It was very quiet in the stacks, even the children’s books hushed their chatter and gently rustled their pages as if waiting.
The night librarian moved from shelf to shelf, carefully straightening spines and smoothing wrinkled pages. Her felt-slippered feet made no sound on the ancient stones of the floor, and all that could be heard was her voice softly reassuring her charges.
“Have no fear. All is as it should be.”
The books relaxed under the ministrations of her square, brown hands until at last she came to the place of grimoires and books of spells.
In this area, the darkness was deep and charged with the sort of power that ought to make the average human female fall to the ground afraid.
But the librarian was no average female and her sturdy, cardigan clad body absorbed the leaking magics with no evidence of strain, though an observant watcher might have noticed a strange sparkle in her pale eyes.
“Who is losing power?” she asked.
Me. Me. Me. Half a hundred voices echoed in the starless air.
The librarian stood quietly, listening to each and every complaint. When the clamour died down she took a small, gnarled stick from her pocket and walked thought the books touching apparently random spines as she walked.
She had just reached the end of the section called ‘majical tomes’ when there came a sound as of a muted bell.
Every book in the library signed.
“The old one comes.”
“Is it safe for me, librarian?”
“Aye. The leaks in the wall have been sealed and you may breathe your last among the stories you have wrote if that be your desire.”
“It is,” the voice ended on a sigh that was all at once as gentle as the breath of a lover and as wild as the wind that drives the cruel sea. Every book in the place rustled its pages just once, before settling into its given place without another sound.
The librarian walked to that place where once a mighty pentagram had been drawn in the white stones with the blood of a pure hero. She moved to the very centre of that circle of power and held out her hands with the nobbly stick resting across her palms.
Came a flaw in the light and her place was taken by an old, old man whose torn cloak showed glimpses of the starry universe through the rents in its fabric.
As one, the books began to count down in time to the single silver bell that tolled the hours from the highest point on the library roof.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…
Bong! Bong!
The brassy tongues of every bell in the university city tolled the end of the old year and the birth of the new.
The old man collapsed into a pile of rags and for a second it was as if time itself stopped.
“Requiesce in pace.”
The librarian’s voice broke the silence and a small wind blew away the rags and dust, leaving in their stead a tall young man with golden hair and the beauty of a classical athlete. He bowed thrice to the plain little librarian who shimmered with the light of power as she reappeared in the circle.
“Gracias ago tibi, mater.”
Then he was gone and only the librarian remained breathing heavily, as if she had run a long way. A voice from one of the stacks spoke softly.
“It must be hard to see your child die.”
“It is necessary. Unless one child dies the next has no birth. Now sleep my dears.”
And the librarian went up the stairs to her bedroom with a heart as heavy as lead and as light as a carnival balloon. As she laid her head on her cool white pillow she smiled.
“Endings and beginnings,” she said before she fell asleep.

©️ Jane Jago

You can find other stories about the Night Library in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago

The Christmas tree stood slap bang in the centre of the village green, in the sturdy socket where the maypole was fitted in its turn.
It was a handsome tree, if barely decorated and wholly lacking Christmas magic.
Em found its sheer joylessness offensive, and said as much to her best friend as they sat in Agnes’ cozily disordered sitting room enjoying hot chocolate with marshmallows on top.
Agnes scratched her head. “You may have a point. No. You do have a point. Even the little kids aren’t interested. It’s just a big old tree with about ten dim lights on it.”
“Precisely. And that doesn’t feel right somehow.”
Agnes had known Em for a very long time. “What are you up to Emmeline Vanderbilt?”
“Nothing.”
Nobody said ‘yet’ but it hung in the air like the proverbial elephant.
Agnes applied herself to her hot chocolate in the vain hope that Em might forget all about the Christmas tree. It wasn’t as if Em was even a particularly Christmas-y female, deeming the festival to be a triumph of consumerism, so perhaps there was even hope. No more was said on the subject but Agnes was left with an itchy feeling in her skin, and the uncomfortable certainty that Em was very rarely willing, or able, to leave well enough alone.

Two days later, all of the Little Botheringham seven sat together in Ellen’s house. When everyone had a glass of a very nice red wine, courtesy of Em, and a handful of Lilian’s Caribbean spiced beer nuts, Petunia asked the question that five of her sisters had been edging round.
“Okay Em. What gives? You called an emergency meeting, and now you are sitting there all tight-lipped and giving us nothing. Talk, will you…”
Everyone else sort of winced, although Petunia seemed unphased and regarded Em with one upraised eyebrow. For a moment, Em’s reaction hung in the balance then she shrugged and grinned.
“It’s the Christmas tree.”
Agnes groaned. “Why ain’t I surprised.”
“Because you know me quite well. And because you know as well as I do that the tree is a damp squib this year.”
To just about everyone’s surprise Ginny smiled fiercely. “And it should be magic.”
“Precisely.” Em grinned at Ginny finding it hard to see any trace of the downtrodden creature who had entered their lives a year and a half ago. Now Ginny was sleek and glossy and perfectly well able to stand on her own feet – although she had lost none of the kindliness and care for others that had been the best part of her while she was still an

ordinary mortal.
Ellen sighed. “Okay. It’s a given that the tree is crap. Partly because of the bugs and stuff, but mostly because the parish council has decided the tree is ‘common’ and not inclusive, and a lot of the bastards are still sulking about the golf club they thought they were going to get.”
“True, and eventually we are going to have to get people on the council, but that won’t sort out today’s problem.”
“What will?” Agnes spoke with unusual sharpness. “We can’t be doing anything dramatic. It’s not important enough for that.”
“Not important?” The others rounded on Agnes, who leaned back in her chair and laughed fatly. “Right. We now know that everyone is on board.”
Em leaned over and patted her friend on the thigh. “You crafty old bat,” she said, not bothering to hide her amused admiration, “it’d have taken me two hours of arguing to get this lot in line, but you got them with three sentences.”
“Everybody needs an ology – mine is psych.”
“Yup, you are certainly a psychopath.” That was Petunia again. The class clown.
“Cycle path? Well her ass so wide enough to ride a bike over.” Lilian cackled at her own wit.
“At least I ain’t so skinny that I have to by my clothes at ‘bones are us’.”
“Nah. You get them at ‘rent a marquee’ don’t you.
By now the loud girls were howling with mirth and Em had visions of a very long day. However, someone else took a hand.
“Shut up you lot. Let’s hear what our beloved leader has in mind.” Jamelia seldom spoke so firmly and it had the desired effect. Silence fell, and six pairs of expectant eyes were turned on Em.
“Okay. I have looked at our options and we don’t have that many. But. I think I have a plan that works. A Children’s Christmas sponsored by The Ladies Circle. Outdoors. I can get that Tristram to provide a big screen and some electrics, also he is willing – after a bit of arm twisting – to put a couple of his apprentice assholes on making a film of the children doing their school nativity play.”
Agnes nodded. “So far so good. What else?”
Lilian stuck up a skinny arm. “Some proper barbecue? Loaded rolls and maybe hot chocolate?”
“Something of that ilk.”
“Music. Will have to be recorded. Otherwise we will run foul of the rules.”
The spate of shouted suggestion and counter suggestion was both loud and protracted, and it might have gone on even longer if Em hadn’t chosen to exert her influence as Queen. She concentrated briefly and her aura made itself felt. The room gradually quieted and Em inclined her head to Jamelia, who had been quietly writing in her ever-present notebook.
“Right. Tristram and his kiddy film. I reckon Agnes is the best one among us to keep an eye on that – being the one with most children. Food and drink. Lilian, Petunia and Ellen. With Lilian in charge.
Invitations you can leave to me and Ginny. That means Em is in charge of doing something about that deplorable excuse for a Christmas tree. Which is what she intended all along.”
“Indeed. Are we in agreement then?”
All hands were raised.
“What date are we looking at?” Lilian asked. “I need to know. Food and all. And budget?”
“December 18th. The kids’ last day at school. And the budget is flexible. Whatever you can’t get donated we can cover.”
Ellen put her hand up. “How about if the children get to keep their hot chocolate mugs? I know a potter who has madly overproduced Christmas ones and I’m sure she could be persuaded to do us a deal.”
“Good thinking. Hot chocolate and maybe gluhwein?” Lilian nodded, then she gave Em a sharp birdlike glance. “I won’t spend too much of your money dear.”
Ginny looked hard at Em.
“Why do I have the idea there is something you are not telling us?”
Agnes laughed. “Because there is always something she isn’t telling us. We just have to hope she ain’t bitten off more than she can chew.”
Em was offended. “When did I ever?”
“You want a list?”
The room dissolved into helpless laughter and Agnes poured everyone a fresh drink.
There wasn’t a lot of time to get the thing off the ground, but vampires have huge resources of normally untapped energy to call on so everything got done in a timely manner. Even if a couple of young computer nerds did learn rather a lot of really fruity language, while some local businessmen found themselves wondering precisely how they came to agree to sponsor such a small event…

The night of December the eighteenth saw a lorry creeping quietly down the village street and a crew of burly young men in orange coveralls converging on the Christmas tree, tutting and swearing. A couple of extremely powerful arc lights made the green as bright as day and the young men soon stripped off the paltry excuse for decoration that had halfheartedly draped the tree, replacing it with a fairytale concoction of silver and white – with hundreds of tiny artificial candles on the ends of the branches. Within the hour they were gone, although anyone truly observant might have noticed one of their number calling at Em’s house and having brief conversation with the lady herself. But those who are observant are also wise enough to not ask questions.

Friday morning, and a steady stream of hefty young men, under Lilian’s acerbic guidance, set up the barbecues and lit the charcoal in the huge braziers that would add warmth as well as the scent of herbs and roasting chestnuts to the event.
Promptly at two-thirty another lorry crept into the village, but this one parked at the edge of the green. Agnes went and had a word with the driver, who accepted a large pack of untidy sandwiches and raised one oily thumb.

Agnes phoned Em. “Everything is in order here, and the tree looks lovely. But where’s the magic.”
“You are a bigger kid than the kids. And you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Em ended the call and sat down with a bit of a bump. Erasmus dropped from his perch to land on her shoulder.
“It will work,” his coolly precise tones echoed in the vaults of her head. “The small ones owe you, and they know it. They will not fail. And besides which they are quite looking forward to being angels instead of demons.”
Em was comforted, even if she couldn’t help a small niggle of worry. Erasmus laughed, not unkindly. “Your kind can never quite give up the insecurities of being human. But perhaps that is for the best, you are enough of a force of nature without fancying yourself infallible.”
“You are such a comfort to me. Not. But, on the other hand, how does an overripe banana grab you?”
“By the testicles.”
Em went to the kitchen.

It was six o’clock when Agnes banged perfunctorily on Em’s back door.
“I’m coming. I’m coming.”
Em emerged, wrapped in the softest of shearling lamb and booted to the knee in conker-bright leather.
“Show time,” she said brightly before shutting the door and leading the way towards light and brightness and good smells.
Two hours later: the Christmas film had been watched and applauded madly, while an inordinate amount of pulled pork, hot chocolate and booze had disappeared down the throats of young and old alike. The church clock struck eight and as the last chime fell into the night the lights on the green went out, as did the village street lamps. The sudden dark might have been frightening if it wasn’t for the music that filled the air. Then a voice spoke.
“All the stars in the heavens came to bless the child who lay in a manger.”
And the sky was filled with twinkling stars coming from the direction of the church to fly round and round the tall tree. At first the light reflected from the silver bells and streamers, but then…
“Look. Look.” It was the voice of a child. “The stars are lighting the candles on the Christmas tree.”
Sure enough, one by one, the hundreds of candles on the tree were springing to life as the ‘stars’ flew dizzily round and round. Then, one by one, the shining stars flew away, back towards the church where it was outlined by a rising moon.
As if that was not magic enough a great voice cried out from the sky. “Come Dasher, come Dancer, come Prancer, come Vixen, come Comet, come Cupid, come Donner, come Blitzen, come Rudolph.”
And there He was – on his sleigh perched atop the lorry which had brought the cinema screen and electronic wizardry to the village. He stood, tall and strong, throwing brightly wrapped gifts into the crowd.
As the lights in the village slowly blinked back on, a cloud briefly crossed the moon.
When the children looked again, Santa was gone, and so were the shining stars, but the gifts on the ground were real and the candles flickered and gleamed on the Little Botheringham Christmas Tree…

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

Oh Someone Take Me Home Please

(To be sung with feeling to the tune of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful‘)

I can’t get a taxi and my feet are freezing
Nobody wants to help a girlie in the rain
Come and assist me
You could even kiss me

Oh someone take me home please
Before my tits they do freeze
Before I widdle on my knees
It’s only half past ten

Stood at the bus stop both feet in a puddle
Nobody knows if there’s a bus tonight or when
Come and assist me
You could even kiss me

Oh someone take me home please
Before my tits they do freeze
Before I widdle on my knees
It’s only half past ten

My coat is soaked through, ditto both my best shoes
And there’s a weirdo in a very dirty mac
Come and assist me
You could even kiss me

Oh someone take me home please
Before my tits they do freeze
Before I widdle on my knees
I’ll ne’er come out again

The Inevitable New Year Bash

With Christmas over you might assume it safe to stick your face back up over the parapet.
Wrong.
When your finances are at their lowest ebb, and your face and figure are showing the ravages of Asti and chocolates the new year and its attendant horrors sneers at you from the pages of the calendar emblazoned with inspirational quotes that his mother bought – meaning you can neither throw it in the bin nor deface it horribly.
However. I digress.
The best advice is to be anywhere but at home. Sadly that isn’t going to happen. And when your dearly beloved suggested inviting a ‘few’ folks around for New Year’s Eve you should really have pinned him down on the word few.
So – you have just discovered that ‘a few folks’ consists of the rugby club, the darts team, his running buddies and most of the local Young Farmers. Unfortunately, this doesn’t constitute grounds for justifiable homicide (or divorce)…
What to do.
After you finish kicking his ass, make him empty the garage and borrow his Aunty Betty’s caravan awning. This party is coming nowhere inside your house. Get straw bales for seating. Hire a couple of horrible portable toilets and some space heaters. Get the ancient ghetto blaster out of the attic. And dress warmly
Catering should be basic.
Booze wise offer only beer. Anybody wanting anything else can effing well buy it themselves.
Food?
Tempting though it is to go down the route of crisps, nuts and the sweets nobody likes from the selection boxes this is a dangerous way to go.
Better by far is to construct a huge vat of stew with the leftover turkey and as much root veg as you can blackmail the husband into peeling. Vegetarians can be catered for with a bean pot of equally large proportions. Serve in paper bowls with plastic spoons and huge chunks of bread.
Job done.
Zero washing up and enough stomach lining to prevent alcoholic poisoning, drunken orgiastic behaviour, or the annual drunken brawl…
A final word of warning.
Let nobody in the house or you will discover said person asleep under the stairs on about the 5th of January…

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

Aftermath

(To be sung up tempo and with verve to the tune of ‘Good King Wenceslas Looked Out‘)

All the family’s sparked out
Now the feast is eaten
Roast ‘taties and brussel sprouts
Left in heaps uneven
Brightly burned the brandy flame
When the pud was served up
But although I can’t complain
I’m so stuffed I could throw up.

‘One more mince pie, help yourself’
That was my undoing
Now I can’t see my feet no more
‘Cos of all that chewing
Washed it down with cherry schnapps
And some fine prosecco
Now I need a good long nap
As the carols e-echo.

Now its least an hour past
Since we all were dining
Memories of that repast
Rapidly declining
Then someone brings in the cake
And we all have slices
Oh yes, a second piece I’ll take
Or maybe three suffices…

This is the season of gift-giving and we shall not be remiss. Please take your pick of any or all of the books below as a gift from us to you!

Dying to be Fathers – Dai is kidnapped and Julia has to find him before it’s too late.

Dying on the Streets – a serial killer is murdering women. Dai and Julia are on the case.

Dying for a Present – Dai and Julia find that danger comes very close to home at Saturnalia .

Team Holly – a shocking thriller around a dysfunctional family Christmas.

Winter Warmers – tales for cold nights.

Twelve Tales of Christmas – what it says on the can.

The Pirate and The Don - dirty deeds on the seven seas.

Sir Barnabas and the Dragon - not all quests are noble and beautiful

Fortune’s Fools I – III: Transgressor – an omnibus of the first three books of epic space opera.

Fortune’s Fools IV – VI: Haruspex – an omnibus of the second trilogy in this epic space opera.

The Fated Sky – only want to dip your toes in the water of Fortune’s Fools? This is the first book!

You can listen to this on YouTube too!

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 being read on YouTube.

It was Christmas Eve and the darkness of the library was alive with twinkling lights as children, and small creatures carrying glow worm lanterns, climbed the stacks to the floor and joined an ever-growing procession to where a noble Norway Spruce speared the darkness with its scented branches. As the crowd around its feet grew thicker, the Christmas tree seemed to grow ever taller and more majestic, then, one by one, the candles on its branches took light.
A dumpy little human female stepped into the light and immediately a clamour went up around her.
“Miss. Miss. Read us the story. Read us about the baby in the stable. Please miss.”
The librarian smiled and went to the place where Holy Books of many callings were shelved. A heavy, hand tooled volume leapt into her arms and for a second she staggered under its weight. She smoothed its tooled leather, reflecting on how the stories within its covers had conquered the world with more effectiveness than all the guns, and all the bombs, and all the wars.
Back beneath the tree an overstuffed armchair had materialised. It smiled and beckoned her into its wide lap. As she sat and opened the huge Book, there came a loud bang and a furious face appeared.
“No,” the creature cried in a voice like thunder. “No. You shall not read this lie.”
“And is it any more of a lie than that which your children purvey on Walpurgisnacht? Or at any sabbat in any sacred grove?”
It lifted its insubstantial muzzle and howled defiance and misery. “I will drag that book from your hands and rend it to pieces with my bare claws. I will make it burn as it sits on your frail human legs. I will…”
The creatures around the Christmas tree began to be afraid and the librarian held up a hand to stop the enraged grumbling of the shadow demon.
“You will,” she said firmly, “do nothing. You can do nothing. You are a creature of smoke and mirrors not even as substantial as the book children gathered at my knee. Now begone with you before you make me angry.”
The demon attempted a sneer, but it was of very little consequence when faced with the strong will and common sense that defined the straight backed little human who faced him without a shred of fear. Even as he made an effort to draw in his will she pointed a finger.
“Did I not just tell you to go away?”
It seemed as if the sending would defy her and she frowned, muttering a brief incantation under her breath. There was a strong smell of sulphur then the face collapsed into itself leaving only a momentary pool of blackness before even that disappeared.
The Night Librarian stood up. She put the Book on the soft chair and smiled at the little ones.
“I just need to make sure there are no interruptions to your story. I shall not be a moment. You all can sing the candle song while you wait.”
A chorus of small, and it has to be said mostly tuneless, voices followed her as she crossed the shadowed stacks. When she reached the section devoted to dark magicks she clapped her hands sharply.
“Who was responsible for that little outburst?”
There was no answer, only a feeling of oppression in the air. The librarian sighed and took a small knobbly stick from her pocket. She held it in both hands whilst turning a careful three-sixty degree circle. Widdershins.
“Now then. I asked a question.”
Two figures materialised behind the locked gates of the shelves where the grimoires squatted.
“Oh. I might have known it was you two. You may come out to explain your actions.”
Beelzebub and Dambala Ouedo shouldered their way out from behind the grating and came to tower over the small human.
“It isn’t fair,” Beelzebub said, and his voice sounded surprisingly like a toddler whining. “This place is for all faiths. You should not read them that thing.”
“You never,” his companion by contrast was both smooth and insinuating, “tell the children our stories. We are here to demand our moment in the candlelight.”
The librarian sighed. “Did we not burn candles to you on All Hallows Night? Were there not stories enough for you then?”
“But you did not read them.”
“You did not come from your warm bed in the dead of night, on a day when even you are not needed here, just to read our stories.”
“No. I did not.”
“And what if we demand that you do?” Beelzebub drew himself up to his full seven feet and reached out a burning and cicatrised claw to grab the librarian’s upper arm.
There was a smell of burning flesh, but it was the demon who flinched.
The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.”
Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?”
“If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.”
The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces.
“Very well. You may come.”
They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd.
The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read.
“And it came to pass…”
As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it.
All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling.
A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.”
There was a wave of laughter, and the audience settled back with an aura of expectation that almost broke the librarian’s heart.
And now, she thought sadly, we wait and eventually the little ones will go to bed disappointed. I wish he would come. Just once. Just for the little ones.
The silence was stretching a little thin when, from somewhere and nowhere, there came the sound of silver bells. The librarian clasped her small square hands, hardly daring to believe, as the bells came closer and hearty laughter filled the air.
They came with a rush and the smell of snow: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. They came with the sound of bells and his laughter warming the hearts of the tinies around the librarian’s warmly slippered feet.
He turned his ruddy cheeked, snowy bearded face towards her and smiled.
“Have your charges been good children?”
She nodded, hardly trusting her voice, but it seemed he understood because he thrust a hand into his sack and broadcast shiny wrapped presents with seemingly no regard for what went where. But he must have known as each creature and each child got a gift suitable to themselves. Nothing was ostentatious but nobody was missed. Even the dragons got chocolate wrapped in gold paper.
The librarian watched them play for a while before getting up from her chair and returning a slightly disapproving Book to its place on the shelves. She turned her back on the happy children and made her way up the worn stone stairs to her tower room where she fell into bed smiling.
As she slept, a gnarled hand smoothed the sandy hair from her broad brow before placing a hand knitted sock bulging with treats at the foot of her prim little bed.

From ‘The Night Library at Christmas’ one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

To say The Crown and Sceptre was crowded was to understate the case. Em found herself wedged firmly between Agnes and Ishmael listening to Ginny with, she was very much afraid, her mouth half open.
“So. I was digging through my files on DumpCorp and I came across some allegations about the behaviour of company employees when they were in Scotland ‘negotiating’. Nothing, it seemed, could be proved, but I knew in my gut that DumpCorp was as guilty as hell. I sat and read them through again and I promised myself that this time I wouldn’t be silenced.”
Agnes pushed a glass in Ginny’s hand.
“You sup up and explain properly missy.”
Ginny grinned. “Okay. In addition to the suggestion that at least one croft was torched, there were some complaints from the families of barely of age girls. And they concerned Dump and Schilling. Sadly it was the usual case of somebody’s word against somebody else’s. And it got swept under the carpet. Then there was the case I was involved in personally.”
She stopped speaking and Em thought tears were very close to the surface. But Ginny, as the sisterhood was beginning to learn, was made of stern stuff under the fluffy exterior and she pressed on.
“Okay. We had all the evidence and everything should have been on our side. But then Schilling took my ex-husband out to lunch and suddenly the bottom fell out of our case. It ended my marriage. And it took me five years to find out why the weak fool folded. I had always thought that Schilling paid him off. But he didn’t. Turns out my ex had another ‘wife’ and a child and he was simply told that the kid would disappear if he didn’t do as he was told. The rest, as they say, is history. But I did promise myself that I’d have my day with them two.”
Jamelia got up from her end of the table and managed to insert herself on the bench next to Ginny. She took Ginny’s hand in hers and Ginny’s smile grew stronger.
“Today seemed to me to be my only chance to face them so I made my plans.”
She was still wearing the ugly hat and put up her hand in a gesture that mirrored what she had done earlier in the day. When she opened her hand there was about six inches of needle sharp steel in the palm. It was an ornate Victorian hatpin.
“Old trick from when I was regularly attending protests. Wear a hat, then you have an excuse for a sharp weapon…”
Em leaned forward and picked the thing up. “That’s some weapon. Are you telling me you stabbed Dump with it?”
“Yup. Right in the fat bit under his thumb. I never thought I would be able to do that to another human being…”
She looked so shocked that Agnes laughed her most comfortable laugh. “I reckon you’re off the hook there, sister, whatever that thing may be biologically it isn’t a human being anywhere that counts.”
“That’s sophistry, and it shouldn’t make me feel any better. Although it does…”
Em put out a hand and touched Ginny’s shoulder. “You, my sister, have nothing to reproach yourself with. Your intervention may just have turned the day and stopped that madman blasting around him with his popgun.”
Ginny’s smile was so bright that it was all but blinding to look on. “Are we safe then? Have we really won?”
It was Jamelia who answered. “Oh yes. We’ve won right enough. And there is no wriggle room. The housing estate is safe.”
“And Dump?”
“Oh. Him? They hailed him away in a police van. Kicking and screaming. They were talking mental instability and asking for a doctor to be in attendance.”
Em took over. “His goose is cooked. Plus, of course, this is going viral online.”
She passed Ginny her phone and watched her sister’s face break into a delighted grin as she saw a grainy image of herself facing up to the two men and the close up of Schilling spitting in her face.
Jamelia put a finger on the screen. “And that, my brave friend, has just about put a huge nail in the coffin of DumpCorp’s plans for world domination.”
There didn’t seem to be much left to say when a huge pair of hands placed a tray of drinks on the centre of the table.
“Drink up ladies. I reckon you are owed a few drinks.”
Em looked into the eyes of one of the Saturday night fighters and he dropped her a huge wink.
“Wasn’t just us, you know.”
“Yeah. But you lot were like the bloke that stands in front of an orchestra waving a stick. We can all play our instruments, but we needed somebody to herd us together.”
Em supposed he had a point although she hadn’t a clue what to say to him, but it was okay – Agnes had her back.
“Just so long as everyone is safe,” she said. Then she chuckled fatly. “You and the Jocks made up your differences?”
The young giant gestured with his thumb and Em turned for a look. Almost all of the pub garden seemed to have been taken over for some sort of a congratulatory party involving the Saturday night boys, the older majorettes, the marching band, and the Scottish pipers. Someone had dragged in an electric piano from who knew where and the dancing was energetic if less than ballroom.
Em felt her grin grow wider as one of the majorettes came into the room and dragged a pair of rather rusty swords off the wall.
“It’s a challenge,” her speech was slurred and her eyes were bloodshot, but she was game for all that. “Them bliddy jocks has challenged us to have a bash as sword dancing.”
Agnes elbowed Em in the ribs.
“Get out there will you. The honour of the village is at stake.”
Em got up and toed off her shoes.
“Let the dog see the rabbit,” she said firmly.
As she formed the antlers with her fingers the Scottish pianist struck up Ghillie Callum. Em’s feet flew and the place fell silent around her save for one very pissed Caledonian.
“Well booger me backwards with a haggis. The old sassenach bird can bludy sword dance.”

A festive episode of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…

Hear the Carol Singers

(To be sung loudly and with much exuberance to the tune of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing‘)

Hear the carol singers yowl
Make a noise that’s bloody foul
Make their way from door to door
Take the cash to sing no more
Joyfully they stamp around
Bringing misery to the town
Every household full of fears
Stuffs its fingers in its ears
Praying they will go away
Not come back another day

Hear the carol singers’ feet
Ringing loudly on the street
Singing chorus, chanting verse
Voices getting worse and worse
As they drink the hip flasks down
All the melodies they drown
Singing songs so raucously
Nobody asks them in for tea
Because they yodel so badly
In their ears they get a flea

Hear the carol singers yowl
Make a noise that’s bloody foul
Make their way from door to door
Take the cash to sing no more…