ISSUE 313 Date: 22nd November 2013

This hole in the floorboard left by cowboy plumbers,

and only discovered when a foot went through another even larger hole, reminded me of the advertisement on

the TV of a child posting a credit card through a gap in floorboards. These unseen places are great for hiding things

never again to see the light of day. Is that what you are doing with your writing?

Squirreling it away, unseen and unread, on your laptop. Writers write, it‟s what they do ... Give your work an airing,

come to group, or send in something for the bulletin, or start a blog ...

SHINE: Don‟t hide your light under the floorboards ... January Workshops Re-Open Jan 13th 2014.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS It is so unkind when builders let you down. How hard can it be to arrive at an appointed time? A row of around dozen or so raindrops, hanging from a thin, horizontal twig, looking for all the world like a string of glass beads. Having a good clear out of cupboards is both therapeutic and emotional. Age creeps up on you: in your twenties you can decorate a room in a day, in your forties maybe two/three days, in your sixties over a week, in your seventies, why bother I always liked this colour. Growing old isn’t a job for a cissy: one has to be mentally tough to face the challenges age throws at one. Walking round an antique fair is like visiting a museum of one’s childhood.

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Leet n court of record held once a year in a particular

hundred

Leat n trench for water, constructed water course often

to or from a mill

Borax n boron ore a white crystalline solid used for

cleaning or water softening, a preservative

Bord-Halfpenny n duty paid to set up a stall at a

market or fair

Damask n patterned fabric, reversible often used as

tablecloths, a greyish pink colour as of the Damask

Rose

Dame-Wort n (Bot.) A cruciferrous plant (Hesperis matronalis), remarkable

for its fragrance, especially toward the close of the day; also called rocket

and dame's violet.

Damoclean adj in a position of constant peril

Leasowe n a pasture

Lector n reader in a church (ancient)

This shows the Devonport leat on Dartmoor

close to Nun's Cross Farm looking up

stream where the leat flows into the tunnel.

This leat is taken from the West Dart &

Cowsic rivers and flowed by gravity to

Devonport. The length is over 34km and the

leat was in use from around the start of the

18th century. The leat tunnel (Drivage

Bottom) - was constructed C 1850.

Wikipedia (uploaded by Herby)

2013: RBW FREE e-books PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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2012: RBW FREE e-books

PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com

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Random Words: Body, shop, consumer, Glockenspiel, precipitation, happy, health, prophecy, riven/river, rainbow, arriving, mood Assignment: Gifts

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=79

National Short Story Week Newsletter We thought you'd like to know about the latest short story project created by Stories Unlimited CIC, who promote NSSW each year. The Story Player streams recordings of original short stories by respected and award winning short story writers from the UK and overseas. You can lis-ten to the stories online, and many are also avail-able for download to your pc or mobile device. To listen to the stories now, go to www.thestoryplayer.com Happy listening! National Short Story Week

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Free speech. Writing online - is it safe?

Are you a blogger? Ever post up comments on social media sites? Ever heard of contempt of court?

While a case is before a court ever been tempted to say things online like ... he/she should be in a cell, or they‟re guilty as sin? Or wondered why news media can go deadly quiet while some high

profile court cases are on going? Ever considered that under UK law a person is considered innocent until proven guilty? In your wildest dreams did it ever cross your mind that you could end up in prison over uploaded, unguarded comments about a court case?

During 2011 an anonymous person posted the names of celebrities who had obtained “super-injunctions” which meant they had some reason for not wanting something to be known to the pub-lic. 75,000 Twitterers breached injunctions by publishing those famous names. Each person who

passed on that information could have been prosecuted for contempt of court. However, the vast numbers involved meant that prosecution was not practical. The sheer numbers of users of social

media saw free speech triumph over the rich and powerful with their dirty little secrets. Social media is a new challenge for the law. The Attorney General has made it clear that breaches could be pun-ished. Contempt of court usually means a custodial sentence not a fine. If social media continues to

push the boundaries it will not be long before there are prosecutions. It has been reported that, „The rapid growth of online social media has created unprecedented

opportunities to publish immediate thoughts.‟ Some may think this is a positive development adding value to free speech. Through a mouse click the voices of ordinary citizens can be heard internation-ally but uploading comment is not the same as a moan in the pub with a couple of mates over a

bevy. Such an enormous privilege was only previously afforded to professionals such as politicians,

journalists and broadcasters. Now any unwitting soul can blog without the protection of an insur-ance safety net, or highly paid team of legal advisers. It is important the public understand the risks of uploading to the web and the responsibilities of online publishing. That is what every blog every

post is. It is a publication and it has restrictions. Posting a comment online without thinking about the potential consequences can lead to breaching the laws of defamation, contempt of court, or the criminal law. Bloggers need to learn and understand the limits of published free speech.

Fact and opinion are very different things. The Internet has become an outlet for venting frustra-tions. Comments can be written in the heat of anger, with no thought of proof of any relevant facts,

resulting in potential liability if the comment is defamatory. But it isn't only our own comments for which we can be held responsible. Repetition. Think on

this. Repetition means that a person passing stuff on could be liable for that defamatory comment

which is repeated or „re-tweeted‟ as if they had said, and published it, originally. „I only passed it on!‟ is no defence. In court they would have to prove the truth of the comment;

not merely that they hadn‟t posted it originally. Online the possibilities for defamation have in-creased significantly. While the number of libel cases citing online material is growing, these are still relatively small compared to the thousands of online comments made every day so don‟t panic.

Wrong! This Doesn‟t Work! Some people try to hide behind false identity to reduce the risk of li-ability when posting scathing comments on the web. This is possible on some social media sites if a user enters false account information, however they are easily traced. If a defamed person was so

annoyed, they could obtain a court order to force the Internet Service Provider to disclose informa-tion. An IP address is usually enough to trace an anonymous user. Internet cafe? Still traceable!

The risks of irresponsible online publishing spread beyond defamation, contempt and civil law.

Having a good old rant! Social networking can be great for expressing political and social dissatisfac-

tion. However, it can also be dangerous and become a weapon for, and a prosecution for, incite-ment. The August 2011 riots were coordinated using social media. Clearly, riots are an extreme ex-ample of how the privilege can be abused, but many campaigning network groups show signs of ill-

thought-out posts being allowed by administrators seeking justice for their cause and allowing out-of-order ranting.

Final thoughts: There are many online publishing pitfalls: there is a gap between the online user‟s

understanding of free speech and the responsibilities that go with being a publisher. The public need to be made more aware of the risks. Perhaps schools need to be teaching these, alongside keeping

safe online, and social media group administrators need some how-to guidelines, perhaps provided by their social media service. Fact: Twitter has some 300million users. Facebook some 700million users in hundreds of countries: the law differs: it is not a constant. Be careful out there! Do not

drink and click. Think before clicking upload. RBW Editor (Sources: search through many online sites. This article should not be considered as providing legal advice.)

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REMEMBERING Why remember? Is it to mark an event in a significant way? An historic victory or a tragic day. Do we need a day to remember in case we forget? Or are we the guilty repaying a debt? Remembering childhood, family and school Remembering people, some kind some cruel. Remembering loss without any fear Sometimes daily, sometimes once a year. To remember the person keeps love alive Remember the daft joke told many times Holding on to the good forgiving petty crimes. We learn from our memories To reassess and redress Without those memories our lives would be less. We can always remember The past is never too far The most important memory is ... remember who we are!! PP November 2013

WINTER WISHES by Pamela Clare-Joyce Oh how I hate the long dark nights That feel like the crack of doom. I hate it when we turn the lights On in the morning gloom. And need them on at four o‟clock To make our dark rooms bright, Oh give me the sunshine, long, long days Don‟t imprison me in night. Oh how i hate that dread East wind That penetrates your all And shrivels every part of you Into a shivering ball. Oh give me the feel of some balmy air Bringing solace to my soul. I long to be a big brown bear Asleep n her dark, warm cave, Never to poke a head outside Until the leafed trees wave. Oh give me a bed piled high with down And give a Winter sleep, With my eyes closed tight in the day long night The Winter watch I‟d keep.

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FIREWORKS by Pamela Clare-Joyce

I am a firecracker

Jumping and cracking

Under igniting eyes.

I am a Catherine Wheel

Whizzing in showers of

Sparks under your hands.

I am a rocket

See me fly skywards

Trailing my glittering stars.

But you were a Sparkler,

Safe in the hands.

Bright, pretty, but too soon over.

REM3MBER THE B3GINNING

ASSIGNMENT CMH

“Gather round Brothers and Sisters, gather ye

around. For I give unto you the word from on

high as remembered by the flocks on the rocks.

In the beginning was the firmament filled with

folks of the flock but then the Great One said;

and I quote his exact words.”

“Stuff this for a lark! I mean, fish is okay in

moderation but we need something else. We

need…”

“But the Great One didn‟t have the words to de-

scribe what we needed, he‟d run out of words,

which were in short supply then, so he went off

into a corner and thought about it for a bit.

“Yes!” he said, “what we need is something dif-

ferent to eat.” He had a quick nibble at a whale

and came up with THE IDEA. Unfortunately,

the idea was short of hands so he had to make

do with mankind. All round, this was a pretty

poor second go at it.

“Come forth,” said the Great One, but they

came fifth and won the booby prize, “Fill the

earth and bring us many fine things to eat.”

“What shall we bring, Oh Great One?” asked

the leader of mankind, a rather weedy chap with

a lot of facial hair and bad hygiene.

“Sandwiches, chips, donuts, Chinese take-

aways and meat pies,” said the Great One. “A

plethora of Pizza and Peas Puddings, all in

abundance.”

“To hear is to obey!” said mankind and fell to

squabbling over what the Great One meant by

these strange words.

After a little while, they devised a special kind

of man called a „TV chef‟, who did as the Great

One had commanded and lo, the world was

filled with all manner of good things to eat.

That is the word of the Great One.”

And the flock answered with the great battle cry

of, “Yeah Man. Right on!”

“Right,” Said the speaker, “I‟m off to the dump

to eat some rubbish. Any of you gulls coming?”

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Harvesting

At the beginning of the season, I planted four tiny Globe

Artichoke plants that I had bought over the Internet. I was disappointed with the plants when they arrived as they turned out to be only seedlings and I thought they wouldn‟t develop much this season. However, a few weeks ago I was delighted to discover a few small heads developing. After excitedly telling another plot holder about them, she showed me her magnificent specimens that had been planted last year. They put mine to shame with up to 10 large heads or “Globes,” on each plant. “I don‟t know what to do with them,” she said. Be-ing honest, nor did I, so after looking them, up mom and I decided to cook our somewhat smaller specimens. According to the books they should be simply boiled in salted water for 20 minutes, or so and then dripped with butter. Eating them is not very straightforward as you peel off the outer scales, while still hot, knibbling at, and eating more of the softer base of each scale as you get closer to the heart, which can be eaten whole. They are very messy and fiddly to eat and in my opinion much over rated to jus-tify the ridiculous price in the shops, but they are a lot of fun! Really, they taste very similar to Asparagus and follow on nicely from the earlier Aspara-gus season. In this odd season one thing that has done well is the Beetroot. Mine have matured nice and early and I am clearing out the last few now. I love the taste of fresh beetroot, both hot as a vegetable and cold in a salad. Served hot, it is totally different to pickled and is one old fashioned vegetable that is very good health-wise. Another allotment holder recently gave me a couple of yellow beetroots to try. The juices do run a little yellow when boiled, but don‟t stain everywhere and make the appalling mess that ordinary red beet-root do when you peel them. My mother is not a beetroot fan and was not impressed by their strange yellowy, orange colour, when I put a few slices on her plate. To my mind they seemed a little less “Beetrooty,” in their taste, but were still very nice. That is definitely one to try for next year and on the subject of oddly coloured vegetables – my yellow climbing beans are doing well, much better than they did last year at the other allotment site. I told a friend how well they were doing, he looked at me and said, “Those are the „Drought resistant‟ beans, you‟re talking about are they? Trust you to plant drought resistant beans in the wet year that we have had,” and then he laughed at me. Not everybody appreciates my unusual choice of vegetables!

After the almost complete failure of my first batch of Kohl Rabi plants that mostly went to seed, the second planting are doing much better and the 3rd planting are in the ground. Someone told me they had sown some Red Kohl Rabi, but there was only 30 seeds in the packet and they had not germi-

nated very well. When I found a packet in a garden centre I saw that only the skin is red, not the flesh, so at that price per seed I don‟t think I will be trying those. The more common varieties have some 200 or 300 seeds per packet and always come up easily for me providing good value for money. My Angelica flowered and set seed a few weeks ago, some of which I collected and sowed in a seed tray straight away before the seed went off as unlike most seed it does-n‟t keep at all. The tray is now full of young plants although some have been pricked out into small pots and will be taken up to the allotment to give away. The big mature plants have been composted, because no one has come up with any ideas what to do with the foli-age! Although the seed doesn‟t keep, it certainly germinates well when fresh, because I found there were thousands of young Angelica plants sprouting all round the compost heap when I looked. The seed had simply spilled off the plants onto the ground, as I had thrown the rubbish onto the heap, and sprouted everywhere! Seed sowing isn‟t always difficult!

Image wikipedia: The beetroot, also known as the table beet, garden beet, red beet or informally simply as beet, is one of the many

cultivated varieties of beets (Beta vulgaris) and arguably the most commonly encountered variety in North America and Britain. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Beetroot_on_plate.jpg

Publicity Release

New Book of Comic Verse A new book, of comic verse called, “Strangled Egg and Dalek Bread” by Paul Fox has been published. This is his fifth book and it is in the same style as the first four.

Fox worked as resident poet at BBC Radio Derby for over ten years and was also resident poet to

JCB. As well as this he has given readings in various venues ranging from Oxford University to work-ing men‟s clubs. In short – he gets about a bit. You can listen to some of his work on YouTube under

PaulFoxPoetry. The profits from this book will be donated to the Katharine House Hospice in Stafford. (Cost £3.99)

“Strangled Egg and Dalek Bread” is a mixture of farce, tragedy and some of the worst puns in the

English language. It will be reassuring to those who have read his earlier work to see that in spite of much pressure Fox has refused to be come a true “poet”. Nonetheless, mixed in with the comedy,

which dominates the book, there is the occasional element of tragedy. Comedy is best when it is not fully anticipated so you never know when you begin one of these poems just how it will end.

To receive one of these books simply email Abbey Books at abbeyboo@hotmail.co.uk

The Highwayman

The moon was a bright banana

Upon a dark, night sea. The road was a ribbon of rhubarb

That wound around the lea, When the highwayman came riding,

Riding, riding – The highwayman came riding And crashed into a tree.

So he lashed a torch to his saddle -

A cunning innovation And now he‟s riding, all the night

With saddle-light navigation.

Maturity

We used to spend hours holding hands In young love‟s paradise But after several minutes now,

Your grip feels like a vice.

We used to lie together then Your head upon my breast

But now it hurts and I can‟t breathe My lungs feel too compressed.

I used to sit down at your side My arm around your shoulder

But now I find my arm goes dead - It seems we‟re getting older.

We used to sleep in silent love Until the morning light

But now you snore so loudly That I lie awake all night.

Although our love is stronger now It‟s getting hard to show it

And so I wrote this poem, Love To make sure that you know it.

Rule the World The world must change you might agree, but if it was all left down to me, What would I do to improve our lot, to save us from this steady rot. Well, first of all, I have to say, if I could really have my way, It‟s with the children I would start, with education at the heart. The world goes round, a proverb wise, let darkened blinkers fall from eyes, Start at beginning, then move on, to lay foundations firm and strong. Chicken and egg now spring to mind. What must come first is hard to find, Good parents need to be instructed how pleasant child can be constructed! Responsible for their child‟s behaviour, praise and punishment should not waver To know the difference between right and wrong, must surely build a nation strong. Going to school should be more fun, a time to sing, to dance and run To interact and co-operate, to be good friends, stand by your mate To show respect and manners sound, will be repaid in character found Uphold concern and care for others, aspects that my blueprint covers. A little child who lives with praise, a good investment in many ways So as an adult they can show, how far they‟ve come and what they know. To build a world with future bright, to live in peace a human right The world must change you might agree but if it was left down to me, A child from thoughtful, caring school should be appointed and with fairness rule!

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Random words- “Now what does he want?” Terry thought catching sight of his old school pal. Ray had always been abit of a cadger. “You couldn‟t lend me a monkey, could you? Just until Tuesday, mate”. “You‟re right. I couldn‟t”.

Ray went as white as a ghost. In fact, by comparison, a ghost looked a lot healthier than Ray. “Who have you crossed?” Terry asked. “Let‟s just say, I owe money. If I don‟t pay up, they‟ll be shopping me to the Boys in Blue. How about a hundred?” “Can‟t be done. It‟s the end of the month and I‟ve got bills to pay too. Tell you what. Put a tenner on Dorian Gray in the 2.30 at Haydock. He‟s a cert”. “What? That old donkey! He came in last at Chester.” “That was just a hiccup. I‟m telling you, he was under par that day. He had a blood transfusion and has been on a parsnip diet since then. Trust me. The odds are great!” Happily, Ray listened to his pal and the horse romped home at 100 to one,

ensuring for at least a time, Ray‟s deliverance from his persecutors and the law.

Assignment - Light The Lord, he‟d had a busy week, He‟d made the earth and sky, He‟d made the whales and elephants And all the things that fly. He planted up a garden With every kind of tree. He looked at it and said “It‟s good! By heck, it pleases me.” “I‟ll make a man to nurture it. He‟d better have a mate. I‟ll use his rib; he‟s got enough. A woman I‟ll create.” The Sabbath came. “I‟ll take a rest Let there be light!” Said he. “Quick, switch it off. I‟ve changed my mind. “That Eve, she‟s SO ugly!”

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Year 1564 : The Cast : The Queen‟s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of London where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague. Elizabeth I was on the throne. Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (the murderer of the-first victim who first found the chal-ice) Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays a girl‟s role very badly. The Boar‟s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Abbot Ranulf knows something about the missing Roman hoard of silver plate/chalice etc The Manor of Bluddschott : sodden Squire Darnley Bluddschott, wife Mistress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mistress Hood seamstress, sister to Penny, Mistress Tatanya The Sheriff‟s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black

Knight, the Sherriff Boromir see page 17 Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott to locate silver chal-ice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann DI Pete Ferret To give the tale a twist we want to attempt to take what seems like an historical fiction novel and write it as if it‟s a hard-boiled 1930s pulp fiction romp. It might not work but we‟ll give at a go and see what happens...

PLEASE NOTE: It is imperative that those writing for the storyline read what other writers have already written before they add a new piece.

Penelope Bluddschott was, according to her mother, throwing a tantrum. Not that Penelope believed it. As far as she was concerned, it was Penelope versus the World, and watch out World!

„Penelope, we've arranged this perfect marriage for you,‟ she had been informed at the evening mealtime.

To say that this was unexpected was an understatement. Penelope had her own set of eyes and ears around the castle. She wouldn't, exactly, have called them her spies because that would be demeaning to them; even if it was more accurate.

„Anybody I know Mother? You never know, but it is possible that I may not agree with your idea of perfect,‟ she had a very good idea of the content of the latest letter, but wasn't letting on as that could spoil her plans.

„The Magistrate. He has written to me and asked for your hand in marriage. Your fa-ther agrees that it would be a good match.‟

„MOTHER! You have got to be joking! He's an ugly, old, fat, smelly, skinflint and no one knows what became of his three previous wives. The last thing I heard; and you told me about it, was that he had them murdered because he was fed up with them. There is no way that I am going to marry Humphrey Pettigrew! NO WAY!‟

The arguments went downhill from there. It didn't, quite, get to the stage of a cat-fight, but it wasn't too far removed at times. Penelope wasn't going to be sold to the highest bidder as she had said; very privately, to Nanny.

If the food had been better; better still if there'd been any real food, the public fight would likely have continued for a long time but, as the Compline bells sounded, the steward came around and, as required by his instructions about obeying the Couvre Feu law, dowsed the fires and candles thus forcing them to head for bed.

„Not to worry poppet,‟ Penelope's maid, who was actually her Nanny recycled, told her, „They can't make you marry Squire Humphrey. YOU have got to say yes when the Minister asks if you take him.‟

„No; but they can make life very difficult if I don't,‟ Penelope replied. „You know I

wish that a handsome Prince would gallop up on a white charger and sweep me off my feet, or something.‟

„Not many of them around now-a-days,‟ was Nanny's reply. „I suppose not, Princes are in short supply. Particularly around Trentby.‟ Penelope

sighed with a faraway look in her eye. „No! Not Princes! White chargers! They all seem to be black or brown,‟ Nanny had no

time for tales of romance; she was firmly rooted in the real world. „You know what her Ladyship, and his Lordship, at least when he has a chance to get a word in edgewise, is like. She says you've got to marry money or, at least somebody with prospects of some.‟

„I know. Poor Daddy, he's hen-pecked almost to the point of being speechless.‟ Penny had a soft spot for her Dad, and a hard spot for her Mum - some of the time. „That lat-

est scheme of his going gooey in middle and all runny round the edges has really got his goat. But he was never the one for listening to common sense, was he?‟

Nanny‟s thoughts she kept to herself by saying, „Now though it's bed time, my pop-pet. You never can tell. The morning may bring good news.‟

THE PLAY, NIGHT AFTER HARRY SWANN‟S DEATH

ACW Piece rewritten to explain more of Bluddschotts dysfunctional family

Mistress Anne went pale as if caught in moonlight‟s cold light, as she caught sight of the seam-stress girl helping the players‟ change of costume as the play progressed, through the happenchance

strong draught that blew through the hall to lift the curtain side. „Do you grow cold, my love?‟ „Nay Master Squire, tis but a trifle. I be right well, do not be afeared.‟

The Squire beckoned for another fur to be laid upon his beloved‟s knees. The last time she caught a chill, it cost him an arm and a leg by that weasely physician‟s potions and blood lettings.

His prize of her high blood, was very nearly lost to his roving eye, when the marriage bed grew cold as no issue was forthcoming.

But then luck had shown its hand of fate, and a secret birth had given him the chance of paying

the old midwife the chinks to show for a lie the issue was of his Lady Wife Anne birth and not of his hidden mistress, Tatanya in a far off tower garret in the Manor.

Mistress Anne had been lain low so often with ills and chills, that it was but a trifle back then, to say she was laying at rest as she had fallen with child.

And Mistress Anne, aggrieved at first, could not take the child on as a ward as who could they say were the family they were offering noblisse oblige favour, but to let the assumption continue that the child was hers.

Now Mistress Anne was looking at a complete mirror image of her beloved Penelope and looked to be the same age. Was the old goat even more a philanderer and would this scandal break for shame

upon this house. From paleness her cheeks flamed. „My dear, does the fever claim you? Heaven forfend, not.‟

„This fur might be too warming. Do we say that the bear is part of the feast, My Lord.‟ „Nay, nay, tis better than saying those at the far end of the table are eating old horse.‟ „Did I not do well, in gaining so great a feast to curry favour with all the esteemed suitors for Pene-

lope, well beyond our means,‟ she whispered by the Squire‟s ear. He beamed from ear to ear at her, „Well done indeed, my love.‟

Down at the far end of the hall sat a lady mature in years but none of the vicissitudes of time upon her visage of lack of chinks, wrapped up in fur trimmed cloak, yet not eating the grey slabs of meat but the poor offerings to the lowest orders, but a deep well marinated thick steak and the best of

trimmings, with careful, quick attention from serving wench. Strange that where she sat, no bench seat, but a seat all of her own, the torches ensconced in al-

coves above, left her mostly in shadow, but well away from the cold draughts of window or door, even covered with great curtains against the night.

This lady of some quality was the Squire‟s old flame Tatanya had been seated far from the dias of the hosts, but could see her beloved Penelope, her daughter by the Squire portrayed to the world as the daughter of The Lady Anne.

At her mother‟s neck hung a small cross like no other in the realm. A cross from a far land that was all she had left as memory of her family, when she had had to flee her native land when all the hell-

hounds from the savage mountain fastness of base brigands, had broken loose upon her land.

A Child Rediscovered

Up in a far tower garret well away from the main residence of the manor, Tatanya, the Squire‟s mistress and real but hidden mother of Penelope, revelled in her luxury salon adjoining her bedroom

suite filled with velvet, silk and fine linen. Her maids the children of faithful retainers that had escaped the wrath of the invading horde in the old country.

Idly she took out and looked at miniature portraits of her family. She found one of herself as a young girl all in finery for her first ball in the Hermitage.

She looked and then looked again with greater focus. Who had she seen that night? Why that

stage seamstress from the tools of her trade hung at her waist, she‟d passed by as she was sneaked into the great hall‟s feast.

Realisation made her gasp. It couldn‟t be. It must be.

The girl not only was the mirror-image of her beloved daughter Penelope, now safely shown to the

world as the daughter of the Squire and his Lady Wife Anne, but this girl had the family trait of the ex-act strawberry mark at brow and even her hair parting come down the generations of mothers and

grandmothers. Tears brimmed over and her breath caught in her throat. „It can‟t be, it must be, my little girl, Oh

Why, Why?‟ She summoned her maid to bring Mistress Hood to her by the back stairs. Mistress Hood was gathering up the play‟s costumes into the trunks ready for the return to the

Boar‟s Tavern when she received the unexpected invite and was led by the maid to Tatanya‟s private chamber.

Mistress Hood came in and curtsied as she assumed this to be another family member of the Squire‟s. Tatanya beckoned her to a seat by her.

There was no doubt now in Tatanya‟s mind now she saw her so close. The strawberry mark, the

hair, the build, everything was her beloved lost little Anya. „I hear terrible news of the plague. How does your family fare, do they tarry in the city?‟

„I have no family but the Queen‟s Players, apprenticed since a young girl from the Orphanage Ma‟am, I be.‟

„Such a shame your parents could not keep you, but times are hard, of course.‟ „I have a locket of my mother the nuns gave me once I was of age and I have that as comfort.‟ „Oh it is a fine piece and so kind of the nuns for you. May I see?‟

„Yes, My Lady.‟ Tatanya could barely open the locket and with a slightly shaking hand the locket sprung open.

There, there was her face as a young woman in her fine ball gown. The eyes of realisation locked one to another and stunned silence ticked by slowly.

Frozen. After what seemed an age. „Mother?‟ „Anya!‟

And Tatanya flung herself to embrace her long lost child, she thought lost to her all those years be-fore.

„They, they told me you were gone. They couldn‟t bear to bring you to me. Oh what went amiss, my poor little girl? Penelope will be so pleased to find her sister.‟

„Penelope?‟

„Yes, my dear, she is your twin. We must be discreet, but all is now well.‟ But then it occurred to her, all was not well. For how could a grown daughter now be declared a

twin to the Squire‟s Lady Wife? Oh dear, now here is a trouble and there‟s the truth of it.

A miniature portrait dropped out of the pouch onto the dressing table and Tatanya absent-mindedly went to put the portraits away.

Then she saw another portrait and a blinding flash of inspiration struck.

„Penelope has no heart for her suitors, grown arrogant and too independent for a lady of her station in life. Why then, Anya, would you consent to a union with one of the finest young lads at court, in

place of Penelope? None would know you apart.‟ Anya/Mistress Hood sat even more stunned. „Would I, Would I?

Mother, such an idea is worthy of my instant consent, but what of poor Penelope, for we are all blood and I would not see her brought low?‟

„Nay, nay,‟ tutted Tatanya. „Some of the high families escaped with their Byzantine treasures, al-

though a chalice and some jewels went missing, and do well in the city. One young man, Boromir and Penelope have been childhood playmates.‟

„But how can I now be presented as a child of the Squire?‟ „Ah, your father, the Squire, is much a writer of yarns and will come up with a good work of creative

fiction, my girl. You‟ll see.‟

„But how came I to be lost to you mother?‟ A creak and a billowed curtain from a secret door revealed The Lady Anne.

„How many bastards of that drunken sot philanderer have been placed and kept safe by nuns, I‟ll tell you, my girl. The stupid midwife that‟s what. By the time the mistake was realised, how was I to say

without revealing all. But you were kept well.‟

Mistress Hood might have been minded to give way to irritation at this point, but pondered and kept her tongue, for her turn of fate was good fortune indeed, and simply gave a nice smile.

„All‟s well that ends well, they say,‟ simpered Mistress Hood. „Yes and we can gain alliance and land with a young man of quality for, for?‟

Anya, beamed Tatanya. „Well, I believe in your tradition it is the men who give a bride price to the family.‟ „Yes, that be so.‟

„So we gain even more from betrothal of Penelope and Boromir. You gain even more luxury, and I gain new frocks from London couture. We shall do well from this, Tatanya.‟

„And so we shall, Lady Anne.‟ „You conniving women, what are you hatching now?‟ boomed the Squire and came up short when he

saw Mistress Hood and Tatanya side by side and realisation struck.

The Sheriff‟s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, and the-Black Knight, the Sherriff Burrow-

mere, Lord Haywood. He has a man-at-arms, Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable and a scribe plus the ability to raise a militia. He is proper Norman French line landed gentry, think jousting and armour, charged with keeping the Queen‟s peace and would be a good catch for any local impoverished old Saxon Squire‟s daughter.

Harry Swann‟s Colonial A Life Of Ease and Perpetual Sunshine

ACW to be added later in the storyline

Harry Swann sat back in his port cabin with every comfort on the Aurelia, bound for the West Indies

colony The Somers Islands, found but happily not settled by its Spanish discoverer Juan de Bermúdez. He finally had the means to refurbish his mansion in luxury and bring back into cultivation the sugar

plantation he had inherited, with slaves and servants aplenty to be at his beck and call.

He‟d never mentioned the land to his wife Vesta as his marriage bed had been without issue and grown cold. Furthermore, he had suspicions the Queen‟s Players Owner Samuel Burball had an lustful

eye set upon Vesta. He settled back on velvet cushions and soft linen and was nodding pleasantly off, when raised voices

in some alarm roused him awake.

He looked out his cabin port hole window to see a night sky full of wonder. The Northern Lights danced in magical multi-hued light. Then a streak of shooting star.

Harry gave out his wish to the shooting star, that now the lady of quality that haughtily spurned him when visiting his colonial lands in these West Indies as a youth, though now a man of property, would

consent to matrimony if still unwed. How would the authorities of The Somers Islands colony, know of a marriage already in a parish

well out from the country?

POETRY LIBRARY UPDATE: Latest Competitions: Guernsey Poetry Prize 2014 | Closing Date: 01-Dec-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1458 PBS National Student Poetry Competition | Closing Date: 13-Dec-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1459 The Yogic Path Poetry Prize | Closing Date: 28-Feb-14 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1460

Cheese and Mustard (1940s)

Every now and then, in the pantry the last lump of cheese would be going dry and

crumbly, but it was still all used, very very rare for good food to be wasted back then.

I‟m not talking about the fiddly bits of cheese you see in the shops and super markets

these days all fancy wrapped and stamped with a sell by date.

This was a real wedge off a whole round block of Cheshire and Cheddar Cheese,

probably fifteen or twenty times the size mentioned above.

When mother got down to the last lump of dry cheese, there was a number of ways of

using it up. It got put on toast and grilled, or for a change (preferably Cheddar) put in

the bottom of a sauce pan along with some milk heated and melted into sticky almost

runny glue with liberal shakes from the pepper pot then that poured or ladled onto

toast. I must say that at this stage if it was left to go cold it would resemble a piece of

leather; you really could nail it on the soul of ya boot.

Another cheese dish father liked and he did it right on his plate, at tea time, again it

would be the same crumbly Cheshire type Cheese. He would break and crumble the

cheese over his plate, spread a half a tea spoonful of powdered mustard over it, then

with the back of his fork, mash it all together with enough vinegar to make it all into a

paste which would be spread onto hot muffins or toast.

He loved it but as kids it was a bit too hot for us, (it would blow our heads off) I have

tried it occasionally over the years since, not many households keep Colman‟s Mus-

tard Powder on the pantry shelves these days. On the subject of mustard, a number of

tins of dried mustard powder were always kept in stock for emergencies, (we have a

tin in our pantry right now). On a number of occasions the vet has applied a mustard

plaster on a cow‟s back when she has had a difficult calving, or slipped and hurt her

back, it‟s a tin of mustard mixed into a paste with a bit of warm water and spread onto

a large square of brown paper then applied to the cows loin area or whereever a bit of

heat was wanted.

This was also often used on the man of the house if he had a bad or aching back, it is

surprising how much heat it generates when its on your skin and protected with the old

shiny brown paper glued on with the mustard. (I speak from experience.)

Cheese – milk’s leap toward immortality. Clifton Fadiman (1904 – 1999)

Issue 313

Page 20

My Lost Poet this week MARINA TSVETAEVA (1892-1941)

I came across Marina when I was researching an-

other of my lost poets Osip Mandelstam, with whom she had a love affair. She is considered as

being one of the finest Russian Modernist poets and has been compared with Sylvia Plath, Marina‟s

themes often transferring her emotions on to oth-ers, who she uses as her muse. Her prolific, highly original style, with its masculine monosyllabic

eruptions does however give her a voice that is distinctly her own.

Belinda Cooke in her article on Marina describes her as “The Poet of the Extreme”. She cer-tainly is passionate about her life and loves, in her time she has many affairs and writes of failed unrequited love, never quite finding the contentment of sharing her life with one per-

son. Her passions taking her to the deepest of places, with idolatry and obsession driving her away from finding such contentment.

Marina Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow, into a family of cultured academics, her father was a professor of fine art and her mother a concert pianist. Her life as child was a relatively

comfortable, bourgeois one, although the disagreements between her and her siblings were often violent. Her mother discouraged her early leaning toward Poetry, describing it as a poor interest and wishing her daughter to become a pianist.

Marina was educated at Lausanne and later studied at the Sorbonne. Following the death of her mother in 1906, Marina renewed her passion for poetry and made it the major focus

of the rest of her life. It was at a time when Russian Poetry was in a major transformation with the rise of the Russian Symbolist Movement which was to influence her later work. Her

first collection was self published in 1910 under the title Evening Album, it received much critical acclaim and marked her out as a poet of some substance, although in retrospect much of early work is seen as bland in comparison to her writing in later life.

She fell in love and married Sergei Efron an army cadet in 1912, the next few years were to see Russia go through Revolution which Marina and Sergei found them on the opposing

side to the revolutionary Bolsheviks, both supporters of the White Russians. Throughout her married life she was involved with many love affairs; much of the passion of her poetry is transferred on to her muse lovers.

By 1917 Marina had two daughters Alya and Irana. Whilst living in the poverty of the Mos-cow famine, Marina continued to write in support of the old regime, both poetry and plays,

her works including “The Encampment of the White Swans” and the “Tsarist Maiden”. She was desperate to find a means of supporting her family; Sergei was away fighting with the

White Army. She surrendered her children to the State orphanage in the mistaken belief that they would be better cared for. When Alya became ill, Marina removed her from the State care, Irana, succumbed to malnutrition in 1920 dying in the Orphanage. Marina was

devastated, blamed herself and in a poem accuses

herself of infanticide.

I stand accused of infanticide

unkind and weak. And in hell I ask you,

„My dear one what did I do to you?‟

(from Marina Tsvetaeva Poet of the Extreme an article by Belinda Cook)

By 1922 life in Moscow was unbearable and this led to

their exile initially Berlin then to Prague and later to Paris, living within the émigrés of the White Russian community in exile. It was during this period that her

son Georgy nicknamed Mur was born. Though she continued to write in support of the White Russian

cause, her compatriots found her to be not White Russian enough and dismissed her work. She spent 14

unhappy years in Paris, finding comfort in correspon-dence with major writers, such as Boris Pasternak and Rainer Maria Rilke.

Sergei, began to feel homesick for Russia and started developing Soviet sympathies, but was unsure of the welcome he would receive in Soviet Russia; their

daughter Alya also followed his views. It is reported he began spying for the NKVD the forerunner of the KGB although Marina seems never to have known of his spying activities. On the return to Russia in

1938 Sergei is arrested and implicated in the murder of Bolsheviks for which he was found guilty and shot, his daughter Alya is also implicated and sent to prison for eight years. Marina and Mur return to Russia in 1939 as the tensions in Europe are rising. She too is arrested and knowing nothing of the

charges that were brought against her husband, proceeds to quote French Poetry to her interrogators. Who formed the conclusion that she was mad and not implicated in the charges brought against her

husband and daughter.

Marina finds it hard; she cannot find work because of her past support of the White Russian regime. Established writers shun her. She does find the occasional translation work as she has become fluent in

many European languages during her exile. She is further exiled to Yelabuga away from the main liter-ary influences where in 1941 she hangs herself, some believe it was her situation and a wish to release

her son from her past, others believe that it was the death of Sergei. Pasternak felt that he had per-sonally failed her. Following the death of Stalin. Her work was finally published and studied in Russia in

1961, where she received the acknowledgement as one of the Great Russian Modernists.

Composer Dmitri Shostakovich set six of Tsvetaeva’s poems to music, there are recordings here.

Poem 1 http://youtu.be/Cy79p3u7-uo Poem 2 http://youtu.be/cXh0h862cRo

Poem 3 http://youtu.be/L-Ri2wFl62A Poem 4 http://youtu.be/6fC8TLR-DM8

Poem 5 http://youtu.be/bn7-VgrKg38 Poem 6 http://youtu.be/bFb2dOBGizI

These are all sung in Russian but some have

English Translations in the comments.

Her work has been translated into English by Elaine Feinstein whose

Marina Tsvetaeva – Selected poems was published by the Oxford

University Press in 1993.

A newer translation is available see:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bride-Ice-New-Selected-Poems/dp/1847770606/

ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1327931270&sr=8-7

You can find Belinda Cooke‟s article Poet of the Extreme here:

http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=15049

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