Issue 363 21st Nov 2014

Rising Brook/Holmcroft/

Baswich/Gnosall

Libraries are under threat.

The Threshing Machine: Post-war farming

in Seighford remembered

Blog extract Page 4

2

To win without risk is to triumph without glory. Pierre Corneille (1606-1684)

I was amused last week, when the House of Lords debated the Assisted Dying bill. Why, you might well ask, do I find such a sombre topic a cause of merriment? Well, because one particular Lord was trying to assuage the fears of those who see it as a slippery slope, by in effect telling the rest ―don‘t panic‖. His name? Lord David Pannick.

Random words : Athens, pattern, explanation, see-saw, handker-

chief, laughable, confabulate

Assignment : utterly nauseating

Cover image

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Welcome to the new contributors who joined RBW Monday Workshop recently.

A reminder : Mincepie Monday is 15th December which will be the last workshop of 2014.

This week was National Short Story Week!

Visit our website to discover lots of ideas on how to enjoy the

week; you can also read and listen to stories online.

We are very proud to publish today our anthology "The Mistake" by the 32 National Short Story Week Young Writers. These tales to make

you "think, shiver and smile" have been praised as "filled with promise and energy" by Ali Smith. Simon Brett said: "The settings

for the stories range from school playgrounds, via Brazil and Mount Everest, to the trenches of the First World War. The characters in-clude teenage girls, ghosts, shape-shifters, murderers and the Lady

of Shallot ... The one thing that wasn’t a mistake was producing this anthology.• Download a copy of "The Mistake" and 100% of the royalties for each

sale will be donated to Teenage Cancer Trust. We hope you will support our great young writers and this worthwhile charity, and

let your friends and colleagues know about it too:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mistake-stories-think-shiver-smile-ebook/dp/B00OO5UBTM/

National Short Story Week

www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

The Threshing Machine … Extract from Owd Fred’s blog ...

It would up to 1948 when the steam threshing engine last came to our farm and was replaced with

a lot smaller and lighter tractor.

Ozzy Allcock lived at Woodseaves, and ran his contracting business from there. He was the

man who drove the steam engine that pulled the threshing set around the area, going from farm to

farm. On the larger farms it could be two or three days, and in the village of Seighford usually it

was a day to a farm, sometimes a bit longer then on to the next customer. Ozzy had two sons, one

joined him when he was old enough to operate the machinery, his name was Norman. Originally

they travelled out to the job they were at on their bikes, with a bag to carry their breakfast lunch

and a flask of tea. When they converted to tractor (from the steamer) Norman had an old van to

carry the fuel and tools they needed. With the steam engine it was up to the farm they were work-

ing at to fill him up with coal and water, so they had no fuel to carry.

Ozzy was a wiry determined sort of chap, with a dark complexion from the oil and coal

smoke that he worked in. He always wore a peaked cap that was totally water proof from his oily

hands and always used his hat if there was something too hot to undo or adjust on the steam en-

gine. He had determined set to his jaw which stuck out almost to the length of his nose, and

gripped his pipe in a permanent position in the side of his mouth. His eyes were deep set and wide

open and alert, if any of us kids were where we shouldn't be he could tell you NO with one

look. His jacket and overalls were in the same waterproof condition as his cap, and a pair of hob-

nail boots on his feet. He had a serious face, which hid his sense of humor from people who did

not know him, and Norman was a younger version of the old man but not so oily and no pipe.

When travelling about they always took a baler and a trusser, so if anyone wanted to save

some thatching straw he would use the trusser, and the baler for stock bedding straw. It was one of

the occasions when the trusser was standing to one side with its drawbar on the ground. It was a

two wheel machine which was heavy to lift the drawbar from the ground, then as it got higher it

over centred and fly in the air. There was four of us kids in the gang waiting for the rats to start

running all with sticks, getting bored we thought we would try to lift the trusser drawbar. It was

very heavy at first, then to our surprise it started going up and all four of us shot up with it, trying

to hold it. Within seconds we found ourselves hanging ten foot up in the air not knowing if it was

safe to drop. Ozzy never missed a trick and we could see him striding our way with a long nut

stick in his hand making whippy noise with it. There was no option left but to drop and run as fast

as we could. Later we made an attempt to return only to be jumped at with the same whippy stick,

from round a corner. I don't think he was too savage, but he made sure we never attempted that

again. It took five men to recover and lift the trusser back upright.

During one bad winter the packed ice on the road made it near impossible for Ozzy to get his

heavy train of equipment out of Seighford over Bridgeford bank. Not even one unit at a time as the

tractor was too slow to take a run at it. So arrangements were made for a local milk lorry, loaded

with milk churns, and chains on his wheels, to pull the threshing box over the bank to his next

call. Being inquisitive us kids thought we would watch this exercise closely, so close we trotted

behind holding onto the rail where the bags are hung when in work. In the first hundred yards it

was OK just a steady trot, then past the front of Seighford Hall the driver put his foot down to get a

good run at the bank. As the speed increased so our stride bounced longer our feet touching the

road every ten foot or so, it was still great fun to this point, then it got serious and we dare not let

go. The bag hooks were swinging along the bar that we hung onto, and a big danger of hooking

into our sleeves or even our hands. On the last bit of straight by Cooksland Hall, he must have got

to his maximum speed and we could no longer hold on, so we worked our way to one side and

took a dive into the snow drifts at the side of the road. No one knew of this escapade but our gang,

but we never got the chance to try it again, fortunately the snow gave us a soft landing.

I Remember the Threshing

Machine,

During the winter short of straw,

call in the threshing machine,

Ricks of corn all stacked and thatched,

oats peas and beans,

Mixed corn to feed the cows,

and straw to bed them up,

Ozzy Alcock on his steamer,

he brings his whole setup.

See the steam and smoke a puffin,

o'er bank before he's seen,

Calls at the pool by Seighford Hall,

for water he is keen,

Polish up with oily rag,

and oil can in his other hand,

Keep busy while the tank fills up,

next farm he's in demand.

His teeth have keen grip on his pipe,

swinging steamer into gate,

Some of the train he leaves on the road,

peg pulled out by his mate,

One at a time Box, Baler and binder,

positioned to get belt into line,

Steam engine is last to shuffle in place,

start in the morning by nine.

Ozzy and his mate are here by six,

they travel about on their bikes,

Light fire in the old steamer,

match from his pocket he strikes,

Oil all the dozens of bearings,

check the belts are all tight,

Time for breakfast and a brew of tea,

and fill up his pipe to light.

At quarter to nine he opens his regulator,

steam to the piston apply,

All the spindles and shafts and pullies

and belts all begin to fly,

Lot of dust rises from threshing box,

and sets to a steady hum,

Men from the neighbouring farm who help,

they know it’s time to come.

It takes a whole day to thresh a bay,

just a bit more for a rick,

Onto the next farm up the village,

he makes his way quite quick,

This is repeated around the farms,

about three times each year,

Dirty and dusty job it was,

not looking forward for him to

reappear.

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

6

REMEMBRANCE BY SHOSHA CLARE

For my grandmother, it was a weekly trip, a faithful weekly terrible trip. Looking back, so many decades later,

a senior citizen myself now, the mother of two daughters, I wonder how Gran came through. Like so many, many more, of course, she did, somehow carrying on for the sake of her husband and two daughters, living to the good age of eighty five, but never forgetting, as who could, the tragic loss of the son who died at seventeen.

What must have been so terribly bitter was the suddenness of it, a handsome, sensitive, intelligent young man, just starting out in the world, his whole life before him, coming home with a bad case of flu, taking to his bed and dying the next day of ‗painless pneumonia‘.

Gran chose to bury him at Cradley Church, where her mother, father and elder sister lay, a good walk away from where she now lived, but whatever the weather, come rain, come shine she would go to attend to the

graves and when I was visiting, I would go too. People walked in those days, and we, as a family walked as a leisure activity, our entertainment being an after

tea stroll out into the surrounding lovely countryside, a few minutes away from our door. The trek to Cradley,

though was not so inspiring, taking us over Oldnall, a steady climb past the small colliery where the poor picked over the slag heaps for coal which they wheeled home in old prams.

Reaching the brow of the hill, I would always rush to the field where two scruffy ponies grazed, talking to them as I leaned over the gate offering handfuls of pulled-up grass, Gran and I taking a rest, gazing over the sprawl of endless industrial conurbation that spread before us as far as Wolverhampton and Birmingham, many

miles away, thankful for our luck, so that living right on the edge of this blot, we could enjoy countryside that un-dulated onwards, uninterrupted except by villages and small country towns, as far as the Welsh Coast.

Carrying on, we descended now, leaving behind scrappy fields, past The Ragged School Chapel, a name that always intrigued me, crossing with trepidation the busy main road to Birmingham, reaching, at last the massive bastion of Cradley Church.

I will never forget one Christmas visit, helping Gran cut branches of holly and cotoneaster, decked with scarlet berries, other greenery joining the large bunch in a newspaper bundle in a sizeable basket which had been al-ready stacked with other necessary accoutrements. Warmth was Gran‘s obsession, so well wrapped up against a

bright but chilly late December day we set off. Reaching our goal, a first stop was to fill canisters with water and make for Gran‘s sister Clara‘s grave, un-

marked but tucked under a laburnum tree, so easy to find. After filling the vase, we trekked across the massive and very ill tended area to her parent‘s grave, which was threatening to disappear in an encroaching welter of proliferating willow-herb and scrub. Luckily a self-sown cotoneaster had sprung up to mark the spot and before

we left, a bunch of similar berries gleamed in a vase below the shrub making me hope that more would fall into the weedy soil so that in time the whole grave would be covered, glowing scarlet through the Winter.

Uncle Reggie, an uncle I‘d never known, of course, was buried on the other side of the church, a well-kept area, with a properly marked grave-marble stone edgings, covering chippings and a headstone. Now, as an adult, I wonder with what feelings Gran approached the final resting place of her beloved son, especially at such

an emotive time of year. It must have been excoriating, but as a child, I trotted beside her, sympathetic but ut-terly unable to fully comprehend the pain she must have been enduring.

She‘d stand, mute for a while, just gazing down and then silently pray, her lips moving, tears filling her eyes,

while I‘d stand, just as silent beside her, holding her hand, trying to give some small modicum of support in my childlike way. As we stood, in the gathering dusk, slowly aware of the growing Winter chill, suddenly she‘d spring

into action, filling the vases with careful arrangements, rearranging the chippings, eradicating any weeds, and wiping the marble with a damp cloth until all was to her satisfaction. Then, with a long, final look and several deep sighs, she‘d gather herself together, pack her basket, returning her mind to everyday concerns. As we

made for the bus stop, we marvelled at the sky lit up like an inferno by the Blast Furnaces of Round Oak Steel Works.

The bus, jammed with workers on their way home, many, with no washing facilities at work, filthy and black from Foundries, Steel Rolling Mills and the like, jolted us home in the dark. Some passengers, exhausted from a gruelling day‘s work, slumped silent. Others exchanged lively ripostes in the wonderful Black Country vernacular

that we understood perfectly well but did not, ourselves, use. Chatting in the hubbub, our mouths watered at the thought of liver and onions, mashed potato, swede, gravy, with bottled plums and custard to follow, our anticipa-

tion of sustenance to come, proving that the spirit of life is indomitable, at least for a while. At my mother‘s death, I gave, to my daughter, the one photograph of Reggie remaining in our possession, the

rest disappearing never to be seen again, taken as of right by mum‘s elder sister at Gran‘s death. His young

handsome face, with striking dark hair and eyes, colouring inherited from his father seemed to accentuate the tragedy of his loss.

No Cenotaph wreath-laying for him, no pomp or circumstance, mourned only by his immediate family, and

sadly now ‗remembered‘ only by myself. ‗At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember

Random words : Tudor, Wednesday, grief, police, announced, help, short, light, bright, song

―‘Crimewatch‘ is a wonderful thing,‖ Joe told his mate Tom.‖ People certainly came up trumps on this one!‖ Joe worked as curator at a historic Tudor man-sion, but on a Wednesday night three months ago, there was a break-in, which caused a lot of damage and grief for everyone concerned. ―It‘s no wonder the burglars get away with it. Most of them are cleverer than the cops! Still, it was only a short while after they announced on TV that they

needed the public‘s help, light was thrown on the case and they had their man.‖ ―Really?‖ said Tom. ―How did they identify him?‖ ―Seems he was so pleased with his haul, he walked away from the crime scene singing a song from ‗Oliver‘ called ‗You got to pick a pocket or two‘, and folk heard him!‖

―Can you believe it? He wasn‘t very bright to do that‖ Tom commented. ―No. He‘s the exception that proves the rule, I guess‖ Joe grinned.

them,‘ Laurence Binyon‘s famous moving words come into my mind, but of course I cannot claim such great de-

votion. Who can? After the war, my grandmother told me that a neighbour had suddenly said to her that maybe Reggie‘s death had been for the good, for even if he had survived the war, such a sensitive soul, never

would have recovered from his experiences. I think this thought gave some comfort. At the time of Remem-brance I cannot help but think his short life and rapid death might have been by far the better of many much worse alternatives, but then, who am I to know? Maybe karma was kind to him though it was cruel, so cruel to

his poor mother. Returning to the Churchyard twenty years ago, my mother and I found Clara‘s Laburnum tree had been cut

down and we failed to find her grave. The wilderness housing Gran‘s parents‘ resting place had been cleared and

the only indication of where they might be was a cut-off stump of what might have been a cotoneaster. More disheartening still, Reggie‘s grave had been invaded by roots of trees, the marble cracked and subsided. We

gazed at it with despair, Mum too old and me too far away to keep a continual watch on its condition. I haven‘t been back since, and I have never been one for graves, memorials and the like but, no, I haven‘t forgotten. I may remember only occasionally, that‘s true but I do remember and let‘s face it, there are more ways than one

to keep faith, to remember. Relating these past events brought up the times in sharp focus, making me realise how fortunate we were.

Though hardly rich, we always had good plain food and plenty of it, were thoroughly well looked-after, good food and good care being of paramount importance in the eyes of my Grandmother and mother. I never went hungry and was always clean and decently clothed which certainly was not always the case in that post-war era.

Poor housing and inadequate food meant that TB and Rheumatic Fever were not unknown, several people of my acquaintance dying of consumption, even into the nineteen sixties, probably too far gone and too endemi-

cally ill-nourished to benefit from the new and effective drugs. Round Oak Steelworks, then a mighty concern employing thousands is now long gone, the site cleared and a

chic business park in its place. Steelworks were highly hazardous and dirty places of work but the pay was good

and it did at least, provide reasonably lucrative employment in a time of general back-breaking penury. Poverty was much more visible then, with more than a few ragged and dirty children amongst the more fortu-

nate pupils in the local schools. I have never, since those days of my early childhood, seen the slag heap pick-

ers, some of them children, push home their blackened and broken-down prams piled with coal, but it is a tragic fact that child-poverty still exists, even if in a very different form. It makes me angry to have to say, in this in-

stance, nothing in essence changes. Maybe this is what we should be remembering, honouring and working to eradicate poverty rather than glori-

fying the carnage and dwelling on those long gone. Would it be too much to expect that we can do both? How-

ever sad and however truly tragic, the dead are gone beyond our help. Surely it is the living we should be con-centrating on, particularly our children who are the future of the world. At the going down of the sun and in the

morning, let‘s remember present need and maybe, apart from actually, for once learning lessons from the past, forget the dead? Sending blessings for continuing wonderful rebirths to them seems to me to be enough al-ready. It is the living we need to focus on now.

-o0o-

Departure Platform by Thomas Hardy

We kissed at the barrier ; and passing through

She left me, and moment by moment got

Smaller and smaller, until to my view

She was but a spot ;

A wee white spot of muslin fluff

That down the diminishing platform bore

Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough

To the carriage door.

Under the lamplight‘s fitful glowers,

Behind dark groups from far and near,

Whose interests were apart from ours,

She would disappear,

Then show again, till I ceased to see

That flexible form, that nebulous white ;

And she who was more than my life to me

Had vanished quite.

We have penned new plans since that fair fond day,

And in season she will appear again—

Perhaps in the same soft white array—

But never as then !

‗And why, young man, must eternally fly

A joy you‘ll repeat, if you love her well ?‘

O friend, nought happens twice thus ; why,

I cannot tell !

Storytelling is next Tuesday evening at the Old Rose and Crown, Market St., Stafford Hi, this month's club is set to be another corker! We are delighted to be hosting one of Europe's finest tellers next Tuesday, the wonderful Peter Chand. Peter is a British Indian teller who specialises in collecting and telling traditional Asian stories; his set on Tuesday is a new one, performed for the first time to a very appreciative audience at this summer's Festival at the Edge: Jayamala and Other Elephant Tales. Read more here https://www.facebook.com/events/1508060679460654/ Hope to see you there! Ana and Cath (£5.00 admission charge)

8

Keeping to the NEW schedule (1)

The Surveyors are still banging the pegs in,

Through the mud of the wild Hopton Heath. Track panels are there, all awaiting, The new schedule that we want to keep.

The old schedule? That went for a Burton When diggers turned up, in a fleet

And massive great holes open up that Just weren't on that schedule, to keep.

The track-base is laid towards 'Queensville', While the turntable is not of a piece

But there's a hole in the ground for its work-ings.

Bang on the new schedule, the one that we'll keep.

The footway's more muddy and yucky We've give-up on keeping it neat.

With level crossings and track work depending, On that new schedule; that we're going to beat.

There's a large hole, and it's brim full of water. The plan says it's for boats, in the heat, But first we need to play mud-larks

To the new schedule, that we're going to keep.

Track panels they lie by the track bed A very long way from the heap The track gang toil, unrelenting,

We've got our own record to beat.

We just hope that it's going to stop raining As we fasten each set to its seat, Then, with finger ends far from the frozen,

Smash the schedule we're going to beat. There may be some problems awaiting

But I'll bet that we'll get them beat We've years of experience among us.

And there's that schedule that we're going to beat!

Clive Hewitt Nov 2014 With apologies to the lads on the track gangs who know that, slightly masochistically, it's really quite a

laugh.

10

The Gardening Tips series was produced by well known local gardening expert Mrs. FM Hartley as monthly gardening items which featured on an audio news-tape produced locally for partially sighted people. (Link To Stafford & Stone Talking Newspaper. Link To R.N.I.B.)

As such the articles are meant to be read individu-ally and not as chapters of a book. The articles were written over a period of some 7 years. RBW is absolutely delighted that Mrs Hartley has agreed to some of her words of gardening wisdom gathered over nine decades being reproduced for our benefit by her son, Alan.

Gardening Tips Week Ending December 3rd 2009

Another year has nearly gone again, my how the years go by. The gardens are starting to slow down now for Winter, but there is still some colour about on my Penstemenons, a blue Hebe is still flowering well and the Rudbeckias are still going mad. I cut quite a good bunch again to day as they make good cut flowers for small vases.

Bulbs such as Daffodils, Narcissi, Tulips and the small bulbs such as, cro-cuses, can still be planted if the ground is not too soggy after all the heavy rain. We have one patch in the lawn that never seems to dry out and gets very slippery as it is walked on a lot. I didn‘t want to lose any more grass and have lots of slabs in the lawn, so with such a wet year we found some hard rubber mats with plenty of holes in, from a D.I.Y. shop and used them like they do for re-enforcing field entrances on agricultural show sites. We took a thin layer of grass out and laid the mats down level with the lawn so that the grass grows through the holes, the mower goes over them and no more slipping. They have done the job so if you walk across one little patch of grass regularly to, say a clothesline, in the lawn, this might be a good idea for you.

If your ground is not too soggy to get on and there is no frost about, it is a good time for general planting. Bare root shrubs and roses come cheaper than potted ones and can only be planted at this time, but not many places still sell them. We have seen one garden centre though, that sells loose, bare root, hedging plants, but it is proper plant nurseries that have

traditionally sold bare root plants.

Herbaceous plants are dying off now, but it is still a god time to buy as they have probably been reduced. They can often be divided and have a chance to get established ready to start shooting in the Spring.

Christmas Cacti should not be bought when they are in full flower, or their

flowers will drop, when the plants are moved. If they are in tight bud they will be al-right, but don‘t move them about after the flowers start to open, not even in the same room. It is a good excuse for not dusting. Poinsettias should not be taken out in the cold at all, but if you really must, when you buy them for instance, they should be well wrapped or else they will get chilled and wilt after a day or two.

I don‘t know if we are in for a very bad Winter, but the Hollies, Cotoneaster and Row-ans are covered in berries this year and they do say that is a sign of a hard Winter to come.

Hope you are all managing to keep warm with this changeable weather, it certainly seems to be confusing the plants in the garden as the Iris bulbs are well up, the Prim-roses are coming out and some Daffodils were trying to poke their noses through. The plants don‘t know where they are this year, but I suppose they will sort themselves out eventually.

Garden Centres and shops have a lot of their Christmas plants in now, but be warned that if you buy Poinsettias or Crotons which have pretty coloured and variegated leaves do not take them out in the cold unless they have been properly wrapped and don‘t buy them from open outdoor stalls at all. The plants will have come from heated nurseries in insulated vans into the heated Garden Centres and shops so will not ap-preciate the cold, especially the winds we have had lately.

You can still plant bulbs if the ground is not frozen and why not put some in pots to bring into the house after Christmas especially as most places have started selling them off cheap now. Winter Pansies and Primroses can still be planted too. There is still plenty of colour in the garden with the Golden Holly, Silver Holly, red Rose hips and other berries, and even the Cotinus or Smoke Bush still has most of its lovely red leaves on. Sedum Spectabilis flower heads have turned a lovely bright red and make a

splash of ground cover.

The Ornamental Sage has grown well this year and its variegated leaves are very pretty, but remember that the Sage likes well drained soil. Our Medlar tree had quite a few fruits on this year although it is only the first season since it was bought in a pot and planted. The fruit is best left on the tree till they are really ripe. They look some-thing like a small apple, but when you peel them the soft flesh can only be described as looking like one thing that is often trodden in on pavements! They are definitely dif-ferent, but I didn‘t like the texture of the flesh so I will stick to my Figs which do very well against our south facing fence.

Not much to do in the garden now only keep the birds fed and fill their water dishes. Well that's all for now all the best to everyone. Frances Hartley

RBW FICTION PROJECT FOR 2014/15 NOTES: ( CHANGES )

Story so far. Plotlines are developing ...

This is a listing of what we have so far ...

Place: Sometime in the 1890s The Grand Cosmopolitan Shipping Line Chain: The Nasturtium Hotel (GNH) in Trentby-on-Sea a place that has a similarity to Southampton, twinned with Murmansk and has a decided international flavour. Despite recent squabbles with Russia, France and certain other countries all rich spending foreigners are welcomed

Time Span: Between the arrival and departure of the steamship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. About 3 weeks.

Hotel: The GNH is owned by The Cosmopolitan Shipping Line and is the usual Victorian Hotel. It has three classes of accommoda-

tion, that are roughly: Suites [1st floor] for those with money and the POSH nobs. Rooms [2nd and 3rd floors] for the not so well off. Accommodation [tiny attic rooms, top floor back] for staff

Staff: Basil Bluddschott (70's) – Manager Mrs. Cynthia Bluddschott (20's) - 2nd (trophy) wife of Basil

Daniel Bluddschott (40) – Son of Basil by 1st wife Miss Marian Bluddschott (35) – Daughter of Basil by 1st wife Mrs. Natasha Bluddschott (34) – wife of Daniel — gambling debts up to mischief

Roberto Manchini - Italian chef; has the hots for Marian & Cynthia Mrs. Bertha Buckett – Breakfast Cook in Charge Peter the porter

Nancy the Scullery maid, Betty the Chambermaid Guests:

Lady Vera Accrington and Lady Gloria Stanley – a couple of old biddies with a chequered past who are enjoying themselves their Ward Dorothy ... much admired by the Maharajah and every other red-blooded male Major Martin – May be the ADC to the Prince of ??

The Russian Prince of ?? Referred to as Mr. Smith; even tho' everybody know who he is. Daphne Du Worrier - Writer Capt. Toby Fowlnett – Recently appointed skipper of the clipper ship The Star of Coldwynd Bay. He may be a little short on

experience as his last job was skipper of the IOW ferry. [Hey! How difficult can it be to find India or China?] St. John Smythe – Tea planter with holdings in Assam. The Maharajah of Loovinda and his wife and valet George (apologies to Shakespeare, you‘ll see why immediately)

The Sheik of the province of Kebab. (It‘s a farce!!) Walter Wales – hack writer for Capt. Thaddeus Hook travel books Murray Durrisdane (currently a Boots)— Jade Buddha/Stone of Kali seeker — (Jamie Burke — Alexander Mulrose — baddies)

Russians? in room 212 Russian Agent Capt. Wild Will Body and his travelling Wild Rodeo Show, Missy Clementine Jane, Big chief Light–in-the-Sky and Texas Jim

McGraw the shootist (may be subject to change) Graf Hubrecht Walther Falscheim, the Graf von Jagerlagerberg involved with Ward Dorothy Kugyrand Rippling South African diamond dealer nasty piece of work

Music Hall turns playing at 'The Winter Gardens', Also staying the GNH some in suites some in the accommodation class.

Miranda Barkley – maybe mistress of the Prince of ?? Dario Stanza – singer Vesta Currie – cross-dresser hot stuff on the stage - Miss Maple piano-playing-Temperance Sister Cystic Peg – Medium / Seances Dan Fatso – Charlie Chaplin type

ALSO listed: Diamond dealer — Boniface Monkface

Jade - A rare Jade Buddha with a Kali Stone is specifically noted. A golden laughing Buddha also appears. NOTES:

CHECK THE DATE! Q. Victoria is Empress. Osborne House IoW is her fav. des. res. 1. Gas lighting or oil lamps – no public electricity supply about for another couple of decades; unless the hotel has its own generator, electrical lighting is out.

2. Horses and carriages in the streets, steam trains for long distances and on the dockside. Trams in some areas. 3. Limited number of phones, usually locally between ministries or business offices. Messengers or Royal Mail normally used.

Telegrams are available.

RBW Library Workshop group are working on a script for the next book. The ideas so far include a hotel in

the 1890s with as diverse a mix of travellers about to de-part for the far east as it is possible to squeeze into the

plot. Obviously the action will take place in Trentby-on-Sea, twinned with Murmansk, and

the establishment will be man-aged by Basil Bluddschott and his new wife Cynthia. If you‘ve ever watched a Carry On film you will have had all the training you‘d need to join in.

The annual joint project ...

The joint comedy is good practice in group co-operation, character building, plotting, dialogue, storyline arc etc and

besides it‘s hilarious to write an un-PC plot which pokes fun at everybody. Here outrageous stereotypes are encouraged!

What is more people actually read our free e-books ... Some brave souls even give us LIKES on Facebook

OPPORTUNITY: Take a room in the hotel ... Who is waiting to go to India? Why are they going? What are they running away from or towards?

‗Murray, can I come in?‘ said a whisper. Murray put down the wax brush and opened the door. Nancy squeezed passed him

and tip-toed into the boot room. ‗You should be abed lassie,‘ he frowned looking at the girl trembling in her nightgown

with a hasty shawl about her shoulders. ‗You‘ll catch your death with no boots on.‘ Her

bare feet looked raw. ‗I‘ll only be a minute,‘ she said thrusting an envelope into his

hands. ‗Look.‘ Murray brought a candle over to towards the curtainless win-

dow where there was the most light from a full moon. ‗What is it?‘

‗Old Dan‘s tickets,‘ she grinned rubbing her arms to keep warm. ‗I had an afternoon off this week. I went on the trolley bus.‘

‗By yourself? Nay lassie. That wasn‘t clever what if you‘d been ...‘

‗Well I wasn‘t. Nobody took any notice of me at all.‘ Murray drew out a five pound note. ‗Good grief.‘

‗I know, it‘s a fortune, ain‘t it. That‘s all of it mind.‘ ‗So half is yours.‘ The girl nodded, ‗and four pence for the trolley bus.‘ Murray smiled. ‗Aye and four pence for the trolley bus.‘ ‗The man said there were still some items in time which we could reclaim or he‘d sell

them. I told him to sell them.‘ ‗More?‘ ‗More, end of next week. But I can‘t go I won‘t have an afternoon off I only get one

a fortnight.‘ ‗Perhaps, I‘ll go,‘ said Murray. ‗Did he say what the items were?‘ ‗Nagh. Just some ornaments I think.‘ Murray frowned.

‗Have I said wrong?‘ she asked twisting the end of her shawl. ‗Nay lassie. Not wrong at all. Away with you now and I‘ll get this note changed as

soon as I can for you.‘ As the door closed Murray folded the note and hid it way in his breast pocket. He

might need to go missing for an hour or two tomorrow. This pawnbroker needed to be visited in person; who knew what old Dan had acquired on his mission to save guests from their burden of riches.

Stand by for a plethora of naughty Princes and the crocodile puts in a long-awaited appearance ...

(It‘s an in-joke. All RBW farces have a crocodile.)

Fallen On her Feet ACW Miranda Barkley had come to the hotel by reserved Hackney Cab, in which she had

found hat boxes and box parcels, all bound in silk ribbon, from the best haberdashers and fashion house in Trentby, followers of elite London designers.

At the hotel, Miranda found her room had already been reserved, for two weeks, and saw from the key number, it was on the luxury floor.

Reception informed her that the tip for the porter had already been pre-paid by messenger, who had reserved the room and paid for the fortnight.

Once in her room, Miranda looked about her in awe. She had been in excellent accommodation before as she enjoyed the pinnacle of her

career as top billing Chanteuse (Soprano singer), but this was beyond anywhere she had been in her life.

The large room had its own small en suite bathroom. However, it was puzzling that the fine damask covered bed was only a single, with

no dressing screen and only ladies dressing table and beauty items thereon. On the other side of the room was a fine wardrobe, with full length mirror inset in

the centre door. By it, was a writing bureau and Georgian chair, with exquisite writing set and bloc. In between these furnishings, Miranda then noticed a door and opened it in curios-

ity, only to find a short hallway, at the end of which was another door. Miranda retreated and opened her hat boxes and dressing boxes, to find fashionable

attire for day, soiree and fine dining. The hotel ladies complementary bath robe and fine silk slippers were lain upon her

bed. Miranda then could smell the sweet aroma of lily and realised her bath had al-ready been drawn for her.

She changed into the bath robe, went into the luxuriously furnished bathroom, dis-robed and sank into the hot aromatic bath, revelling in its rejuvenating powers, after a long day of rehearsal and matinee and evening performances at the Winter Gardens.

This was the life, she thought, after her early years in the country cottage with her mother, who between them did their daily household chores, with no serving staff.

Her mother never worked as far as Miranda had known, always saying her father had died on foreign shores, in his heroic life as an army officer, to prying neighbours come to partake of tea and cake.

Privately, her mother confided to Miranda once she was sufficient an age, that her father was of high birth not free to marry someone of his choice, and kept her and his love child in no fear of want.

Miranda knew her voice and looks would fade and her career might end at audi-ence‘s whim at any time. This may well be her ticket to comfortable life in some secu-rity by putting aside a nest egg for her retirement.

Mr Smith (privately saying was Prince Igor in her dressing room) had come night af-

ter night to the stage door, offering exquisite flower bouquets and jewellery in velvet cases, beribboned in silk from the best jewellers in Trentby.

It will be nice whilst it lasts, thought Miranda, snuggling into the thick soft long towel lining the fine porcelain bath, until he tires of me and have to seek a new spon-sor.

She wondered how fortunate she had fallen on her feet, to be wooed by a Russian royal, with his regal manners, exuding the confidence of aristocracy. Finally, the warmth of the bath cooled and Miranda changed into the delicate dining gown and appropriate hat.

Just then the inter-connecting door opened, and Prince Igor strode in, helped her into a sable shawl to finish off the haute couture dining attire and ushered her, with a short bow,

through the adjoining doors. The Fleet Is In ACW Prince Igor and his retinue had arrived at sunset in the flag ship of the Russian naval

fleet, flanked by two protecting lesser naval vessels, brought to berth by local pilot. The Prince came ashore incognito, without the fanfare of a state visit his royal blood

would have assumed, with Trotskaya and his team. Something lurked in Trentby that harboured ill for the Tsar, tracked down to this little

coastal town. Trotskaya led his small team of men, who, like the Prince, belonged to one of the secret

societies in Mother Russia seeking out those who endangered the Tsar‘s life, so as to put

their own Tsar in his place. The Prince and Trotskaya had arrived separately in the hotel, so as not to be thought

together. Trotskaya informing reception that he headed this team of travelling salesmen to promote Russian the fur trade.

A short while later, the Prince booked into the hotel as Mr Smith, which piqued the in-terest not in the least of reception, as it was a normal name for gentry to hide their iden-tity if bringing a mistress to a fine hotel.

The Prince had requested a suite that had an adjoining room for his valet, that recep-tion knew full well meant a discreet way to keep up morality of a lady‘s reputation and prevent scandal, by her having her own door from the hallway.

The suite had one large bedroom, with dressing room and en suite bathroom that held a large sunken bath, with a headpiece either end, offset, so fitting two people side by side

from opposing directions. The suite included a luxuriously furnished dining room with a view over well-tended

parkland not overlooked by any other building for propriety, that was set for two guests. The Prince changed into smart dining suit with black silk cummerbund at waist instead

of the obligatory waistcoat, ready for the arranged meeting with Miranda Barkley, who had finally agreed to his invitation to supper, after Miranda‘s last performance of the day at the Winter Gardens.

The French chef and his team brought up the meal from the best restaurant in Trentby and laid in Cordon Bleu style, leaving no staff behind to act as service.

Gentle cande light lit the dining room from crystal chandeliers. The Prince then went through the adjoining door at the time arranged and escorted

Miranda into his suite‘s dining room.

As soon as Miranda saw no waiting-on staff nor Mr Smith‘s own butler or footman, she knew the game was up.

Yet his manners were impeccable and she was treated as a lady with every dignity, her sable shawl courteously slipped off her shoulders by the Prince, being seated first with a short bow from the Prince, before he sat opposite her.

Miranda had seen an exhibition in an illustrated magazine and recognised the white and

gold porcelain dishes, gold bejewelled cutlery, cut glass wine glasses with stem depicting kissing snow doves, dessert bowls of rock crystal in colours of gold, with blue enamel and rose diamond set thereon, and gold and Swarovski crystal napkin rings, as made by the esteemed Russian jeweller Mabergia to the Imperial Russian court.

Even the crystal glass candle-holders of kissing snow dove design on stem holding tall

candles set on buffets and side tables to cast further gentle light, were Mabergia. The meal dazzled as the room. French cordon bleu with appropriate wines, decanted

as correct in quality of the county circles. The dessert excelled as the meal and Miranda felt giddy from compliments and the wine.

Once the fine feast was finished, the Prince rose and held his hand to assist her to her feet and led her into the bedroom fit for a palace.

The 4-poster bed was not just double but treble sized, lain over by a red and gold damask quilt and satin silk sheets, and had a mirror inside the ceiling of the bed.

On the floor, long and wide gold coloured sable fur thick pile blankets were scattered about and a long sofa was covered in golden sable throws. A dressing screen by the bed had thrown over it a beautiful negligee and gown, black laced.

Oh No, Miranda thought, stand by your beds.

How The Other Half Live ACW Trotskaya and his small team of men dragged their cases up the narrow staircase to

the tiny attic room crammed with single beds, a single toilet set table to wash hands and face of chipped pottery jug and bowl, and no wardrobes, only wooden chests at the foot of each bed.

The communal bathroom was down the hall, the sign said inside the room‘s door. The much bent pewter chamber pots were under each bed, and the hotel rules on the

wall stated that emptying chamber pots required an extra fee per day, unless done by guests themselves via the servant‘s back stairs.

There was no window, only a single skylight that barely gave light through its grimy

glass, never seeing a cleaning cloth. By each bed was an occasional table holding a single used candle in its pitted pewter

holder with candle snuffer. Again the hotel rules said new candles were extra. The threadbare sheets and even more threadbare blanket barely covered the palliasse

straw filled mattress, that had seen better days. The men sat forlornly on the beds, glared at Trotskaya and, as one, growled out the

words, ‗We‘re off to the tavern, The Foaming Flagon, for a beer and pie.‘ Could It Be That Easy? ACW Petrov brought over his beer round to Trotskaya and his fellow secret society mem-

bers, working for Prince Igor, with, he expected, the full knowledge of the Tsar.

They settled down in a booth near the Foaming Flagon‘s tavern‘s fire and tucked in hungrily to the good-sized steaming hot meat pies and baked potatoes oozing melted butter.

No conversation passed between them for a good while and the noise of chatting pa-trons had abated. The port‘s tavern was abuzz with many tongues from the merchant seaman of many lands.

But Trotskaya and his men could clearly hear Russian in the next high-backed booth, despite being spoken in hushed tones.

Trotskaya had ensured that none of the Russian navy fleet officers or men were in the Foaming Flagon tavern, before bringing in his team.

Were these men actually discussing an attempt on the life of the Tsar?

It was only when reluctantly they had to leave the Foaming Flagon tavern and were alone in a connecting alley en route to the hotel, Trotskaya and his men stopped and grouped in a circle, exclaiming in Russian one after another. Were those men the ones who threatened the life of the Tsar, so as to put on the throne their own Tsar, and these men spoke in high Russian, not the words of the common throng.

Ill Met By Moonlight ACW Now that Trotskaya and his team had found, by sheer luck, the conspirators for regi-

cide, the team waited in the alleyway for the other Russians to leave the Foaming Flagon tavern.

They took up stations in following this group of men, who fortunately kept together. They tracked them to a lodging inn called The Crocodile, not far from the port‘s ware-

housing. While Trotskaya and some of his men staked out The Crocodile inn, Petrov was sent

back to the hotel to liaise with Prince Igor. Petrov queried Trotskaya on this, But how, the Prince will have company won‘t he?

‗It‘s more than my life‘s worth to disturb him and spoil his night, don‘t you think, Sir?‘ ‗He‘ll let her retire to her room for propriety, now it‘s past midnight. You‘ll not even get

sight of a bare lady‘s ankle, my lad.‘ Petrov soon returned with Prince Igor himself, eager to learn more about these con-

spirators. But they were not alone in the dark, unlit alleys. In the shadows were one of the conspirators, secreted behind hand carts, upturned

by another alley wall. He recognised Prince Igor and stole away in the shadows to a side

door of the inn, quickly rejoining his associates in their lodging room. ‗We are discovered, Prince Trebunskaya and must silence them, before the Tsar finds

us out,‘ he whispered. The plotter Count Boyar handed out swords and daggers from their steamer trunk.

Then the men crept out the back door of the inn, with the hope of going round and get-ting behind Prince Igor‘s team.

But as they tried to keep to the shadows their luck didn‘t hold and the clouds parted just as a full moon rose, as the conspirator Prince Trebunskaya‘s men were crossing from building to building across an alley by the side of Prince Igor‘s men.

Prince Igor was no fool he had come to his men via the naval ship and had brought sufficient weapons for his team. The naval crewman handing out the weapons, was at the far side of Prince Igor‘s men as Prince Trebunskaya‘s men were caught out. He ran

off to gain more navy crew to help Prince Igor. The battle then raged in deadly earnest, in bloody gore in and about the rear of the

warehouses. Evenly matched, neither could gain the upper hand, and man after man met his maker, blood oozed and ran like a river in flood in gutter and drain.

By the time the naval officers and crew returned all was lost and a quiet scene like a mournful battlefield was all that was left to be seen.

Officers remained and crew sent quick for boxes and canvas to gather up the dead, strewn in pieces along the alley.

Fortunately no-one was about in these early hours of night to see this dread sight. None of the conspirators had survived the fight causing each fatal blows of sword and dagger or the single punch that could kill.

Prince Igor‘s crew, enflamed at his untimely demise and calling him a hero of Mother Russia, wrapped the bodies in old sheets and canvas, putting them in boxes and using and then leaving behind where they had once been, the hand carts.

As this grim task was finished, it began to rain hard, pouring blood along the gutters and drained away into the sewers. As silence resumed as no-one left about, there was a deep throated rumble.

A crocodile emerged warily from the sewer drain, cleaned off any gore left on the cob-blestones and made to descend back into the sewers. The rain abated and a lone, inebri-ated drinker then came along, seeing only the lashing crocodile‘s tail as it went down the sewer drain. The stunned drunken old sailor looked at his bottle and quickly threw it away, muttering, ‗By gum, that liquor‘s got to go.‘

Even More Fortunate ACW Miranda Barkley looked forward to another evening of

luxury in the hotel suite. The Prince had not been cruel or selfish throughout the previous evening, even at the

obvious gymnastics at night‘s end which had been terminated so unexpectedly. But at the front of the Winter Gardens, no hackney cab awaited her.

Oh, perhaps it‘s over then, Miranda sadly thought, but then decided to chance to see if he was taking her for granted now, and she hailed a hackney cab.

At the hotel, her room key still awaited.

In the room, her aromatic bath was already drawn for her. She changed into another of the haute couture dining gowns, put on the sable shawl and awaited the Prince to open the adjoining doors to escort her to the dining room of the suite.

At the appointed time, no-one came. Miranda waited five minutes, then decided to chance going through the adjoining

doors herself. The dining room was set for two guests and Miranda took the same seat to which the Prince had ushered her the night before.

Time ticked by. Then Miranda could hear movement in the bedroom and out came a man she‘d never

seen before in her life, in silk dressing gown embossed with embroidered gold crown at his top pocket.

He came to a sudden stop and exclaimed, ‗Ah! I wondered why the French chef had

brought two meals.‘ ‗Where‘s the Prince?‘ blurted out Miranda. ‗Ah, he was a Prince was he? Some naval staff came and took his belongings,‘ informed

this still unknown man. ‗Oh, this is most embarrassing, Sir. Might I be permitted to take my leave,‘ blushed

Miranda. ‗Oh no, I wouldn‘t dream of it. The French chef informed me he‘d been pre-paid for

14 suppers. And it would be my pleasure to dine with the esteemed Chanteuse from the Winter Gardens. I‘ll just change into a dining jacket, Ma‘am.‘

Oh crikey, thought Miranda, do I do a bunk or what?

Then she saw an introduction card box on a sideboard and took a quick peek to see his name, and reeled back into her chair, struck dumb upon yet another gold crown em-bossed on the card and the name in gold letters of, His Royal Highness, Prince Rupert, Villa Palace, the Duke of Middlesex.

The safety bicycle was the most important change in the history of the bicycle. It shifted their use and public perception from a dangerous toy

to being everyday transport tool for men and especially freedom for women.

Aside from safety problems, the high-wheeler's (Penny Farthing) direct front wheel drive limited top speed. Accordingly, inventors tried a

rear wheel chain drive. The safety bicycle completely replaced the high-wheeler by 1890. Meanwhile the invention of the pneumatic bicycle

tyre in 1888 made for a smoother ride on paved streets. As with the original velocipede, safety bicycles had been less comfortable than high-

wheelers precisely because of their smaller wheel size, frames were often buttressed with complicated suspension spring assemblies. The

pneumatic tire made these obsolete. The chain drive improved comfort and speed. With easier pedalling, the rider could easily turn corners.

The frame design allowed for a lighter weight, simple construction and maintenance, hence lower price. With four key aspects (steering,

safety, comfort and speed) improved over the penny-farthing, bicycles became very popular among elites and the middle classes in the

1890s. It was the first bicycle suitable for women: the "freedom machine" (as American feminist Susan B. Anthony apparently called it) was

taken up by women in large numbers.

The impact of the bicycle on female emancipation should not be underestimated. The safety bicycle gave women unprecedented mobility,

contributing to their larger participation in the society and economics of Western nations. As bicycles became safer and cheaper, more

women had access to the personal freedom they embodied. The bicycle came to symbolise the “New Woman” of the late nineteenth century,

especially in Britain and the United States. Feminists and suffragists recognised its transformative power.

Susan B. Anthony said, "Let me tell you what I think of bicycling. I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the

world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel...the picture of

free, untrammeled womanhood." In 1895 Frances Willard, the president of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, wrote a book called

How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle (described in Bicycling magazine as "the greatest book ever written on learning to ride"), in which she

praised the bicycle she learned to ride late in life, and which she named "Gladys", for its "gladdening effect" on her health and political opti-

mism. Willard used a cycling metaphor to urge other suffragists to action, proclaiming, "I would not waste my life in friction when it could

be turned into momentum." Elizabeth Robins Pennell started cycling in the 1870s in Philadelphia, and from the 1880s onwards brought out a

series of travelogues about her cycling journeys around Europe, from A Canterbury Pilgrimage to Over the Alps on a Bicycle. In 1895 Annie

Londonderry became the first woman to bicycle around the world.

The backlash against the New Woman on her safety bike was demonstrated in 1897 when the male undergraduates of Cambridge University

chose to show their opposition to the admission of women as full members by hanging an effigy in the main square of a woman on a bicycle.

Since women could not cycle in voluminous and restrictive dresses, the bicycle craze fed into a movement for rational dress, which liberated

women from corsets, ankle-length skirts and encumbering garments, substituting them for then-shocking bloomers. Research: Wikipedia and other web outlets

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