Hobbinol

To celebrate this midwinter, we're proud to share Jay Taverner's Prologue to Rebellion. 'In a feudal world of aristocrats and peasants, The Lady Isabella and her gamekeeper's daughter, Hope, are girls of sixteen. From high society through highway robbery and alongside the perils of war, Hope and Isabella share a passionate coming-of-age.'

'

The candles leapt and guttered, and they were in the room. 

Bell shivered. She had been afraid of the horned men all her life. When she was a tiny girl, Sir Walter had tossed her into the arms of their leader, laughing, asking a blessing on his youngest, and she had smelt the village smells of soot and dirt, and over them the strange acrid herbs of the face paints, and the rot of ancient fur. The horned man had grinned at her, and his teeth were huge as the antlers branching out of his eyes. 

She looked for him now; but there was no man amongst them so large as Jack Smith. She had found out he was really the smith long ago, but it made no difference to the terror he carried in his horns and huge, ribboned skirts when he came at the turn of each New Year. Now the six dancers stamped their clogs on the flags, and horns and ribbons shook.

They were masked strangers. 

Their piper stood in the doorway, and began the dancing tune; as they tilted their heads and brought stiff hands to their waists, the piper ran in small and lithe, and began to step a way between them, round them, and then out in a sinuous line to weave the spectators into their spell. The pipe shrilled. Bell watched the line pass behind the servants in the flickering dark under the gallery: Ben and Matt, John Dickson, Mistress Johnson, Dolly - the piper was no taller than the women of the household, but strange, in white breeches and shirt stiff with ancient embroidery; and flesh all green. 

The inhuman face came slowly towards her, down the line of her kin, ducking in front of Sir Walter, but not with deference, no bow, more as if daring the family to answer the music's call. She tightened her hands in her lap. The piping tune came to her, passed close in a wisp of air warmed by the prancing body, danced behind her, shrilling, mocking. She held her neck rigid as a board. The little winding melody came close; in the corner of her eye the green head and hands reappeared – leaning over her shoulder, playing right into her face, then whisking away. Bell gasped; she had been holding her breath. As the tune retreated, the piper dancing, leading the others towards the far door, she found she wanted them to turn and come back. As if called, the green face turned towards her, and stood still. The dance was over, the stamping and the music stopped; the pipe was lowered.

Sir Walter applauded and called for drink for the Mossmen of the Moor. Benchley carried in the big old wassail bowl, and the Lord touched it to his lips, and handed it to the dancers. They were half themselves again now, villagers standing awkwardly in the Manor hall; but still the pride was in them and their horns. The piper drank last, and carried the bowl back to the household. Sir Walter said, 'Do you offer it to my family, Hobbinol: all mine shall drink with you.'

Bell saw James's lip twitch in disgust, but he could not refuse the custom; he smoothed his ruffles down and touched his fingers to the bowl, and his lip to the brim opposite the place where their paint had spread an oily half-moon. As he let go, his eyes flicked suddenly at the green face; the piper turned quickly and came to Bell. Their eyes met. The surge of response came up in her belly again; but it was not fright, as when the smith had enveloped her in his strangeness, nor did she share her brother's distaste.  She put out her hands, and held those that held the bowl, drawing them towards her. She could scarcely swallow the warm cider.

The spell was quickly broken by James's snicker, and a whisper to Alistair at his side; the piper swiftly bowed, leaving the bowl in her hands, and darted away into the darkness outside the candles; the dancers with a final clatter of clogs trooped out. 'I see our sister is spellbound,' said James in his low voice, 'Perhaps a good thing Hobbinol was a wench this year.'

The Gateways Club

The Gateways Club, just off Chelsea’s Kings Road in London, was the longest surviving lesbian club of the 20th century, open from 1931 to 1985. It also became the most famous, when it featured in the 1968 Hollywood movie, The Killing of Sister George, where real life club members came out on screen, dancing cheek to cheek in front of millions, before gay liberation ever hit the headlines.

In her book, From the Closet to the Screen - Women at the Gateways Club 1945-85, Jill Gardiner shares the stories of 80 women who went there. They include the author, Maureen Duffy, whose best-selling 1966 novel The Microcosm, immortalised the club, and grew out of interviews with its members; Maggi Hambling, the artist, who arrived on New Year's Eve, dressed as Bonnie, then changed her costume to Clyde at midnight; sociologist Mary McIntosh, who wrote 'The Homosexual Role', and Pat Arrowsmith, the peace campaigner, who listed the Gateways as her club in Who’s Who.

But how did anyone ever find the Gateways in the early days when clubs didn’t advertise and many a young woman grew up thinking she was the only one in the world who felt this way?

It was 1963. I hadn’t identified myself as a lesbian. I persuaded my boyfriend to go to this weird pub in Soho full of drag queens. There was this woman sitting opposite me with her boyfriend. A couple of drinks later, I suddenly found myself asking her if she had ever wanted to go to a queer club. She said, ‘Funnily enough, yeah.’ Our boyfriends looked pretty gob-smacked. The next week, she and I went back to Soho and found the Huntsman in Berwick Street. It was an eye-opener to me, full of people boasting how much they’d nicked that day. At about 3am an axe came through the door. There was some sort of gang conflict going on. It was mayhem, and the police arrived, at which point all the same-sex partners dancing switched to the opposite sex. I found myself dancing with a bloke called Bobby.   -  Marion

Through her visit to the Huntsman, Marion found the Gateways.

That was my introduction to the gay world, and although it was exciting I knew I wasn’t going to meet anyone like me. A lot of the women in the Huntsman said they’d been in children’s homes and were living off the streets. The femmes were often on the game and one of the aspirations of the younger butchy types was to become a pimp.

The Huntsman during the day became an ordinary cafe called the Coffee Pot. After we’d had a big raving session one night, I was still there in the morning, having a pot of coffee when this young woman came in, Sasha, and she knew some of the people I was with. She was gay: I couldn’t believe it. She was setting up her own business as a couturier and had been to a material shop nearby, and she knew some of the people I was with. She had lots of eye make-up and bouffanted dark hair and was dressed very trendily.

Sasha introduced me to the Gateways. I remember Gina [one of the owners] sitting at the bottom of the stairs, in a black dress, and I was impressed that she looked very sophisticated. There was a man in a suit behind the bar, and Greta said, ‘That’s Ted, that’s Gina’s husband’, and I just couldn’t work it out. Smithy [often assumed to be Gina’s lover] was there too, a woman with fair cropped hair, polishing glasses.

I was excited that there must be lots of people like myself around who had ordinary jobs. I was struck by the ordinariness of everybody - they just looked like a cross section of women you would see walking around the streets. I identified as a hippy at the time. I had long hair, jeans and purple boots with Cuban heels: slightly more ‘unisex’ than most people there.

Someone came up to me and said that blonde Archie had sent her over. Archie was  very good-looking but a bit frightening. She’d sent over to find out if I was butch or femme. I said I didn’t know and I got a message back saying, that I ought to make my mind up soon or I might find myself in a bit of trouble.   -  Marion 

© Jill Gardiner

From the Closet to the Screen is available at:

Gay’s the Word bookshop in London (who deliver almost anywhere worldwide)

City Books in Hove   

BFI Shop 

The War Memorial

It's Remembrance Sunday here in the UK and round the Commonwealth. Sylvia Daly has kindly allowed us to share this thoughtful poem from her new anthology Before I Go...

THE WAR MEMORIAL

It says “For the Fallen” –
as if they had stumbled
in their haste to reach the enemy.
How silly they were 
to have lost their balance -
no mention here of chaos,
gore, carnage, slaughter.

It says “They Gave Their Lives” –
wrapped in cheap khaki, this
precious gift prepared by
grieving mothers.
Grand theft from
a generation that would
never recover from such generosity.

“Age Shall Not Wither Them” –
Their figures should be used
to scream
“We were abused!
Never do this again.”
Their dying cry,
breathing peace with their last sigh.

Something that wasn't allowed

We're so pleased to have a further instalment of The Incident by Maggie Redding to share with you today. If you'd like to read the preceding episodes, just check for Maggie's tag and they'll show up in the archive. Intriguing stuff is developing over coffee in the staff room of Hill Common School...

Elin Lewis Jones was visiting Hill Common School again the following morning. Vida saw her as soon as she went into the staff-room.  With that hair, she was recognizable from far away and wearing a turquoise top, she could hardly be missed..  Vida’s instinct was to withdraw but she was too late.  She’d been spotted.  Elin strode over to greet her.

‘Good to see you again,’ she said. ‘Shall we sort out some coffee and continue our chat?’

‘Our chat?  What about?’  Vida frowned.  She was less than eager.

‘You were telling me how you came into teaching.’

‘I don’t recall telling you much.’

‘Exactly. I’d like to hear more, about your mother wanting you to be a teacher, for instance.’

Elin spotted the two upright chairs, in a corner, unoccupied.  She led the way over to them. 

‘My mother,’ Vida began as she sat down, ’she was a machinist, in the fashion industry, in north London.  She and her friend were fast, highly skilled, much in demand, well-paid, too.  That was some time ago. We weren’t poor, but life was difficult for her.’  

She looked at Elin and had to look away again, not knowing why.  ‘Mum wanted a better future for me, you see.  A job that’s non-manual, she used to say. Actually, me being mixed race, she wanted to be able to show off about me, not be ashamed, as I think she was.  But she wasn’t prepared to make the required effort.’ 

‘But, teaching?  Was she right?’  Elin leaned forward a little. ‘Was it a good move?’ She seemed not to want to know the reason for her hardly veiled bitterness about her mother’s ambitions for her.

‘I have grave doubts now.’  She gazed out of the tall window. An unblemished blue sky evoked memories of past late spring days, free of all that trapped her now.  Yet there had been other traps in those days.  She preferred not to dwell on those. ‘It breaks my heart, at times,’ she said, all caution dismissed in the presence of someone who understood, ‘the way the pupils are spoken about. And spoken to.  I don't know whether it's ever too late to help anybody.’    She glanced at Elin shyly.  Could she trust her with confidences?  Would Elin laugh at her ideas?  This was an intense conversation to have with a complete stranger.   She hoped none of the staff around them heard the exchange. She guessed that Kelly would have little sympathy for her views. They seethed, her colleagues, they floundered in the staff-room, like a restless sea, their repressed rage justified by a confidence, an arrogance. The room was stuffy. The windows were all closed to keep out the noise of unconstrained pupils yelling in the grounds.  

‘You're an optimist about the pupils, then,’ Elin said.  ‘Or maybe the whole of humankind?  However, in my case, with my job, the gesture of helping them, trying to remove impediments to learning, has to be made. The poor little sods are thoroughly fucked up by both parents and teachers by the time they get to secondary school, if not before that.  Then it’s too late to help, I think.’  Elin turned to look at her with a relaxed, friendly expression. ‘What do you think?’

‘Not being a parent myself, I don't feel qualified to blame them.  I’m frankly not impressed with the way some teachers treat pupils.’  

‘I have never wondered where bullying in schools originates.’  Elin spoke with satisfaction before taking a sip of coffee. 

‘You mean with us, with the teachers?’

  She nodded then made an impatient movement with her whole body. ‘I've a good mind to bugger off to Wales, to live on fresh air and views.  Starvation can't be worse than the expectations put on me.’  She glanced at Vida, smiling again.  Her eyes were soft, warm, a pale green, interesting, interested, all-seeing eyes. Her eyelashes, paler than her hair, were barely visible.  

‘Excuse the language,’ Elin was saying, ‘frustration, poor vocabulary plus a healthy dose of your previous Head of Department‘s cynicism.  How long have you been teaching?’ 

‘Nearly ten years in total.  It feels like a lifetime.  I had a break when I looked after my mother before she died.  But what else can I do?’

‘Become an Ed. Psych?’

‘You’ve just put me off that.  Besides, I like the kids.’

Elin was kind, she encouraged her to talk.  She understood her attitude to teaching, to the school, to the pupils.

‘You could always foster children,’ she said.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Vida said as an image of Peter rose in her mind. Peter was not keen on children. To her relief, further discussion was avoided by the bell for the end of break, destroying the peace of mind of anyone in the room who had that rare commodity. Harassed faces with set jaws were sucked to far reaches of the campus, as the staff abandoned mugs, biscuit crumbs, strewn papers, and books on every surface. Chairs were left in disarray.

Uneasy, now that she’d revealed herself in a way she’d never done before, Vida wandered to a classroom full of, as yet, mostly unspoiled, twelve-year-olds. She’d opened-up, to Elin.  She was as comfortable as if she had been naked. She wished she hadn’t spoken so freely. Her own opinions were disturbing to her, as though she’d said something that wasn’t allowed.

Despite this private angst, the exchange with Elin Lewis Jones was the most pleasant encounter since she’d joined the school. Kelly was lovely, but someone to be wary of when it came to views on education. Elin wasn’t part of the staff-room politics that so bothered Vida.  She had an easy-going manner, Elin did. 

Veil of Tweed

We're re-posting this wonderful poem by Maria Jastrzębska today, as Maria has a new anthology coming out in October 2022, Small Odysseys (click the title to order a copy from Waterloo Press). She's a Polish-British poet, editor and translator, the author of sell-out drama Dementia Diaries and a founding member of Queer Writing South. The poem is from her collection Everyday Angels.

Maria says: 'Can you imagine, or do you remember how little information (let alone anything like positive images) there was about the lives of women who loved other women (or women generally) back in the 60s and 70s when I was growing up? This poem references two classics: The Killing of Sister George a play from 1964 about a “slightly sadistic masculine woman” adapted into a film in 1968 and made nastier and also more explicitly lesbian and Les Biches a French film from 1968 about bisexuality, “tortured” relationships, etc.'

VEIL OF TWEED

 

 

Behind a veil of tweed, through a smoke-screen 

of bravado I know too well, pouring out gin 

in your jodhpurs or PVC, Sister George

you don’t scare me, but you did once.

 

I fled from you into the arms of a biche

with long lashes, sulky lips. At least 

her hair was long, even though it all ended 

in tears. It might as well have been me 

 

slumped, sobbing face pressed 

against a bathroom door, behind which 

Anouk Aimée made love with a real man.

I wouldn’t cut my hair. Wore a frock 

 

to the hairdressers in case I looked like you 

when I walked out. At eighteen 

how afraid I was of being mistaken 

for a man. How afraid of being old.

Maria Jastrzębska

from Everyday Angels (Waterloo Press 2009)

 

www.mariajastrzebska.wordpress.com

What I did when I got back

We're very excited today to be able to share this evocative prose poem by Maria Jastrzębska. It has, as she says, a 'kind of end of summer' feel. It's from her new anthology Small Odysseys, due to be published in October. Really looking forward to reading more. Order your copies from Waterloo Press  

What I did when I got back

Plucked the tufts above my eyebrows. Made myself coffee but it didn’t seem worth boiling the milk. Separated my clothes into colours and delicates. Remembered to take out the handwash jumper.  Put one wash on.  Fed the cat, brushed her. Put Kőln Concert on full volume. Emptied the sand out of my smaller bag outside the back door. Wandered down into the garden where I saw the leaves were all yellow, started making a list of what needed doing – something had eaten through the gooseberry. I texted friends. J got back to me straight away, didn’t say much, just still quite low. H must have been at work. Took the overtly lesbian bits out of a poem and called it Pines Broken Below Marina Baja. It sounded edgy with, I thought, a degree of gravitas at the same time. Unpacked my books and papers, left them lying on the floor. Since I had the shower to myself I stayed under for what seemed like days. Ran downstairs naked because I’d forgotten to get a clean towel. Dressed in the softest fabrics I could find, old jeans, faded baggy cotton and linen top, aquamarine. Put the lesbian bits back in the poem. Called it Pining. 

Maria Jastrzębska is a key Anglo-Polish and European poet and no stranger to exploring heritage and archetypal figures of family. In this new work she widens her gaze. Unable – or unwilling – to settle, her speakers are nomadic. The personal is always political, the political – unmistakably human. Whether crossing borders, both literal and intangible, queering or reimagining histories, these poems urgently question the present, startle and illuminate. She is equally fluent in prose poem or lyric as well as the extraordinary and quizzical language of Ponglish. 

From Small Odysseys published by Waterloo Press October 2022

https://waterloopress.co.uk/books/small-odysseys-2022/

A chance encounter with Dr Watson

We're delighted to have an extract from Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven's A Case of Domestic Pilfering today, a light-hearted detective story set in the world of Sherlock Holmes. Enjoy a hot day, a walk in the park and a chance encounter with Dr Watson.

The park was cool in the shade.  The huge trees exhaled a faint green aroma, sweet and calm.  Max and Guy had stopped together, looking across the scorched grass to where white parasols and floating silhouettes passed like a mirage in the sunlight.

'Hot, isn't it?'  said Guy taking off his hat.  The hair was dark on his glistening forehead.  Max fanned him with his hat rim.

'It's just as well we're not going to your mother's,' he said.  'It's too hot to be out at all, really. I vote we gather ourselves for a quick sprint across the grass to an arbour of refreshment, and deal with a couple of ice-cold hock-and-seltzers.'

'I second that,' murmured Guy. He leaned ostentatiously against the tree, closed his eyes and muttered 'Water, water – I mean, hock, hock-and-seltzer!'

In his light suit and straw hat he should be on the river, thought Max.  In a punt.  Just he and I.  Cool, green, glassy waters.  He put out a hand and quietly touched his arm.

'Guy.'

Guy opened his eyes and smiled.  He has the face of a  Sun God, thought Max.

'Guy, you look just like Phoebus Apollo.'

Guy glanced quickly round.  'Oh Maxy, you are sweet.  If I'm Apollo then who can you be?  Daphne?'

They both shouted with laughter as they walked arm in arm into the sunlight.

Inside the bar the air was cool.  A breeze slid through the open windows, and the waiters looked clean in their starched white aprons.  Max was sitting back, trying not to scrutinise his own reflection in the enormous gilt mirror on the opposite wall.  He lit a cigarette from his new black-and-silver case a little self-consciously.  He watched the effect out of the corner of his eye.

Guy had ordered a bowl of ice cubes and was pretending to cool his face and hands at them, like a fire in reverse.  The waiter who brought their drinks looked bored.  It struck Max how foolish they must think their customers.  They had seen it all; they remained unimpressed.  What must it be like, to be a waiter?

'Your mother wasn't expecting us, was she?'

'No, no.  Not in the slightest.  Well, I do sometimes drop in on her at this time of day.  But it isn't expected.  Just once a week usually.  On a Tuesday.

'But it is Tuesday!'

'Is it?  Ah well.  She won't worry.  She'll look at the weather, and she'll think of me, and she'll say to Davies, 'No cucumber sandwiches today, Davies.  Master Guy is drinking hock-and- seltzer with his friend Maximilian, that nice boy from the country who is such a good influence,' and – I declare!  It's my turfy fellow!'

Max looked round, following Guy's stare.  A gentleman had entered and was glancing round for a table.  Guy sprang up impetuously and dashed over;  Max groaned inwardly as he watched him flash his most charming smile, and indicate the way to their table.  The man gave an answering smile in which Max detected some amusement, and approached their quiet corner.  Max rose.

'Look who's come to sit with us Maxy!'  Guy's face was alight with naughtiness, and a flush bloomed on his cheek. 'Max, Max, I must present you.  Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself  yet - and I don't know your name either - in fact, I can't do the honours at all!  This is most irregular. What on earth shall we do?'

The gentleman laughed pleasantly.  'I suggest we overleap convention.  My name is Dr John Watson, and I am charmed by your invitation to join you both.  My thanks to you – the thanks of a thirsty man on a thirsty day.'

Max smiled.  He liked the man immediately.  He liked his wavy hair and the crinkles at the side of his frank blue eyes and the gentle voice which held the hint of a laugh.  He is in his late thirties, decided Max as they shook hands.

'Max Fareham.  Pleased to meet you, sir.'

'And I am Guy Clements,' interjected Guy; 'And we have met before!'

They all sat down, and Dr Watson gave his order to the waiter.  'So you mentioned, Mr Clements,' he said, 'but I cannot recall the meeting, I'm sorry to say.'

'Ah, but I can.  It was at the races, and you gave me a lot of excellent advice, which I ignored assiduously.  I lost an enormous, princely sum.'

'Ah!'  Dr Watson's eyes lit up and the pleasant crinkles became more pronounced as he smiled.  'The young man with a taste for champagne!  Of course.  I hope you don't mind my mentioning that,' he added, glancing at Max.

'Ooh la la!  Of course not!' cried Guy delightedly.  

Dr Watson chuckled.  'As a medical man,' he said in his warm, friendly voice, 'I recommend champagne as a universal pick-me-up.'

'In that case,' commented Max drily, 'Guy here is in the very pink and bloom of health.'

'And so I am!' said Guy severely.

'And so I trust you both are, and will long remain,' said Dr Watson, raising his glass.

They look so young, thought Watson; and so happy.  His heart went out to them, sitting in their new summer suits in the high-ceilinged room, looking slender and fresh and rather awkward.  He wished Holmes had come with him.  Good-humoured, outgoing youth might help him.  He thought of his friend's rooms, and the darkling figure lying on the couch, fretting against enforced idleness or weaving his drug-induced dreams.  Sunlight; he wished he could take Holmes some sunlight.  He sighed, and put down his glass, suddenly aware that Max was talking about the delights of the seaside in summer.

'At least one always enjoys a breeze there ...'

'Oh indeed,' agreed Dr Watson.  'My wife is at the seaside now.  So pleasant for her.'

'I suppose your practice keeps you in town?' asked Max.  He could not disguise the flat note that crept into his voice at the mention of a wife.   

'Yes, my practice – well, it's not a very demanding practice at the best of times,' said the doctor with a conspiratorial wink.  'And I have a friend who sometimes needs me.'

Guy stopped playing with the melting ice cubes, and Max hastily offered the Doctor a cigarette. Was this wife at the seaside sophisticated and understanding, he wondered, or just ignorant and rather dense?

'Thank you Mr Fareham,' said Watson, accepting.  'Also, I have work to clear which must be completed shortly, as I'm bound by contract.'

'How tedious for you,' murmured Guy.

'Medical work by contract, sir?' asked Max politely; 'I didn't know that was the custom – is it so many patients per month, or something?'

Dr Watson laughed heartily.  'Dear me, no!  What an interesting proposition – a sort of piece work, you mean?  A bushel of measles equals a week's rent?  No, I'm afraid it's nothing so lucrative.  I write a little.'

'Really?' asked Max.

'For the Lancet!' said Guy, putting his forefingers to his temples and speaking in a mediumistic monotone.  'I see a medical magazine.  I see an article on - let's see now - on bunions ...'

'Shut up, Guy!' said Max, resting his chin on his hand and sighing.  'Is he right?' he asked their companion.

'Not exactly.  It's a little less highbrow than that.  For magazines, certainly – Lippincott's, The Strand, even Beeton's.'

'How interesting! Do you make up the stories out of your own head?'

'Not at all.'  Dr Watson looked rather rueful, as though he regretted mentioning the subject.  'I may fudge the issues, but the cases are true enough.'

'Dr Watson!' exclaimed Max suddenly.  'Oh, good Lord!  Of course!  The weather must have hard-boiled my brain.  Good grief, sir, I can't tell you how honoured I am to make your acquaintance!'  He leapt to his feet, and pumped the amused Doctor's hand for a second time.  

Guy looked from one to the other, agog.  'What am I missing here?' 

Max's face was flushed, and his eyes shone with excitement.  'Guy, this is the Dr Watson – the friend of – of Mr Holmes.  You know.'  He nodded quickly at his friend, half embarrassed.

'Oh, good Lord!' echoed Guy, his voice rising up the scale.  'You mean the one you're madly – the one you admire so much?  My dear sir,' he said turning to the Doctor, 'You're hardly likely to escape with your life in tact now.  There is but one thing in the world that Max Fareham lives for, and that is the chance to kiss the ground that Mr Sherlock Holmes walks on.'

Dr Watson laughed.  'Oh dear!' he said.

'Shall we have another drink?  Please, Doctor, you can't possibly go now!'  Max ordered more drinks, eagerness overcoming his natural shyness.  'Do you know,' he said, 'I've read everything you've ever written about Mr Holmes.  Tell me, is he – is he like you say he is?'

'How do you mean?' asked Dr Watson, his blue eyes twinkling.

'A – a genius.  I supposed that's what I mean.'

'Well, yes.  I can confirm that opinion.  I've never written less than my true evaluation of my friend's genius.  He is extraordinary.'

Max nodded encouragingly.

'But what's he like when he's not being a genius?' asked Guy rather insolently.  'Does he go out?  Mother could invite you both to dinner, and then Maxy could swoon at his feet.'

'Be quiet!' hissed Max.

Dr Watson chuckled.  'What a kind offer.  But I'm afraid he rarely dines out, and never goes into company if he can help it.'

'Ah, a recluse. How tedious he must find all this adulation,' said Guy, shaking his head sympathetically.  'But doesn't he get bored, in between cases?'

'H'mmm.  Yes.  I'm afraid he does.'

Dr Watson then deftly changed the subject.  Max tried his best to steer it back to Sherlock Holmes, but the Doctor firmly resisted all attempts to probe.

'I must be going,' he said after a while, pulling out his watch.

'Oh, we'll walk along together,' said Guy sweetly, smiling significantly at Max.

'Well … ' Dr Watson eyed them for a moment and then smiled.  'If you like,' he said. 

An emptiness

Today we're delighted to share more of Maggie Redding's The Incident. New teacher Vida is gradually settling into her job and making friends. A chance encounter with a fellow teacher's lively family life takes her by surprise - and brings her to acknowledge discords within her own marriage.

    At the end of every day Vida was glad to escape. The school served an area known for its ‘social problems’. She lived a safe distance away, in a three-bedroom, detached house which she and her husband, Peter, had purchased a year ago. He was a graphic designer and worked from home.  The house had been furnished and decorated with love and care, mostly hers. The home, however, did not always provide the sanctuary she needed.

‘How was your day?’

He asked that question every afternoon, when she arrived home.  As soon as she went into the living room, furnished in white and cream, a colour-scheme that only a childless couple would choose, he put a cup of tea in front of her and sat down opposite her to listen.  This he saw as his duty. Little of what she told him was retained. Despite his questions, he was less than interested.  She knew and accepted that.  But how she yearned for support, for understanding from her husband, a real interest in her life, a huge part of it which was not shared by him! Every day, she had to fight her feelings of irritation with him.

* * *

One Friday, Kelly came in to school late. Vida met her in the staff-room, halfway through the morning. She looked fraught. They stood in the middle of the room, people milling around them, tension tangible.  Kelly’s face was white except for two high spots of colour on her cheeks.

‘The car,’ she said, ‘it wouldn't start.  I had to walk and get the bus, with Ben and Tim in tow.  They complained all the way.  We missed the first two lessons.  Never mind.  They’ll have to catch up.’

‘Didn't you think to get a taxi?’ Vida said.

Kelly was clearly unwilling to explain.  ‘No cash,’ she said after a hesitation. ‘Two credit cards well over their limit already.’

Vida was as much distressed by Kelly's honesty as by her poverty.  That a teacher, a professional person, could be in that state financially, had never occurred to her.  She had made it difficult for Kelly not to explain. 

‘I'm so sorry.  I didn't understand.  I tend to assume everyone's as well off as Peter and I are.  And I'm not showing off, Kelly, just sheltered.  Another time, phone me.’

‘No kids, see.  You have two incomes to yourselves.  We have one and a half incomes for six people.  And yes, I’ll phone you if I find out in time that the car’s gone wrong.  Thanks a lot.’

‘I'll give you a lift home tonight.’ Vida was eager to make amends for her lack of awareness.  She headed for the door because she was already late for the next lesson.

‘Oh, you are a saint,’ said Kelly, grabbing a pile of books and rushing to the door after her.

At the end of the school day, Kelly waited in the car park, with her two boys, Ben, aged sixteen who appeared to topple off his long legs and Tim, fifteen, who was quiet.  They hovered at a distance they deemed to be respectable.  As Vida reached her car, Kelly came over to her.

‘Wow, Lexus.  That's what two incomes and no children do for you.  You lucky thing.’   She said it with a smile and no resentment.  Clearly, four children were worth any car, any day. Vida dismissed an unsettling feeling about to surface in her.

Ben and Tim sauntered over trying to look as though the last thing they would ever do would be to accept a lift in a teacher’s car, even if it was a Lexus. Kelly, piles of books and her laptop on her knees, sat in the front passenger seat.  The boys wriggled down on the back seat, heads as low as possible in order not to be recognised by their peers.

The Bedfords lived beyond the edge of the town, down along a lane just before the village of Milton Stanwick.  With Vida’s uncertainty combined with the Friday evening traffic, the journey took well over half an hour.  The house, a modern detached one with no character at all, set back from the lane in a large, vegetable garden.  The situation was elevated, had views over the countryside, with fields and woodland surrounding it.  Kelly invited Vida in for a cup of tea and to meet her husband, Simon.

Inside the house, the chaos could have appalled Vida had she not been able to see beyond it to identify the warmth, the sheer joy of the family together.  An unsettling feeling stirred in her.

‘Sit down,’ Kelly said, brushing toys off the old-looking sofa so that they were scattered onto the floor.  Two little girls, feet bare, tousled hair, gazed at Vida from a distance.  One had a thumb in her mouth. 

From where she sat, Vida had a view of the rear garden, lilac bushes, the vegetable plot with runner bean canes, roses tumbling over a hedge, birds gathering to a feeding table.  She relaxed into the cosy lack of order, revelling in the fecundity of it. New friends, new experiences, new insights, new thoughts: her life was changing.

Because of the distance between home and work when she had been at her previous school, there had been no time or opportunity for much in the way of friendship.  There had been other factors, of course, like Peter; but rather than dwell on those, she now welcomed the chance to broaden her social life.

Simon bustled in from the garden, festooned with dry washing just un-pegged from a long washing line. He immediately took on tea-making.  Before Vida had developed a proper acquaintance with three-year-old Lucy and Lola, aged twelve months, a mug of tea was thrust into her hand.  Kelly's husband was unlikely, being tall, large, balding but with eyes that crinkled readily in the outer corners.  He had a belly covered by a floppy, faded t-shirt and wore loose shorts with sandals on his feet.

‘Don't put up with those two,’ he said, referring to Lucy and Lola, who were demanding Vida’s attention.  ‘They haven't been to nursery today so they’re craving the stimulation of someone new.  They've been with boring old Daddy all the time.’

‘He's not boring old Daddy,’ Kelly said.  ‘Are you?’  She looked up at him.

He looked down at her with his crinkling smile.  ‘You tell me,’ he said. They both laughed at some shared but secret meaning.

Vida smiled but inside, something unsettled her, causing her to hold her breath for a moment.  A long time had passed since that kind of flirting had been exchanged between herself and Peter, if it ever had to any extent, were she to be honest.  She was glad to focus on Lola's attempts to climb onto her lap.  To enable her to lift the child, she balanced her mug of tea on a nearby bookshelf.  Lola gazed at her in delight. She toyed with Vida’s earrings, touched her teeth, grabbed a handful of her carefully pinned up hair. Vida gazed in delight at Lola, too.

‘Lola, don't,’ said Simon.

‘It's all right,’ Vida said as her hair fell about her shoulders.  ‘She's so lovely.’  She took the child’s tiny hand, pressing her lips against it.  Soft, new, unused, the little fingers curled round her thumb.  ‘She's so beautiful,’ Vida said in wonder. It had been a long time since she had been so close to a child as young as Lola.  There was that feeling once more, unsettling her. She began to feel anxious to leave, to reach home.

 ‘We think so, don't we, Simon?’  Kelly said, sinking into a chair.  ‘But in truth, she’s just like any other baby.’

Lola's hand went back to Vida’s hair, tugging it.  Again Simon remonstrated.  Vida smiled grimly to herself.  She was used to less gentle tugging than this. She held the child against her, leaning her cheek on top of the fuzzy little head.  A great emptiness welled up inside her.  

‘Peter!’ she said suddenly.  ‘I’ve lost count of time.  He’ll be concerned if I'm very late.’

‘It's half past five,’ Simon said.

That was very late to Peter. Vida fumbled in her handbag for her phone.  She always switched it off in the classroom, a good habit as an example had to be set for the pupils: there were enough problems with phones ringing and texting messages under the desks.

‘Peter, I'm on my way.’

‘Where have you been?’  

She hoped Kelly and Simon could hear neither Peter’s words nor his tone.  

‘I gave a lift to a colleague.  Her car had broken down.’

‘Well, I hope you won't be much longer.’

‘I'm on my way.’  She snapped the phone shut.  ‘I should be going.  He is the anxious sort.’ 

As she left, Kelly came out to the car with her, explaining that the garage had said her own car would be ready the next day, which was a Saturday.  The two women exchanged phone numbers.  ‘Any time you're stuck,’ Vida said.

‘You and your husband, you should come round for a meal one evening,’ Kelly said.

Vida looked straight ahead of her.  ‘You're very kind, Kelly.  Peter is a bit of a geek, he loves his work.  He doesn't socialise much but I'd love to come and visit your beautiful family on my own, especially during the school holidays.’

She drove off.  Her vision was misty, her mind agitated by another stirring of that something on which she could not afford to dwell.   

Be gentle

Sylvia Daly is one of our founder members. We're delighted to announce she's preparing a collection of her poems for publication this year. She also happened to have a special birthday this week. Here's one of her poems to celebrate.

Thoughts on Being 80 Years of Age

Be gentle with me please,

I can move but slowly.

Muscles no longer bunch in anticipation.

They need some warning.

Grip my arm lightly.

Skin bruises and tears.

If I was bound in vellum

the curator would wear soft gloves.

Give me space, I am not for jostling.

My compass directs but strong breezes

can blow me off course

capsizing me with tipped sails.

Feed me lightly, but with flavour,

my throat cannot cope with gristle.

My stomach rejoices to

fine, dainty delicacies.

Leave me not in the dark. I fear death 

and breathe easy in the light.

My terrors diminish

with the dawn.

Visit me less, I am leaving.

I cannot involve myself in your drama.

I am finite, and know it.

You think you are immortal

Sylvia Daly

Wrong-turned

Here's a moment of high drama from Hearts and Minds. The inky Weird Sisters highly recommend Jay Taverner's well-researched historical novels in the Brynsquilver series. They're all an excellent read. We suggest you dive in!

By the time Hope reached the end of the last row of cabbages, down by the bottom hedge, Parsley’s shadow was longer than the little cat herself, sitting upright on the path with ears cocked. Hope leaned her hoe on the hedge and looked out over the gate. Bron was not coming, then; she had chosen the shorter but steeper road home, round Bryn. Pushing back the rush of loneliness which came with the thought, Hope shook out her skirt and set off down the slope. The goats were loud in protest in the lower field: it was more than time to bring them in for milking.

Crossing the old field, where the grass still needed resting, she heard something that stopped her dead. It was the cry she had heard this morning - but now it was clearly human. It came from the old goat shed. Hope turned, and began to run.

She pulled open the sagging door, then found herself suddenly sprawled on her back in the grass, the wind knocked out of her and her right cheek exploding into pain. She grabbed ineffectually at a bare foot that ran over her chest, but had scarcely heaved herself on to her knees when the fleeing figure collapsed with a howl into the grass. For a moment Hope knelt there foolishly, shaking her head to clear it, before she stood up and walked cautiously towards the girl who had flung her aside.

The face that turned towards her was filthy and blood-streaked, but the eyes were blazing. The girl struggled to get up but fell back, her face contracted with pain.

“You need not run away,” said Hope, “I won’t hurt you.” She stretched out a hand, but the girl flinched away and flung up an arm to shield her face. Then the narrow, distended body arched in a spasm of pain and she turned her face to bite the grass. Hope could see clearly now why she had not been able to run away: she was in labour - deep in, and a failing labour, if Hope was any judge. She was covered in mud, her skirt bloody and torn as if by desperate hands. The memory of the earlier screams came to Hope with dreadful clarity. She must have been in the shed all day.

Hope bent and took her gently by the shoulders. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You must let me be your friend. I have some skill in this.” But not as much as Bell has, she thought desperately. Why aren’t you here? I knew I would need you...


Four hours later the girl was weaker, but no nearer to the birth of her baby. She lay before the fire on a straw pallet spread with Hope’s old shawl. Between her fierce, futile pains she lay more and more still, far gone in exhaustion. Hope was exhausted herself; her small experience of birthing had been no preparation for this. The old women of these hills kept their power over their daughters by making this their mystery, and even Bell, trusted wise-woman for all other ills and ailments, was not their first choice for a childbed. Hope had delivered children, two or three, and had helped Bell with a dozen more; but she had seen nothing like this deathly straining for hour after hour, with nothing coming but blood. She knew much more about goats; she had turned back-facing kids, though nannies were feeble things, and still might die on you. This girl seemed unlikely to do that, after all she had so far endured; but Hope did not know how to help her.

She was standing, irresolute, at the foot of the stair, when the door opened suddenly and a tall, slightly stooped figure was outlined against the red and gold of the sinking sun.

“Bron! Thank God!”

Bron looked startled. “What’s the matter?”

Before Hope could answer, the girl screamed. Bron’s eyes widened; she stood, frozen, as the girl thrashed on the floor. Hope thought suddenly, she has never seen this. How could she, living all her days on a hill farm so far from other human dwellings, and no mother, no women there, only her father and brother since she was a child? Bron was staring, horrified; for a desperate moment Hope thought she might turn and go. She felt a great need to keep her, to have company, however little help it might be. Words tumbled out of her.

“I think the babe is turned wrong,” she said. “It won’t come. And I don’t know how to help her, I…” She stopped and ran her hand through her hair. “I don’t know what to do, Bron.”


Bron’s eyes had not left the writhing body on the floor. Hope could not tell what she was thinking. Then, still without speaking, Bron crossed to the hearth and knelt down. She took the see-sawing head between her hands; she was making a little crooning noise, between whistling and humming. She was not flung off, or bitten; the flailing body relaxed, and the hands that reached up held on, thin brown fingers gripping into Bron’s old jerkin as if it were the last handhold in the world. Bron stroked the matted black hair out of the girl’s eyes, then gently, and still making the same reassuring, wordless noise, ran her large red hands over the swollen belly. “Wrong-turned, yes,” she said, “and wedged so. I must turn it, or it will kill her. Hold her, if she will let you.”

All those words left unsaid

Constance Wilde died on 7th April 1898. Inevitably linked for all time with the scandals of her famous husband Oscar, Constance's tumultuous interior life is imagined by Rohase Piercy in her novel The Coward Does It With A Kiss.

The curtain is moving in the breeze … it comforts me, like the rocking of a cradle.  Green, with turquoise motif – what are they?  Flowers?  Dragons?  I always loved green.  These are decadent curtains; you would not find them in an English hospital. The colours absorb the pain a little, and I find some ease.

Well, it is over; and the nuns who nurse me are  kind, and bring me morphine for the pain, and do everything for my comfort.  They have laid me on my side today, and I cannot move without help, so I watch the light move slowly across the window, and the curtain stirring where they have opened it a little to let in fresh air.  Faint voices drift up from the grounds below; a bell tolls in the distance.  I remind myself that you, Oscar, suffered worse things in prison.

If I could go back – oh, a long way back in my life, I could make all things as new as this new morning.  This must be what a newborn baby sees, light and movement, the edge of a curtain dancing in the breeze.  And all sound is muffled.

I have short, jagged periods of sleep, and when I wake the bedclothes are drenched in sweat.  In my dreams I hear people shouting, aiming words at me like sharp, black beads.  What are they saying?  Next time I awake, I will try to make sense of it.  Is it just my name that I hear, repeated over and over?

Constance!  Constance!  Constance!

*****

I remember you called my name, and I ran out of the house, out of the front door and across the street to the beach; there were carriages, and pedestrians on the street turning to stare, and families on the beach.  This was Worthing, not Babbacombe; there were no nooks and crannies in which to hide.

I walked along the Esplanade, wringing my hands.  My agitation drew curious glances, but I kept my head down and walked to the pier, and to the end of the pier, and then all the way back to the house.  You were there in the little front parlour, alone.  I tried to dash past, to go up to my room, but you ran out and caught me by the arm.

“Constance.”

“Let me go, Oscar.”

“Constance, I have got to talk to you.”

“I don't want to talk.  Leave me alone.”

“Constance please.  Come in here, please, the children will hear.  Just one brief word, I beg of you.”

I followed you into the room, and you closed the door.  Wearily I sat down upon the sofa.

“Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Away. Does it matter? Constance, please listen.  I am sorry that you saw what you did.  I am sorry that I allowed Bosie to bring him here.  It will not happen again, my dear;  please try to put it out of your mind.”

“What will not happen again, Oscar?”

“Well, this – this intrusion into your domestic life.  I have told Bosie he is not to bring any more of his - friends to this house.  Really, the last thing I want to do is to upset you, Constance.  I promise to be more careful ...”

“More careful?  Careful to keep your sordid life out of sight, is that what you mean?  You do realise, don't you, that our children could have walked past that door at any moment?”

“No!  I mean yes, I suppose that is what I mean, and no, I made sure the boys were out with Fräulein Zeigler, or I would never ...”

“I see.  May I go now?”

“Constance, please try to understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly well, Oscar.  You are not sorry for what you and Bosie are doing, but you are sorry that I saw you do it.  You will not promise to give up your unsavoury companions and activities, but you will try to keep them out of my way.  Oscar, I don't know exactly what age that young man was, but he cannot have been more than fifteen at most.  Have you absolutely no sense of responsibility?  In a few years' time your own sons will be that age – does that not even give you pause for thought?”

You sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, and held your head in your hands.  At last you said quietly:  “But you knew, Constance.”

“I knew about you and Bosie, but not about this.  Where do you meet these boys, Oscar?  Do you do this in London?  Of course you do, how stupid of me.  You introduced me to that boy Edward Shelley, when I came home unexpectedly and found him in the house.  How can you – how can you corrupt the young like this, when you have children of your own?”

You blushed deeply, and murmured something inaudible.

“What?” I asked sharply, “What did you say?”

“I do not corrupt them, Constance.  There are boys that I know, but they are already hardened little … they are already leading that life, Constance, it is how they earn a living.”

“Oh, I see.  So you are kindly providing employment for the poor.”

“I did not say that, Constance.”

“Where do you meet them?  On the streets?”

“My dear, you don't want to know all this.”

“But I do!  I do!  I have a right to know, I demand to know.  Where do you meet them?  Do you bring them to our house on a regular basis, when I am away?”

“No!  I have a friend called Alfred Taylor.  He lives in Little College Street.  He – arranges introductions.  We go out for meals, to hotels … there.  That is all.  Now you know.  What are you going to do, Constance?  Are you going to divorce me, and take the boys away?”

You sounded so hopeless, so desolate, that I raged inwardly at my inability to keep pity at bay.

“No, of course not.  What would I have to gain by dragging our children's name in the mud?”

“Your freedom, my dear.  A new husband, perhaps.”

I was furious at having the tables turned on me at a time like this.

“What?  It is you who want freedom, not I!  Well, you have it.  You have always taken it, anyway.  Consider yourself free to do as you wish.  And I do not want a new husband.”

That was true.  I would have given anything, there and then, to have my old husband back, the husband I had courted so shyly and married so proudly only a decade ago.  Not this debauched and lascivious stranger.

“Constance, I know that Arthur Humphreys is in love with you.”

“Don't talk nonsense, he's a married man,” I said, and left the room.

I lay on my bed and sobbed until I was nearly sick.  I remembered with revulsion my romantic indulgence of your friendships, and the spell cast over me, in the early days, by Bosie.  I bit my nails to the quick, and damned him to Hell a thousand times.  I thought of Ada Leverson, that wily old Sphinx on her pedestal; she knew you for what you were and revelled in it, and by watching you as I had done I felt that I'd brought myself down to her level.  As for you, Oscar – well, I planned my revenge in this way and that, and swore that I would make you suffer.  

When I came to myself, I found that you'd left for Brighton; and there was still the blood on my lips of all those words left unsaid, crying out for vengeance.

The boys had been clamouring to go out.  They wanted to know where Bosie was – he'd arrived out of the blue as was his wont, apparently completely oblivious to his father's threats and determined to muscle in on our family holiday, as always.  They wanted to go to the beach with you both, but I had no idea where you were so I sent them on a sedate afternoon walk with Fräulein Zeigler.  Poor dears, this was not turning out to be a happy holiday for them; they were restless and demanding, estranged by school and unable to settle.  

When you came in to find the parlour empty, you must have assumed I'd gone with them; but  I was in the kitchen, checking the supplies, suspecting that the local cook we'd engaged was not above a little domestic pilfering.  I found nothing amiss however, and after a while I made my way upstairs to lie down; as I passed the open door of the room I'd reluctantly allotted to Bosie, I saw you.

You were kneeling before a young boy lying on the bed, leaning over him, your fingers twined in his hair.  With your free hand you were loosening his clothes, quickly, deftly, while Bosie sat poised on the edge of the bedside chair, watching with a greedy, hateful expression on his face.  The boy slid his arm around your neck, and pulled you down to him.  You kissed first his lips and then his throat, moving slowly down his body.

I should have backed away, quickly and silently, but I stood in the doorway for some time and watched you quite calmly, until Bosie looked up and saw me.  I have never seen anyone's eyes become quite so round with shock.  I turned and ran back down the stairs, along the passage to the front door, and out into the street.  I heard your voices calling me:  “Constance!  Constance!  Constance!”