Beginings...

There was the beginning yesterday of an event which I hope will be repeated.  It was a sort of travelling party.  Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins, Jennifer Palmer, myself and assorted family all met up in Manchester for a very merry lunch in Bella Italia and then went for a shufti round the newly re-opened costume museum.  Good friends, decent food and something interesting to look at… Good all round, yes?

Jane Finnis, of course, writes the adventures of the Roman innkeeper, Aurelia, which happen round Aurielia’s inn, The Oak Tree, on the road to York.  Rebecca Jenkins’ hero is the ex-cavalry officer, Raif Jarret, is the Duke of Penrith’s agent in 1811, who discovers murder and mayhem in Durham and the surrounding countryside and I, of course, chronicle the adventures of Jack Haldean, the ex-R.F.C. pilot, in the 1920’s.  So, as yesterday was a new beginning, I thought it would be a nice idea to see where Jane, Rebecca and my fictional counterparts began!

It was a beautiful August dawn, the best sort of summer weather.  The only thing that spoilt it was the body.

I didn’t notice him at first.  I unbolted the front door and strolled out across the forecourt and up the short track to the main road, enjoying the fresh morning air.  The market day traffic was coming down the hill, heading into town.  I watched three farmers leading donkeys loaded with baskets of vegetables, then a creaking ox-cart piled with sacks, and two barefoot girls carrying a cage of chickens and driving some goats.  The goats scattered as one of our neighbours trotted past in a smart Roman two-wheeled gig, calling out ‘Morning, Aurelia,’ and I gave him a wave. A gang of native field-slaves shambled into view, driven uphill by a couple of mounted Roman overseers with whips.  One of the natives turned and spat in my direction when the overseers weren’t looking. The low sunlight coloured everything gold, even the scruffy slaves.

Get Out Or Die by Jane Finnis.



It was early evening in late July.  The vast sky was brushed with clouds.  Pinks intermixed with soft blues and dim charcoal all hung against a luminous satin ground.  A rider plodded along the path that ran through the wide expanse of wheat grass spreading out to the horizon.  Both man and horse bore themselves with that air of detached resignation common to travellers who know it is a steady pace that goes the distance.  The road crept up a broad flank of land then dropped towards a squat manor house tucked away in a dell.  At the shoulder of the rise the rider checked his horse.  Straightening his back and rubbing the aching muscle at his neck, he sat contemplating the scene before him.

The Duke’s Agent by Rebecca Jenkins



With a feeling of relief, Jack Haldean walked into the dim green interior of the beer-tent.  My word, it was like an oven out there.  A noisy oven, where the laboured thump of the Breedenbrook band mixed with the shrieks of excited children on the helter-skelter, hoarse shouts from the hoop-la and coconut shies, sharp cracks from the rifle-range and the hollow, oddly mournful music of the steam-organ on the roundabouts, all grilling under a blazing sun.

He took off his straw hat and fanned himself.  It was easily as hot as Spain, the difference being that no Spaniard, and certainly none of his relations, ever expected him to do anything in the middle of the day but sleep.  They certainly wouldn’t lug him out to a village fête.

Haldean found a space on a bench and wriggled his backbone into a comfortable position against a sturdy tent-pole. His cousin, Gregory Rivers, was standing at the trestle-table bar, waiting patiently to be served.  Haldean relaxed, soaking up the low rumble of conversation, savouring the contrast between the muffled din outside and the slow, placid voices within.  The smell of hot canvas, the smell of hot grass, the pungent reek of tobacco and the sweet smell of beer…

“Cheers,” said Greg, handing him a pewter mug.  He took a long drink.  “Good Lord, I needed that.”  He looked at Haldean suspiciously. “You seem jolly pleased with yourself.”

A Fête Worse Than Death by Dolores Gordon-Smith