Thank you for visiting my website. I have just had my latest book published. If you are interested in reading it, details are on my book page. Please can you leave a review on Amazon?

Life has been busy in my garden. I love this time of year when we can eat the produce we have grown. So far we have had a small crop of peas, broad beans, strawberries, raspberries, potatoes and tomatoes.

 Sewing is also a hobby of mine. I have just completed an appliqued picture of one of our historic buildings in the town, for the forthcoming 600th anniversary of the Charter being granted to the town by Henry 111

For my writing, each month I will include a coffee break short story for you to read. My ex-tutor Esther Chilton sets us a word to write a limerick each week, so I will add that as well. Hope you enjoy.

                                         THE UNWELCOME GUEST

Alison let out a blood-curdling scream and leapt onto the settee, knocking over the standard lamp. She was followed onto the settee by her four-year-old son, Archie. He started crying, clinging on to his mother, bewildered by the screaming. Two minutes ago he had been happily playing on the floor with his cars, when a tiny brown furry creature ran across the floor in front of him. The baby, no longer asleep in his cot upstairs, began to bawl loudly.

Alan, Alison’s husband, shot into the living room, baseball bat in his hand, fully expecting to be confronted by a burglar. There was no one in the room.

“What on earth is all this screaming about?” he angrily turned to his wife. She got down from the settee, pushed past him, making her way upstairs to comfort the baby. Alan was none the wiser.

Alison was very ashamed as she had to admit that it was a little defenceless mouse that had caused all the commotion. After all, she was married to a vet. When she came back downstairs, she said nothing, and losing patience, Alan returned to his office and shut the door.

 Gingerly, Alison began to prepare the tea. She was very nervous, her eyes straying back to the range every few seconds. That is where it had disappeared to an hour ago. As she was peeling the potatoes, she spotted it out of the corner of her eye, scurrying across the floor and making its way under the kitchen table. Alison froze. She gripped the knife, trying to gather up courage to kill it once and for all. She could not move. She put down the knife quietly and put her hand over her mouth, trying not to disgrace herself again. The moment was broken as Archie ran into the kitchen and saw the mouse under the table searching for crumbs, then scurrying back towards the range and disappearing. Alison took a breath ‘Well, that’s a step in the right direction,’ she thought proudly to herself. ‘But how to get rid of it out of my kitchen. I can’t get at the mousehole, and poison is out of the question.

As the days went on, she learnt to keep still when the mouse came out and wait till it returned to its hole behind the range.

A few more days went by. The mouse had got into a little routine. Archie spotted it and got very excited

 “Give me a bit of cheese, please, Mummy. He may come to me “ Over the next two weeks, to Alison’s detriment, Archie had trained the mouse to come out when he put cheese near the range. He had even named it Pikachu and spent time with it. Alison didn’t have the heart to discourage him. Alan had always encouraged him to be kind to animals.

All was disrupted one evening when Alan came home with a stray cat.

“Someone found this poor, bedraggled thing by the river in a sack. Probably not had the stomach to throw it in. She is quite friendly, and I will keep her here until I can find a home for her. Alison stroked the cat. The answer to her prayers was realised when the next evening Pikachu failed to appear. Archie was heartbroken.

“Perhaps he’s had enough of living in the house. After all, they are a wild animal and should be outside,” she explained gently to her sobbing son.

The cat thrived, and when Alan advertised for a new owner, she soon found a home on a farm. ’ She’ll be kept busy there,’ Alison thought to herself.

Archie moped about the house hoping that Pikachu would reappear. Alison was stricken with guilt to see her young son so unhappy.

The next day, when Archie was in school, she drove into town. She had decided to buy him something to cheer him up.

After school, Archie ran up to his bedroom to change into his play clothes. He gasped in surprise. On his dresser, in a large cage complete with wheel and fluffy bedding, sat Pikachu Two.

                     A LIMERICK(key word LEAVE)

             Whilst training my Boxer dog, Steve,

             I taught him the word ’ to retrieve’.

             He dragged my Dad backwards,

             Despite his loud protests

             I had forgotten to teach the word ‘leave’

Hope you have enjoyed reading my newsletter.I will write the next one in August   

August Newsletter

Another month and we are all still sweltering. We will have to adapt and accept the climate changes.

  My car had a mishap this week. I unavoidably drove into a deep pothole which punctured the tyre and damaged the wheel. A new wheel, tyre and depleted bank account later and we are back on the road.I wonder how many other drivers can relate to my misfortune? 

 

       Our local Creative Writers' group 'Dragon's Pen' is enthusiastically writing interesting prose and poetry and looking forward to next year's LitFest.

     Before I share my Coffeetime Short Story and Limerick, can I ask anyone who reads my latest novel A Quest for Truth , be kind enough to put a review on Amazon Books?

        I am looking into adding a subscription facility to my website in the near future.

.

                                                                             THE VILLAGE SHOP

It was 1955. The farm had to go. Mum had died suddenly, and Dad couldn’t carry on living there. She was only forty, and they were very happy working together on the farm.

         “Sorry, girls, too many memories. I have to have a new start,” Dad informed us. He bought a village shop a few miles away.

        We were swept along. My sister and I had no choice. No friends, no animals, new school.

      Surprisingly, the new venture proved interesting. Gradually the farm animals faded to the back of our minds. We no longer thought every day about Paddy, our gentle Shire horse, Bluebell, my favourite cow, and the numerous pigs we had raised over the years.

         “At least we won’t have to see any of them go off to market anymore”, my older sister Kath, reassured me. She was eleven and following Mum’s death we had become very close. I nodded. I had to admit that side of farming did upset me.

       “Your own fault for giving them names. I told you they were not pets, but you wouldn’t listen,” my father scolded.

     We soon got to know a lot of the villagers. The shop seemed to be a place where people could offload their troubles onto Dad's shoulders. They soon came to trust him. He never judged or passed on any gossip he received.

     Poor old Mr Ray the Fish. He had a small van and drove around selling his wares to the villagers and the outlying farms. He was a bachelor and a very private and solitary man once his day’s trading was over.

       “I would like to get married,” he confided one day to Dad.  “But how can I ever get to know a woman? I always stink of fish. Even my house smells of fish.” Dad pondered over this as Ray went to the van for Dad’s order of finny ‘addy. He liked this with a poached egg on top.

         “Some strong carbolic, a splash of Bay Rum. Slick your hair back with a dab of Brylcream, and get yourself into a pub in town. You know all the single women here. Go farther afield. You’re a hard-working lad with your own house. A good catch, if you’ll pardon the pun,” laughed Dad. “In twelve months you can invite us to the wedding.”

      Certain of the villagers looked down on Mr Jones at number 12. Like the number on his house, he had 12 children and had requested and been granted by the council, number 13, the house adjoining, as he didn’t have the room to accommodate all his brood. He had never done a day’s work in his life and boasted about the fact. His family allowance and benefits gave him and his wife a comfortable lifestyle.

         “Twelve children, his poor wife must be worn out,” commented Kath over the tea table.

         “Quite common in my day,” Dad informed her  “I am one of twelve, and there were eleven in your mother’s family.”

        “All that washing and cooking. I think I’ll stay single,” was Kath’s last word on the subject.

        Mrs Williams at number 10 we noted, fed her family on a diet of egg and chips Monday to Saturday, and sausage and chips on  Sundays. Her shopping orders never varied. She informed Dad that was what her family liked. There was no waste. She didn’t see the point of introducing new-fangled recipes as was the trend after the end of rationing. That was her philosophy. Dad did not comment, but thought to himself he was glad he was not married to Mrs Williams at number 10.

         The ladies in the shop were gossiping to one another as they waited to be served.

      " Do you know for sure it's her from Ty Bach cottage?” enquired Mrs Price from number 16.

 “Well,” My Da saw him sneaking out of the cottage when he was coming off shift last Thursday morning,” whispered Alice Jones from number 9.

      “ Jones the Milk is married though. He must get up extra early to visit ‘er and fit in his milk round.”  Alice's voice was getting louder.

 “It's disgusting, her husband working away an’ all.”

      “Anyone want serving ladies?” Dad called. He knew Jones the Milk liked the ladies. He often boasted of his latest conquest as he delivered the milk to the shop. Obviously, he had never approached any of these ladies.

        “The family just moved in to number 3 are gypsies,” declared Mrs Williams to Tom at number 5, one afternoon as they were shopping.

        “More like scrap merchants,” declared Tom.  “They are never short of a bob or two. He bought me a pint in the pub last night, and the kids seem to have the best of everything. Bet they don’t pay any taxes, retorted Mrs Williams.  “ My poor Bob has to work underground, and they take a third of his wages in tax.

        “It’s a hard life as a miner”, agreed Dad.  “And you can't fiddle the tax man”.

     The headmaster of the village school was a Welsh Nationalist. The pupils had to converse in Welsh every morning and all day on St David’s Day.

         “Not all of us were fluent, so you could hear a pin drop most mornings” I was chatting at the tea table. “Mr Morris drummed the language into us and explained that in the days of Queen Victoria the Welsh children were banned from speaking their own language by the English masters.”Dad nodded.

        “He lives with his so-called housekeeper," Kath chipped in. “The other kids say she is a ‘kept woman’ whatever that is.”

        “Hush, child; that is evil gossip. She is his housekeeper.” Dad spoke sharply.

        “Well, she must speak excellent Welsh. He seems very happy with her .”Kath replied.

       “You are becoming a little village gossip yourself, Kath,” smiled Dad  “I must give you more jobs to do to keep you occupied. .

      “I know, Dad. I can't help it. I hated leaving the farm, but people are quite interesting, aren't they? I loved all the animals and chatted away to them, but they couldn’t answer back or get up to the tricks some families do in this village”.

N.B Apologies to anyone who may find the language derogatory or stereotypical. It is written in the context of the 1950’s.

                                         LIMERICK

             I could always make him mad,

             I was always so very bad.

            But he never wavered,

            I was always favoured.     

            How I miss my beloved Dad.

                                                           Take care everyone 

                                                               Sheila

 

 

September Newsletter

Hello,

It's September and the longed for rain has arrived. The fields are green again. We are back to our expected weather. The farmers and gardeners must be so relieved.

       Back in July, I took a boat ride to see the Atlantic puffins off Skomer Island in South Wales. They are amazing little birds, who come ashore to breed and then spend the entire winter at sea .

I have always wanted to see them since I read Enid Blyton's book, Adventure on Puffin Island, many years ago .

Below is my coffee-time short story,followed by a limerick .I hope you enjoy and will write again in October .

                         

                                     ROLL FORWARD OR ROLL BACK

Grandma Alice was celebrating her 92nd birthday. She was smartly dressed in a powder-blue suit, adorned with a necklace of pearls and matching earrings her late husband had given her.

  “You look very smart today, as always,” her daughter Susan greeted her.

 “I feel forty in my head. Pity my brain doesn’t tell my bones how I feel”

The whole family had gathered around Grandma’s large dining table for a celebratory dinner. Two children, with husbands in tow, three grandchildren and partners, and two tiny great-grandchildren.

Delicious smells wafted in from the kitchen. On the menu was Grandma’s favourite food, roast lamb and mint sauce, followed by jam sponge and custard.

 “Toast to you Ma; may you enjoy many more healthy, happy years,” announced her son-in-law of forty-five years. Glasses clinked as everyone drank a toast. Chairs scraped along the floor, and everyone shuffled to sit comfortably to enjoy the meal.

As they began to eat, a debate was prompted by the eldest grandson, Sam. He was a fun-loving 35-year-old, father of the two little great-grandchildren, and at every family meal, always introduced a controversial subject to liven up the conversation.

 “Grandma, do you think it’s right that the government should ban youngsters from accessing the internet?”

Grandma hesitated, drew in her breath, and the children knew they were in for ‘a back in my day ’ session.

 “We had no phone in the house at all in my day, never mind the internet. We actually talked to one another face to face. No one peered at a screen for hours. And as for this A.I everyone seems to be talking about, I hope they don’t take it too far. Do you know when I was a girl A.I was to do with pregnant cows and bulls and only concerned farmers?” Susan looked blank and glanced at her sister, who was furrowing her eyebrows. The grandchildren started to giggle, looking at one another. No one wanted to enquire further into the former meaning of AI. But Sam was curious.

 “Can you explain please, Gran?”

 “I will tell you later Sam. It’s not table talk.”

 “More gravy,” Mum? asked Susan.

Emma, the middle grandchild, resumed the debate.

 “But Grandma, we have been brought up with the internet. The children won’t know what to do with their time .”

Grandma pursed her lips  and put down her knife and fork.

“Goodness me, Emma, in my day we played. Hopscotch, rounders, skipping. The boys played football and cricket. We played cards in the evenings or read books. It’s never done me any harm.”

 “We do read books, Grandma,” Jack, the youngest grandchild, stated.  “Audiobooks, on our phones.” Grandma glared at him.

On that note, Susan suggested they clear away and bring in the pudding. All went quiet except for the clattering of dishes and spoons. When the meal was finished, and the little ones got down to play, Jack took up another subject, which he thought his Gran would like to discuss.

 “We are learning all about World War II in high school, Grandma. You must have been about my age when the war started?” Gran looked more at ease with this subject

 “I was a bit older than you, Jack. Everyone wanted to be a part of the war effort back then. I will tell you about my part in the war if you are interested.” Jack nodded.

 “I have never talked about the war much. After it ended, we were not allowed to talk about what I had been involved in, as I had signed the Official Secrets Act. I can tell my story now, as was all so long ago. The room had gone quiet. All eyes were on Gran.

 “I joined the Wrens at first and was posted to the south of England. I wanted to join a ship and be a real part of the war, but I was just stuck in an office. One day I came across a memo asking for volunteers for the Special Operations Executive that Winston Churchill was setting up. I didn’t know much about it, but I volunteered anyway. It sounded important and exciting. It turned out I was being trained as a wireless operator and would be working in France. I had to learn how to shoot, to send wireless communications, and to jump out of a plane. The frightening thing was that, as we were told halfway through the course, if I got caught by the Germans, I could be tortured and even shot as a spy, but I couldn’t turn back. I might have been called a coward.”

 “Wow, Grandma. How brave.” Jack sat bolt upright, staring at his Gran. The room remained quiet in anticipation of what Gran had to tell them next. The only noise was the great-grandchildren chattering to one another. Grandma carried on with her story.

 “I was parachuted into France and met up with my boss. We had to move from village to village to send our information back in case the Germans got suspicious. We sent over a lot of information which helped with the D-Day landings. After D-Day, my boss and I came home. Guess who my boss was?” The grandchildren looked blank. Grandma smiled.

 “Your Grandad, of course.”

 “Grandad!” exclaimed Sam. “I  remember him on all fours, letting me ride on his back. He played games with us all the time. I can’t imagine him as a spy.”

 “I remember the times he took us camping, " said Susan. “We had no idea you were both so involved in the war. I wish he was here so he could tell us his story.”

 “I'm sure he can see us all, Susan,” said Alice, her voice shaking a little.  She carried on.

 “Have any of you heard of Alan Turing?” He came to our wedding.”

. “I have watched the film about his work,” said Emma.  “He was a genius, and some say the father of Artificial Intelligence, so he must have had faith in its development, Grandma. ”

  “Well, be that as it may, Emma. I only know that  I learned to be more tolerant, having seen what people did to Alan. This is where I do agree with the modern generation. The freedom to be who you are, which children enjoy today.  That is what we fought for. Poor Alan. He was a genius and broke the German Enigma code, which helped to win the war, but he was hounded and persecuted for being gay. He never got over being ostracized, and he died in 1954, some believing he took his own life. Homosexuality, you children won’t remember,  was illegal in England in his lifetime, and only in 1967 were gays allowed to live their lives openly and in peace .”

 “That’s terrible, Gran,” said Sam. We take all sexual preferences for granted today and think nothing of it .”

 Britain is a better place for that, I agree,” said Grandma. The children were now looking at their Gran with fresh eyes.

 “You think your Gran has always been an old lady. I had a life full of danger and excitement before you all came along. I have a lot of stories to tell, but maybe on my 100^th birthday I'll tell you all about when your Grandad and I  took a river boat trip down the Amazon. Your Mum and Aunt Jenny thought we were on a Mediterranean cruise. I will leave you all my diaries to read when I go to join your Grandad. I hope you all have as many exciting adventures in your lifetimes as I did before I became Grandma.”

                          LIMERICK

There once was a man called Jock,

Whose head ended up on the block.

He begged and he pleaded,

 “I only took what I needed,

This has all come as rather a shock.”

 Enjoy your reading time and will have another story next month

                                                               Take care and stay safe

                                                                     Sheila

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

                   

 

October Newsletter 

November Newsletter

December Newsletter