Welcome to this week’s Rosy’s Ramblings. Would you like to be part of an experiment? I hope so. I’m not sure whether this has ever been done before, but I’m always one for jumping in, both feet first, so here goes.
I am going to write a novel which will be serialised here so, twice a week, I will write an installment or chapter, which I will give a title. This week’s is ‘Little Twichen’. As the story unfolds, village life will weave in and out of the plot, which is a murder mystery, and hopefully, I will be able to keep you entertained throughout the intriguing journey.
The experiment should take six months to complete as I am planning to write 1,500 words twice a week. This could change, of course, and I may write more one week and less the next but the general aim is to complete the novel of 78,000 words in 26 weeks.
Along the way, if you have any comments, feedback or just plain don’t like reading a good murder mystery, please let me know by leaving a comment at the bottom of the post or contacting me direct at: rosy@rosygee.com
So, let’s dive straight in and thank you in anticipation for your kind co-operation in ‘encouraging’ me to write and complete a novel in six months. I need all the help I can get!
* * * * *
Little Twichen is a sleepy village in Shropshire. It has an eclectic mix of residents; some were born there, others migrated there, some left never to return and others knew nothing else. Mary Flosworth had never been further than Greater Twichen, a mere ten miles down the valley. She saw no need; Little Twichen had everything she could ever want from life.
Laburnum Lane was in the heart of the village and as pretty as a picture in May. Three magnificent specimens of the vibrant trees, laden with dripping golden chains, were all that remained of an avenue, topped off at the corner with Mill Street, by an equally stunning wisteria which regally adorned the ancient, picture-box residence, aptly named Wisteria Cottage, with its golden thatch settling over the black-and-white building like a thick, heavy pie-crust.
The village is a riot of colour at this time of the year. Copper Beeches are loud and proud sopranos in sharp contrast to the altos and tenors of the yellows, fresh lime greens, and velvety, rich dark greens, the baritones of the orchestrated colours of nature that the residents nurture and lovingly tend. Trimmed, primped and pruned year in, year out, it is an unspoken competition with each villager and fellow resident jostling to become the proud owner of the virtual prize of Best Gardener of the year. It was an honourable title and the envy of most of the villagers.
Bert Humble rather fancied himself as Alan Titchmarsh and was always offering advice to anyone who was prepared to listen. But even he was shocked into silence when he went into the corner shop one quiet Tuesday morning.
“Sixty-five houses, I 'heard,” Mr Tidmarsh was telling him from behind the old wooden counter.
“What?” A pint of milk in one hand and Gardeners World tucked under his arm, Bert raised his other knobbly, work-worn hand to his cloth cap and tipped it back, scratching his forehead in a distracted manner before dropping it neatly back in place.
“Whereabouts are they planning on puttin’ all these ‘ouses then?” he asked, clearly perplexed.
“Up your way, Bert. Off Laburnum Lane.”
Mr Tidmarsh thought Bert was going to keel over.
“I think I need a sit-down.” Bert placed his heavy frame on the old wooden chair that had sat in the corner of the village shop for as long as anybody could remember. He placed the magazine and milk on the floor by his side.
“Millie! Can you bring Bert a cup o’ tea through?”
Mrs Tidmarsh came scuttling through, her beaky little bird-like face peeking around the corner from the doorway that led into the house where she and Mr Tidmarsh had lived for over forty years.
“What’s up?” she asked, her beady eyes darting back and forth as she wiped her tiny hands on the frilly, rose-covered apron that she wore, the aroma of freshly baked cakes following her through into the small shop.
“Bert’s ‘ad a bit of a shock, dear,” Mr Tidmarsh replied in his lilting Shropshire accent. His large frame, dressed in charcoal grey trousers with turn-ups at the bottom, black brogues polished to within an inch of their lives, a white shirt, muted grey spotted tie, and a brown shopkeeper’s coat, stood squarely behind the counter. Mildred Tidmarsh knew all she needed to know – tea was vital - and scuttled off back in the direction from which she had come.
Mr Tidmarsh looked as glum as Bert Humble and the funereal silence was broken by the jolly tinkling of the shop doorbell when Guy Boden burst in. He was the local Funeral Director.
“Has someone died?” he asked, looking around expectantly.
“No, but this village is gonna bloody die, that’s for sure. Another sixty-five ‘ouses they wanna build up there off Laburnum Lane. Bloody ridiculous. Where do they think all the drinkers in The Sun are gonna park? Bloody ridiculous” he repeated as if by saying it several times, it made things any better.
“Oh dear, Bert. I am sorry to hear that,” Guy responded in his clipped Surrey accent, walking briskly the few steps to the counter. “Do you have Marsha’s magazines, please?”
While Mr Tidmarsh rummaged around behind the counter, Guy pulled a handful of coins out of his corduroy trouser pocket and started counting out what he thought would cover his wife’s weekly magazine bill.
“I’m sure the development won’t go ahead”, he said to nobody in particular. “You know what the Council’s like. It takes them years to decide on anything, doesn’t it?” His voice was upbeat and neither Bert nor Mr Tidmarsh said anything in response.
“That’ll be seven pounds fifty, please.”
Mr Boden, after examining a raft of coins in his hand, decided he would pay by card instead and tapped the machine on Mr Tidmarsh’s counter. “Can I have a receipt, please?”
After what seemed like an eternity, during which the glum silence hung in the air like a bad smell, the Funeral Director took off with his wife’s magazines gripped firmly under his arm, tucking the receipt in his wallet as he went, and strode out of the shop leaving the shopkeeper and his wife to console Bert with tea served in a bone china cup, accompanied by a huge wedge of home-made lemon drizzle cake.
#
Marsha Boden slipped out for an assignation with her lover just as soon as the coast was clear after sending her husband to collect her magazines from the village shop. She had been seeing Lloyd Peterson for just over a year and was head-over-heels in love with him. A confirmed bachelor, Lloyd ran a sheep farm on the hillside overlooking Little Twichen.
Walking the dog was a perfect cover and on Guy’s return, he would see the dog and his wife were out and assume that that’s where she was. Marsha was always very careful and slipped in through the back door of Lloyd’s farmhouse, which was tucked away behind a group of straggly trees that acted as a perfect canopy for her deceit.
Lloyd was a gentle man and although he had lived alone for most of his adult life after his parents died leaving him the farm, he was a thoughtful, loving, and very considerate person. Marsha loved the way he would prepare for their liaisons by putting her favourite music on the old record player or sometimes, he surprised her by playing something on his Spotify playlist after she had introduced him to the wonders of streaming music.
That was something else she loved about him; his willingness to learn and adapt even though one could have assumed that he would be fairly set in his ways. Perhaps the love of a good woman had bought out the best in him. Besides, what else was he going to spend his vast wealth on? He had no nephews or nieces, being an only child, and although he occasionally kept in touch with his numerous cousins, they were hardly regular visitors to Dovecote Farm. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had a visitor. Apart from Marsha, of course.
“Hello!” Marsha called out as she slipped Jasper’s leash from his collar and hung it on the coat hook by the inner back door. Before waiting for an answer, she turned the ancient doorknob and pushed the old wooden door open, which led into the homely kitchen, leaving the dog to curl up on an old blanket in the porch. A Gregory Porter song was playing in the background: “Tell Laura it’s me,” and with that, Lloyd came through singing, “Tell Marsha it’s me, who rang your doorbell so late.” He had a wicked glint in his eye and a broad smile lit up his handsome face as soon as he saw her.
They kissed in a long, passionate embrace and Marsha felt her body melt against him. “We best get up them stairs my lovely,” he said, leading her by the hand through the kitchen and off to the right gripping her firmly so as not to let her go. Marsha needed no encouragement; she couldn’t wait for Lloyd to make love to her.
#
Nigel and Kate Bursford’s two boys, Robbie and Chase, were like feral cats and the whole village could hear them sparring and hollering in their back garden up High Street on a warm spring evening. They didn’t get along together at all and if they weren’t arguing, Nigel and Kate could be heard continually berating them.
“Chase! What have we told you about hitting Robbie? He’s younger than you and not as strong as you so you could hurt him. Be careful!” Their feeble attempts at parenting fell on deaf ears and it seemed like the more Chase was shouted at, the less he took any notice. Everybody knew that things were strained between the young couple; he was a busy GP at the surgery and she was the Headmistress of the school. Having two young boisterous boys was obviously taking its toll on their relationship.
The thing with village gossip is that it starts as a rumour, a bit like Chinese whispers and eventually, what started as an innocent comment at the local pub, soon turns into a full-blown blow-by-blow account of what a villager perceives to be the situation. Sadly, in Nigel and Kate’s case the rumours flying around for several weeks turned out to be true, much to the delight of the village gossip, Helena Moorcroft, a dried-up old spinster who had nothing better to do with her time than peer out through her cottage window, noting down who went where and for how long they stayed there. She had a perfect view of Dovecote Farm from her kitchen window and made it her business to know everybody else’s business. But even she was shocked when she heard the rumour about the GP and the Headmistress.
#
To be continued ...
I hope you enjoyed the story so far.
Have a great week.
Rosy.
(The beautiful image at the top of this post is by Olivier Collet on Unsplash)
Just having the time to start reading it. Glad i have a few chapters to read! Gripped already!
It will be fun to see how this unfolds!