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!”

New Teacher Nerves

We're delighted to have an extract from The Incident by Maggie Redding today. Nervous new teacher Vida Hartley is trying to navigate life in a rough school. She starts the day with a significant encounter.

With her energy and wild, red hair, the woman appeared like an avenging angel pouncing on poor Dudley Waters.  He had just run in front of Vida Hartley’s car in the staff car park.  The woman was unknown to Vida.  She did, however. vaguely recognise Dudley Waters.  Everyone at Hill Common School knew of Dudley Waters, Year Nine and difficult.  Now he was being marched rapidly up to Vida.  The red-haired woman held onto him by the collar of his blazer. 

‘Say sorry to this lady,’ this vivid stranger instructed him. ‘You gave her a fright.  Look how white she’s gone.’

‘White?’  He grinned up at Vida, who, conscious of her colour, was not sure if his query was a cheeky reference to it.  ‘Sorry’, he added.

Vida thanked him.

‘Off you go and in future, take care around cars,’ he was told by the woman.  He scampered off as though triumphant. She turned to Vida.  ‘Saucy little devil,’ she gave a laugh.  ‘White!  Hello, I’m the newly assigned Ed. Psych. to this school, Elin Lewis Jones. You teach here?’

Vida took the proffered hand.  There had been talk of the new Educational Psychologist in the staff room, with sniffs of disdain, but no one had referred to her striking appearance nor to her Welsh accent. 

‘Yes, I do.  I’m Davida Hartley, always known as Vida, new this term.  Must hurry. I’m late.’

‘Maybe we’ll meet up in the staff room.’

Not if she could help it, Vida told herself.  Elin Lewis Jones was not the route to the acceptance of her colleagues that Vida needed. She’d already found the staff room unfriendly.

At break, she was helping herself to coffee when a quiet voice behind her said, ‘Mucky lot, teachers.’

She turned, mug in hand, to see Elin Lewis Jones reaching past her to lift a tea towel from the countertop and proceed to mop up spills with it.  She then dumped it on the counter.  

‘Are you sitting with particular friends?’ Elin said as she helped herself to coffee. 

‘I don’t sit with anyone.’

She gazed at Vida.  ‘You are a Nervous Nelly, Vida.’  Her voice was surprisingly kind. Vida could have become tearful at that gentle tone in this otherwise hostile place.  Elin surveyed the prospect of a seat, or two seats, in the room, overcrowded and, to Vida, daunting.

‘I still feel very new here,’ Vida said, relenting because of the soft voice. 

‘Look, there are two upright chairs over there,'' Elin said, as she took Vida’s elbow to steer her across the staff-room.

‘Are you Welsh?’ she said as they both sat down.  ‘I ask because of your name, Davida.’

‘Everyone calls me Vida.’

‘Not Welsh, though?’

‘No. Just a boring Londoner.’

‘Being a Londoner, that's not boring. What’s your subject?’

‘History.  And cynicism.’ 

Elin smiled. ‘Oh, a wit.’

‘It's not original.  My previous Head of History used to say it.’ 

‘It can save some angst, though, can’t it, a little cynicism?’

Vida looked at the woman properly for the first time. Her hair was auburn, wild and curly and there were hints of freckles on her creamy skin. She was enviably slender, in a white blouse and black culottes. Her Welsh voice was devoid of harshness. ‘I agree,’ Vida said. 

‘What made you want to be a teacher?’  

  ‘My mother, I suppose.’

‘It was her idea? Was your mother a teacher, then?’ 

‘No. She wanted a daughter who was a teacher. I was an obedient daughter. She died some years ago.’ Vida told Elin a little about her life as an only child of a single mother in North London.

‘Have you settled in at Hill Common?’

‘I have not.’  Her own vehemence surprised her.

‘I can imagine you haven’t. There are many problems in this school and in the estate around it. I am thinking you could maybe ratify my opinions about this place.’

The signal for the end of break sounded throughout the school.  

‘Back to the grindstone,’ Elin said, rising. ‘I’ll see you again.’

The following day, at break, by the time Elin Lewis Jones strode into the staff-room, Vida was already engaged in a conversation with Kelly Bedford. Elin’s presence seemed to be a focus in the room and to have a tug on Vida’s awareness, perhaps because of her eagerness to avoid her. 

Kelly had introduced herself: ‘You’re new, aren’t you?  How are you coping? I’m Kelly Bedford. Maths.’

Vida smiled - with relief as much as anything.  She had been so aware of her isolation in the staff-room. 'Vida Hartley, history. I’m coping in fear and trepidation, most of the time,’ she said. 

‘I know. I came in January. You’ll soon get used to it.’

‘I’m not sure that I want to.  In my worst moments, I hesitate at the car park entrance and I’m tempted to go back home.’ Vida felt her gaze drawn to the corner where Elin stood, tall, elegant, aloof and alone, without any apparent concern. 

‘Oh, we all feel like that, all the time,’ Kelly was saying.

Vida and Kelly sipped coffee. ‘They’re all so angry, aren’t they?’ Vida said.

‘I suppose it’s not their fault.  They don’t choose to live on Hill Common estate, do they?’

Vida glanced at her, trying to hide her alarm. Kelly picked it up, though. 

       ‘Or did you mean the staff?’  She threw her head back and gave a gurgling laugh. ‘In another week, you’ll be the same.’

Vida laughed sheepishly. ‘Perhaps I am now.’ Oh, she hoped not.

‘Who do you have next lesson?’

‘A Year Eleven. For the Civil War. They are quite a decent crowd.’

‘My son, Ben Morrison, is in year Eleven.  But you don’t have him, do you? Oh, that’s the bell for the end of break, already.  Peace doesn’t last long, does it?  Keep your pecker up, Vida.’

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.

Delicious kisses

We're very lucky to have this beautiful poem by Maria Jastrzębska to share with you all for St Valentine's Day. It's from At the Library of Memories published by Waterloo Press 2013.

                                                      Baci di Dama

 

 

Sharp as a whistle 

       her breath

 

catches your breath.

      Tang of silver-

 

berry, darkness icy

      with stars, your mouth

 

waters in her

     mouth.  If this 

          

was not your first

     kiss, it was

 

your first kiss 

  like this.

Maria Jastrzębska

                                                                            At the Library of Memories

                                                                                        Waterloo Press 2013