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. The pedagogue on whose delicate prose depends your understanding of the literary arts. That happy man who breaks from the few moments of ecstasy this life will allow him to present you with the fruits of his mind and the essences of his labours.

Denouements

Thus far one has been leading you gently by the hand through the rose garden of the literary arts, providing you with the petals of perennial wisdom and alerting you to the sharp, tearing thorns that await the unwary novice as you struggle with your first stumbling steps into the wonders of writing.

Today though, one shall thrust into the meat of the matter, penetrate boldly into the underbrush with decisively strong and muscular intent. For this is the climactic moment of your novel and it needs to leave your reader breathless and fulfilled.

Ah yes, the denouement.

That moment when all becomes clear. That place to which one has been leading, through passages and parlance, the unveiling of understanding where one’s magnum opus finally brings the reader.

It is the climax if you will.

The crescendo when the conductor brings his baton crashing down and the horns blow, and the drums crash, and the strings wail. It is that place where you offer some reason for all that those who travelled stumble-footed through your works endured. That place where you choose whether to bring your reader laughter or tears, happiness or despair, completion or destruction.

It is your big moment. Treasure it. And write it from the bottom of your soul. Use words that drip with drama and exude emotion. Drench it delicious descriptors – all those admirable adjectives and adverbs you have been practising so assiduously. Pump up your prose, that your words are wrought with wonder. Spare not the syllables, for this is the place to prove your true literary worth!

If it is sad, make of it a tragedy. Ensure that it wrenches tears and painful sobs from your reader’s very soul. If it is happy, make it joyous and life-affirming, let it fizz through the bloodstream like champagne and uplift the spirit into ecstatic rapture.

I offer for you one humble exemplar:

When the doorway brought the golden one to his eyes, he felt tears of pain and anticipation sting at the back of his own orbs. Would he be sufficient that such magnificence even deign to notice him? Would he be able to speak around the thorny lump in his throat? Would the dampness of his palms give him away? And what was that hot and heavy sensation in his hitherto unfulfilled loins? He dropped his eyes in real fear, and did not see his destiny approaching him. It was not until a voice like unto nothing he had ever heard before bespoke him that he dared to raise his eyes. He found himself transfixed by a warmly golden gaze and his lips turned up into a smile as the golden one cupped his chin in long fingers and traced the contours of his mouth with the forefinger of the other hand.
“Why do you tremble, pretty one? I won’t hurt you. Much.”

And whether this ending is happy or sad I neither know nor care…

Study well my children.

Next time. Erotica.

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.

I dreamed that I could see the earth
Could fly above the patchwork land
Could oversee both death and birth
Could hold the future in my hand
I dreamed of wonder unalloyed
A world where we could mend what broke
A place we might cry tears of joy
But, come the morning I awoke

©️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.

It wasn’t at all surprising to find Roz and Allie packed into my big chair in front of the wood burner. As we trooped into the family room they leapt into action, but instead of hurling themselves on me and bombarding me with questions, they were quiet, gently patting and petting. When I crouched down to their level they wrapped their arms around me, singing their favourite lullaby in soft voices. I hugged and kissed them.
“I’m all right my loves.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes I am.”
“And Cherry’s husband? Is he really waiting to die?”
“He is. But he’s calm and peaceful now.”
They thought about that for a small while before nodding.
“We think we’d like to go to bed now.”
Ben lifted them into his arms. “Come along then. Mummy and I will come and tuck you in.”
By the time we had done kisses and cuddles, and had a brief cuddle ourselves in the quiet corridor outside the twins’ room, the crowd in the family room had thinned dramatically. Six people sat round the table, although Simeon looked a bit uncomfortable. I put my hand on his shoulder and he looked at me.
“I should go,” he said. “This is a family gathering.”
“And you aren’t family?” I punched him gently. “Morgan is family and you and she are together. That makes you family in my book.”
“Mine too,” Ben said quietly.
Morgan leaned against his arm. “I told you how it would be. Joss and Ben aren’t about excluding people. Me and my mum found that out.”
He grinned at her. “I just don’t want to mess anything up for you.”
“So long as you do as you’re told you’ll be just fine.”
The crows feet that leapt into life around his eyes as he tried not to laugh did my heart good, and turned Morgan into mush. Which she tried to hide by scowling horribly at him.
Stella looked at them and smiled softly, before turning a gimlet eye on me and Ben.
“What have you been at now, Joss? You look like something the cat dragged in and didn’t want.”
Before I could frame a reply, Neil chimed in.
“It went down a bit like this…”
Between Neil, Simeon and Ben there was nothing left for me to explain. For which small mercy I was truly grateful.
Morgan nodded just once, then blew out an explosive breath. “Dad said we shouldn’t be surprised if you were unable to explain tonight.”
“I don’t think I was able,” I could hear the weariness curling through my voice like woodsmoke.
Ellen and Sian were holding hands a thing I hadn’t seen them do since they were little girls.
Ellen spoke up. “Maybe we should all go home and let you rest.”
“No. Please stay a while. Let’s have big drinks and maybe Ben can tell us a filthy joke.”
He smiled and gathered together booze and nibbles. While he was doing that I went around the table hugging everyone. It felt good to touch warm flesh and strong bones after an evening of ghosts and men at death’s door.
Ben finished distributing brimming glasses and dishes of beer nuts. He sat in his big carver chair and pulled me into his lap. I sort of burrowed and he stroked my back.
“I thought someone might find it in their heart to entertain my wife,” he said plaintively.
“Your job, buster.” Neil snorted.
“I think I may be about to be an epic failure because I can’t think of a single filthy anecdote right now.”
Sian rose to the occasion by telling the story of Roz and Allie and the dog leads. Which Ellen capped with a gangster dressed in a dog bed and a pair of slurry pit boots following me across a rain-soaked car park like a pet lamb. Stella opined that at least living at the Fair Maid wasn’t ever boring, and we worked our way back to our version of normal with silliness to camouflage our genuine family feeling.
It wasn’t long before we felt steady enough to say goodnight, but that half hour of repartee helped me back to firm enough ground to feel sleepy and human, instead of halfway between this world and the next and far from those I love.
I slept like a dead thing and only woke when two small blondes scrambled onto my bed and patted my face.
“Time to wake up Mummy Beckett. Sian says you has fifteen minutes to jump through the shower and come to breakfast. She wouldn’t let Daddy come and wake you, because she said he’d interfere with you and your breakfast would be ruined. And you wouldn’t want that because it’s frittata.”
I kissed their rosy faces. “Let me up then.”
They scrambled down and ran off, adjuring me to not be long because they were starving.
I may not have precisely run through the shower but I made it to the table just as Sian was serving up frittata and crispy bacon.
“Bless you, Sian. Though I’m not sure we are paying you enough to look after me as well as my offspring.”
She blew a loud raspberry. “Probably not. So we’ll chalk this up as family shall we.”
Ben hugged her and she grinned at him. “It’s quite nice having two dads,” she opined, “though Ellen foresees trouble when boyfriends start looming large.”
“Not until you are at least forty.”
Roz narrowed her eyes. “What about Morgan and Simeon?”
Allie chimed in. “Yes. Morgan has two daddies and a nice big boyfriend.”
Ben started to look a bit overwhelmed so I stepped in.
“Roz and Allie need to eat their breakfast, and everyone needs to stop pulling Ben’s tail.”
Sian grinned and the twins fell into their breakfasts.
Once we had eaten, Sian shooed us off to work.
“You leave me to sort the gruesome twosome and be off to earn a crust.”
So it was that we started the day laughing, and finished it without any more than the normal small bumps in the road of a business that deals with Joe and Jolene Public on a daily basis.
For the first time in months I felt like we might be out of the woods and I said as much to Ben as we climbed into bed.
He smiled, and I thought how the edges of weariness had dropped off his smile.
“Me too, though I’ll be happier once Cherry is safely buried.”
“That’s certainly a factor, and for two pins I’d get out of bed at dawn to bear witness.”
Esme made her presence known and spoke aloud for both of us to hear.
“You can’t watch Cherry being laid to rest. Only the clairvoyants and Big Jed may do that. But we will be at the crossing to welcome them.”
“If you will help them to the light.”
“We will.”
She kissed my cheek and was gone.
Ben lifted a shoulder. “I was going to suggest a very early morning walk to the Memorial Garden. Seems to have been vetoed.”
“It does. But maybe we can help the girls plant their cherry tree.”
This time it was Grandmother who spoke. “That would be seemly.”

Tuesday rolled around and just as the sun peeped over the horizon I had a dream. I was shown a grassy pathway to a simple stone bridge and allowed to watch as a slender young woman carried her baby across the bridge to where a group of women awaited her. When the dream faded I found myself sitting up in bed with tears rolling down my face. Ben was also awake and as tearstained as me.
“You saw too?” I asked.
“I did. And I’m glad I did. But it wasn’t an easy watch.”
“It surely wasn’t. And I don’t want to go back to sleep in case I see it in my dreams. But what should we do now we are both wide awake at this early hour?”
The sorrow faded from his eyes and by the time he had run through his repertoire of Joss distracting moves I felt smoothed out, very well loved, and ready for breakfast.
I was in the kitchen making a batch of batter for blueberry pancakes when there was a quiet tap on the door. It was Jed.
“When do you want to plant that tree?”
I was about to say who knew what when two voices spoke in unison from the big settee in the sitting room.
“Now.”
Roz and Allie were fully dressed and fully awake.
“Okay. But we have to wait for daddy.”
Ben came in on soft feet. “I’m ready.”
Leaving the dogs on guard duty we walked quietly to the Memorial Garden, where Finoula waited. True to his word, Jed had dug a hole for the sturdy sapling and filled a watering can from the well.
“I’ll hold ‘un steady while you spread the roots.”
The twins nodded and Ben and I stood back as they climbed into the hole and did whatever they felt was necessary, singing quietly all the way as they did so. When they climbed out they held the trunk in their small, muddy hands while Jed filled the hole from a wheelbarrow of sweet-smelling soil. When it was tamped down to the trio’s satisfaction they rolled out strips of verdant turf covering the evidence that anything had happened there. As a final touch, Jed brought out a tray of small plants which the twins gently eased into pockets in the new turf. Job done they stood back and surveyed their work.
Roz pulled on Jed’s sleeve and he crouched down to a level where they could give him hugs and kisses.
“Thank you.”
“You’m entirely welcome.”
I stepped forward and prayed a silent prayer for Cherry, her child, and the husband who would be following her soon. Once I was finished I spread my hands.
“Anybody interested in breakfast?”
Everyone was and we ate in a mood of happy contentment.
Lunchtime saw the arrival of Seanmóir and his associates. They came in with no fanfare, filled up on mountains of tapas and generally behaved like ordinary customers. If you looked closely it was possible to discern a certain sadness underlying the perfect manners, but I decided that was none of my nevermind and went to work on the VAT books. It was a good while later when Ben found me. He slipped into the office and shut the office door quietly.
“Can I get a hug?”
I obliged and he held on tightly, rubbing his face in my hair.
“What’s up, love?”
“Them lot out there. Ordered a round of John Jameson. And the oldest man said something very quietly before they all downed their drinks. I think they were toasting Cherry.”
“Very likely. Are they gone now?”
“They are. Paid their shot. Left a ginormous tip and bowed to me as they went out to their cars. With drivers who all got fish and chips.” He scratched his head. “ I think it was the civility and impeccable manners that got to me.”
I nodded. “Yup that’s fucking unsettling. Shall we go and have a drink to finished business?”
He all but dragged me to the bar where we both had a reviving glass of wine.

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.