Discovering Brynsquilver

The ancient cottage at Brynsquilver features in all Jay Taverner’s historical novels. Unlike the other stories, Something Wicked is set in the present, but the cottage is still standing. 

Scotty and Helen shelter from the rain.

Crossing a slimy little wooden bridge, they scrambled up a steep thread-like sheep-path, already softening into mud as the rain came on. Scotty felt the back of her shirt begin to soak through, and concentrated on trying to work her tired legs fast enough to catch up. Ahead, Helen pushed through a thin hedge and plunged into a band of trees. Scotty followed, fending off a branch that slapped wetly back at her. Inside the wood, the ground was still dry; the patter of a million raindrops on the upper leaves sounded like a distant waterfall, but it had not yet broken through. They walked silently on a springing carpet of rust-coloured leaves. There was a ferocious clap of thunder, right overhead, and the first drops of what was by now an icy deluge began to fall from the leaves. Heedless of the twisting roots and sudden hollows, they ran. Helen clambered over a low stile, almost buried in the undergrowth and, following her, Scotty found they were in a derelict garden. Ancient roses climbed and hung from every branch around, a bower of softest pink. A very wet bower. She charged after Helen, up the path, and into the front porch of a substantial stone cottage.

"Do you know them?" she gasped, clutching hold of the nearest post amidst the gnarled stems of the roses.

“It's empty," Helen said. "Has been for a long time. Hang on." She was fiddling with the door; after a moment she lifted it up, and pushed. It opened. They slipped inside. 

Breathing in deeply, Scotty closed the door and leant on it, shutting out the drumming downpour. The place smelt strong, but not of dirt or dung or the usual pollutions. It smelt of stone and of water, wetness; and some green overtone, weirdly like an expensive perfume. 

Helen was standing looking at her. There was suddenly a very awkward pause. Then Helen smiled dazzlingly, and Scotty blessed the gloom for hiding her blush. I've not felt like this since the junior geography mistress left, she thought.

Helen unslung her backpack. "Are you very wet?" she asked. "We could light a fire, I expect, and dry your shirt."

"No - no, I'm fine." 

She peered around. There was indeed a fireplace, one of those enormous stone ones. Its front was blackened, and the remains of a wood fire lay somewhere in its depths. The wood probably came from the panelling of the staircase, she thought, glancing across the low room. The whitewashed matchboard had been wrenched away, to reveal a flight of solid wood steps more like a medieval castle-scaling ladder than a domestic staircase. On an impulse, she crossed the uneven flagged floor, and climbed up.

Her head came out through the floor, into a lighted space - lighted by a hole in the roof. Broken tiles, those amazing graded stone things she had noticed on Owen’s cottage, lay piled in front of her nose. The kind of stuff merchant bankers from Chipping Camden would give half a year’s ecus for; but here they just seemed to lie around, totally neglected. Oddly moved, she reached out and touched the nearest stone. It was surprisingly warm. She ran a finger along its naturally laminated edge; beautiful.

She looked up. A noose, made of pink baler twine, hung from the rafters. The mindless hordes had daubed a skull and some sort of animal outline in charcoal on the plaster of the great chimney. Rain beat in. She retreated.

Helen was busying herself. "Let's light a fire, anyway - it's obviously the thing to do," she said, collecting bits of wood.

Scotty helped: she got out her cigarette lighter. Helen looked at her as if she had produced an Uzi from her back pocket.

"I don't smoke," Scotty rushed to reassure her. "It's a memento of my youth – " She hesitated, then went on, deliberately, "It was a present from my first lover. Someone who didn't know me very well at the time."

"Oh. Right," said Helen. She stood up, and rummaging in her backpack produced a pristine Guardian, which she shook open and crumpled into balls; she thrust each one efficiently into the old ashes, securing them with sticks.

Scotty flicked and lit. Another fire began. They both stood up.

"How did you know you could get in?"

"I've been here before on a walk, with my aunt – she had something to do with the disposal of the furniture, once upon a time." She walked to the window, and began to pick at the last flakes of paint on the frame. "It's been empty years - thirty years at least, probably a lot longer. But they're tough, these old stone cottages - built to keep out the weather, whether you're here or not."

"There's a hole in the roof, now, though," Scotty said, and Helen frowned. She crossed to the steps and looked up.

"That's bad," she said, "once the roof starts to go –" She smiled at Scotty. "But I think it'll last out the shower. I brought a thermos – would you like a cup of tea?" 

They drove back through the sharp, cool sunshine that came after the storm in a comfortable silence. The image of the cottage as they had left it, half-hidden by its ancient hedges, a haven and a mystery, was vivid in Scotty's mind.

Poor Little Fool

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy suggests a more complicated past for Anne de Bourgh than Jane Austen allows in Pride and Prejudice. In this extract, a very young Anne talks to her cousin Edward and discovers that the future holds surprises.

At first, Edward seemed amused by my questions. “Why, Anne, what is all this? Are you so concerned for my future? I shall not be an Ensign for long, you know; thanks to my father I can expect a rapid promotion, and in a year or so I shall be a Captain, with a hundred men under my command! And a Captain, you know, must be with his battalion for most of the time. But I shall always have a home at Evesham, I expect, unless my brother marries someone who takes a dislike to me; and yes, I shall probably take a house in town eventually. Why so serious, little cousin? I shall always come often to Kent, to visit my uncle and to assure myself that the heiress of Rosings is still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country. Will that do?”     The phrase ‘heiress of Rosings’ was not lost upon me. I nodded and smiled, but persisted in my questioning: “Will you not need an estate of your own though, Edward, when you are married?”     My cousin knelt down amongst the daffodils and began to select blooms at random, suddenly preoccupied. At length he repeated, “An estate of my own! Well, I do not know about that. I shall do well enough for a younger son, I dare say; I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way. But as I said, I am to be a soldier. That is the life I have decided upon, and it will suit me well enough for the foreseeable future. I may choose not to marry at all; what do you think of that?”     I did not know what to think of it. “I thought everyone had to be married,” I said, heedlessly crushing the hem of my gown into the dirt as I sat back on my heels to consider the matter.     Edward laughed. “Well, it is not yet enshrined in English law! It is the general expectation, I suppose, and maybe in due course I shall give it some thought. But not yet, and certainly not now, on such a beautiful spring day when the Park is dancing with daffodils! Come now, cousin, you are not keeping to your part of the bargain - I have a fine armful of blooms already, and what have you? Nothing! You must match me stem for stem, and we will carry them back to the house and ask Mrs Jenkinson to bring us two great vases. Then we shall have a display to do justice to Mr Wordsworth! My uncle tells me you have been enjoying his poetry - will you read to me while I am here? I should dearly love to hear you.” 

As we wandered back happily towards the house with our saffron bundles, I determined to set Miss Harvey right at the earliest opportunity.  The only design that my cousin had upon Rosings was to visit often, and assure himself that its heiress - that was I - was still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country!  I searched for her later that afternoon, but failing to find her I returned to the schoolroom to daydream amongst the daffodils, imagining a dozen pleasant future scenarios involving Edward, my father and my grown-up self before hitting upon the one that so obviously suited every convenience and solved every problem that I leapt to my feet, transported by the genius of my own imagination!

What was it that had Edward said? 'I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way.'  Well, I would be a rich heiress - why should he not marry me in due course, and come to live at Rosings? Unable to remain still, I began to dance about the room as the possibility took root in my imagination and began to put forth shoots. What if this had been Papa’s plan all along?  Would not that explain everything, from his special treatment of Edward to my cousin’s embarrassment when I brought up the subject of marriage?  Oh, what to do – should I speak to Papa immediately, or wait until the Fitzwilliams had left us? Mrs Jenkinson would certainly advise me to wait… but Miss Harvey …

Determined to find her there and then, I rushed headlong out onto the stairway, where I almost collided with Mrs Jenkinson coming to fetch me for supper.

“Oh Jenky!” I gasped, ignoring her gentle admonition, “Do you know where Miss Harvey is? I’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

“She is out walking,” was her cool reply, in tones so laced with disapproval that my curiosity was aroused.

“Out walking where?” I demanded, as she ushered me firmly along the corridor towards the nursery – and then, as an unmistakable peal of laughter rose up the stairwell towards us, I ducked out from her restraining grasp and rushed to the banister just in time to see my governess enter the hallway on the arm of my cousin John! Disengaging herself from his eager grasp, she removed her bonnet and re-arranged a stray curl; and as he pulled playfully upon her arm, Mrs Jenkinson pulled firmly upon mine, telling me not to tarry as my soup was cooling.  Dumbly I followed her, unable to make sense of the scene I had just witnessed - for had not Miss Harvey  described John, in tones heavy with contempt, as a 'great coxcomb' and 'a danger to the female sex'?  Why then would she walk with him, laugh with him, even – there was no other word for it – flirt with him in so obvious a manner?  I had never seen her behave so, and it troubled me deeply.  Upon reaching the nursery, I went straight to the table and ate my supper in silence - a silence upon which Mrs Jenkinson did not intrude, though she regarded me with watchful eyes.

John remained at Rosings until after Easter, giving me ample opportunity to observe the flirtation that he and Miss Harvey pursued whenever they thought themselves unobserved. They were discreet enough to escape the notice of my parents and uncle, but not that of the servants, whose barely concealed disapproval caused me agonies of mortification. It distressed me beyond words to see my beloved governess reduced to a simpering ninny by a man I so much disliked, and whose attentions she could surely not imagine to be serious.  Could she not see that she was being made a fool of?  When John left for London, abruptly and with no word of farewell to anyone save my mother, I breathed a long sigh of relief.

Miss Harvey’s red eyes on the following morning, however, could not but arouse my pity.  In an attempt to raise her spirits - and also to divert her attention towards a more deserving object - I invited her to join me in reading poetry with Edward that afternoon, a pastime which had already given me much pleasure.  She looked at me as though I were utterly mad.

“What a baby you are, Miss Anne,” she sniffed, tossing her red curls. “’Tis as well I set little store by your judgment of the male sex.  Go and read to Mr Edward by all means, but don’t expect me to hold your hand – not that you’ll need a chaperone in his company!”

My pity evaporated upon the spot, and I retaliated in kind: “Just because my cousin John has made a fool of you in front of the whole household, 'tis no reason to take it out on me!  And you were utterly wrong, you know, about Edward - Papa has no intention of adopting him.”

I saw her fist clench, and knew that she would have struck me had she dared.  Her face contorted into a sneer.  “Well, I can see that!” she snapped; “I was wide of the mark there, and no mistake. That will teach me to listen to peasants’ gossip! No wonder your poor mother complains - the sooner that young man goes into the Army, or gets married off to some poor undemanding fool, the better!”

At the mention of marriage I blushed involuntarily, and my cheeks burned hotter as Miss Harvey stared at me. Suddenly she began to laugh.

“Oh Lord!  I don’t believe it! You think you're to marry Mr Edward, don't you? You poor little fool!  Well I've news for you Miss Anne, 'tis another cousin who's in line for you - young Mr Darcy, your mother's sister's son!   What do you think of that?  And you’d better raise your expectations before the wedding or you’ll be in for a shock!”

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me as pale as I had been scarlet the moment before. “Young – young Mr Darcy?” I stammered, as William’s stern, aquiline features and haughty expression leapt into my mind. 

Miss Harvey laughed on, enjoying my discomfiture.  “Don’t tell me you had not an idea of it?  Why, your mother is quite determined upon it, ‘tis the talk of the household!  He’s quite the young gentleman, I hear, and handsome to boot – I’m sure I wish you joy.  I'd settle myself for a husband half so fine!”

I left her still laughing as I ran from the schoolroom, heading for the sanctuary of the nursery where I could be alone.  Closing the door behind me, I threw myself down upon the bed, burying my face in the bolster as the hot tears spilled.   

In less than three months' time we would be making our annual summer visit to Pemberley, which William's brooding presence and disapproving frown would no doubt once more drain of all enjoyment. It was always the same: my aunt and uncle would welcome me affectionately and do their best to put me at my ease, but all of their efforts would be brought to naught by their son's unsmiling, rigid manner.  Whilst remaining perfectly polite, he would make it clear that he found my presence an irksome nuisance to be borne only at his parents' behest; he would dutifully chaperone me and my cousin Georgiana on all outdoor excursions, observing our play with haughty composure whilst refusing all invitations to participate; he would converse with me only when strictly necessary, in tones designed to reduce me to painful confusion.  The possibility that this arrogant young man could be my future husband had never in my wildest dreams occurred to me.  Was I to be sent away from Kent into the rugged wilds of Derbyshire?  Was I actually to leave Rosings - my inheritance, my home – behind, and become the lifelong companion of someone whose society I dreaded?  Did Papa know of this?  Could this possibly have his approval?

With a few careless words Miss Harvey had rocked my world to its foundations, and now everything, everything was changed.

Dr Watson's Cough

Dr Watson’s cough seemed to occur with the regularity of the ticking of the clock. It was particularly annoying and left him exhausted with each fresh attack.

‘Watson, please take some medicine,’ said Holmes in a voice of iron calm. He was in the midst of packing a valise in his bedroom, dividing his attention between that and darting back and forth to scribble notes on a sheet of paper at his overburdened desk.

‘I won’t say,’ said Watson weakly, holding a handkerchief over his mouth, ‘that this bronchial condition may not partially be due to your experiments with gases the other day.’

‘You won’t say it but you will think it,’ said Holmes drily without turning round from his writing. 

‘And I also won’t say that it is very vexing to be unable to accompany you to St Petersburg.’

‘Yes, it is vexing for me too. And please put the whole matter of where I am to be found out of your mind. Forget to remember it, my dear fellow. This case will not be suitable for publication.’

‘How can you be so sure? I have very discreetly –’ he broke off to cough – ‘managed it in the past. The Second Stain, that was a diplomatic affair …’

‘I doubt that this will be so easy to transform into a story for your readers. Now, listen,’ said Holmes, coming and sitting down opposite his friend with the air of one who still has pressing errands and a deadline. ‘My train leaves in half an hour and you are not to accompany me to the station. No, I insist you stay at the fireside. There, you see, you try to object and you break out coughing again. Do not expect to hear from me, my dear fellow, for a few weeks. I shall probably be far from a post office.’ He laughed a little grimly.

‘I know,’ said Watson gloomily. ‘But I trust that from time to time you will remember to send me word – even a postcard from Eastbourne!’

‘I shan’t be in Eastbourne, Watson,’ said Mr Holmes patiently.

‘I know very well you shan’t be in Eastbourne, Holmes,’ Watson said. ‘And you know very well what I mean. Send me word, that’s all. My health suffers when I become unduly anxious. Particularly my chest.’

‘Tut. You sound like an elderly spinster.’

‘Well, you are prone to the darkest of depressions when forced into inactivity – ’

‘I know. But you won’t be inactive. Look, there’re all the files on my desk – you could beguile the time away by organising some of that monstrosity. And you could write your stories.’

‘I am definitely not well enough to touch your desk. I may consider some cases to write up, of course, but it is immensely vexing and I –’ The cough returned at that point and precluded any possibility of finishing his speech. 

Holmes regarded him for a minute. ‘I am so sorry, old boy, but there simply isn’t time. I must get on.’ He rose to finish his packing with a little sympathetic grimace; and in ten minutes, he was ready to depart. They said a reticent goodbye and Watson listened as his friend’s footsteps descended the stairs to the front door. Then he was gone. 

Left to himself, Dr Watson sat feebly coughing by the fire, feeling both restless and exhausted. He had got to the point where his chest hurt so much he feared he’d cracked a rib. The absence of Holmes and his current state of health made him feel so low that it brought to mind a desperate time some years before when he had been led to believe his friend was lost. Sitting there alone, he was ashamed to find that emotion threatened to swamp him. I must keep myself occupied. And as soon as I’m fit, he told himself sternly, I must be sure to get out and about, meet people, see off this loneliness. I’m damned if I’ll let myself sink into melancholy again. 

                                                        *                *                *

The scene in the Café Royal was as busy and opulent as usual. Dr Watson was not particularly fond of the décor, with its gilding and vast mirrors. The place was worth visiting mainly because he enjoyed watching the patrons. Over here were famous faces from the art world in deep discussion; in a corner to the right was a noisy group of exquisite young men, somewhat the worse for wear; to the left a decorous, well-dressed pair of ladies with their escorts; and nearby a couple of intense poetic-looking characters, sipping pale, wicked drinks and conversing almost in whispers. But Watson was alone. He had not intended to come into such an expensive place at all but, having taken himself out for a restorative walk, now that he was definitely on the mend, he found that he needed somewhere to rest. A small coffee with brandy seemed to have helped his general sense of well-being, but it was time to make a move. He made his way to the door and was bumped into by a portly chap who was just coming in. The next moment, he was being gripped by the elbow and steered to one side. It was Valentine Cabot. Watson sighed internally and began to make an excuse about needing to leave immediately. Cabot was impervious.

‘How gorgeous to see you, my dear Dr Watson! You look stunning! Such a long time since we coincided – but I must say this place is horribly expensive and full of gawpers and hangers-on. And are you still writing up accounts of criminal cases for the magazines?’

‘From time to time,’ said Watson, trying to edge towards the door. 

‘Does very well for you, I hear? Yes, very well indeed, so far as short stories can go; but, you know, your readership would increase vastly, my dear Doctor, if you were to take some part of your work to the stage. An adaptation of one of your detective stories would be most appealing.’ 

‘I’ll think about it, Mr Cabot,’ said Watson. ‘If ever I wanted to, I’d certainly take your advice on the matter. And now, I’m afraid I’m rather late for an appointment …’

‘Well, I would be delighted to help you adapt something. You would be amazed at how mere prose springs to life when presented by really good actors. I am lucky to have such a client now – a good actor, I mean. A promising young fellow, name of Arden. You might have heard of him? I count myself fortunate to be his manager, I can tell you!’

‘Oh? That is excellent. And now, I must …’

‘So you may even consider working with me, depending on my next production? I have a most intriguing idea for a play and, do listen because you’ll like this, a musical tragi-comedy, based upon Hamlet. Intriguing, is it not?’

‘Alas,’ said Watson carefully, ‘I am not in a position to consider such an opportunity just now. But I congratulate you on your actor. It must be fortunate to manage a great talent. Well, it’s been pleasant to chat, but now …’

Cabot sighed and glanced towards the group in the far corner. ‘I am, if you insist upon knowing, in the process of arranging a meeting. My friend’s over there – somewhere in the middle of that noisy huddle – and he’s definitely interested in the scheme I mentioned. Perfectly ecstatic about it. I’ve just come in to find him – casual arrangement, and all that, so need to wander over. Unfortunately, I seem to have left my wallet at the bank – I couldn’t ask you to …?’

‘Not really, Cabot,’ said Watson hastily. ‘Crime doesn’t pay, you know, not nearly as well as it should. Certainly not the writing about it anyway.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope we’ll bump into each other soon. Will you be going to Dame Fortune’s?’

Watson hesitated. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, ‘I expect I will, at some point.’

A burst of laughter from the group in the corner attracted Valentine’s attention. ‘Ah, mirth, divine wit, flowing champagne! There they are. I shall go to them. Mr Pollitt and his circle of admirers await.’

Watson escaped.

Extract from The Compact by Charlie Raven.

When are you coming home, Oscar?

Oscar Wilde died, disgraced and in exile, on 30th November 1900, famously saying 'Either this wallpaper goes, or I do' ... but what of his neglected wife Constance, who had predeceased him by two and a half years? How much did she actually know about her husband's sexual preferences? Rohase Piercy depicts Constance's state of mind in her novel, The Coward Does It With A Kiss. This is how she imagines the famous encounter between husband and wife at the Albemarle Hotel, where Oscar was staying with his lover Bosie, might have gone.

25th of April 1893

I have just returned from delivering O.'s letters – quite a few of them by now.  I went to the Albemarle, only to be told that he “and Lord Alfred Douglas” had left yesterday, apparently after some disagreement with the hotel manager.  I imagine that the disagreement was of a financial nature, for when the said gentleman eventually deigned to come and speak to me, he could hardly bring himself to tell me where they had gone.  At last he said, “They mentioned that they were going back to the Savoy, Madam,” oozing disapproval from every syllable, though whether of them or of the Savoy I am not certain.  By the time I arrived there, I was close to tears and the whole thing went very badly.

They were staying in one of the best suites of course, and I was shown into the sitting room; but they were still in the bedroom, and the door was open.  There was another gentleman present, and they were arguing, in French, about something to do with Salome.  When the boy announced me they all turned towards the door, very embarrassed, and O. apologised to the others in a low voice and came out to me in his dressing-gown.  He was very abrupt with me at first, but seeing that I was upset, and no doubt wishing to avoid a scene, he became kinder.

“My letters!  But how delightful to receive so many, and by special delivery!  Tite Street?  Is that really my address?  Do you know, it is so long since I have been to Tite Street that I'd quite forgotten I have a house there!  Thank you, my dear,” (kissing me on the cheek) “for reminding me that I have an address, even as lesser mortals.  Remember, O Poet, thou too art human!”

The others emerged somewhat shamefacedly from the bedroom, and Bosie greeted me in a quiet, sulky manner and then introduced me to the French gentleman, since O. was too absorbed in reading his correspondence to do so.  Monsieur Pierre Louys - I had never heard of him before.  He seemed quite at a loss, which made me suspect that the ignorance was mutual.  Bosie asked after the children, and I'm afraid I replied quite coldly, as I am now far from happy about his effect upon them.  Evidently he was supposed to be studying during his stay at Babbacombe, and had even brought a tutor with him; but if Cyril is to be believed, he avoided his lessons at every opportunity, and encouraged my boys to do the same.  Poor Miss Squine confirmed that she had a very difficult time with them while I was away.  Of course, I have not been able to speak to O. about it.

After a while O. interrupted the conversation, waving an invitation card under Bosie's nose.

“Did you know about this, dear boy?”

Bosie took and read it, with some surprise.  “Certainly not.  I have not been invited myself!  How very remiss of Mama.  I shall telegraph her about it today, and ask what she means by it!”

“Probably she does not know where you are.  There, Constance, it is not only I who deserve reproach; Lady Queensberry would no doubt sympathise with you.  You have an errant husband, she an errant son.”

“You're invited too, by the way, Constance,” said Bosie carelessly, handing the card to me – and I intercepted a look of annoyance from O. as I took it.  Sure enough, it was addressed to Mr and Mrs Oscar Wilde, and requested the pleasure of our company at Lady Queensberry's May Ball, to be held at Bracknell on the 19th.  I am utterly convinced that O. would have gone without me, and never said a word about it.

“It is very kind of your mother, and I shall write and thank her,” I said after an awkward silence.  Bosie gave an enigmatic smile.

“But will you come, Constance?”  His use of my Christian name, which I once thought so charming, was now beginning to grate on me.

I looked from him to my husband.  O. looked uncomfortable and disapproving, Bosie sly and vicious.  It dawned upon me that they had been having an argument, and that Bosie was endorsing his mother's invitation to me purely to cause chagrin.  How dared either of them think to use me as a pawn in their sordid little game!

My first instinct was to refuse; but I have said that I will accept the invitation, and have undertaken to write to Lady Q today on behalf of both O. and myself to that effect.  Why, I wonder?  I can hardly imagine that I will enjoy myself.  Did I do it purely out of spite?  Or am I just curious to meet Bosie's mother?  I should like to meet her, if only to find out what she thinks of O. and of his friendship with her son.  How much does she know, I wonder?

Yes, I admit it, I'm curious, and I am also spiteful.  O. had no right to humiliate me this morning in front of his friends.  I suppose he would say it was my fault, for turning up unannounced.

He bade me farewell in a very jovial manner.

“When are you coming home, Oscar?” I asked plainly.

“Home?  Ah yes, to Tite Street!  How I should love to visit Tite Street!  They tell me I have a charming house there.  Don't worry my dear, you shall certainly be seeing me at Tite Street sooner than you think.  The rates these hotels charge nowadays are quite shocking, and I hear that quite a number of perfectly respectable people are being forced to live at their own houses simply because they cannot afford to live anywhere else!”

I bade them all farewell, I hope reproachfully.  M. Louys looked amazed, and quite upset.  Yes, I think he was completely ignorant of my existence.

I could see the bedroom very clearly, by the way. There was but one bed.  I can hardly believe that O. and Bosie have been sleeping quite openly together in the same bed.  How could he do anything so blatant?  Is he completely mad?  Is he completely past caring what people will think of him?  Is he past caring what people will think of me?

I think I have found my one

This week we're delighted to host two short extracts by Betty Valentine. Betty is a writer and also the '15 minute poet' (check out her Wordpress site!) living in the Channel Islands. She's just completed her third novel which will be published by Green Cat Books next year.

Overture and Beginners is a romance between two sixty-somethings: famous little actor Jimmy and in-the-closet Pete, whom he employs to paint his windows.

Lots of people commented that I was looking well. The only one who twigged that there might be a new man in my life was my agent, Esther Bloom. At least she was the only one who came out and said anything to my face. Esther has never been one to hold back; it’s what makes her so very good at her job.

We have been friends for more years than either of us care to remember. We met when we were just starting out. Like all young actors just out of drama school, I was doing the rounds and looking for representation. I found Esther, who had recently finished a business and marketing degree. She had a few clients and was looking for more, so we agreed reasonable terms.

Esther is universally known throughout the business as ‘Brutus’. The origins of this nickname are lost in the mists of time. I have heard it said that it is in tribute to one of the large and menacing crocodiles in Peter Pan!

She certainly snaps at the best roles for her clients. Legend has it that people have lost fingers to Brutus. Kinder folk say she eats a couple of raw bollocks for breakfast every morning just to keep in trim; the smaller ones she wears as earrings!

She has been a bloody good friend to me over the years. I have returned the favour as we have both climbed to the top of the tall, greasy pole that is show business.

We have fallen out plenty of times and our spats are legendary. One of us, usually me, will back down and we will make it up. We share a special bond that can never be broken. She knows all my secrets and I know most of hers.

I went to see her at her office, as I had some contracts to sign and we had things to discuss.

“Jimmy, darling,” she said, giving me a long appraising look. She is as bad as me for smoking and we were both sporting an e-cigarette.

“You look amazing! Well it’s either Botox or a new man.” Her dark eyes narrow, “Oh not Botox then, do tell.”

I said, “It’s nothing,” but Brutus is not an easy one to fool.

She gave me another look and she said, “I do hope you haven’t been dipping into the sweetie jar again, Jimmy, remember all the trouble we had with Todd?”

“How could I forget!”

Brutus always called my younger boyfriends ‘The Sweeties’, because according to her they were pretty to look at and lovely to pig out on for a while, but they ended up being expensive and incredibly bad for you in the end. Most of them were not worth the calories, in her assessment.

I knew I was fighting a losing battle, so I gave in and confessed.

“OK, yes there is someone,” I said. I told her, “I think I have found my one, Bru.”

She looked over her Larsen glasses and snorted, “Heard it all before, dear, but I will be there with the hankies when he leaves you for some twink in the chorus.”

“When will you ever learn, Jimmy. Who is it this time? No don’t tell me, thirty-five, drop dead gorgeous, moving in next week because you can’t bear to be without him? That’s the usual recipe for one of your disastrous flings.”

I shook my head. “Not this time,” I told her. “He’s different. He’s older than both of us and he’s not in showbusiness.”

She smiled. Her teeth are small and sharp like a little rodent. She laughed and said, “My God, Jimmy P, how loved up are you? Do I hear wedding bells, dear? A celebrity hitch is always good for business.”

I told her it was far too early to be thinking along those lines and we got down to work on the contracts I had come to sign. I consider myself to have got away lightly and extremely lucky that she hadn’t wormed a name out of me. She was a master at that, the devious cow.

                                                                                *        *        *    

We were happy, really happy. I lost weight because Pete cooks healthy food. Our first little bump in the road appeared in the shape of my youngest nephew, George.

George managed to get himself suspended from his boarding school. He had a furious bust up with his father, my brother Doug, who is just as stubborn as he is.

He walked out and ended up on my doorstep. Good old Uncle Jimmy took him in. I didn’t want him running off where we couldn’t find him and at least I knew he was safe.

George liked staying with me, so he stayed…and he stayed. The problems with this were many fold. I had to take him with me everywhere I went because I couldn’t leave him home alone. Wendy, bless her, minded him when I was working, but I had to take him to the theatre one night because she was busy. He really enjoyed himself and everyone backstage made a huge fuss of him. 

The second problem was even worse. Pete wouldn’t come near the place while George was in residence. You know how it is at the start of a relationship, those first wonderful weeks when you just can’t get enough of each other mentally or physically. That even happened for two mature gentlemen like us. We needed to be with each other, it was a hunger that wasn’t being satisfied and I was as cranky as hell.

Finally, after ten days of babysitting, no Pete, and no sex, I had had quite enough.

I got George a coffee and myself a scotch then I sat him down and laid it on the line.

“Look George,” I said, “I think it’s time you went home.”

He shook his head and said, "No way, you have a very cool life for an old bloke, Uncle Jim.”

I was fifty-eight, but obviously to George I seemed ancient.

Time to bring up the big guns.

“Did it ever occur to you, George, that I might have another life besides being on the telly and being your long-suffering uncle?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. It was plain that this had never occurred to him.

“Well I do, and frankly, kid, you are seriously cramping my style.”

He gave me a look and said, in all innocence, “I’m not sure what you mean, Uncle Jim.”

George is a smart cookie. He knew exactly what I was talking about and I knew it too.

“Don’t play games, Georgie,” I said, giving him a raised eyebrow and a stern look.

“Dad told Mum you were off men after Todd. Just the odd casual pick-up,” he said.

“Did he?” I said icily, “Well he was wrong. As it happens, I do have a new boyfriend, but he’s a bit shy and he won’t come near this place while you are here.”

George enjoyed every moment of watching me squirm. Finally, he said, “You mean you aren’t getting any!”

I sighed, “Much as I think discussing my love life with a fifteen-year-old is a seriously bad idea, you have hit the nail squarely on the head. Now do your old uncle a favour and bog off home like a good boy.”

George winked and said, “Yeah OK, I get the message. You go to it, Unc, whatever you can manage to get up to, at your age!”

“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll try to survive it somehow.” Cheeky little beggar!

“Is he nice?” George asked. “I don’t want you getting all depressed again like you did with Todd.”

He was eleven when I kicked Todd out and I know it worried him.

“He’s not like Todd,” I said, “He’s a lovely man and he makes me very happy. I hope you can meet him some day, but not just now.”

“Good,” he told me, “Todd was a dick. You deserve better, Jimmy.” I was touched. We are a close family and underneath all the teenage bullshit there is a really nice kid.

“Remember, George,” I said, “Mouth shut, OK? And I will return the favour some time. I don’t want the entire Porter clan asking questions.”

He nodded and went to phone his Mum for a lift.

                                                        ----------------------------------

P.S. If you fancy a bit more Betty, have a look at A Twist of Starlight.

Annette

We have another enthralling extract from Jay Taverner's Liberty today. It really is very good.

You can avoid the big publishers and get hold of a copy direct from the authors here

- and all the others in the Brynsquilver series too.

Annette’s chamber was at the top of one of the towers flanking the entrance to the château. From the window, she could see across the courtyard to the chapel and the stables, and beyond them to the wide plain where the river flowed in slow curves between the vineyards. All the land she could see belonged to her father, and all of it was planted with vines. The gnarled black stems stood row on row, like black characters on a whitey-brown page, telling the story of her family’s wealth and her own inheritance.

Below her, the château was already awake and busy. A woman crossed the cobbles slowly with two pails on a yoke; a girl scattered crumbs for a flurry of doves and a screw-necked peacock. Annette watched as a young man emerged from the stable block, his hair straw-gold in the morning sun. It was a moment before she recognised Father Lamontaine, the chaplain. Pierre. She stared. His hair was beautiful. She had hardly ever seen him without his neat little clerical wig. She watched as he set his slender shoulders and started off towards the chapel. He would say his morning Office while waiting for her father. Annette suppressed a sigh at the thought of her stern and so predictable papa. Philippe Lavigne-Brillac was a devout man; he would not breakfast before he had heard mass. But neither would he hear mass until he had taken his morning ride.

There was the noise of wooden shoes on the stairs. Annette turned from the window and climbed quickly back into bed, drawing the heavy brocaded hangings close. It was Jacqueline’s job to wake her mistress, and she took it as a personal failing if Annette was up before she arrived. Annette dived across the wide mattress and snuggled back into the warm hollow in the feather bed. Soon the door creaked open and she heard the click of pattens on bare oak boards. There was the rattle of the tray being put down, then the ring of the fire-irons and the wheeze of the bellows as Jacqueline blew life into the embers of last night’s fire. The routine never varied. Sometimes Annette longed for her to drop the fire tongs or knock over the chocolate pot, just for the sake of variety.

At last the bed hangings were twitched aside and the maid’s pale face appeared, almost on a level with Annette’s own, since the bed was high and Jacqueline rather short.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle! You are awake?’

‘Bonjour, Jacqueline. All’s well?’

‘Very well, Mademoiselle, thank you. It is a fine day. The sun is shining. You are ready for your chocolate?’

‘Thank you, I am.’ Annette propped herself up on her pillows and took the tall porcelain cup with its delicate pattern of flowers. While she sipped, Jacqueline fastened back the bed curtains and laid out her mistress’s silk robe de chambre at the foot of the bed. Then, dropping a low curtsey which caused her almost to disappear from sight, she picked up the slop pail and departed to fetch hot water.

With a sigh, Annette contemplated her day. She would dearly have liked to ride out herself this morning; the brisk weather with its hint of spring to come called to her to be out of doors. But there would be visitors for dinner: relations, therefore boring as well as demanding. That would mean at least two hours’ dressing; with her lessons and her daily devotions, and writing to her godmother in England, there would be no time left for riding. She hoped one of the boys would exercise Aurore; the little grey was frisky enough already, and had not been ridden yesterday either. Annette sighed again. It promised to be a tedious day, apart from the hour she would spend this morning in her thrice-weekly lesson with the chaplain. The thought made her smile. Thank heaven for Father Lamontaine. Far more than tutor or confessor, he was her friend and ally, the only other person in the house anywhere near her own age, and the only one with whom she could have any conversation about things that mattered. She felt under her pillow for the book they were discussing: the Social Contract of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. She could not imagine exactly what her father would say or do if he knew his daughter was reading such revolutionary writing, but she certainly did not want to find out. She pushed the book back under the pillow as Jacqueline clattered in to help her rise and dress.

*********

A small fire was burning in the petit salon, Annette’s favourite sitting room, three floors down from her own bedroom in the southwest tower. The curious old decoration – a bright blue ground with a rambling frieze of vines – was so antique that it came into her father’s category of ancient things not to be disturbed, so it had been regularly repainted. In front of the fire the table stood ready laid with fragile cups and saucers, tea pot, coffee pot and urn, and a set of Venetian glass decanters. The waiting footman proffered the keys of the tea-caddy and coffee box and then retired.

Annette spooned grounds into the little pot. The Abbess watched her every move with cups, spoons, and urn, until she cocked her wrist and poured out the coffee.

‘Charming,’ her great-aunt said then. ‘And you sing and play? Paint a little?’

Annette nodded, concentrating on the coffee.

‘And languages?’

‘I have learned a little Latin with Father Lamontaine, and I correspond in English with my godmother Lady Waldon, in London. But you know my father disapproves of too much learning in a woman.’

‘Moderation in all things,’ the Abbess agreed smoothly as she sat forward to take the cup. ‘St Paul teaches us well in that. Oh, no, my dear, I must not take cream. Far too rich for those of us who know the simplicity of the cloister.’ Leaning forward, she unstopped one of the decanters and poured a generous dose of brandy into her coffee. Then, with a rustle of dark brown silk, she sat back and looked at Annette. ‘It is time to talk about your future, my dear.’

‘Madame?’

‘You are – how old now? Nineteen? Then in only two years’ time you will come into your fortune. You may be aware that it is, happily for you, considerable. The money you inherit from your mother and grandmother, and which your father has used wisely on your behalf, will be yours to use as you wish. When you marry, this personal fortune will go with you. Out of the family.’ She put down her cup and looked at Annette, as if to check that she was following. ‘You are, of course, the only child – and a girl. So you will understand, my dear, that it would be best for everyone if your fortune could be kept in the family.’

There was a pause. The bones of Annette’s stays poked into her breasts excruciatingly. She sat up straighter. Meeting her aunt’s gaze, and keeping her voice as steady as she could, she asked, ‘How, Madam, could that be achieved?’

‘Good girl. There are two ways. The first, and simplest, would be for you to marry within the family. Your father and the Count are, I believe, discussing that at the moment. However, your cousin François is only six, and not robust, so that I think will be decisive.’

Annette stared in disbelief. The old woman might have been discussing a choice of gloves.

‘The alternative,’ she continued, ‘and to my mind the obvious choice, is for you to take the veil. You are a sensible girl, and would soon adapt to the religious life. And as my cousin, you would have golden prospects at Our Lady of the Little Angels. Your dowry would come to us, therefore, but only during your lifetime. The promise of its safe return in the future would provide a surety against which your father could raise other moneys, should the need arise.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘Excellent coffee. I’ll take a little of the cherry brandy now, if you will kindly pass it.’

********

It didn’t take long to find out what had happened. Annette didn’t even have to ask; everyone in the château was talking about it. Father Lamontaine had been caught, in Jacqueline’s words, ‘doing it’ with the new stable-boy. Monseigneur had sent unexpectedly for a horse, to ride out yet again to check his coverts and speak to the gamekeeper in the Big Wood; Edouard, rushing into the lower stable on this errand, had caught the two of them in the straw.

Jacqueline went into no further detail about what they were actually doing at the moment of Edouard’s arrival, and Annette did not feel able to ask – but she did wonder why it had caused quite such an enormous fuss. She remembered quite clearly the last occasion on which anything remotely similar had happened: Edouard’s predecessor, a poor relation of her father’s who had acted as his private secretary and steward, had got one of the maids with child. Annette had been about ten at the time, all the more agog to know about it because no one wanted to tell her; but she was sure that Cousin Georges had not been unceremoniously bundled out of the house. The girl had been turned away, of course – but Georges had stayed; he had only died last year. Annette could not see why anything these two young men might have been doing was worse than fathering a bastard on a servant. But Jacqueline just sucked her teeth and shook her head when Annette tried to re-open the conversation.

The house was in complete disorder; Annette dined alone in her room, and was trying in vain to order her thoughts by recording the events of the morning in her journal when Jacqueline reappeared, looking agitated.

‘Your noble father, Mademoiselle. He requests the pleasure of your company at once. He is in the grande salle, Mademoiselle. Please go quickly!’





Monseigneur Lavigne-Brillac was standing at the end of the always-chilly room, his back to the huge carved fireplace. He did not acknowledge her, or ask her to sit. As soon as she rose from her curtsey, he said ‘Father Lamontaine has left this house this afternoon, Mademoiselle. You will oblige me by not attempting to contact him, or communicate with him in any way.’

She had often seen her father angry, but this cold fury was something new. He was white; his hand shook as he spoke. ‘Is that understood, Mademoiselle?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, father,’ she stammered. ‘But –’

‘You will not ask, and we will speak no more of it. It is not a thing for a young girl to think of. And you will, of course, not encourage the servants in any gossip on the subject.’

As if they needed encouragement! Annette held her tongue.

Her father spoke again, his voice strained. ‘However, I must ask you a question – a painful one. It has been brought to my attention that Père Lamontaine was in possession of more than one immoral and irreligious book.’

Annette froze. She pictured the tiny blue book even now hidden under her pillow, and the two companion volumes resting under a pile of handkerchiefs in her dressing table drawer. She swallowed.

‘He was your tutor. Can you assure me that he never, at any time, put this wicked filth in your way? Never offered you anything to read that was not of the purest piety?’

Annette met his eye. ‘No – I mean yes, father,’ she lied. ‘I cannot think what you could mean.’

His face cleared a little, but he did not take his eyes from hers. She willed herself not to blush but then, realising that maidenly confusion would be an appropriate enough reaction, she looked down, and up again at him with big round eyes.

He strode two paces across the wide hearth while she held her breath, then turned back to her abruptly.

It had not worked.



‘Nonetheless,’ he said, ‘one cannot be sure what paths corruption takes to an innocent mind. You must be put beyond further harm at once. Tell your woman to pack your immediate necessaries tonight. You must go in the morning to the convent at Bordeaux.’

After the shipwreck

The Weird Sisters were delighted yesterday to attend the book launch of Jay Taverner's latest novel, Liberty. The authors gave lively readings from their work and answered some imaginative questions from the audience. Today we have an extract from Liberty for you below - it's the intriguing sequel to the blog post of 27th June 2021 (read that first, if you haven't already, and then find out what happens next). By the way, the whole Brynsquilver series is being republished too. Rebellion, Hearts & Minds and Something Wicked are all waiting for you now. What a feast! 

Lotta’s house was the first off the cliff steps; no one reached the back beach before her, but Franco and his donkey were soon at her heels. The wet sand under their feet had been swept clean of its usual filth by the strength of the outgoing tide; and, sure enough, huge waves were already dumping the shattered ship ashore. Broken spars, sodden lumps of sailcloth and all the other rubbish of a wreck were already flung along the beach. Lotta leaned into the wind, heading for a wooden chest that was driven into the sand by its edge. Skirting a spouting rock, she found the first body, face down in a new-formed pool tinged pink. She heaved him over. His head was a mush of bone and brains, and she could tell nothing about his face. Crossing herself, she turned away. She did not need to rob the dead, though of course there would be those who would.

She reached the chest. A good, strong box and still shut, even though it was not roped together. It was either locked or stuck. With a quick thanks to San Antonio, who looks after things that are lost, Lotta called out to Franco. He rose from his knees beside the corpse, where she hoped he had been praying, and helped her pull the box out and rope it onto the beast. Lotta picked her way over a clutter of new white planks. Someone with a cart could fire a baker’s oven all next year. She shrugged. And then she saw the boy.

He lay awkwardly on his front, one white arm thrown forward, long legs splayed, his bloody shirt rucked up to show their full extent. His pigtail had come free so that his long pale hair clung to his face and fanned across his bare shoulder; a golden chain gleamed through it at his neck. He lay as if asleep; but of course, he must be dead. He was handsome, in a stern northern way that Lotta had seen before: strong brow, high straight nose, a perfect mouth, smooth cheek. No sign of a beard, though he must be taller than she was herself. She reached out to touch – and he was warm. Urgently, she tipped him onto his back, pulling the ripped shirt away and put her cheek to his throat to feel for a pulse, and there were two surprises: he was alive; and he was a girl.

It was bright day by the time they got the limp body up to the house, and the storm was wearing itself out. Lotta could not tell how badly hurt the stranger was, nor whether the donkey’s slow, jolting climb might make the harm much worse. But there was no leaving that beautiful body on the beach, and now the girl was lying in Maria’s bed, deathly pale but still alive. Lotta bent her head, and listened to the low breathing. She put her fingers in the mouth. No blood. Holy Mary be praised, then, the broken ribs – there must be broken ribs – had not pierced the lung. There was nothing more Lotta could do, except wait. So after she had taken the gold locket and put it into her dress for safekeeping, she placed a bucket by the bed in case the stranger woke and then, leaving the shutters closed against the sun, went out to buy food just as if it was an ordinary day. But all the time she was at the market, she thought about the stranger with the beautiful pale face, lying in her sister’s bed.

When she returned, the young woman was still unconscious, her breathing shallow but regular. American, they had said in the town – a merchantman out of Salem (wherever that was) bound for Jamaica and lost with all hands. Lotta didn’t intend to lose this one, however. She touched the pale face. It would not hurt to wash away the blood, and perhaps then she would be able to see how bad the wounds were. She fetched water and a sponge, and gently wiped the girl’s cheek, combing back the fine, light hair with her fingers. Then, very carefully, she pulled off the stained shift and began to wash away the blood and dirt. The cuts that had made all this blood were not after all, too deep; the worst hurt was the purple bruising all along the left side, and almost certainly there were broken ribs there, as she had thought. But perhaps not too bad. She smiled, and continued her work. It was a grown woman’s body, she realised, not a young girl’s as she had supposed from its thinness. She could not tell how old: no childish roundness in the face or neck, but no sign of childbearing either – the small breasts and flat belly were firm and unstretched. Lotta could see why she had mistaken this long, straight-limbed body for a boy’s. She smiled. The bodies she knew best were men’s, but she took pleasure in women, too. She bent and kissed the lips of the boy-girl from the sea, then covered her tenderly with the bright cotton coverlet.

The young woman did little that day but doze and mutter – in English, of which Lotta knew almost nothing – but the next day, when she could sit up and eat a little, they began the difficult work of trying to talk. It was hard indeed, when they had so little language between them. Lotta had lived in Havana since she was a tiny girl; Spanish and the local patois both came as easily to her as her native French. Beyond that she knew a few curses and the words for what men wanted, in a dozen languages including English, but none of it was useful now. This woman, like the few other Americans Lotta had come across, understood no language but her own.

So Lotta simply talked all the time, in her own mixture of Spanish and French, with dumbshow to help explain her meaning. This worked quite well when she wanted to find out where the woman had pain, or whether she felt hot or cold, or needed the chamber pot, or if she was hungry or thirsty. On the second morning, Lotta tried to ask her guest’s name, pointing to herself, saying ‘Lotta!’ then tapping her friend’s chest.

For a moment the American woman looked so blank that Lotta was worried she might have lost her memory in the wreck. But then she looked straight at Lotta and said firmly, ‘Judith.’ At which, to Lotta’s horror, the grey eyes filled with tears, and the tears spilled over and rolled down Judith’s face, and she lay there not even trying to wipe them away. 

And of course Lotta reached out and held her, kissing the wet face and holding it against her own, but that was wrong, too, for Judith reddened and flinched away, and pulled the thin sheet up under her arms as if she did not like to be looked at, let alone touched.

For the first few days Judith dozed or gazed blankly through the window at the hot blue sky, and seemed too weak, or stunned, to talk much. But as the days went by and she returned to herself, she began to talk much more, and grew distressed when she could not make herself understood. Lotta did understand, quite quickly, that the woman wanted to speak to the Governor. But he was dead of the yellow fever, like most white folks who came fresh from Europe. As this Judith would very soon be also, Lotta feared; but she could not tell her any of this. Slowly she made her understand that no others had come from the wreck alive, and that the seaman’s box she and Franco had brought up from the beach was the only chest that had come ashore whole. She went and fetched the locket, and put it round Judith’s neck, so she would know something of her own had been saved. 

She smiled at that, and opened it, showing Lotta the beautiful old picture inside – which Lotta admired afresh, asking her guest whether the picture was her mother, or her grandmother, or some fine lady who had been patron of the family? She had such splendid jewels, such a haughty turn of the head, it was hard to imagine she belonged in the New World. Judith said something, urgently; but Lotta could not make it out. She finally got her guest to understand that the locket was all that had survived the shipwreck. Then Judith gazed out of the window for a long time without speaking, as if she thought, or prayed. When she turned back, she looked so lonely that Lotta took her in her arms and this time she did not resist, laying her head on Lotta’s breasts like a child. This time she did not cry.

So, what with cooking and washing and bandages, and trying to learn English words and teach Judith Spanish ones, Lotta did not find much time for her clients. Sometimes men came banging on the door, and she shouted to them to go away and come back next week, she was busy; and they went off cursing her for a faithless whore, or laughed and said the man she had in there with her must be a fine one, to last so many days. Sometimes when Judith was asleep, Lotta had time for one of her regular clients, so there was at least money for food.

She wondered what food they ate in the north, in New England. Judith clearly did not recognise most of the things that Lotta put in front of her, poking at her plate uncertainly, as if the food would burn her. After a while, though, she ate more heartily and Lotta, who prided herself on her cooking, took trouble to make tasty dishes to tempt her. In particular, Judith had clearly never seen a tomato before, and looked quite shocked the first time she was asked to put one in her mouth, but soon she got quite a taste for them, watching hungrily from her window as Lotta tended the vines in the yard where the big red and green fruit grew. She only tried once to help, but bending made her cry out with pain. Lotta tried to comfort her, counting on her fingers the weeks that would mend the broken ribs, and then pretending to be Judith marching about with a watering pot for the tomatoes. It made her new friend laugh, though whether she understood the meaning of it was hard to tell. Judith was always very brave about the pain, and made Lotta strap the bandages tightly so she could be up and moving round the house. The weather was hot, and no one could see her, so she did not need more than her shift and sometimes, at night, a shawl. But the problem of her clothes – and indeed all her other lost possessions – would have to be faced soon.The days passed and Judith mended quickly. She moved more easily and smiled more often; her fair skin flushed gold in the sun. They did not talk much – at least, Judith did not. Lotta told her every thought that came into her head, but it did not matter, since she could not understand. Sometimes, though, Lotta felt they were very aware of each other, moving carefully, alert, like two stranger cats in the same room. She would catch Judith’s eyes on her, and preen a little to show she knew she was being watched, and Judith would look down – but not for long. They drank wine, ate and slept and laughed, tidied the house, sat on the terrace; and all the while Judith’s body mended and Lotta fell more in love with it, and with her.

Lotta began to dread the moment when her friend would be well, would go away. But she also knew that she would soon run out of money. She had few hours now to give to the clients, and was worried Judith would say something about them. But most of all, as she grew more and more fond of her handsome new friend, she was more and more afraid about the yellow fever. Few incomers lasted much more than a month in Cuba before they succumbed to the shakes and the vile black vomiting; you had to have been born here to have much chance of surviving, or at least to have had the fever as a child. Lotta remembered her dose well, soon after she arrived from France with her parents, when she was seven, and they had set up their little shop. The fever had killed her father; her mother had survived. Mama had always been a strong woman, and was today, even now she was old. Her fall last month and the broken leg had still not killed her. Lotta wondered briefly how Mama and Maria were getting on, out in the country. Perhaps Maria would have to stay there for good now. Then Judith would not have to go away, but live here always and they would be lovers. She smiled wistfully, knowing it for the dream it was; Judith must go, before the fever came. So Lotta pushed aside a pleasing picture of kissing Judith, very slowly, all over, and started to look around for an answer to her problem.

It came much sooner than she cared for. They had only had two weeks together after Judith began to move about, when the Belle Heloise was sighted beyond the harbour bar. The cannon boomed out, and people began to flow down to the harbour to see her come in. A French ship meant old friends as well as customers. Lotta oiled her hair, put on her red dress and went downtown. She took her keys, and checked the shop was secure and all was well there, before she joined the expectant crowd of traders, rooming-house keepers and whores on the quayside. The ship was only a few days out of San Domingue, they said, on the voyage home to France, and had stopped to add good Cuban tobacco to its cargo. That done, and more water and fresh fruit taken on board, it would sail again in a few days.

She was in luck. The Heloise carried many of the same crew as the last time it had put in at Havana, and she found a dozen old friends at their accustomed inn. The night was a profitable one. She bought a bargain walrus tusk, with neat pictures of harpooning, from a sailor who’d gambled away his advance pay already. Even more usefully, talking to old acquaintances gave her an idea about what she could do for Judith. She went home in the early morning feeling hopeful. Over the next few days she did brisk home business. She knew Judith did not like it when the men came. But Judith would soon be gone; and next week there was the rent to pay. She sighed. Her new friend would have to go. But not before she had taught her some useful things. Lotta smiled to herself.

The next afternoon, she looked out and saw what she had been waiting for: a brown-skinned man with a great belly and blue tattoos on his forearms, sweating up the steps from the beach. Armand. She ran out, smiling and waving. She had known him since she first started working here, when she was scarcely more than a pretty child and he a thin, lonely young man far from home. Now he was fat and bald and had friends everywhere. For the last three years he had been ship’s cook on board the Belle Heloise, but still he never failed to come to visit whenever they were in port.

‘Armand! You are welcome, cheri, as always,’ she told him, and took his arm to lead him indoors. ‘Now I will do something nice for you. And then, mon vieux, you will do a little something for me.’

He laughed and pulled her close. ‘Bien sûr I will do that,’ he said,

In the end, he did agree to what she asked. Judith, not surprisingly, took longer to convince. But, as Lotta pointed out, she had no money, and no way of earning any. There was clearly no point in Lotta offering to take her into the trade, and there was no honest work here for a woman who had neither French or Spanish. Judith had no friends – except Lotta – and no clothes. And soon she would take the yellow fever, and then she would die.

Judith agreed, with whitening face, to each elaborately acted-out argument. And finally Lotta, triumphant, produced the things she had found in the seaman’s chest. Shirt, breeches, waistcoat, all washed and aired and mended; knife, tinderbox, tobacco box. Then she told Judith, with much miming of pot-stirring, tasting, swaying on her feet and looking out to sea, about Armand, and about their plan. Judith was outraged, incredulous, scandalised. If there had been any other possibility at all, she would never have agreed. But what choice did she have? So finally she calmed down, and let Lotta help her to put the clothes on.

Lotta, who had helped numberless men get in and out of their breeches, was an expert. She showed Judith how to wrap the long tails of her shirt between her legs, as men did to protect their soft parts. In a moment of inspiration, she took the ends of the shirt-tails and twisted then into a knot in front. When Judith had pulled on the breeks and buttoned them up, the effect was truly impressive. Lotta laughed out loud, and Judith blushed.

When Judith was completely dressed, her hair bound into a sailor’s pigtail and a red handkerchief knotted at her throat, Lotta fetched the piece of looking-glass from the bedroom and Judith looked at herself. She did this for several minutes, frowning and holding the glass at different angles. Then she put it down slowly and, with a wistful little smile, lifted a pretend spy-glass to her eye and gazed out to sea. Then she turned back to Lotta and gave a little bow.

‘Buenas noches, Señora,’ she said. ‘My name is Jude.’

Lotta, surprised, put out her hand, and her friend grasped it formally, raising it to her lips, as she had seen a French sailor do. 

Lotta giggled.

So they had two days to alter the clothes to fit, and to teach Jude to be a boy. She swaggered up and down the little yard, or sat astride her chair, or lounged against a wall, while Lotta looked judiciously on and told her what to do differently. Judith’s stiff shyness had vanished. In her new clothes, she was not playing the boy: quickly, quickly she became one. Her chin tilted up, and her eyes flashed; she laughed; she filled the room. Lotta was more than delighted, indeed overwhelmed. The second evening, they went out and walked in the street, with Lotta holding her new client’s arm, and no one looked at them twice.

That night Lotta said, ‘One more lesson only.’ And she pulled Judith’s face down to hers and kissed her. Then she led her into her own room, where the big bed was.