Shey, aw come on fellahs, cos I take out things like my ancient fairy that’s only got one arm, not looking at anyone here…….
and the plastic Santa my mum got in Hongkong just after the war …and all is good with the world.
Christmas is often a looking back. But it’s not all about nostalgia. For me it was everything that went into the making of that day, no matter where people were in their lives, what they had, didn’t. And I think it’s almost a ritual where we hold onto something small in order to hold onto something bigger.
Shey. Yeah but what she is really holding onto is so much bigger. It’s the order of the life she’s made for herself, the house she’s poured everything she has, including herself, into, since losing her husband and child one dark and stormy night. On page one she’s just lost that house and everything in it. What do you do when you have nothing, not even the Christmas garlands, the clothes on your back? Do you give up? Succumb to the fact you’re so cursed, everything you touch turns to ashes– because it does? So, being a corpse in many ways why should it matter?
Or, because these things are all you have left and you’re not quite the corpse you think, do you make a stand, knowing what you are throwing on the table doesn’t matter. isn’t worth a worn farthing? Whoever touches you will die anyway. A problem shared is a problem halved after all, is this woman’s motto.
Shey. Indeed there will be a hamster reference.
Shey. Last book, a two headed hamster. This one a mealy mouthed hamster. Of course the whole thing is fanciful.
Shey. When you finish it. 85 thou words is good dudes but you need to stop fiddling with the Christmas decs
and finish it. Then you need to decide what publishing route to take on this one. But if it’s the one I think you’re considering, it should be Spring. You can do the cleaning first. Dear little dudes, I do hope this has got you into the spirit of Christmas. Thank you for letting me on my own blog.
“Then… if you didn’t win…”
“No. I suppose that’s what I meant when I said I wasn’t a gentleman.”
“I’m sorry, Mr…Mr Wryson, you will think me vague but the truth is I really don’t understand what you being, or not being a gentleman, has to do—”
“I’m acting on behalf of my employer.”
So it was true? She’d lost Doom Bar Hall. Still, she’d made this decision before this man walked in here. How he looked, how old he was, who he was, had made no difference then. Why should it now? She’d die sooner than let this place go.
“He thought there would be difficulties you see.”
“Apart from my brother lying drunk on the floor there, I can’t imagine how.”
“Well he did. And that was why he asked me to spy out the lie of the land. After all, this is quite a house to lose–”
“Do you think I don’t know that? That is why my offer is the same because I don’t intend to lose it–”
“Especially when there’s past associations.”
“Past associations.” She resisted the urge to finger her throat, which prickled as if a moth’s wing was stuck in it. “What do you mean?”
“I mean my employer once lived—not in the house itself—but on the estate, and is known to you.”
She swallowed the astonishment sitting suddenly like ice in her mouth. There was only one man she could think of who had done that but of that one man, she did not want to think. Not when the blood drained from her face, the floor loomed so perilously close she struggled to stand in her black slippers and Orwell staggered to his feet.
“Dstny…old gal, I triled to tell you. But you…you…”
“Old? How many times have I told you not to call me that? Twenty five is hardly old. What it is, roughly, on average, is how many times you call me that in a day.”
“Anyway, you’re nlot seris…”
“Says the man who has just cost us this place.”
“Unless the name Divers O’Roarke is unfamiliar to you, Miss Rhodes?” Gil Wryson’s voice was oiled velvet.
How did she say the name as if it was nothing to her, the name of the man who had cursed them, cursed her loudest of all?
Because she must.
“No. I believe I have vague memories of him.”
“Good, because he is waiting outside. I will be sure to pass the details of your offer to him if you still desire it.”
Before she could think whether she did or not, whether the word desire was putting it rather strongly, or she should change her mind, a footfall sounded in the candlelit doorway behind her.
“Good evening, Destiny,” clanged the sounding bell of hell and that damnably soft, Irish voice, she recognised from that same place. “I see you haven’t changed one bit.”