Flora and Jim loved their new riverside cottage and could not believe their luck getting such an ideal spot in their price range. Even the name was quaint, Little Nile. Jim joked that it was just as well it had not been named Little Amazon.
‘People would think we were living in a warehouse!’
The little river that trickled past their tiny garden was actually called ‘The Seven’, not to be confused with The Severn, the longest river in Great Britain.
As they sat in the cosy sitting room enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning Flora sighed with delight
‘…and we did not even have to do any work on it. All newly decorated.’
‘Hmm, I don’t think I could live with that dreadful wallpaper for long’ replied Jim.
‘But it would be a waste to rip it off.’
‘What’s that mark on the wall?’
‘Just part of the pattern.’
‘No, it’s some sort of stain, bigger than yesterday. Perhaps there is a body hidden behind there, it is a very old cottage.’
‘You’re giving me the creeps.’
‘There is a corner peeling off by the ceiling, I could just have a peep…’
To their surprise the paper fell off in one strip revealing writing on the wall.
‘Oh how sweet, a height chart, we could keep that as a feature’ trilled Flora. ‘Five feet ten inches, 2024, some lanky teenager, we don’t know who was last to live here do we, the estate agent didn’t say.’
‘2022, five foot one inch, he must have had a growth spurt.’
‘2019, four foot six inches, a child back then.’
‘2010, four foot 2 inches, must have been very young then, how tall is your nephew?’
‘Doesn’t make sense, in nine years they must have grown more than that, unless that was a different child, pity they did not write their names. We must write their names when we do that with ours.’
‘Our what?’
‘Babies of course.’
‘1995 must have been a baby, two foot one inch, 1980 one foot six inches, must have been the seven dwarves living here, of course, hence the name of the river.’
‘Look down the bottom, can hardly read the writing, 1895, one foot one inch, The Great Flood. What’s that all about, look it up.’
‘I can’t find any great flood for that year and can’t imagine our tiny river flooding, what a hoot.’
‘We certainly would not want a foot of water in here.’
I was idly scrolling through Facebook on my phone when I was surprised to see a picture of myself. I never post pictures of myself on holiday, well I never go on holiday, nor do I socialise enough to appear in other people’s photos. I peered closer. It was definitely me, in that fleece I got from Mountain Warehouse, but I had never been to the Royal Albert Hall. There I was standing outside the famous round building in summer sunshine. Had I been photoshopped in?
I dashed upstairs and put my desk top computer on, I needed to look at this properly, but knowing Facebook that post could disappear any second. Even as I climbed the stairs my phone pinged with a WhatsAp message.
Hi Claire, have a good time, which Prom are you going to?
I wasn’t the only person to have seen my picture, the picture that could not be me. I would love to have got down to London and gone to The Proms, but my budget did not stretch to a city break.
I don’t take much interest in Facebook, occasionally I put a link to my blog or my website when I have a new book published. My followers are a select bunch, but it’s surprising how many readers love my series about Bunny Bunting, a private detective who solves crimes in the cut throat world of pedigree rabbit shows.
There I was again looking up at the Prince Albert Memorial, carrying my jade fleece. I had on my blue polo shirt from Edinburgh Woollen Mill. Did I have a long lost twin? Now I was sitting and looking properly I read what the post said.
Have you seen Claire? Her family are desperately worried. She went on a day trip to London with work friends, but became separated. Claire is believed to be vulnerable and does not know her way around London.
Thanks a lot, not only has someone stolen my identity, now they are calling me vulnerable?
Claire Smith is forty three years old, five foot four inches and well built.
That is me exactly, though what is well built supposed to mean? At least she has not got the same surname.
We know it’s a long shot, but if you are a Londoner, especially a music lover, perhaps you may have seen Claire at Thursday evening’s prom. She is believed to have struggled with depression lately after the end of a relationship.
That is certainly not me, unless Claire Smith has just lost her pet rabbit. Give me a Flemish Giant any day over a man… there were comments already…
Is this Claire from Carlisle, I follow her on Facebook.
Oh no, that is me, I live in Carlisle, so wonder where this other Claire comes from? Please answer and tell us Claire Smith comes from Saint Ives…shall I add a comment…
No, I am Claire Lapin from Carlisle.
Hang on, that post has disappeared.
A hospital room, now what has happened? That looks just like the picture my brother took of me after I had my tonsils out.
Claire Darling we all love you and beg you to get in touch, you are due for dialysis tomorrow at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, but if you cannot get back here in time, please call at any hospital Casualty Department.
Oh dear it gets worse and worse…
My phone rang, my brother.
‘Sis, turn on the evening news, it’s you, are you in London, lost?
‘No Sam, of course I am not, nor am I on Facebook, someone has stolen my identity.’
He laughed ‘You have got a Doppleganger!’
‘A what?’
‘Your exact double, doesn’t even have to be a relative, just someone who looks exactly like you, everyone is supposed to have a Doppleganger somewhere in the world. But I know how you can find out if she is a relative, they are calling for kidney donors, searching for a good match before its’s too late, someone to give her hope…’
‘How can you call for dead people?’
‘No, live donors, you have two kidneys. I’ve taken the number, I’ll text it over to you.’
‘But Sam, I don’t like hospitals…’
I called the number, it was one way to find out who this Claire was. The kidney business caught people’s interest and a chap spotted her at sunset on Waterloo Bridge, staring into the Thames. He called out to her, rather prematurely ‘Hey, they found you a kidney.’
Claire Smith had a kidney transplant thanks to me. No it wasn’t my kidney. We are not related at all, but I somehow found myself in the swapping chain. My kidney went to an anonymous patient whose relative was a good match for Claire. I wasn’t in the news as I had not actually given her my kidney and I certainly did not post pictures of myself in hospital on Facebook.
Lottie had not intended to search the beach for a silver spoon and told herself she was merely there for her usual early morning walk, but keeping her eyes peeled just in case. The beach was busy already. The metal detectorists would not have an advantage unless the mystery spoon was only silver plated.
A local author had planned the treasure hunt to publicise the latest novel in his Kitchen Sink Drama series. The Curse of the Cutlery Drawer was the fifth book, so presumably he was quite popular, though Lottie had never heard of him. Perhaps his fame had not reached London and the literary elite.
The author, Guy Forks, had been featured on the local news last night, though he was not seen, an actor read his words while a camera panned round his kitchen. Lottie could only wonder what the outside of his home looked like as he wished to keep his home location secret. The kitchen was unusual in the extreme. Bundles of herbs and strings of onions dangled over a huge slice of tree trunk that served as a kitchen bench. On the bench was road kill being prepared for dinner as far as she could tell. A collie appeared to have just given birth to puppies in a basket in the corner, next to a wood stove on which bubbled a huge pan with a couple of paws sticking out.
Before Lottie had a chance to peer closer and work out if the scene was actually for real, the view changed to the beach at Puddleminster-on-Sea. The actor’s voice declared that this was where the treasure was to be found and the clues were in the book. Whoever found the silver spoon would be united with the rest of the canteen of silver cutlery.
Against her better judgement Lottie had downloaded the Kindle version of the book and found herself googling the author. There was little to be found out about him.
It was an entertaining morning at least and the strange atmosphere and antics of all the beachcombers emboldened her to walk on further to the restricted areawhere she had nearly been arrested. There had been no more protests, as locals were now convinced they would become radioactive if they went too near. Lottie wondered if Guy Forks would purposely hide the spoon in this area. As she pondered, she found herself stepping through a gate that had been wrenched open. Locals had protested they did not have access to this part of the beach. Now they did, though it was a narrow strip. Behind a huge fence were forbidding looking buildings. Lottie thought she had better not linger, but as she turned to look out to sea she caught something glinting in the low morning sunlight. A thought popped into her head. She and her late husband had enjoyed visiting Liverpool and seeing Anthony Gormley’s statues standing on the sand and in the sea, disappearing and reappearing as the tides went in and out. The tide was going out so perhaps there was a statue under the water holding a spoon. That would be a challenge to retrieve.
Lottie wondered how long she had been staring out to sea before she was sure there was something emerging. It wasn’t a head… could it be a giant spoon? Guy Forks was obviously a big joker, was he also an artist trying his hand at installation art?
Lottie looked around nervously, expecting some official to say she was trespassing. How long before the tide went out far enough to reveal the strange object? She was only certain of one thing, she could not retrieve it and she had no desire to own a giant silver spoon, let alone a canteen of giant cutlery. She walked briskly, heading back to the main part of the beach, planning to tell the first familiar local she met.
Coming towards her was Geoffrey Good, the pathologist she had met at the police station, that bizarre time when a body was stolen from the mortuary. He had his friend’s dog with him, no doubt to look like he was walking the dog and not interested in treasure hunts.
‘What were you doing in the restricted area?’
‘Just having a walk, the gate was open, but I must tell you what I saw, you must come and look.’
They both looked and agreed the bowl of a huge spoon was emerging from the sea.
‘Do you know this local chap, Guy Forks?’ said Lottie.
‘Not till I heard about him on the news last night, even my wife wouldn’t read his rubbish.’
‘Oh it’s quite good actually, I mean I downloaded his book on Kindle last night, purely out of professional interest. I did fall asleep reading it before I found any clues… but whether he’s a good author or not, he has certainly created interest. He could be lurking behind a beach hut watching them all digging in the sand with no idea it will be easy to find. I know what we should do, lets tell everyone, play him at his own game.’
Geoffrey was better at commanding attention than Lottie as they started approaching people, but soon everyone was drifting to the area where the handle of the spoon was now beginning to emerge. Some people were angry at being conned, while others pointed out that Forks never said what size the spoon was. Geoffrey insisted there was no point in arguing about who could claim it until low tide was reached and they could see how the spoon was fixed to the sea bed.
People started paddling, then wading, few knew how deep the sea was or how tall the spoon handle might be. No one had thought to bring their swimming gear, but a couple of young men stripped down to their boxer shorts and discovered it was further out than they expected and out of their depth. When the police arrived to clear everyone from the restricted area, they had not heard about the treasure hunt, but decided boat reinforcements were needed to check the spoon. As everyone was now paddling in the shallows and they did not want to get their boots wet, the officers did not try to arrest anyone.
Lottie was excited to watch the early evening local news with Puddleminster being the first item. Guy Forks was unavailable for comment and nobody could retrieve the spoon as it was embedded in concrete. There was much speculation as to how it had been secretly erected overnight and other beach visitors interviewed thought it should remain as a local tourist attraction. Lottie had been interviewed briefly when Geoffrey pointed her out as the finder, but they had cut out her mention of the fact she was also a local author.
The delightful scent of roast chicken wafted out from the kitchen. Grace liked visiting her cousins, Aunty was a great cook. Playing in the garden with the others, Grace kept an eye on the back door that led into the kitchen. No one was allowed in the kitchen when Aunty was cooking, she had been in there for ages, surely lunch would be ready soon…
‘Grace, come on, your turn.’
She grabbed the ball just in time, despite being weak with hunger.
At last the back door opened.
‘Everybody to the table, not through the kitchen, come in through the patio door, go and wash your hands then get yourselves sat at the table.’
Grace was first in, there was a scrabble to get to the table, handwashing forgotten about. She tried to squeeze in, but couldn’t find a space.
‘Millie, back out in the garden and take Grace with you, you’ve had your lunch.’
Somehow she and Millie found themselves on the wrong side of the patio doors. Grace was too polite to say anything as it wasn’t her home, but Millie did not hold back from voicing her opinion of her family.
‘Call that lunch, call that a meal, same old pile of biscuits I always get, not even a chocolate digestive or some Jaffa cakes.’
‘Oh I love Jaffa cakes,’ said Grace ‘I sometimes have them as a treat, well only one…’
‘Precisely, they eat a whole packet. Hey look, they left the back door open, come on.’
Grace didn’t think they were allowed in the kitchen, even when Aunty had finished cooking, but if Millie said it was okay…’
‘Come on Grace, we’re going to get the leftovers anyway, so why wait, I’m starving.’
Grace was bigger than Millie so she was proud she could help her cousin by reaching the counter top. In seconds they were sharing what was left of the chicken. Tender slivers of meat, crunchy legs, crispy skin and the most divine roast potatoes.
‘Hey Grace, see if you can reach the last two potatoes.’
It was a stretch and a bit of a jump and as she touched the potatoes Grace knocked the heavy carving tray that was already teetering on the edge. There was a deafening crash and Grace jumped in fright. She turned to Millie to ask if they should go back in the garden, but Millie had disappeared. Before she could slip out of the door she heard an awful scream and turned to see Aunty. The strange noise was coming out of Aunty’s mouth and her friendly face had been replaced by a red angry one. Grace thought it might be wise to get in the garden as quickly as possible, but the door had blown shut. Other grownups appeared in the kitchen and Aunty was now saying words.
Five years ago there was a dark cloud hanging over us.
In 2020 life changed in ways that affected the whole world, how each country directed it citizens to fend off a world wide pandemic varied greatly. In a town in England in March 2020, Cassie is looking forward to her first day working from home. But life for Cassie and other locals soon becomes strange as they try to obey and adapt to the continually changing rules issued by the government, often with amusing results.
In 2020 life changed in ways that affected the whole world at the same time. Confined to our homes many of us were glad to have the internet; Facetiming family, working from home and for entertainment. Writers could still write and bloggers were glad to link up with each other and not feel isolated. I enjoyed writing blogs, especially short fiction about ordinary folk, inspired by what was going on around me or related to me by others. Most of my tiny tales featured the same few families and neighbours in an English town that perhaps you know. Looking back at these stories, all written in real time, I was amused at the strange regularly changing rules we had to adapt to. The stories naturally formed themselves into a novella. I have not altered them, but I could not resist finding out what has happened to the main characters since. Most of us could not have predicted the upheaval of this current decade, but some people have taken the opportunity of such disruption to change their lives.
The second half of the book is an eclectic collection of stand alone tales, also written in real time. We may have avoided the future portrayed in the final story, or have we?
In March 2025 we were remembering the official start of Lockdown and for the first time I looked back at what I had written in my blogs.
These were strange times with unusual sights to photograph on our permitted exercise walks. Cruise ships moored out in Poole Bay.
Strange happenings, but maybe not as strange as the pandemonium at Tidalscribe Head Office, creating a book and hopefully remembering how I tackled Kindle Direct Publishing for Tidalscribe Tales back in February.Three things are needed for an eBook or a paperback; a title, a manuscript and a cover.
The Covid Chronicles was my working title, but that had been snapped up long ago and there are plenty of books with pandemic in the title, so how about a word that means pandemonium in a pandemic? PANDEMONICA – All I have to do is remember what I called it and how to spellit.
I could not find my word document for the very first story, no problem, copy and paste from my blog – Do Not Try this at home.
I remembered from last time that if you use your own photographs you need portrait shape, not landscape, all of my Covid pictures were landscape. Hmm, how about a desolate promenade at sunset, you might just spot a lonely jogger… it popped onto the Kindle cover no problem. If you like doing the technical side of photography you will know about strange numbers and letters telling you something or other about your photo, or you can just try a photo and KDP will either accept it or reject it. The cover of the paperback evolved to look nothing like my original idea, the sunset was rejected, but how about a desolate beach in sepia tones instead?
An extract from Chapter Two
After two years she now had the house just as she wanted, but that didn’t alter the fact that her independence had been swept from under her feet, transformed overnight by Boris Johnson from a fighting fit recycled teenager into a vulnerable over seventy. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her son had moved back in ‘for a week’ after his divorce, just in time to find himself locked in, locked down, or whatever they called it. Left to her own devices she would have sneaked out, but James was on guard, no doubt on instructions from his sister.
Pop through the ether to have a look at Pandemonica
Oh Damn, isn’t it always the way, you call in to do a quick job and it turns out the customer is dead. Very thoughtful of her to leave the front door ajar. If it had been locked I could just have rung the doorbell and told the boss nobody was in.
Yes I am certain she is dead, face a strange colour. No I haven’t called anybody yet, would just be my luck to get the blame and I have twenty more homes to visit, twenty more carbon monoxide detectors to fit in the boss’s rental properties. If I don’t get them all done that’s a morning’s pay gone. Property inspection panic going on, so if I fit the alarm and quietly slip away, it will look like she died after my visit.
I suppose gloves would have been handy in case they call in forensics, but she doesn’t look murdered, just dead.
I thought I heard a creak upstairs, but can’t be anyone else here, surely they would have noticed a body in the hall? Maybe a cat, no the landlord doesn’t allow pets, except rats. What a place, she’s better off dead than living here I reckon. All his tenants would never believe their landlord is an MP, bet he would not let his mother live in a place like this, though I have seen worse, some of his other properties.
Today’s lark all started with a scare in the news, some do-gooding new MP stands up in The House and rattles on about the plight of her constituents in substandard housing. Family taken to hospital with carbon monoxide poisoning, calling for all landlords to have carbon monoxide detectors fitted in their properties. Anyway, the boss is worried his tenants might be alerted. They don’t know he is an MP of course, not any idea who he is. Big Dave deals with all complaints and they don’t usually complain again.
Oh damn, that’s the plaster crumbling, how am I supposed to get this bloody thing fixed on the wall?
Door bell? Hell, I’ve got to get out of here fast. Lucky the back door’s unlocked, bad luck I’m stuck in this four foot back yard. Stuck in this yard with an angry dog. Whoever is in the house is going to investigate furious barking. Only way out is over the fence, thank God everything in this property is broken. OW! Dog at my ankle, I’m going over. Can’t get my footing, dog attached to my ankle, we’re rolling down a hill, no a railway embankment and a train coming, how much worse is my morning going to get?
…and finally in tonight’s news a body has been found in a rental property belonging to an MP. Police were called this morning by a shocked neighbour to a terraced property in West London. Police say there were no suspicious circumstances, but the death came to the attention of the media when it was revealed the dead pensioner was a constituent of the MP, who only two days ago stood up in The Commons to draw attention to the unsafe conditions many of her constituents live under. Our reporter spoke this evening to MP Marlina Pontefract outside the shabby row of terraced houses where the tragedy occurred.
‘Is it true that these properties actually belong to a fellow MP?’
‘I can’t comment on that as I don’t have the facts, but whoever is responsible for these properties has a lot of questions to answer.’
You have to laugh don’t you. I would love to see my boss, or rather ex boss, answering some awkward questions. Come on Marlina, I bet you do know who he is. Well I never got any more work done this morning, that’s why I got the sack. Ended up in casualty, lucky to get away with a broken ankle and a tetanus shot. The dog wasn’t so lucky, straight under the train. It was slowing down for the station, jammed the brakes on. You should have seen the driver’s face when I looked up from the track. All those rescue teams just for me. I told them I was trying to rescue my run away dog.
So here I am, foot up… travel news, wonder if…
There were delays at Paddington Station for commuters after an incident with a local train. A railway spokesman reminded dog owners that it was never safe to try and rescue your dog from a railway line.
‘The sad fact is, it is easier to clean up a dog from the line than a human.’
So that was my moment of fame, just as well they didn’t bother to mention me as I was not dead. Let’s catch up with the late night news.
…and we’re just hearing the MP Anthony Saint has been named as the MP who owns substandard rental properties where a woman was found dead this morning. We were unable to contact him for comment.
Meanwhile, police have confirmed that the unnamed woman died of carbon monoxide poisoning and they will now await the coroner’s full report...
There’s an irony, but at least they can’t accuse me of murder.
…but would still like to speak to anyone who has visited the deceased or been in that vicinity recently. It is believed the woman lived alone at that address and had been dead for at least forty eight hours.
Can’t link me to her death, but it’s not going to look good if anyone finds out I was there this morning, oh damn…
Florida Key stood on the quay and gazed across the river with pride. He had just taken over the ferry that crossed the river. His family had worked the crossing for generations, centuries perhaps, since the days of rowing over a few locals in a fishing boat. The Key family still held the licence, proud of their professional and safe record for the one minute crossing.
Though the crossing was short, skill was still involved, taking the tide into account, heading downstream before swinging round to tie up at the little wooden jetty. Florida could steer close enough for passengers to disembark without mooring, but passengers liked the security of seeing a rope thrown over the wooden post.
Mr and Mrs Key had thought it amusing to name their first born Florida after conceiving him on a memorable holiday in Florida Keys. Now he decided to use this to his advantage in rebranding and upgrading the ferry experience. He erected bright new signage FLORIDA QUAYS on both river banks. After a torrential downpour the nature reserve side of the river acquired a few ponds and swampy areas which gave him an idea. He acquired some model alligators to hide in the water and the undergrowth, they attracted more attention when he ordered some body parts from Amazon. Children gasped in fright when they spotted a hand or foot sticking out of an alligator’s jaws.
Florida’s next idea was heritage ferry crossings. A new display board, on the town side of the river, displayed digitalised blown up images from the tiny black and white photos in the family album of ancestors rowing humble wooden boats. Florida would row people across while his sister captained the motor boat. He had never rowed a boat before, but how hard could it be, people rowed up and down the river all the time, all he had to do was row across it. With his mates’ help they hauled a rowing boat out of the old boat house.
If the crossings were a success, he might do short pleasure trips down the river to the beach beside the narrow channel where sea worthy boats made their way out. The larger ferries that took passengers up and down the river were owned by a rival company.
The first couple of crossings went well on an incoming tide. The passengers enjoyed the occasional splash from the oars, which made the experience more realistic and several said it was a shame the trip was so short, though it was slower and longer than the motorboat.
In the afternoon a strong wind had blown up and the tide was outgoing. His sister suggested they just stick with the motor boat, but children waiting on the town quay were eager to get to the other side to see the alligators and to get splashed in the rowing boat.
As Florida rowed out there was more of a drag on the oars and the wooden jetty looked further away than usual.
‘Are we going on an adventure?’ squealed one excited boy.
‘No, not today, we’re going to swing round and head for the jetty now.’
But somehow Florida could not turn the boat and the further they drifted downstream the more he forgot which way you did the oars to turn round. When they swept round the bend and the beach hove into view, Florida had an idea, or rather a desperate plan. He just needed to run aground on the sand before reaching the sign on the beach that warned against swimming because of the fast currents in the channel.
‘Okay, we’ll have a little adventure and land on the beach.’
The children cheered while a mother felt under the narrow seat for non existent life jackets and an uncle started tapping into his phone with the vague memory that 999 could also summon the coastguard.
The river current became stronger and took Florida by surprise. His efforts to hang onto the right oar caused him to wrench the ageing oarlock off.
The uncle was unused to making 999 calls and the stress of wondering if they might also need police, fire brigade and ambulance caused him to get confused as to their location. The operator wanted more information than ‘in a boat’ – they were on holiday, so it was not surprising he had no idea what the river was called. The operator thus had no idea that there was an RNLI inshore lifeboat station a short distance away. Fortunately they were doing an exercise and could not avoid noticing an old wooden boat being swept along the channel and out to sea.
When Florida’s sister returned from getting a takeaway coffee, she was surprised to see the motorboat still moored and no sign of her brother or the rowing boat. She wondered if it was wasting the time of the emergency services to dial 999.
When the lifeboat landed all the passengers at the life boat station there was great excitement among the children.
‘Can we go round again, that was fun.’
Florida wondered if it would be okay to ask if they could go back out and rescue his rowing boat, but before he could ask, the coxswain beckoned him into a small, but impressive coms room.
‘Now Sir, I am obliged to offer you some seafaring advice, which I shall do while we wait for the police to arrive.’
I always wanted to be famous, an actress probably, but then I had a better idea, I would become a newsreader. Just as famous, in people’s homes every night, regular work, short hours and best of all, I would be able to sit behind a big desk. Nobody would see my legs and hips, not my best feature and I certainly would not have to do any nude scenes. And I would not have to learn any lines, just read from the autocue.
I practised in front of the mirror… and in tonight’s news… serious face, serious tragedy face, reassuring expression, Royalty voice, lighten up with cheerful final item…
‘As many as three thousand people are feared dead in… the King and Queen met a 117 year old veteran today when they visited… the Coastguard and lifeboats are still searching for three people missing after their… A Jack Russell terrier named Lucky had a lucky escape when he fell over five hundred feet off Beachy Head and landed in an RNLI lifeboat searching for three missing people…’
It transpired that there is more to being a newsreader than I thought, but I made it… local news, national lunchtime news, main evening news! Someone to do my hair and makeup, different smart jacket or blouse every evening and I was soon a well known name. Under the desk I could wear my bunny slippers and what my husband called my pyjama trousers, but what I called lounge wear. Then one day the producer called a meeting.
The evening news was going to be revamped, the desk would be no more. We would walk around pausing now and then to look commanding. How would I walk, read the autocue and look intelligent all at the same time… and what on earth would I wear?
Luckily my brother is a drag queen, not a profession I or my parents ever thought would be useful, but he came round to offer advice. Picking out a couple of pairs, my only pairs, of smart trousers and a dress and two skirts, he put his hands on his hips and said ‘Now all you need is a decent pair of high heels.’
‘I don’t wear heels, I don’t possess any high heels.’
‘No problem, you can borrow a pair of mine.’
‘Won’t they be too big?’
‘Just stuff some tissues in the toes, it’s only for half an hour.’
Monday evening launch and I’m at the studio back door waiting for my brother who had promised to bring the shoes on his way to his show. He had assured me he would choose his most conservative pair with the shortest heels. With minutes to spare I rushed to my dressing room and opened the shoe box. Black, good, four inch heels oh dear. I stared at them, I was unused to wearing such shoes, but even I could tell something was not right, what was odd about them? Something was right, both shoes were right! He had so many pairs of shoes, presumably lots of similar pairs and rushing around getting his dresses ready he did not notice his mistake.
I had no choice but to wear them, I was expecting them to be uncomfortable anyway, so what difference would it make. Out in the corridor I steadied myself against the wall. My producer said ‘You look lovely, whoops, politically incorrect, you look very professional. Oh by the way, we have got breaking news, no idea what or where, keep your eyes on the autocue and listen on your earpiece for updates.’
I tottered over to the prearranged starting point, my feet in agony already and my earpiece buzzing with the producer’s mumblings and urgent hissings. I peered at the autocue, but I was not used to this angle.
‘…and we start tonight with breaking news from … how on earth is that pronounced…
‘Start walking across’ hissed my producer.
I couldn’t even think which foot to put forward first and they hadn’t told me I had to walk up steps…
Charlotte is trying to get on with writing her new novel and hoping for inspiration for strange situations to get Lottie Lincoln into, but it is Charlotte who faces a strange situation.
‘Have you visited the tree yet?’ asked Myrtle.
Charlotte had been invited in for a cup of tea by her elderly next door neighbour. She had seen plenty of trees on her walks by the River Ham. Late spring and they were at their best, fresh green leaves bursting with new life. Among the people she had met living by or enjoying the river, none had mentioned a particular tree.
‘What tree?’
‘The Hambourne Oak of course, hmm, perhaps I should not have spoken out of turn, only locals know about it and newcomers are not told unless they are worthy.’
Charlotte was not sure whether to be honoured Myrtle had told her or disconcerted that Myrtle thought she should not have revealed the secret.
‘I won’t tell a soul Myrtle, your secret is safe with me. I have been reading all the local books about Hambourne, so interesting, but never any reference to the oak tree.’
‘You won’t read about the Hambourne Oak anywhere. No one knows how old she is, the important thing is that you must introduce yourself politely to her then she will protect you.’
Charlotte had not imagined Myrtle to be a tree hugger and though she was an older lady, she surely she had not been brought up in a time of myths. Still, her curiosity was aroused and this sounded like inspiration for the next Lottie Lincoln adventure in her WIP, work in progress, though she was making little progress…
‘Protection against what?’
‘Who knows, anything can happen in Hambourne, strange things have always happened here.’
‘Well when Robert Falstaff from the writers’ group I had joined was found murdered with his hands chopped off, that was certainly strange!’
‘Exactly and he was not a local, nor was he liked much so I imagine he had never been told to meet the tree.’
‘So where is this oak tree.’
‘I can’t tell you that dear, the whole point is to find it for yourself, which you will if she wants you to find her.’
‘How will I know, trees all look much the same to me, I mean I know what an oak tree looks like, but how would I recognise a special one?’
‘You will know when you see it, but on no account carve your name upon her, only Hambourne born may do that.’
Charlotte was intrigued with that information, a tree trunk with names carved for generations should be easy to spot.
‘Just tie ribbons in your colours.’
‘I don’t think I have my own colours.’
‘You must have, everyone has a colour of their own.’
The next day, Charlotte walked down the lane to the river and set off along the river bank in the opposite direction to the Ham Way. After a night of strange dreams about trees she was uncertain whether to believe Myrtle, a rational person would just laugh. She told herself all she was doing was investigating the other side of the river and enjoying fresh air and exercise before getting down to writing. In her pocket was the pound coin for the Ham ferry. She soon spotted a green flag and a few people standing on a wooden jetty. A small motor boat was making its way towards the jetty. As she drew closer she could see the flag bore the motif of an oak tree, was that a clue?
The captain or boatman, whatever one called him, deftly flung a rope loop over a wooden post and pulled in close enough for his passengers to climb out, without securing the other end of the boat.
‘See you later’ he waved them on their way. Charlotte guessed they were from the village of Little Hambourne, off to enjoy the comprehensive attractions of the town of Hambourne.
The boatman turned his attention to those waiting on the jetty.
‘Any news yet?’
‘No, nothing’ they shook their heads.
‘Sorry to hear that, if there’s anything me and Cis can do…’
Charlotte felt herself a real outsider. The few minutes it took to cross the river were spent in silence, she was intrigued to know whatever was happening, but unlikely to find out. She perched awkwardly on the narrow bench feeling her presence an intrusion. Remarks about the nice day or the pleasure of being on the river, would be out of place.
At the other side the rope was slipped over a rickety post and the boatman motioned for her to get off first. She would have to clamber unsteadily out under the watchful eyes of everyone.
As she turned to thank him and hand her coin over he said ‘Be sure not to miss the last ferry at five thirty and don’t get lost in the woods.’
He smiled for the first time and she was sure the other passengers caught his eye and smirked.
Charlotte chose the path along the bank, she was not letting the river out of her sight and resisted the temptation to turn and see if the others were following. She hoped she was setting a confident pace and after ten minutes stopped to take a sip of her water and admire the view, while glancing back to see if she was being followed. Not a soul in sight and soon it was obvious why no one else had taken this path as it petered out. At some stage the river bank had collapsed into the river, she would either have to turn back or follow the narrow track into the woods. She determined to wander a little way to see where it went then return. Birds were singing, though she could not see them in the thick foliage and the woodland floor littered with centuries of leaves had a unique scent. Though she had only ventured a few yards she felt she was in the depth of the woods. She must relax and enjoy the moment, forest bathing, she closed her eyes.
When she opened them she was standing under the oak tree. Was this really the Hambourne Oak? It was festooned with ribbons and dangling ornaments and a closer look revealed many names carved and various symbols, though nothing as common as a heart to link names.
‘Good Day, I’m Charlotte from Hounslow.’
Did she say that out loud? The tree looked down at her with a dignified stillness, there was no breeze to ruffle her leaves. She touched the ancient bark with one hand then both, not a tree hugger yet. The mighty oak was much too vast to hug.
A crackle of twigs startled her, then she detected movement on the other side of the trunk. Her first instinct was to run back to the river, but she pictured herself tripping over a tree root and lying helpless… she paused and a man stepped out, scruffy appearance but familiar.
‘Sorry, I thought I was alone.’
‘Danny, Daniel Worth?’
He did not seem to recognise her.
‘Charlotte from Hambourne Creative Writers…’
He looked more nervous than she was so she felt emboldened to speak again.
‘You have been reported missing.’
‘Do I look like I’m missing? I came to talk to the tree. Don’t look so scared, I’m not a murderer.’
Any illusion Charlotte had that she was handling this cool and calmly, like those heroines on TV dramas, were shattered.
‘I did not kill Robert Falstaff’ he said in a strong voice that did scare her.
This was turning into a plot she had not even imagined for Lottie Lincoln, what would Lottie say or do?
‘Nor did I, so the only way to prove our innocence is to find out who did.’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 