fiction

Unhallowed Ground – part three

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THIS IS THE FINAL PART OF THE STORY AND FOLLOWS ON FROM YESTERDAY’S

Unhallowed Ground – part two

That evening the vicar left his dreary sixties vicarage, switched on his torch, made his way in the dark across the churchyard and slipped in a side door. In the vestry he looked around at the various cupboards. He had sorted through a few shelves of books and paperwork, without finding anything of historical interest. Now he had a good reason to search everywhere for any records that had survived from previous centuries. He felt like a character from an M R James horror story, though the electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling was not quite as atmospheric as candles or a lantern. In a story the vicar would have opened a book that he should never have touched… with horrific consequences. John Dee did not believe in such things, though  even as he chuckled  to himself he imagined being the one who discovers the victim, not the hapless vicar who has suffered the unspeakable death.

He pulled aside a dusty old velvet curtain that hid a door with a childish thrill, anticipating a secret room. He tugged at the door, falling backwards as it opened easily. But all it revealed were a few books that looked as if they had suffered fire and flood. Too damaged to be of any worth and yet someone had been reluctant to throw them out. John carefully picked up one at random and took it to the table in the vestry where an ancient table lamp gave only a poor light, but John was not going to wait till morning.

It proved far too damaged to read properly, all he could hope for was snippets that might give clues. If it had originally been a journal or parish records no dates had survived.

…and on this day did the villagers bring him to… claiming… performed evil deeds.. demanding     … be tried …all witnessed against him…   I feared he may be innocent, a rogue and trickster mayhap, but not…    black arts    to be hanged…   some affirmed he was of the undead 

John felt a trembling of excitement or dread as some of the words became clearer.

  as …to the gallows he cursed the villagers and all their descendants, saying he would return to take revenge. Thus it was that Jacob the carpenter fashioned a wooden stake while six strong men dug a grave thrice six feet deep.

John shuddered, the story was slotting into place, unless deep graves were commonplace in this Godforsaken place.

I entreated the villagers to behave as Christians, not heathens and allow the man to be buried with dignity until that terrible day of judgement.

The vicar was quite relieved that the day of judgement had been dispensed with in the 21st Century, or at least he hoped it had.

But they heeded me not..

John felt empathy with the poor vicar

  was stand within consecrated ground and pray for his soul…

thus Jonas Warlock lies in an unmarked grave in unhallowed land where no man now dare walk.

A name, the poor man had a name. Tomorrow night at the service they would know who they were remembering. The next pages were missing and John could just make out a faded signature, Rev A Crowley. More research could be done later, if any other records existed of an unimportant little village. In the meantime, Warlock’s skeleton was safe from interference. The unsafe dig would need to be shored up properly before removal could be considered. John Dee would not let the small matter of lack of proof spoil his service. As far as he knew, the Book of Common Prayer did not contain such a service so he would make one up, with a bit of imagination and a good deal of Duolingo Latin. Fortunately the Reverend Dee’s main attribute for his calling was a rich, sonorous baritone voice.

With a new moon and only the graveyard and nature reserve surrounding the church, a thick darkness seemed to lie between the church and the bland vicarage building that was not yet a home. He was glad of his torch and he told himself there was a proper autumn chill in the air, not that he was bothered by what he had just read.

The church was full on All Hallow’s Eve, some of the children, dressed in skeleton onesies and witches’ outfits, looked more like they had come for a party, but they were here. John began his introduction by holding up the crumbling book.

‘Within these withered pages lies the testimony of the reverend A. Crowley. We do not yet know much about him, except that he was compassionate in a time of ignorance and myth. Jonas Warlock was unfairly tried and lies just the other side of the church wall, forever excluded from God’s kingdom, or so our ancestors believed. The Christian faith is all about forgiveness, that is not ours to give, but we can pray for the soul of Jonas and welcome him back.’

The congregation was impressed with the vicar’s Latin prayers and a musician had come forward to volunteer to blast out the dusty pipes of the organ. His playing owed more to ‘Phantom of The Opera’ than ‘Hymns Ancient and Modern’ but that didn’t seem to matter. Everyone surged out into the night, some to shine their phone torches over the wall, though all they could see was the tarpaulin over the rigging. Others steered clear and made their way briskly past the regular graves.

At last John Dee was alone, glad now of the old cloak he had found in the vestry and worn for dramatic effect. Closing the doors behind him, he felt the darkness close in. The last flickers from people’s phones had faded into the night and though he had intentionally left his phone at home, he realised he had forgotten his heavy duty torch.

As he quickened his pace, trying not to stumble, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He turned and for a moment thought the dark shape was a shadow until it spoke. It was a stranger dressed in a black cloak and cowl, for one moment John tried to be rational. Perhaps there was a monastery hereabouts and the monk had come to pay his respects… He attempted to ask the figure if he had been at the service, but his mouth was dry.

The voice was rasping as if it had not been used for a long time.

‘No I am not a monk. Reverend John Dee, I have you to thank for releasing me at last from my grave, I knew this night would somehow come so I could keep my vow and I have all eternity to act.’

When he pulled back the cowl from his face, the vicar knew this was not a vampire, or a ghost. Even in the utter darkness John Dee was drawn to the eyes of this creature and what he saw there was beyond anything humans could imagine. Pure evil did exist and he was facing it. Could the God John Dee did not believe in protect him?

Unhallowed Ground – part two

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Tonight’s tale follows on from yesterday’s.

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Unhallowed Ground – part one

The next morning the team arrived early and the vicar and the robin watched with interest as slabs of rough grass were carefully removed to expose the soil, but then progress slowed as the team painstakingly marked out squares with string and appeared to be brushing soil away with toothbrushes. John Dee had to leave for his appointment at the local primary school. The head had been delighted when the vicar offered to visit the school. She welcomed fresh input to their school project ‘Layers of Time’ aligning with the interest in the dig. But if she was expecting him to talk about Romans she was soon disappointed. John didn’t like children much, however they were part of his calling and he found he soon had their interest when he started describing the more gruesome aspects of history. He ignored the expression on the teacher’s face as he moved onto public hangings and burials in unconsecrated ground. Before she could interrupt him he rounded off his talk with the politically correct plan to understand the wrongly accused of the past.

The vicar returned to the dig just in time to hear a cry of surprise and fear from a young woman and see other team members grab her before she was sucked into the sink hole that had suddenly appeared. It was not large, but wide enough that she could have slipped in. With great presence of mind the vicar had his camera out and leaned over the wall to take a picture before the leader of the dig ordered everyone to move right back. They joined the vicar on the safe side of the wall.

‘I saw a ladder’ gasped the girl.

 John brought the pictures up on his phone screen, a bit blurred, but they did seem to show a wooden ladder. There was excited chatter. Some were pragmatic and thought it must be an old sewer, while others suggested a secret tunnel to the church. Romans were forgotten about for the moment.

‘It is not safe for us to proceed at all, we need the council to send in their engineers’ said the dig’s leader.

John was disappointed, hoping a mystery tunnel would be of nearly as much interest as skeletons and they only had a short time to produce historical drama for the locals.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ piped up another young woman ‘my boyfriend’s a potholer and even better, he is on the potholing recue team. They could check this hole more safely than council workers.’

‘Yes let’s get this underway before the council gets involved,’ said John ‘after all, you have permission to dig, does it matter how it’s done?’

The emergency potholers treated the operation as a good training exercise. Within an hour all sorts of rigs and pulleys were set up so the volunteer could be lowered without stepping on the ladder. Initial shining of torches showed the ladder went down a long way. The ropes were played out and he disappeared out of sight to report back on his radio that the narrow passage down widened into some sort of cavern. His boss ordered him not to go any further, lest the whole lot came down on top of him.

They all heard his reports from down below ‘I’ll try and take photos, it’s a small space, oh my god, bring me up…’

He was helped off with his helmet and he looked pale and shocked.

‘Skeleton…’

‘A catacomb?

‘Just a small space and a skeleton laid on a slab of stone.’

‘A burial in unconsecrated ground, just as we expected,’ said the vicar ‘but why so deep and why the ladder?’

‘Whoever buried him would need a way to get back up, whatever the reason.’

‘Or he could have requested in his will that a ladder be installed in case he wasn’t really dead and then he could get out. People used to be scared of being buried alive.’

‘Still are’ said someone else.

‘He was definitely dead,’ said the potholer ‘he had a large wooden stake through his ribs.’

‘A vampire?’

‘Poor chap’ said the vicar ‘he probably had a disease which makes your mouth bleed and could have had mental health issues as well. We don’t have vampires in England.’

‘Yes we do’ piped up someone else ‘Count Dracula landed in Whitby.’

‘That is fiction’ sighed the vicar. ‘We will certainly pray for him at the All Hallows’ Eve Service tomorrow night, I trust you will all be there.’

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Unhallowed Ground – part one

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The Reverend John Dee had always dreamt of Salisbury Cathedral, striding across the green gazing up at the tall spire, pointing to a heaven he didn’t believe in. It was the beautiful setting that appealed to the vicar; he pictured himself as a new deacon cycling by the water meadows, smiling at other cyclists and walkers, enjoying a drink in the pub by the mill. Dining in the evening with fellow clergy interested in history and nature.

Instead, John Dee found himself in a bleak town in sole charge of Saint Justin’s parish church, a church under threat of being deconsecrated, its few remaining parishioners left to the ministrations of visiting lay clergy. But St. Justin’s was also an historic Saxon church which experts, who didn’t actually attend church themselves, felt should remain dedicated to Christian worship. No other clergy wanted to take it on and no other parish wanted John Dee. He only agreed because of his love of history and nature. The church was surrounded by a large graveyard, accidentally rewilded. Next to the grounds of the church was a nature reserve of a few acres, fields and a copse protected for eternity from the encroaching ugly town by a trust endowed by a local of great standing centuries ago.

As John Dee stood leaning on the churchyard wall in the autumn sunshine, listening to the robin’s sweet song, he took some pleasure in his new little kingdom. But there was a difficult side to his new calling, the bishop expected him to revive the congregation and inspire locals to attend services and put money in the collection. He could rustle up a few stirring sermons on the internet, but how to get locals there in the first place, especially as he didn’t particularly like people.

He decided to turn his attention to the letter that had arrived that day. A team from the university in a neighbouring more interesting town, had been given permission to do a small test archaeological dig just the other side of the wall. They were hoping to find traces of a Roman Villa. The robin would be happy with a supply of juicy worms, but John did not want his peaceful sanctuary disturbed. Then he recalled a bizarre conversation with his oldest parishioner.

She told him this very field was the resting place of evil, where the wicked were buried in unconsecrated ground after being executed or struck down with nasty illnesses they deserved. John had been amused and tried to suggest modern thinking would no doubt consider they had been harshly treated for stealing a loaf of bread or having mental health issues. But the old lady had no truck with modern thinking and warned him that field must not be disturbed for fear of releasing evil.

John Dee was struck with a new idea. Halloween would soon be upon them and he would somehow spread rumours that the dig might come upon skeletons not Roman tiled floors. After all, it was traditional for those not worthy to enter the Kingdom of God to be buried on the other side of the wall. Before interest could wane he would hold a service on All Hallows’ Eve to pardon those poor souls and welcome them back into the family of the church; an excellent alternative to all the commercial rubbish and greed at Halloween. The bishop should approve.

Halloween Hijinks

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‘Have you found it yet?’

‘No, a box of paperbacks, destined to be Christmas presents I expect, at least we have avoided yet another new novel.’

‘So, what’s in that drawer?’

‘More folders full of writing.’

‘Oh goodness, she told me she was going to leave her intellectual property to me… and all her manuscripts!’

‘Ha ha Sis, have you seen what’s in the loft?’

‘Lucky you Sis, most authors are only successful after they have died, so maybe you’ll make some money.’

‘At least she went the way she would have liked, freak accident trying to take pictures for her blog.’

‘How do you know it was an accident, she could have been pushed.’

‘Ha ha, by another jealous blogger?’

‘However it happened at least it was dramatic, she did say to me one day ‘If I’m found dead I do not want headlines in the local news saying ‘Pensioner found dead’ make sure it’s ‘Mystery Death of Author.’

‘She was certainly intending to be home soon, her computer’s still logged in to WordPress, looks like she was in the middle of writing a blog… hmmm Halloween story. We could publish it and no one would be any the wiser that she was dead, that’s if anyone actually reads her blog.’

‘It would be a sort of tribute if her Halloween story still went out.’

‘Yup, the word document is open as well so it would be her genuine writing.’

‘And in the unlikely event that any reader had heard she had died, they would think her ghost had written it!’

‘Okay, you do the blog then and I’ll go on searching for her will.’

Tuesday Teeny Tale

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‘Another one’s appeared, on the oak tree, pathetic and disrespectful, cultural appropriation or is it misappropriation?’

‘Just ignore them Oberon.’

‘I’m going to take my axe to it this time.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, they aren’t causing any harm to us, not compared with all the other stuff they do.’

‘What if one of our folk thought it was a real door!’

‘Daddy, why have you got an axe?’

‘Your father’s getting overwrought over the giants again. If you’re not careful Oberon they’re going to see you and then where will we be, doesn’t bear thinking.’

‘Mummy, you said the giants wouldn’t hurt us.’

‘They won’t as long as they don’t believe we exist. Anyway, it’s time you were getting ready for school, have you brushed your wings?’

Saturday Short Story – Gardener’s World

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This is the final part of Lottie’s latest tale and follows on from…

Thursday Tiny Tale – Family Secrets

The home of Cousin Ruth stood out in the row of large Victorian terraced houses. The front garden was packed with raised beds of vegetables and wigwams of runner beans. Lottie had never had much success with vegetables so she was impressed. Before she could peer closer as Tilly and Wesley ushered her up the garden path, the front door flew open and dogs and children hurtled out.

‘Just stand still’ said Tilly, doing the same.

Wesley obviously knew the routine and swept up an escaping toddler, kicked the front gate shut and herded dogs and children through the front door.

‘Wait for the dust to settle’ added Tilly.

 As the sound of barking receded Cousin Ruth emerged. She enveloped Lottie in layers of crocheted poncho and guided her inside, warning her to mind the toys. Lottie stepped over a huge dinosaur and dodged a strange lurid pink wheeled contraption. More dogs appeared and she would have been happy to pet them if she had been wearing casual clothes instead of one of her smart book launch outfits.

‘Come through, come through, Kizzy made you some cakes at Brownies.’

Lottie hoped the baking facilities at Brownies were cleaner than the kitchen she glimpsed through a half open door. She was led into a large sitting room where adults were gathered. Tilly appeared at her side.

‘Lottie is a famous author, I’ve read all her best selling novels.’

Nobody looked very impressed.

‘I don’t have time to read’ said Ruth.

‘Hey Lottie, did you hear the joke about the dumb blonde who was asked if she would like a book for her birthday… No thanks, I’ve already got one.’

‘Dad, you can’t say that, politically incorrect.’

‘But I like dumb blondes, I married one didn’t I?’

‘Down Flossie, sorry Lottie, she gets over excited, Bernie put the kettle on. Bernie is Geoff’s son, Geoff is husband number three, he has a large family too, but when he moved in here we weren’t expecting to both have adult children moving back in or to have grandchildren dumped on us. This is Oliver, husband number one, still good friends and Elspeth his wife, they both wanted to meet you and of course some of these grand brats are his as well. Sally did you order the pizzas, is that Dominoes you’re talking to?’

‘No, just booking my flight, I’ll do the pizzas next.’

In the midst of the confusion a child thrust a puppy into Lottie’s arms. It was undeniably cute and fluffy. Her handbag dropped to the floor, but at least she hadn’t dropped the puppy. She felt quite protective, how could this tiny being survive the tumult around it.

‘Sit down, sit down.’

Lottie was thankful to sink into a spot at the end of the sofa, a cosy corner of cushions and puppies as another tiny dog was placed in her lap. For a moment she thought longingly of her little cottage waiting for her return on Sunday evening, but as she looked around she realised she was experiencing life with a capital L. Life went on, it had not ceased when Callum died. Although her head was spinning she felt new ideas tumbling into her brain. Her next novel with the renegade vicar would feature love for real people; families tossed up into the air like a broken jigsaw and tumbling down into a different picture of blended families and romance for each generation. This family certainly seemed very happy.

As Lottie imagined her first chapter her thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream and a child sobbing.

‘Granny, Tommy pushed her down the stairs, not me.’

Lottie clasped the puppies, she felt a maternal need to protect them from Tommy.

Ruth darted out into the hall and yelled up the stairs, hauled back a child from entering the adults only zone, then shortly returned with two mugs in each hand.

‘Is tea okay, Bernie forgot to ask what you like.’

‘Fine, fine’ said Lottie, wondering where she would put a mug or how she would hold it with her hands buried in warm puppies.

‘I’ll put it on the mantlepiece, we keep all hot drinks up there. Now, I hear that the fairies were a complete surprise, Callum never told you, he must have been in complete denial, which is a shame, because we would have believed him now we have seen them at the bottom of our garden.’

Lottie wondered if this was a joke, had the whole thing been an elaborate joke, but Ruth’s expression looked genuine so she couldn’t resist asking if she could see them.

‘It doesn’t really work like that, we have never told the children.’

‘That’s a relief… I mean I guess you need to protect them.’

‘That’s why we grow the veg in the front garden. When we bought this place we loved the long garden, even though it had run wild. I jokingly said I was going to look for fairies down the bottom of the garden and imagine my surprise when I saw them. We didn’t want to harm them, make the same mistake as Callum’s parents, so we built a wall across and never kept cats. Occasionally I see one on top of the wall watching when the children are playing in their part of the garden, I’m sure they wink and wave. In recent times we have put cctv up and observed them properly and secretly. We never told anyone and we tell new neighbours we are rewilding.  Can you imagine scientists wanting to examine them or worse, fairieknappers…’

Charlotte paused, she was even beginning to believe in fairies herself. Was this for real? Her novel about Lottie was meant to be light hearted and fun and if people believed in angels and people used to believe in fairies…

Tilly was guarding the door as Ruth tapped her mobile phone then showed Lottie a picture. Little people, very tiny when you saw them under dandelions. Not like children’s Victorian books, actual miniature people, but with wings, genuine wings, they were flying. Lottie gasped and glanced at Tilly and Wesley, the only adults who were probably sensible.

‘Wesley, have you seen them, is this all for real?’

‘Well the Church of England doesn’t do Fairies but…’

‘They do angels’ said Tilly ‘so why not believe in fairies.’

‘Yes, all God’s creatures are entitled to their own lives so we have a sacred duty to protect them Lottie.’

‘Their secret is safe with me and I certainly won’t write them in my novels, I don’t think my readers’ credibility would stretch that far.’

Thursday Tiny Tale – Family Secrets

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Today’s tale continues Lottie’s story from last week.

Thursday Tiny Tale – Lottie’s Weekend

‘There are fairies at the bottom of the garden.’

Lottie thought she must have misheard. She was sitting in the strange but cosy flat that was home to Tilly and her new husband, Wesley the young vicar.

Wesley continued ‘Yes, that’s the family story. Callum came home from university for the holidays, or at least it wasn’t his home as his parents had moved, upsized to a cottage with a long garden. Gardening was going to be their retirement project. Various relatives had gathered to see the new home, but it was Callum who was first to venture into the impenetrable overgrowth. It wasn’t called rewilding back then. Aunty Ruth, Callum’s cousin, was there, well she wasn’t an aunty then, a bit of a wild child, called in to say farewell before going off on her travels. She thought Callum a very studious serious chap, that’s why she was so surprised when he returned to the house with lots of scratches and an angry cat in his arms exclaiming ‘There are fairies at the bottom of the garden.’

He claimed he had caught the cat just in time, but the fairies could be in danger and must be protected in the interests of science.

‘Well’ said Lottie ‘he did have a science degree, but he never mentioned fairies. But then he never mentioned his family either.’

Charlotte paused with her fingers above the keyboard, then scrolled back to see if she had given Callum any family. Hmm not many family was different from not any family. Were his parents dead when Lottie met him? When did she meet him? He was the love of her life so they were probably young…. Perhaps this vicar chap could fill in some gaps for Lottie.

‘Wesley, do fill in a few gaps for me’ said Lottie ‘Callum was an only child?’

‘Yes, unusual for our family, they made sure he had a good education and had high hopes for him.’

‘And he is, was very successful in his career, but not arrogant, happy to support my career.’

‘But his parents did not get to share that success?’ mused Tilly ‘or have gran…’ she blushed and stuttered.

‘It’s okay,’ said Lottie ‘neither of us wanted children, we were happy as we were with each other and as his parents were supposedly dead there was no pressure.’

‘Were they dead?’ said Tilly, obviously enjoying this new family mystery.

‘Well they are now’ laughed Wesley ‘think they had him late in life, but I have no idea when they died.’

‘So when do we get to the part of the story that explains why Callum was estranged from his family. Is estranged too strong a word, lots of cousins don’t keep in touch.’

‘He was upset that nobody believed him, I mean if you really saw fairies it would be amazing. Alas no smart phones then, imagine if he had taken photos, put them on Facebook… anyway the first problem was that the cat was his parents’ new rescue cat, a spiteful creature apparently, but they adored him and Callum took it straight back to the rescue centre.’

‘But surely a cat couldn’t cause a family rift?’

‘Worse was to come. Callum found plenty of wood, wire netting etc in an old shed and erected a fence, creating a fairy sanctuary. He pleaded with his parents not to touch the bottom of the garden while he worked out how to set up observation, David Attenborough style and what experts he could find who would believe him.’

‘I can’t imagine that would be easy’ said Tilly. ‘I never thought about fairies seriously before, but how would they survive with all the dangers from foxes and human boots, it doesn’t bear thinking of.’

‘I agree’ said Lottie. ‘Callum did like butterflies and insects, would never kill a spider and it was bees that became his main work before it was fashionable to worry about bees.’

‘Oh how lovely,’ said Tilly ‘perhaps he was always hoping he would see fairies again.’

‘That is a nice thought, but why didn’t he tell me, I would not have laughed.’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you two ladies the rest of the story, you may find it disturbing as they say on the news.’

‘You have to tell us now’ said Tilly.

‘Callum was due to go off on a uni. expedition to Scotland or wherever, and he left with nobody believing a word he said, thought he was having them on, trying to be clever just because he had made it to university. When he returned a week later his parents had rotovated the whole garden ready for their vegetable beds and fruit trees.’

‘Oh no’ cried Tilly.

‘But then what happened?’ said Lottie.

‘I think he went back to carry on with his studies and no one heard from him again.’

‘He had Cousin Ruth’s address, so surely he had some notion he would get in touch one day.’

‘I’m sure he did’ said Tilly ‘and don’t you worry about what the rest of the family say this afternoon.’

Lottie’s heart sank, she just wanted to stay with Tilly and Wesley in their cosy nook.

‘Oh dear, what’s happening this afternoon?’

‘Round to Aunty Ruth’s to meet the rest of the family.’

‘But I thought I met them at dinner.’

‘Some of them.’

Lottie hoped to delay venturing out.

‘Tell me about this place, why is it called The Transept’.

‘De-consecrated church that was going to be sub divided into flats, but they only got ours in the east transept finished before lockdown and the builders going into liquidation. So we did some reclaiming and hold relaxed services in the nave, unofficially; the bishop is not quite sure what to do with us. You can come to messy church tomorrow, the rest of the family will be there.’

Lottie was feeling a bit overwhelmed, but after having writer’s block when Callum died she began to feel a romantic novel coming on, a novel about a renegade vicar…

‘I should tell you I don’t go to church Wesley.’

‘That’s okay, I don’t read your novels, romance not really my thing. But anyone can come to our services.’

Charlotte paused, that was enough writing for today. How on earth had fairies got into the story, oh yes, she was going to the offbeat writers group down by the river and their topic was fairies at the bottom of the garden.

Thursday Tiny Tale – Lottie’s Weekend

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Today’s tale follows on from last week.

Thursday Tiny Tale – Have You Stayed With Us Before?

Charlotte sat by the river, the sun on her face, note book on her lap. She was living the dream; not just coping with her new life, but actually a full time writer writing. Full time because she hadn’t found a job yet, but nevertheless she was like any writer or artist on the way up… now she just had to put pen to paper. She had no idea what was in the note that Lottie received, but if she just started scribbling…

Lottie looked round the gloomy hotel room and realised she should have splashed out on a luxury room not a cosy room. Cousin Ruth’s idea of posh hotel should not have been relied upon. She opened the envelope, hoping to find out what and where was happening next on this strange weekend.

Hello Cousin Lottie, so looking forward to meeting you and it is so good of you to come after everything that happened in the past. I don’t know how much Callum told you. I hoped we would hear from him one day, but it was not to be and we had no way of getting in touch.

I’m sure they wouldn’t want us lot in that posh restaurant at your hotel so we’re meeting at a nice family pub round the corner that has a soft play area. Malc my nephew will wait for you in the hotel foyer 6.30pm.

It was already six, not much time to get ready with her things still in her case, but it was hardly a book launch or one of Callum’s business diners. She would probably be back in the cheerless room quite early so she checked the television, or at least stood there wondering how it worked. Callum used to like playing with televisions and remotes so it was taken for granted he would start fiddling with buttons while she arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. Then they would watch a bit of news while looking at the menu to see what the hotel restaurant was offering. The soulless room brought home to her how much she missed Callum and their shared life, she couldn’t even arrange her toiletries in an en-suite obviously created out of a cupboard.

Please bear with us while modernisation proceeds to make your favourite hotel even more comfortable. Read the message on the welcome card. Lottie scrolled down to room instructions and pressed the button on the television. It came on at full volume with a quiz show hosted by that bloke on TV she couldn’t stand. The numbers on the remote did not relate to changing channels. She switched off and prepared to do battle with the heavy fire door.

In the foyer a middle aged man stood looking like he didn’t want to be there.

‘I’m Malc, you must be Lottie? Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’

He ushered her first through the double doors onto the pavement where it was now pouring with rain, though he didn’t seem to notice. The place was just round the corner to her relief. Through the door past a life size model of a highland stag and Lottie wondered how much stranger the evening could get. She also wondered which of the many families eating and wandering back and forth to the carvery were Callum’s relatives. Suddenly a woman with a halo of red hair and flowing garments rushed forward and clasped her in her ample arms.

‘Well here we are at last, come this way.’

As they approached a long table laden with food the folk gathered round it seemed more interested in eating than greeting. Lottie imagined how she would describe the scene to Callum, then realised she could never tell him. Suddenly a figure stood up.

‘Lottie Lincoln, I’m so excited to meet you, I’ve read all your books.’

A young woman, smartly dressed with a sleek elfin haircut, squeezed past the others.

‘You lot make room for Lottie while I take her to the carvery and show her what’s what.’

She guided Lottie in what seemed a complicated route past tables and a strange cage containing bouncing children.

‘Soft play area, godsend, some of those kids are ours apparently. I’m new in the family, in law like you. We have something in common. I’m Tilly, my husband’s a vicar, not here yet, been called out to some pastoral emergency.’

‘Good to meet you, I am rather overwhelmed.’

‘Not surprised, but I think I can rescue you, coming to us for morning coffee tomorrow and I’ll fill you in. Must look after my favourite author.’

Lottie had found a new friend and inspiration for a new novel, her head was spinning, but she just had to get through this evening and stay close to Tilly.

Charlotte felt quite excited, what an interesting family, hard to believe she had just created them herself and what on earth had happened in the past? She had no idea.

Thursday Tiny Tale – Have You Stayed With Us Before?

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While I have been on holiday Charlotte Charlington has been writing more about her new leading character, Lottie Lincoln.

Lottie nearly fell out of the train. The platform seemed a long way down and she had got flustered trying to work out whether her wheelie weekend case should go before or after her. At least she had arrived at the right station.

The invitation to visit had come from some vague cousin of her late husband; neither of them had many relatives and Callum had never mentioned a cousin Ruth. She had been lurking on the last page of his old address book, so Lottie had added her to the list of people to write and inform of her husband’s sudden death. There was no way of knowing if she was still living at the same address near Peterborough or even if she was still alive, so Lottie was surprised to soon receive a reply and an invitation to visit. Her writer’s mind suspected an ulterior motive, did they assume she was a rich widow? But her author’s mind also thought Ruth’s family could provide excellent inspiration for her writing. She had been relieved to hear the large blended family had no room for her to stay in comfort and had booked the recommended local posh hotel.

Lottie checked her phone again. The latest of several text messages said Si would pick her up at the front of the little station in five minutes. No other passengers were loitering looking out for lifts so presumably he would find her. When she saw a young man jump out of a scruffy white van she wished she had taken a taxi.

‘Hey Lottie, over here.’

Her case twisted sideways as she stepped off the curb. Husbands were so useful for dealing with luggage.

Si quickly appeared at her side.

‘I was coming over to help.’

He picked the case up with ease and slung it into the back of the van, setting a dog barking. Lottie winced. Si led her to the passenger door.

‘I hope you’re more athletic than Gran.’

Lottie hoped he didn’t think she was as old as his grandmother.

‘Step’s a bit high up, just swing yourself in, sorry about the mess.’

He swept crisp packets off the seat and made an attempt to move empty water bottles and drink cans out of the way of her feet. A larger fury head suddenly appeared between the seats. Lottie hastily moved her right arm away from the drooling mouth.

‘That’s Brutus, quite harmless. Hey Brute, you haven’t been furtling around in Lottie’s luggage have you?’

Lottie shuddered.

They swung out of the car park at full speed and hurtled through featureless streets till they pulled up at a straggling building that could be a pub, a hotel or an office block. Si left her to clamber out while he fetched her case and let Brutus out.

‘Okay Brute, you can get back in the front seat now.’

He strode up to the glass doors and Lottie hoped he would leave her at the steps to regain her composure.

‘Never been inside this place before, um reception this way, I’ll leave you at the desk. Oh I nearly forgot, Gran gave me a note for you, just to tell you where we’re all meeting up for dinner. Right, gotta go, see you later.’

A young woman behind the desk smiled then rattled off some questions by rote. ‘Have you stayed with us before? What was your name? Is it just yourself staying? Would you like to book breakfast, any allergies?’

Lottie supposed this was what it would be like, going on holiday by oneself. She didn’t count this as a holiday and hoped she looked like she was away on business. Lottie realised the girl was still talking and handing her a blank rectangle of white plastic.

‘It hasn’t got any writing on it.’

‘For security, just swipe it over the lock, the door is a bit heavy, fire door.. Through the double doors, turn left and you’ll see the lift, room 424.’

The phone on the desk rang and the girl answered before Lottie had a chance to say she didn’t like lifts. She reminded herself she was a successful author who had stayed in hotels for conferences, but Callum had always come along as well.

She pulled her shoulders back and tried to look blasé as other guests sauntered past. In the lift she pressed the button for the fourth floor, held her breath and closed her eyes. Stepping out she was confronted by three doors with room numbers and selected 413-429. She entered a dark corridor, squeezing past a trolley full of sheets and toiletries and cups. 414, 415… the corridor took a sharp turn and became darker and narrower. 419, 420… she was confronted by a set of steps and another corner. How would she ever find her way out again.

Once more she held her breath as she pressed the plastic card against the lock. On the second try there was a flash of green light and with great difficulty she pushed the door open, tripping over the case as she squeezed through, the door was determined to slam shut.

Inside, the décor was the latest in interior trends, grey. Lottie thought longingly of her little cottage, then reprimanded herself. Ladies her age were still out reporting in terrible war zones so she should cope with this weekend. She opened the note, wondering where or when she was actually going to meet Ruth.

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Roses

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When I arrived, Uncle Brian was furtling around in the compost heaps.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Potpourri potential.’

He was a man of few words.

‘I can’t imagine you will find anything fragrant there.’

‘Potpourri for insects, a quick way to attract all sorts of creatures when you are rewilding your garden.’

‘The customers who come to Grandma’s rose nursery are unlikely to be into rewilding are they?’

‘Sell on the internet, besides, roses are going.’

‘Going?’

‘Yup, going same way as your gran.’

He turned his head and nodded towards the Victorian brick tool shed, behind which smoke spiralled into the air. Now he had drawn my attention I noticed the divine scent of wood smoke and wandered in that direction. My grandmother, his mother, had requested she be cremated and her ashes placed in her favourite rose bed, but the cremation was not taking place till next week. I tiptoed round into the yard to be confronted by a tangle of burning rose wood.

‘Has there been some kind of rose disease?’

I did not know much about Grandma’s beloved roses, but I knew she inspected every leaf and petal for signs of spottling.

‘No, told you, roses are going, getting a rotavator in, then let the grass grow, the seeds blow and the weeds return.’

It was the longest speech he had ever made.

‘Does Mum know what you are doing?’

‘Nope, doesn’t need to, this was left to me.’

It was true that Brian had been the one who lived and worked here and frankly we assumed Grandma left the nursery and house to him as the prospect of him working or living elsewhere was unlikely.

A few weeks later we took Grandma’s ashes with us to the Chelsea Flower Show where she had had many successes with her prize roses. We met up with her good friend Gerald, a Chelsea Pensioner who had a red rose named after him. He was wearing a ‘Captain Gerald’ rose bud in his button hole and took us to a quiet spot in a rose garden where the Pensioners liked to sit and where three of his rose bushes took pride of place. No one was around so we quickly interred the ashes in the bed and left Gerald to his memories.

A few more weeks passed and we hadn’t heard much from Uncle Brian, but that wasn’t unusual. Mum thought we should pay a duty visit soon. That evening we sat down to watch Gardeners’ World, commenting on roses that weren’t as wonderful as Grandma’s.

‘Actually, I never really liked roses in the garden,’ said Mum ‘all that trouble and most of the year they are prickly skeletons. But birthdays, Xmas, new babies what did I always get? Another rose; climbers, ramblers, patio pots, bushes, old classics, new varieties named after us….’

‘How come we have so few in the garden then?’

‘I don’t think roses liked me, they never thrived and often died. Brian had the right idea.’

As if he had heard her the presenter moved on to the next segment.

‘While many people treasure their roses, others feel the need for a change. We visit a former rose nursery in Surrey where all the roses have been dug up and the whole area rewilded. Brian Floribunda has just been recognised as holding the national collection of dandelions.’

There was Uncle Brian standing amongst waist high grass surrounded by tall dandelions waving in the breeze.

‘How long did it take you to establish this wonderful collection?’

‘Few weeks, they pop up everywhere given the chance, quick turn around, not long to breed new varieties.’

‘How many varieties are there?’

‘Fifty Seven so far, just working on creating a blue dandelion.’

‘That sounds incredible or impossible.’

‘Not as difficult as producing a true black… got to get on…’

Uncle Brian turned away and the presenter was unable to get any more conversation out of him. The camera panned round the Field of Gold.

‘Grandma must be turning in her rose bed’ I said.

‘Especially as she never managed to appear on Gardeners World’ said Mum.