The New Mayor and his wife. Seemingly well to do, but are they the perfect couple they seem to be?

The Murder Awards. Published by SpellBound Books on November 5th 2023.

Catch up with the Amy Rowlings Mysteries on Amazon UK

Today, 15th Sept 2023 marks the eighth anniversary of my beautiful wife’s funeral. Doreen, if you’re reading. You’re still missed as much as that first day.

I’d like to mark the anniversary by posting the poem that I wrote for her. It was read on the day by my daughter, Tamsyn who did a wonderful job. I was a gibbering wreck and couldn’t have got the title out let alone the rest of the poem.

Anyway, here it is. To you, Doreen. Until we meet again in one of those multi-universes or dimensions we all move into after we pass.

My latest author newsletter (August 2023) is now available to download.

This month I talk about the uncertainly I felt when I was writing my latest novel, Betrayal. There is also news of a book signing event I’m attending in September. If you’d like to subscribe there is a button on the top left hand side. To easily unsubscribe, lick the link at the bottom of the page.

Thank you for your interest.
T.A.Belshaw

You can download the newsletter, here.  August 2023 newsletter.

BETRAYAL. Unspoken Family Saga. Series two, book one.

I am delighted to announce the release of the eBook version of my latest novel, Betrayal. The Unspoken saga continues with book one of the second series.

Betrayal.

Jessica Griffiths is in a relationship with police sergeant Christopher Kent, and for once, things are going well, despite the country being placed into lockdown by the government as they attempt to slow down the spread of Coronavirus.

Great Aunt Marjorie is back from her ill-fated cruise. Now living alone, she is visited by Iris of the Afterlife Society, who is convinced that the spirit of her dead sister, Martha is attempting to make contact. As lockdown approaches, she is befriended by her kindly neighbour, Selena who moves in with Marjorie, after all, two can live almost as cheaply as one, especially when you aren’t the one paying the bills. Jess is initially delighted at the arrangement, but is Selena really the sweet old lady she appears to be?

Nicola Griffiths, Jessica’s mother is still battling her alcohol demons but finds love in the form of Lenny Relish, an ex-con, jailed for manslaughter, but freed from prison on licence. Nicola is besotted but Lenny has some seriously dodgy acquaintances.

As the country eases into lockdown, Jessica gets news that will test her relationship with Christopher to the limit. Is he really the lover that will finally break the circle of the Mollison family man curse? Will she finally rid herself of her ex, the narcissistic, Calvin? And why has the beautiful, but menacing, Leonora, suddenly reappeared?

BETRAYAL. OUT NOW!

AMAZON.CO.UK  CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT MORE

AMAZON.COM  CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT MORE

Read for FREE! on KINDLE UNLIMITED

Today, I started work on Book1 of the second Unspoken series trilogy. The novel will be called, The Betrayal and will continue the adventures of Jessica, Nicola and Aunt Marjorie as the family begin to heal after the ill fated cruise that Marjorie and her older sister Martha had embarked upon.

I’m hoping to see publication of the new novel sometime in the mid to late summer, 2023.

As an appetiser, here’s the short, opening chapter.

THE BETRAYAL

Chapter One

Here she is now,’ Jessica Griffiths said excitedly to Detective Sergeant, Christopher Kent as they stood behind the flimsy metal barrier at the arrivals point at Heathrow airport’s terminal three.

Jessica stood on her tiptoes and waved at the confused-looking elderly woman as she came out of the exit, followed by a young man pulling a caged, trolley containing five large pieces of luggage. Perched precariously on top, was a huge, florescent orange travel bag.

Aunt Marjorie was seventy-six with short, silver hair. She wore an unbuttoned, knee-length beige mac over a pretty, flower-patterned, print dress. She was carrying a small, clear, plastic fronted box which contained a helmeted, London police doll. Perched on top of her silver hair was white, baseball cap with a picture of Mount Fuji and the famous Bullet Train. Underneath, in inch high letters was the word Shinkansen.

Marjorie stopped so quickly that the young man pushing the trolley almost crashed into her. She stood under the arrivals sign with her hand shading her eyes as she looked into the crowd of friends and relatives that had come to meet the passengers arriving on the Japan Airways flight.

‘She looks so lost and lonely,’ Jessica whispered to herself as she pushed her way past an excited, Japanese family group and shouted at the top of her voice.

‘Auntie Marjorie! It’s Jessica.’

Marjorie did a double take when she heard the familiar voice, and as Jessica appeared out of the crowd, her eyes filled with tears and her lip began to tremble.

‘Oh dear, Jessica,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost Martha.’

I am delighted to announce the release of my first ever audiobook. Hopes and Fears, my wartime, home front, winter themed novel, narrated by the wonderful Deborah Balm, was released on the 17th January 2023. The audiobook is available on Amazon and iTunes at £7.99 and for 1 credit for Audible members.

FEATURING AMY ROWLINGS!

Christmas 1940. Despite the rationing and the Blackout, excitement at Mollison Farm is building as Alice and her workforce prepare for the annual Christmas Eve party. The snow has arrived, bang on time.

And this year, Alice has a big secret.

She has invited her evacuee children’s mother to spend a few precious days with her kids at Christmas, but disaster strikes and Alice is given the shock news that Rose’s home is now nothing more than a pile of bricks and the woman herself is missing, lost in the Blitz.

Amy, Alice’s best friend is despatched to the capital in a race against time, to find Rose and if possible, get her out of London.

As the search intensifies and the bombs start to fall again, Amy meets Rose’s sleazy husband Terry, a draft dodger, and Kevin, the ARP man with something to hide.

Meanwhile, on the farm, Stephen and Harriet discover the truth about their mother’s disappearance and Alice finds herself having to deal with the consequences.

The snow will fall and the farmyard carols will be sung, but will it be a happy Christmas on Mollison Farm?

Reviews

‘A very sweet and heart-warming read, perfect for the Christmas period, but enjoyable at any time. I loved the story and the cosy mystery vibe. ‘ Lynda Checkley.

‘In short, this is a race against time, with the backdrop of World War 2, and heavy snow, interspersed with wonderful characters a brilliant story and great ending. I may have shed a tear.’ Donna Morfett.

 ‘I loved the settings which were described so perfectly that I could have jumped into the book in amongst everything and not felt out of place.’  Kirsty Lock.

Hopes and Fears is the perfect audiobook to listen to in your favourite chair with a hot drink as the ice and snow covers the streets outside.

For anyone wishing to sign up to buy the book from Audible, please consider using SIGN UP FOR AUDIBLE AND BUY HOPES AND FEARS

For Amazon buyers here is the AMAZON UK LINKY THINGY

For US buyers. here is the AMAZON US LINKY THINGY 

The audiobook is also available on iTunes by searching for Hopes and Fears audiobook.

Before you go. Here’s a sample.

My author newsletter for January 2023 is now available to view. Should you wish to subscribe there is a link to do so. You will not be bombarded with spam and your email details will be safe. This month you have a chance to win a signed paperback copy of my novel, Hopes and Fears. Please follw the link

Author Newsletter January 2023 (mailchi.mp)

I would like to take this opportunity to wish all of my wonderful readers a Happy Christmas and a peaceful and prosperous New Year.

I’d also like to add a little bit of exciting news.

My Winter themed novel, Hopes and Fears is, at this moment, being recorded as an audiobook by the hugely talented, Deborah Balm. The recording should be available early in the New Year.

Peace and Love

T. A. Belshaw

I am one of the authors appearing at the 2023 Tales on Trent Multi Genre Author event. Signing opportunities on the day may be limited to how many books I can realistically take with me, so if you are attending and would like to pre order any of my novels I’ll make sure you get your copy at the event.

Books

Unspoken Trilogy.

Unspoken.  the Legacy. The Reckoning,

Hopes and Fears. Unspoken Christmas story. Featuring Amy Rowlings

Amy Rowlings Mysteries.

Murder at the Mill. Death at the Lychgate.

Tracy’s Hot Mail Series.

Tracy’s Hot Mail. Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail. What Tracy Did Next. Tracy’s twenties Hot Mail.

Out of Control.

Payment by Paypal  or on the day.

Thank you for your interest.

T. A. Belshaw

I’ve been featured in the press again this week with my new cosy crime novel, Death at the Lychgate.

Amazon Linky thingy

The release of a new paperback is always a proud moment.  Death at the Lychgate. Available here…  https://amzn.to/3TsYbe5

The paperback version of my Golden Age, cosy crime mystery, Death at the Lychgate was released by SpellBound Books Ltd on Oct 14th priced at just £8.99.

Signed author copies will be available on request by the beginning of November.

https://amzn.to/3rYtDFf

I’m delighted to announce the release on Amazon of What Tracy Did Next, the third book in the Tracy’s Hot Mail series.

TRACY RETURNS!

The gossip machine is back with more juicy titbits as Tracy casts her all-seeing eye over the lives of the people around her.
Tracy is in a quandary. Should she accept Detective Sergeant Neil Hartley’s marriage proposal? Is she truly ready for a life of domesticity while there are so many men she hasn’t met yet, so many places she hasn’t been, so many clothes she hasn’t tried on.
A lover of cloned, market stall fashion and the Primark sales rail, Tracy is still working the promotions circuit under the guidance of her uber-iffy agent, Shayne Slider.
What on earth are, Faliraki Flaps? What really happened when Tracy went on holiday with her best friend, Emma? Get an insight into what she got up to in her last year at school as Tracy dips into her personal diaries and lifts the lid on her most intimate secrets.
What Tracy Did Next. An eye-opening giggle fest.

Priced at a mere £1.99 for the eBook, that’s around a penny a chortle.

Artwork by the fabulous Zoe-Lee O’Farrell from Zooloo’s Book Tours (zooloosbooktours.co.uk)

I am delighted to announce the Tracy’s Tell Tale Tit Tour to promote the sequel to Tracy’s Hot Mail: Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail.

Once again, Tracy is sending her best friend Emma all the juicy gossip about her private life, family, friends and enemies.

Tracy has put her cloned SHOO high heels on the first rung of the celebrity ladder, starting with a soft butter spread promo at the local ASDA store.

The tour has been organised once again by the fabulous Zoe and he truly excellent team of bloggers from  http://zooloosbooktours.co.uk

Starting on the 10th of Oct, the tour runs until the 16th.

Thanks in advance to everyone taking part.

The book is available on Amazon

https://amzn.to/3Md6hFg 

An Interview with Tracy

Never one to pass up on an exclusive (nor Thornton’s Continental chocs for that matter, but that’s another story) Maureen Vincent-Northam was delighted to be asked to dig deep into Tracy’s sack of fan mail for Writelinkers. Disregarding the less genteel communications (toad in the hole will never seem the same) Maureen has chosen letters from typical Tracy fans and the star herself tells her many, and varied, admirers what they really want to know.

Tracy is a rarity in this day and age: a young woman whose underwear is not always in free-fall. The woman whose Hotmail exchanges with best friend Emma is about to take the literary world by storm is driven by the same modest ambitions all young women have: fame, fortune and an alphamale celeb hanging onto her arm.

Which celebrity would you say is most in need of a make-over?

Chelsea Trumper, Broadbottom, Cheshire

Tracy: Hello Chelsea. Is your dad one of those annoying people like David Beckham who name their kids after places they’ve visited?  It’s a good job little Brooklyn wasn’t conceived in Peckham isn’t it?

Are we talking hair, clothes, or everything?

I think Janet Street Porter’s teeth could do with a serious file down. If I was her, I’d have them pulled and get a nice, new, even set of dentures put in. She could sell her real teeth to ivory poachers. That might save an elephant’s life and not only would she look better, she’d have something to feel good about.

Kim Kardashian really should do something about that arse and Brad Pitt looks like he’s been dragged through a dozen hedges, backwards. I wouldn’t mind having the job of tidying him up though.

If I had to choose someone that needs a total makeover, I’d go for that tart, Olivia. She looks like a slut on drugs at the moment. Her clothes look like she’s slept in them for a month and her makeup looks like its been applied with a pastry knife. That hair has to go; I bet there’s at least a dozen combs, two styling wands and a colony of bats in there. I saw her once in the queue outside Slappers nightclub. It was pissing down with rain but she didn’t need an umbrella, nothing got past that hair. I heard a rumour that David Attenborough is going in with a film crew soon.

Another one I’d like to see sorted out is Russell Brand. He’s a right scruffy bugger and has exactly the same hair as Olivia. What is it with these people, have they never heard of shampoo?

Why do you think you’ve been so unlucky with romance?

Ron Lovall, Herts

Tracy: Hi, Ron. Unlucky? I think I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’ve managed to get rid of the useless swine without too much trouble. Some women get stuck with a bloke for life. Imagine what Simon will be like in a few years time? He’s already porn obsessed. By the time he’s twenty-five he’ll be sneaking around in the fog wearing nothing but a dirty old mac and a pair of trainers. I reckon I had a lucky escape there.

As for Tim, I think I was lucky there too. He wants to be a farmer. That would mean me being a farmer’s wife. Sod that for a lark. I really can’t see me in wellies and a smock, can you? Some people are meant to wake up at the crack of dawn to the smell of cow shit, and some aren’t. I’m definitely in the second category. I would look ridiculous trying to dodge the cowpats in my fake Lanvin sandals, and the closest I ever want to come to a pig, is when it’s been sliced and fried and lying in a roll with some brown sauce.

You’d make a perfect WAG. Have you ever pursued a gorgeous footballer – or even Wayne Rooney?

Tiffany Pratt, Isle of Dogs

Tracy: Hi Tiffany. I think I’m too young for Wayne, he’d be more likely to go for Gran, and I’m not on the game so he wouldn’t be interested in me. I did go out with a footballer once, but he only played for the local pub team and I only went out with him because I wanted to prove a point to the Ginger minger he was seeing at the time.

Dad says I should become a WAG, but Gran says there’s a reason they call them that. They’re all dogs.

 Given these two choices, would you rather be stinking rich or mega famous?

1. Windsor, London

Tracy: Is that you Prince William? Nice to hear from you again. How’s the chopper? Still getting it up, I hope.

Hmm, tough question. I suppose if I had to choose I’d go for mega famous as I could always drop in on a celebrity mate if I had no money and I needed somewhere to crash for the night. Not that there would be many nights like that. Most celebs seem to cop-off with someone after they’ve been to one of those glitzy parties and I don’t think I would be any different. Anyway, if I was mega famous and skint, I could always go to a party wearing something a bit naughty and get interviewed by the Sun for a few quid.

Mega famous people probably get lots of free stuff when they open things, so I’d make sure I opened lots of supermarkets…and shoe shops of course. Stinking rich people tend to want to keep it all to themselves. That would rule Olivia out; she can’t keep anything to herself, especially her vagina.

When you go on Celebrities on Ice in the Jungle, what will you miss most about everyday life?

Precious Little, Watchet, Somerset

Tracy: Hi, Precious. I’d probably miss daydreaming about going on Celebrities on Ice in the Jungle.

What is your beauty routine and do you have any tips for your uglier fans?

Poppy Belcher, Diss, Norfolk

Tracy: Hello, We used to have a dog called Poppy but we got rid of her because she farted all the time and Dad was sick of getting the blame.

I don’t spend much time in front of the mirror because my housemate, Kiwi, will almost certainly be using it every time I want it. I’m lucky in that I can get away without having to do too much. Kiwi spends hours tarting herself up, and she still ends up looking like she’s let her seven-year-old sister do her face for her.

My best tip would be to buy the best make up you can afford. Don’t go for that crappy stuff they sell on the market, most of it doubles up as paint stripper. If you can’t afford good stuff, get some new friends who can. Girls are always on the lookout for ugly friends, as they make them look better on a night out. They’ll almost certainly let you use their make up if it means they’ll stand out in a crowd of munters.

Spotty Irene doesn’t look too good at times because of the terrible acne she suffers from. It doesn’t stop her trying to do something about it though. She once went to a fancy dress party, with a brown paper bag on her head. She told them she’d come as shopping.

There are a few ways of hiding your hideousness. You could be mysterious and wear a dark veil, but then people might just think you like going to funerals.

If you’re really ugly and desperate for a bloke, my tip would be to find one who wears specs like the bottom of beer glasses. If their eyes are that bad, they probably still won’t be able to see out of them properly. Of course you could just do what Olivia does, let blokes know you’re available, that always works after they’ve had ten pints.

If Hollywood made a movie about your life, whom would you like to see play you?

Scarlet Shufflebottom, Hollywood, Birmingham

Tracy: It would have to be Lady Gaga or someone classy like that.

What do you keep in your handbag?

Tarquin DeVere, Odness, Orkney Islands

Tracy: Hmm, you ought to know, Tarquin. It was you that opened it up in front of everyone at that student’s party. Playing mousy on a string with a Tampax wasn’t, isn’t, and never will be, funny.

For anyone who doesn’t know though, apart from the usual girly things like panty liners, a sanitary towel and a spare pair of knickers, I have a my iPhone, lip gloss, mascara, compact, needle and thread, a condom, hair scrunch, brush, comb, purse, bus pass, pen, notepad, tissues, mints, tube of superglue, attack alarm and mace spray.

What possession could you not do without?

Billy Lillycrap, Quidhampton, Hampshire

Tracy: My TV. I couldn’t live without Strictly and X Factor. If I’m allowed more I’d have to say my laptop and my fake Gucci bag…Oh and my signed photo of Beckham in his Speedos.

If you were a type of vegetable, what would you be?

Moonchild, a field in Glastonbury 

Tracy: You’d have to ask Kiwi that, she’s the hippy, and she’s named after a fruit.

If you were abducted by aliens, what would be the first question you’d ask them?

Prof. Mycroft Nutt, Lower Piddle on the March, Glos.

Tracy: Do you get the X Factor in the Vernuvian Quadrant?

Who do you think you were in a past life?

Napoleon Bonaparte, Crackpot, North Yorkshire

Tracy: I sometimes have strange dreams about snakes, so Cleopatra probably.

Saturday Night Live… ish

Out on the eight, back on the ten-fifteen which came at ten-twelve and almost made me run to catch it. In the end I just performed a sort of quick shuffle down the street and made it with seconds to spare, who says this gym thing doesn’t work?

Tonight’s mission was to explore the sights and sounds of Parliament Street in Nottingham. There are lots of dens of iniquity to choose from, so I stepped off the bus and launched myself into the first of many pubs blasting out old seventies’ hits to their aging clientele. No pub or aging clientele names will be mentioned in this piece, partly to protect the innocent, but mostly to protect me the next time I go in any of them. I wrote a Saturday Night Live about my home town, Ilkeston once and it didn’t go down well in the Neanderthal Arms I can tell you.

The disco was in full swing as I walked into the pub. The queue at the bar was so long I had to queue to get into the queue. I thought I’d got the wrong bus and ended up in London at one point.

Finally, armed with a pint of John Smiths Extra Smooth bitter I fought my way through the melee and grabbed a foot of prime real estate next to the door where I could see the dancers giving their all, in front of a thirty-five-foot flat screen TV on which the old nineteen-seventies videos were being shown to accompany the music. They need a screen that size so the people who haven’t had their cataract operations yet, and came out without their hearing aids (AGAIN!) can join in with the fun.

I nearly shat myself when Phil Collins’ massive balding pate suddenly hit the screen. I was thirty feet away but it felt like he was right on top of me. Now, me and Phil don’t get on, so I tore my eyes away from the screen as Phil did his Voldemort impression whilst singing, ‘You can’t hurry love.’

You can hurry love, actually, Phil, I’ve managed to do it for years.

Sadly, Phil couldn’t hurry the song either, so I concentrated on the elderly dancers as they cavorted across the dance floor, waving arms, swinging hips and other body parts. One poor old sod was knocked clean off his feet by a pair of low-slung boobs that hit him right in the kisser as the owner of the said breasts, swung around to scream, ‘love don’t come easy,’ to the wrinkly old gal who was swinging her own bits, a few feet away.

I never did get Phil, but by the looks of it most of the geriatric gyrating ensemble did. The dance floor was heaving, a plethora of nineteen sixties style mini dresses, stocking tops, caked on makeup, slipping wigs and zimmers on wheels, and that was just the men.

I hung around, alternating between sips of my pint and mouthing the words to the Drifters, Saturday Night at the Movies. Mouthing to songs is a tradition in that pub. Everyone does it, even the people, like me, who actually know the words. The ones that don’t just open and shut their mouths like goldfish, as I said, it’s a tradition in there, no one wants to be seen flouting the rules.

From there I wandered across the road to the pub near the Theatre Royal. A DJ was installed at the end of the bar and I was treated to the rousing chorus from the Killers hit, Mr Brightside as I entered. This bar is populated by the late forties, early fifties set, you know the sort I mean. Men with shaved heads and women wearing push up bras so load bearing that their boobs are almost under their chins. There was so much bare flesh is on show, that they look like they’ve got a couple of the bald heads stuffed down their dresses.

The weird thing about this group of piss heads is their love for the Ibiza club anthems. It’s a scary sight when the first, boom boom, bass notes thud out, people don’t head for the dance floor, they just start thrashing around where they stand. Beer, gin and bald head tits are suddenly flung into the air as the middle-aged revellers relive their 1980s Spanish holidays.

I didn’t last long in there I can tell you. I’d already washed my hair before I went out, I didn’t need a beer shampoo.

The streets very packed as I stepped out of the bar and made my way down the slight incline towards the famous Motown pub. On the way I passed a few ‘homeless,’ people who were propped up in blankets calling out for loose change, gripping their cans of special brew as though it was their prized possession. I always give at least one of them a few coins as I pass by. I don’t judge. I’m about to get pissed so why shouldn’t they?

I haven’t been to Nottingham for about a year now, but I still recognise some of the ‘pro beggars’ that only ever show up on a Saturday. Their blankets are always spotless so it’s easy to pick them out.

The Motown pub was rammed, as usual. I spent a while in another long queue and looked around for David Beckham. Sadly, he wasn’t in this part of the queue so I smiled at the woman next to me and said,’ busy, isn’t it?’

She curled up her lip and looked at me like I’d just asked her for a shag. Turning to her flat faced mate, she flicked her head towards me and rolled her eyes. Her mate was not only flat faced, she had an incredible turned up nose. Now, I don’t mean one of those cute little noses you see in those period dramas, this one was turned up so much, she could look directly into her flared nostrils with just a slight movement of her eyes. I’d hate to be her if she got a bad cold. She’d be blinded with snot every time she sneezed. I got my revenge for the sullen looks by pushing in front of them at the bar. I won’t repeat the insult that flat face used when I turned away smirking into my pint, but it rhymes with punt.

I found a six-inch square piece of territory at a table near the front windows and spent an enjoyable ten minutes watching the septuagenarians swing their hips to the proper version of, you can’t hurry love. There were some younger women in there, but they were all surrounded by groups of bald, Junior Soprano lookalikes, who looked like they were waiting to dive into the buffet at a wedding. Lips smacked, saliva drooled and hands were reaching out in expectation. The women didn’t seem to mind, they were obviously used to being slavered over like some tasty morsel presented on a plastic platter.

Just then I was poked in the ribs by a bony elbow. I looked to the side where a woman wearing glasses as thick as the shatter-proof front window was looking up at me.

‘Sorry,’ she lied.

I smiled and went back to watching the men of the musical, meat market, stick out their chests and attempt to muscle the competition out of the way.

Suddenly the bony elbow found its target again. I winced. It felt like I had been skewered. She looked me in the eyes again. ‘Sorry,’ she lied, again.

She was a painfully thin woman of about sixty-five, wearing a tight-fitting dress that showed of her skeletal frame to perfection. She had a mop of red-dyed hair that perfectly matched the daub of lipstick that was smeared across her face. She looked like The Joker from the Batman movie.

‘Are you gay?’ she asked as I turned away again. ‘Only I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages and all you do is look at those men.’

I was sorely tempted to tell her that I was indeed, gay, and hope the news would encourage her to piss off. Like a fool, I told her I wasn’t.

‘Really,’ she replied. ‘You look gay.’

By now her three mates had become interested. They surrounded me, looking me up and down, pulling faces as they tried to make up their minds whether I was or wasn’t.

I gulped down my pint as fast as I could and headed towards the door.

‘He is,’ I head the chorus of crackly voices call as I stepped away.

Back on the street I found a doddering, ancient, foul mouthed, excuse for a man, trying to negotiate the price of a blow job with a middle-aged, blanket covered, greasy-haired woman whose mouth was ringed with scabs and sores. Apparently, he felt that a quid was a fair price. She wanted a tenner. I hope he raised his offer. She deserves the money and he deserves whatever disease he’ll wake up with in the morning. I shuddered at the thought of them performing and headed up the hill towards the bus stop.

The bus was pretty full but I managed to get a seat opposite a couple of pretty young girls. I didn’t smile at them; I’m a modern man and I know I’d only be accused of being an old pervert if I did.

One of the girls was wearing jeans and a crop top thing that left the bottom quarter of her breasts, exposed. The other was wearing a strip of fabric, so flimsy, it looked more of a waist sash than a dress. I gave her a cursory glance for five minutes, then looked to my side where a fifty-something woman with a mouth so small she would struggle to even make the ‘ooh,’ sound, was giving the girls a withering look.

‘Disgusting,’ she said, suddenly staring at me.

I didn’t know if she meant me or the girls to begin with. Then all became clear.

‘When I was young, I wore more than that when I had sex.’

I looked from her back to the two girls. That was another vision I desperately tried to push out of my mind.

The girl in the sash noticed that I was looking at her and gave me the finger. I blew out my cheeks. I didn’t have a lot of choice really as she was sitting directly opposite and I had to look somewhere. It was either that or pretend to be asleep but even then I’d probably be accused of thinking filthy thoughts.

The old codger on my right didn’t seem to care what the young girls thought of him.

‘KINNEL,’ he gasped as the girl crossed her legs. ‘It’s been a long time since I saw anything like that.’

‘I’ve NEVER seen anything like that,’ muttered his wrinkly mate on the seat next to him. ‘And I lived in Coventry for years and they used to give it away for a drag from your fag there.’

The girl gave them both the finger, then looked back at me as if she thought I had instigated the whole thing.

‘Pervert,’ she spat.’

I shrugged. I’ve been called worse and she was probably right anyway. So, not giving a flying one any longer. I stared straight ahead and gave her my best smile.

I ended up back at my local in Ilkeston where I am among friends… Mostly. I had a few more pints and managed to grab the last slow dance with a nice blonde lady of about my own age who, thankfully, wasn’t wearing either a wig, two inches of makeup or a nineteen sixties Mary Quant mini dress.

As I mentioned earlier. I am a modern man. I didn’t even try to copy a crafty feel.

Hi Emma,

I suppose you’ve heard the news about the Queen dying, it’s such sad news, isn’t it? She’s been on the throne so long that everyone on TV seems to have a different memory of her. I’ll always remember her producing a marmalade sandwich from her handbag when she had tea with Paddington Bear. That just shows what a good sense of humour she had. I mean, that sandwich must have made a right mess in her bag. Her lippy must have been covered in it.

She was a really lovely lady, wasn’t she, Emma? It was like the sun coming out from between dark clouds when she smiled and her eyes were piercing, even when she got a bit old and doddery.

What are we going to do without her, Em? I mean, she’s always been there hasn’t she. No matter how bad things got in the world she was there, giving us that smile and telling us everything was going to be okay. And it always was in the end. Remember in the pandemic when she said, ‘We’ll meet again?’ Even Gran cried at that. Apparently, she nicked the line from an old war time song, but so what? She can’t be expected to use a Taylor Swift song at her age, can she?

Mum says she’ll be back with Prince Phillip again now, so that’s something good to come out of it. I hope there’s someone waiting for me when I go, Em. As long as it’s not my ex, Simon. I can’t think about spending another hour in his company let alone eternity. I hope there’s someone else waiting for the queen too. I mean, she’ll be really happy to see Phillip I would imagine but she’ll want some friends around to have a good girly goss with, won’t she? Blokes never talk about anything other than football and politics, so she’d need a break from that. I’m sure she’ll want to know what her mates thinks about the latest episode of TOWIE or Love Island. That’s if they can get FREEVIEW up there… they must be able to… it’s beamed down from space, so she’ll probably get to know what happens before we do.

Mum has been crying a lot. She bursts into tears every time the BBC newsreader repeats the headline. Gran, an arch royalist, is made of sterner stuff. She took herself off to her room for a few moments of quiet reflection, then came back wearing a Sex Pistols t shirt she bought for the jubilee in 1976 and her union jack bloomers. Dad said she was being disrespectful, but Gran called him a commie fifth columnist. who had never liked, ‘Little Lizzie,’ and should be hung as a traitor.

Gran always calls the queen, ‘Little Lizzie as though she’s a girl that lived on her street when she was growing up. When we were having our tea, she told us about VE night in London on the day the war officially ended. The area outside Buckingham Palace was swarming with people and Gran, although she was only thirteen, went out to join them. She reckons she saw, Little Lizzie and her sister Margaret, dancing and singing along with the crowd on the Mall.

Gran told us about how she got snogged by a sailor that night. (Her not Little Lizzie). Dad said, that would have been the first of many over the years. Gran narrowed her eyes and said Dad was just jealous because even the most desperate of sailors wouldn’t snog him.

Dad is in a bit of an awkward place. He’s always been a republican and has often said, (mainly when under the influence of drink,) that the lot of them will be put up against the wall and shot when the revolution comes.

‘I didn’t mean her,’ he bleated when Gran reminded him of his drunken rants. ‘If she had stood for president, I would have voted for her.’

The news has hit Dad a lot harder than he will admit to. His voice keeps going croaky and he claimed the tears that were running down his face were the result of Mum putting too much chilli powder in the dinner.  He finished his meal in silence, then said he was going to organise a whip round for her at the Labour Club. She has a lot of fans down there. He thinks they’ll easily raise enough to get a decent painting of her to go in the refurbished bar.

Mum and Gran are going to get the train to London tomorrow to lay some flowers outside Buckingham Palace. Dad said he hopes she’s going to put some clothes on before she goes but Gran said she intends to show her patriotism, so she’s going in her bloomers. Mum said she ought to wear a mac at least, just in case it rains.

I’m worried about money now, Emma. I got paid £300 cash in hand for judging that wet t shirt competition in Norks night club last Saturday and it might not be worth anything now she’s gone. I wonder if they’ll have an exchange scheme to swap the old coins and banknotes for ones with King Charles’s face on them when they’re minted?

It’s going to be really weird for Charles, isn’t it, Em? I mean, he’s going to have to stand at public events singing God Save The Queen even though he’s the King. I think they might bring out a new anthem for him to save him having to do that. I hope they make it something a bit livelier. Maybe they could get Ed Sheeran to write a new tune, he’d soon knock up a jolly ditty. I hope they don’t ask Adele; her songs are more dirge-like than our old anthem.

Right, I’m off now, Emma. I’m going to start a campaign to see if we can get our street renamed to Queen Elizabeth Way.

R.I.P. Little Lizzie. Thank you for everything you did for us.

Tracy. Sad.

Cover reveal for the revamped version of the second book in the Tracy’s Hot Mail series, Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail.

I’d like to thank Zoe-Lee O’Farrell of @zooloosBookTours for her stunning design. I absolutely love it. She’s really nailed Tracy. (no pun intended)

The back matter for book four of the Tracy’s Hot Mail series. Look out for the cover reveal. OUT SOON!

HOW DID THAT HAPPEN!
Tracy is shocked: she’s hit her mid-twenties. Worried her boobs are sagging and her bottom broadening, she has scary visions of being thirty, middle aged and unable to get any celebrity work.
Fed up of the endless battles between her Marxist father and a grandmother that makes Attila the Hun look like Tinky Winky from the Teletubbies, she decides it’s time to flee the nest and moves into an ex-council flat on the rough side of town.
Deciding to hold a sophisticated dinner party, Tracy struggles to compile the perfect guest list. More problems hit when following a Nigella Bites recipe as her culinary idol only, ‘cooks in French.’
Will the party go with a bang? Will the people on her hastily assembled guest list hit it off? Why is that ‘tart’ Olivia suddenly in her thoughts? And what could possibly go wrong when Tracy lands a starring role in a remake of the pottery scene from the film, Ghost?
Tracy’s Twenties Hot Mail. Older doesn’t always mean wiser.

I’m delighted to reveal the back of the book blurb for the third book in the Tracy’s Hot Mail series, What Tracy Did Next.

TRACY RETURNS!

The gossip machine is back with more juicy titbits as Tracy casts her all-seeing eye over the lives of the people around her.

Tracy is in a quandary. Should she accept Detective Sergeant Neil Hartley’s marriage proposal? Is she truly ready for a life of domesticity while there are so many men she hasn’t met yet. So many places she hasn’t been, so many clothes she hasn’t tried on.

A lover of cloned, market stall fashion and the Primark sales rail, Tracy is still working the promotions circuit under the guidance of her uber-iffy agent, Shayne Slider.

What on earth are, Falaraki Flaps?  What really happened when Tracy went on holiday with her best friend, Emma? Get an insight into what she got up to in her last year at school as Tracy dips into her personal diaries and lifts the lid on her most intimate secrets.

What Tracy Did Next. An eye-opening giggle fest.

TRACY’S HOT MAIL REVAMP AND NEW TITLES

I’m delighted to announce the revamp and relaunch of my ever popular,  Tracy’s Hot Mail series.

The books are being re-themed to give Tracy a new fresh look.  The cover has been designed by the uber-talented Zoe O’Farrell from ZooloosBookTours https://zooloosbooktours.co.uk and I couldn’t be happier with what she came up with.

Their are now four books in the Tracy series. Tracy’s Hot Mail, Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail, What Tracy Did Next and Tracy’s Twenties Hot Mail. All the books will be released in September 2022.

Here’s the cover of the first book. Zoe imagined Tracy exactly as I do when I’m writing the books. She’s perfect.

I’ll be releasing the rest as they launch.

September not only sees the release of my second Amy Rowlings cosy crime, murder mystery: Death at the Lychgate but also two BRAND NEW Tracy’s Hot Mail books.

What Tracy Did Next and Tracy’s Twenties Hot Mail will be released very soon. The two existing books in the series, Tracy’s Hot Mail and Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail are having a revamp and all four books will now be seen with brand new, series themed covers designed by the wonderful Zoe O’Farrell.

Hello everyone. Thanks for dropping by on the publication day for Murder at the Mill, my Agatha Christie era, cosy crime novel.

Firstly I’d like to thank everyone at SpellBound Books for making this possible. Hon mentions must go to Sumaira, Nikki, Dee, Zoe and Kate, thank you for making this such a pleasant and easy process for me.

The sequel to Murder at the Mill is called Death at the Lychgate and once again stars Amy, our twenty one year old amateur sleuth, and DS Bodkin, the policeman with more of a heart than he admits to owning. The book will be released by Spellbound Books in November 2022.

Finally I’d like to thank all of my lovely, loyal readers who have stuck with me through thick and thin. You are all wonderful.

Murder at the Mill is only 99p for the kindle version. A true bargain. Buy link below.

https://bit.ly/3yLUtof

Provisional back of the book blurb for the new Amy Rowlings cosy crime murder mystery.

Set in the spring of 1939.

AMY ROWLINGS RETURNS!

Sunday morning, and the body of Reverend Villiers has been found propped up on the vigil seat in the church’s lychgate. It appears that he has been poisoned.

When amateur sleuth and regular churchgoer, Amy Rowlings arrives she finds DI Bodkin already at the scene. Bodkin tells her about a cryptic scripture reference that has been scrawled in chalk on the stone slabs beneath the body. What the citation hints at, shocks everyone.

Amy, a huge Agatha Christie fan is determined to get involved in the investigation and despite a stern warning from the detective’s boss, Amy and Bodkin team up again to try to solve the most complex murder case he has ever been involved in. When the toxicology report comes back from the lab, the results only add to the mystery.

Meanwhile, Amy looks to her favourite Agatha Christie character, Hercule Poirot for help, and using his techniques, she narrows down the list of possible murderers to just nine suspects.

Can Amy fit together the jigsaw of clues to solve this, the most complex of cases?

I’m absolutely delighted to reveal the new cover for my cosy crime murder mystery, Murder at the Mill.

The Agatha Christie era cover was designed by the fabulous Nikki East of Spellbound Books Ltd who will be publishing the novel on July 7th.

𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐀𝐋

An Interview with Tracy, conducted by  y fab editor Maureen Vincent-Northam

Never one to pass up on an exclusive (nor Thornton’s Continental chocs for that matter, but that’s another story) Maureen Vincent-Northam was delighted to be asked to dig deep into Tracy’s sack of fan mail for Writelinkers. Disregarding the less genteel communications (toad in the hole will never seem the same) Maureen has chosen letters from typical Tracy fans and the star herself tells her many, and varied, admirers what they really want to know.

Tracy is a rarity in this day and age: a young woman whose underwear is not always in free-fall. The woman whose Hotmail exchanges with best friend Emma is about to take the literary world by storm is driven by the same modest ambitions all young women have: fame, fortune and an alphamale celeb hanging onto her arm.

1. Which celebrity would you say is most in need of a make-over?

Chelsea Trumper, Broadbottom, Cheshire

Tracy: Hello Chelsea. Is your Dad one of those annoying people like David Beckham who name their kids after places they’ve visited?  It’s a good job little Brooklyn wasn’t conceived in Peckham isn’t it?

Are we talking hair, clothes, or everything?

I think Janet Street Porter’s teeth could do with a serious file down. If I was her, I’d have them pulled and get a nice, new, even set of dentures put in. She could sell her real teeth to ivory poachers. That might save an elephant’s life and not only would she look better, she’d have something to feel good about.

Jennifer Saunders really should do something about that arse and Brad Pitt looks like he’s been dragged through a dozen hedges, backwards. I wouldn’t mind having the job of tidying him up though.

1. Why do you think you’ve been so unlucky with romance?

Ron Lovall, Herts

Tracy: Hi, Ron. Unlucky? I think I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’ve managed to get rid of the useless swine without too much trouble. Some women get stuck with a bloke for life. Imagine what Simon will be like in a few years time? He’s already porn obsessed. By the time he’s twenty five he’ll be sneaking around in the fog wearing nothing but a dirty old mac and a pair of trainers. I reckon I had a lucky escape there.

As for Tim, I think I was lucky there too. He wants to be a farmer. That would mean me being a farmer’s wife. Sod that for a lark. I really can’t see me in wellies and a smock can you? Some people are meant to wake up at the crack of dawn to the smell of cow shit, and some aren’t. I’m definitely in the second category. I would look ridiculous trying to dodge the cowpats in my fake Lanvin sandals, and the closest I ever want to come to a pig, is when it’s been sliced and fried and lying in a roll with some brown sauce.

1. You’d make a perfect WAG. Have you ever pursued a gorgeous footballer – or even Wayne Rooney?

Tiffany Pratt, Isle of Dogs

Tracy: Hi Tiffany. I think I’m too young for Wayne and I’m not on the game so he wouldn’t be interested in me. I did go out with a footballer once, but he only played for the local pub team and I only went out with him because I wanted to prove a point to the Ginger minger he was seeing at the time.

Dad says I should become a WAG, but Gran says there’s a reason they call them that. They’re all dogs.

1. Given these two choices, would you rather be stinking rich or mega famous?
2. Windsor, London

Tracy: Is that you Prince William? Nice to hear from you again. How’s the chopper? Still getting it up, I hope.

Hmm, tough question. I suppose if I had to choose I’d go for mega famous as I could always drop in on a celebrity mate if I had no money and I needed somewhere to crash for the night. Not that there would be many nights like that. Most celebs seem to cop-off with someone after they’ve been to one of those glitzy parties and I don’t think I would be any different. Anyway, if I was mega famous and skint, I could always go to a party wearing something a bit naughty and get interviewed by the News of the World for a few quid.

Mega famous people probably get lots of free stuff when they open things, so I’d make sure I opened lots of supermarkets…and shoe shops of course. Stinking rich people tend to want to keep it all to themselves. That would rule Olivia out; she can’t keep anything to herself, especially her bed.

1. When you go on Celebrities on Ice in the Jungle, what will you miss most about everyday life?

Precious Little, Watchet, Somerset

Tracy: Hi, Precious. I’d probably miss daydreaming about going on Celebrities on Ice in the Jungle.

1. What is your beauty routine and do you have any tips for your uglier fans?

Poppy Belcher, Diss, Norfolk

Tracy: Hello, We used to have a dog called Poppy but we got rid of her because she farted all the time and Dad was sick of getting the blame.

I don’t spend much time in front of the mirror because my housemate, Kiwi, will almost certainly be using it every time I want it. I’m lucky in that I can get away without having to do too much. Kiwi spends hours tarting herself up, and she still ends up looking like she’s let her seven year old sister do her face for her.

My best tip would be to buy the best make up you can afford. Don’t go for that crappy stuff they sell on the market, most of it doubles up as paint stripper. If you can’t afford good stuff, get some new friends who can. Girls are always on the lookout for ugly friends, as they make them look better on a night out. They’ll almost certainly let you use their make up if it means they’ll stand out in a crowd of munters.

Spotty Irene doesn’t look too good at times because of the terrible acne she suffers from. It doesn’t stop her trying to do something about it though. She once went to a fancy dress party, with a brown paper bag on her head. She told them she’d come as shopping.

There are a few ways of hiding your hideousness. You could be mysterious and wear a dark veil, but then people might just think you like going to funerals.

If you’re really ugly and desperate for a bloke, my tip would be to find one who wears specs like the bottom of beer glasses. If their eyes are that bad they probably still won’t be able to see out of them properly. Of course you could just do what Olivia does, let blokes know you’re available, that always works after they’ve had ten pints.

1. If Hollywood made a movie about your life, whom would you like to see play you?

Scarlet Shufflebottom, Hollywood, Birmingham

Tracy: It would have to be Lady Gaga or someone classy like that.

1. What do you keep in your handbag?

Tarquin DeVere, Odness, Orkney Islands

Tracy: Hmm, you ought to know, Tarquin. It was you that opened it up in front of everyone at that student’s party. Playing mousy on a string with a Tampax wasn’t, isn’t, and never will be, funny.

For anyone who doesn’t know though, apart from the usual girly things like panty liners, a sanitary towel and a spare pair of knickers, I have a my phone, ipod, lip gloss, mascara, compact, needle and thread, a condom, hair scrunch, brush, comb, purse, bus pass, pen, notepad, tissues, mints, tube of superglue, attack alarm and mace spray.

1. What possession could you not do without?

Billy Lillycrap, Quidhampton, Hampshire

Tracy: My TV. I couldn’t live without Strictly and X Factor. If I’m allowed more I’d have to say my laptop and my fake Gucci bag…Oh and my signed photo of Beckham in his Speedos.

1. If you were a type of vegetable, what would you be?

Moonchild, a field in Glastonbury 

Tracy: You’d have to ask my flatmate, Kiwi that, she’s the hippy, and she’s named after a fruit.

1. If you were abducted by aliens, what would be the first question you’d ask them?

Prof. Mycroft Nutt, Lower Piddle on the March, Glos.

Tracy: Do you get the X Factor in the Vernuvian Quadrant?

1. Who do you think you were in a past life?

Napoleon Bonaparte, Crackpot, North Yorkshire

Tracy: I sometimes have strange dreams about snakes, so Cleopatra probably.

After posting up a free download of my kid’s Christmas Story, The Little Christmas Tree, I was asked if I had one for adults. So here it is; A Christmas story for grown ups.

Desperate Measures.

I hope you enjoy the read.

Desperate Measures.  Download Here

I’m delighted to reveal the wonderful cover for my work in progress, Death at the Lychgate.

The cover is, as usual designed by the uber-talented Jane Dixon-Smith, who was recently honoured for her work by the Romantic Novelists Association.

The book, tells how  amateur sleuth, Amy Rowlings teams up once again with Detective Sergeant Bodkin to solve a fiendishly cunning murder mystery.

The book should be available early in 2022.

First

ever video so please excuse the quality. I’ll get better with practice.

Just to frighten even more readers away I’ve had some professional author photos done. Many thanks to Paul Haynes from the Old Mill studio, Belper St. Ilkeston for the fabulous images.

My October Newsletter is now being sent out. If you’d like to subscribe please click the following link to get regular updates on new books, competitions and a few fun facts.

T. A. Belshaw Newsletter

Hopes and Fears. An Unspoken Christmas Story.

Christmas 1940. Despite the rationing and the Blackout, excitement at Mollison Farm is building as Alice and her workforce prepare for the annual Christmas Eve party. The snow has arrived, bang on time.

And this year, Alice has a big secret.

She has invited her evacuee children’s mother to spend a few precious days with her kids at Christmas, but disaster strikes and Alice is given the shock news that Rose’s home is now nothing more than a pile of bricks and the woman herself is missing, lost in the Blitz.

Amy, Alice’s best friend is despatched to the capital in a race against time, to find Rose and if possible, get her out of London.

As the search intensifies and the bombs start to fall again, Amy meets Rose’s sleazy husband Terry, a draft dodger, and Kevin, the ARP man with something to hide.

Meanwhile, on the farm, Stephen and Harriet discover the truth about their mother’s disappearance and Alice finds herself having to deal with the consequences.

The snow will fall and the farmyard carols will be sung, but will it be a happy Christmas on Mollison Farm?

I am delighted to announce that the Unspoken Trilogy, consisting of The Dual Timeline Family sagas, Unspoken, The Legacy and The Reckoning have now been released as a single box set volume on Amazon.

I’ve been writing about my new release, (my first on the Authors Reach platform,) on the Authors Reach Blog today.

The Legacy will be released in ebook format on 12th Marc 2021.

Amazon link

The Unspoken blog tour continues apace with a fantastic review from Neats, part of the Damppebbles Blog Tour.

‘If family saga’s and dual time novels are your thing, you’d be hard pushed to find a more enjoyable one than Unspoken. It’s got drama, love, intrigue, revenge and secrets – so basically everything you need for a captivating read and that’s exactly what I thought it was.’

https://thehaphazardoushippo.blogspot.com/2020/10/blog-tour-unspoken-t-belshaw.html

Chapter Two

Amy rushed into the factory and found the foreman in the stock room, tallying the different bales of cotton materials that the machinists would be working on that week.

‘Sorry I’m late, Mr Pilling, but there’s been a burglary over the road. There’s a detective at the staff entrance who would like a word with you.’

The foreman checked his pocket watch.

‘Ten minutes late, you know the rules, you’ll be docked fifteen and if it happens again this month, you’ll lose a full hour.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, no excuses. Get to your machine now or you’ll be docked thirty minutes and receive a verbal warning. You can make up for this morning’s tardiness in your lunch break.’

Amy walked quickly to the staff changing area, took off her big coat and hung it on a peg along with her hat. Then she took a pinafore from her locker and wrapped it around her body, tying it off at the back. She hurried through to the factory floor and slumped down on her seat, before letting out a deep sigh and reaching down to her side to pick out her first garment of the day.

‘It’s not like you to be so slack,’ said Dora, who worked the machine next to Amy.

‘I was assisting the police with their inquiries,’ replied Amy, knowing that it would be the talk of the workshop before morning break. She smiled to herself and slid the part-finished cotton dress onto the plate of the overlocking machine and pressed her foot onto the pedal.

Amy was a diligent, hard working machinist and soon made up the time lost. When the bin on her left was almost empty, she called for the runner to bring her a new supply of dresses from the cutting room. By lunchtime her finished bin had been emptied twice and she was in front of her daily target.

To keep on the right side of Mr Pilling, Amy stayed at her machine for an extra fifteen minutes before heading off for lunch. By the time she reached the canteen, the other workers had eaten their sandwiches and were mostly sipping hot tea while they gossiped and lit cigarettes.

Amy bought a cup of tea and a buttered scone at the counter and not liking the smoky atmosphere of the canteen, she took her tray into the changing room, pulled a twice-read magazine from her locker and sat down to peruse the stills from the latest Hollywood movies.

After eating her scone, she stood up to shake the crumbs from her pinafore. There were a couple of stubborn ones stuck to her bosom, so she rubbed at them to shake them loose.

‘Let me give you a hand with that,’ said a voice she recognised instantly.

‘I’ll manage, thanks, Mr Handley.’ Amy forced a laugh and brushed down her clothes again. Before she could turn to face him, his hands came around her sides and he squeezed hard on her breasts.

‘You can call me Edward when there’s no one around. Ooh, you do have a nice pair, Amy.’ His breath felt hot on the back of her neck.

Amy struggled to move away but his grip was too strong. The next thing she knew, one of his hands had found its way up her dress.

‘GET OFF ME!’ Amy shouted and twisted in his loosened grip.

‘Come on, Amy, you know you like it.’ He pulled one leg back and kicked the door shut. His hand reached the bare area at the top of her stockings. She shoved her hips forwards before his groping fingers found their intended target.

‘Don’t struggle. You tried to defend your honour, so you can relax now. I won’t hurt you.’ His fingers pushed inside the elastic at the leg of her knickers.

Amy bent over and pushed her backside into him as hard as she could. Her movement caused him to lurch forwards, and as he straightened, her sharp elbow caught him in the throat. He fell back clutching at it, struggling to breath.

Amy left the cup and plate on the bench and hurried past the gasping factory owner’s son.

‘Never try anything like that again, or I’ll kill you,’ she spat.

Amy tore open the door, marched back to the canteen and dragged out a seat next to Carole, one of her closest friends at work.

Carole took one look at the furious Amy. It took her seconds to work out what had happened.

‘Wandering Handley?’

Amy stuck out her chin, bit her bottom lip and nodded quickly. ‘He caught me in the locker room.’

‘The filthy bastard needs teaching a lesson,’ said Carole with a frown. ‘It’s not right, he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it just because he’s the boss’s son.’

‘He grabbed my chest, then shoved his hand up my skirt. I was lucky to get away this time,’ Amy wiped away an angry tear. ‘He’s picked on me once too often.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I met a police detective this morning. He seemed a nice man, I wonder what he’d make of Edward sodding Handley? Surely there’s something the law can do to stop him.’

Carole patted her hand.

‘They won’t do anything, love. Don’t get your hopes up. Men, especially rich men, can do what they want with the likes of us.’

Amy sniffed and turned her hand over to squeeze Carole’s.

‘I know. But it’s wrong. Why do they allow them to get away with it?’

‘Men looking after other men,’ said Carole, sadly. ‘It’s always been the same.’

‘I’d report him but it would probably end up with me being sacked,’ said Amy. ‘I don’t really fancy working at Goodman’s, they’re slave drivers.’

‘Do your best to forget about it and don’t get caught alone again,’ advised Carole. ‘He tends to pick on a different girl every week. He’s left me alone since I kicked his shins.’

‘I elbowed him in the throat,’ said Amy. ‘I left him in a heap, choking.’

‘Good!’ replied Carole. ‘It’s the least he deserves.’

Ten minutes later, Amy nudged Carole and flicked her head in the direction of the canteen door.

‘Here he is, Wandering Handley himself,’ said Carole, loud enough for half the employees in the room to hear.

If he heard the remark himself, Edward Handley didn’t seem to be bothered by it. He shot a look of anger at Amy, then made a beeline to the table where the trainee machinists, most of them fifteen or sixteen years old, were sitting. He pulled out a chair, put a foot on it, smoothed back his creamed, black hair, and leaned over the table to make a comment to a girl called Ronnie, who laughed aloud and looked around to see if her friends had got the joke. The other girls, already wary of Edward, got to their feet and made their way out of the canteen.

‘Come on, Ronnie,’ called a tall girl named, Jennifer. ‘We’re on cutting duties this afternoon. Frigid Freda will be after you.’

Freda Brownlow was the factory’s skills instructor and was the owner of a sharp tongue and a fiery temper. She was nicknamed Frigid Freda because she was still single, at forty.

Ronnie stood up as Edward whispered something into her ear. She giggled, then pushed a soft hand into his chest. ‘Oh, you,’ she chuckled.

Edward turned around to see if the older girls on Amy’s table had noticed, to a woman they ignored his look and chatting between themselves, made their way out of the canteen.

Amy checked the clock and realising she had time to visit the lavatory before resuming her shift, hurried to the toilet block and let herself into a cubicle. When she came out, Edward was standing with his back to her, an arm around Ronnie’s shoulder and he was again whispering something in her ear. Amy was tempted to cough, or make some sort of noise to distract him, but after her run-in with him in the locker room, she decided not to play with fire and walked quietly back to her machine.

When Ronnie hurried across the shop floor a few minutes later, she was blushing, but had a huge grin on her face. Ignoring the caustic remarks aimed in her direction, she weaved a path through the machines to the cutting room where she knew Frigid Freda would be waiting.

The next morning, Amy stomped, slipped, slithered and skated her way along the mostly frozen pavement and walked through the factory gates. The maintenance team, who usually spent their time repairing broken machines, or setting up new ones, had spread half a ton of salt over the frozen yard in an attempt to avoid the three broken arms that had occurred during the previous winter. At the staff entrance, Amy noticed a huddle of male figures, who were speaking to each employee as they entered the building. Among them were three uniformed policemen and Detective Sergeant Bodkin.

Mr Pilling, the foreman, stood, like Lord Muck, snapping out instructions and directing the workers with a long arm.

‘Go straight to the locker room, then onto your machine. Do not linger, and keep away from the maintenance room.

‘Go straight to the secretary’s office. Keep away from the maintenance room.

‘Go directly to the cutting room, stay away from maintenance.’

As Amy reached the big, double door, Bodkin took her arm and pulled her to one side.

‘So, Miss Marple, we meet again.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Amy.

‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment, but a serious incident has occurred inside the factory.’

‘A serious incident…Oh, my goodness… Something’s happened in the maintenance room, hasn’t it? Is that why we aren’t allowed in there?’ Amy put her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

‘I’m not at liberty to—’

‘Divulge that information,’ Amy interrupted the detective. ‘Come on, Bodkin, I’ll find out the moment I get into the changing room anyway. You may as well tell me now.’

Bodkin took her arm again and led her away from the group of people at the door.

‘Fair enough, Miss… Amy. It’s the owner’s son. Edward Handley, he’s lying on the floor of the repair shop, and he’s stone dead.’

A Thousand Years of Division.
The village of Kirkby Sutton is a conglomerate and an enigma. Formed by the merging of two villages that had outgrown their ability to remain separate as an entity, it nevertheless retains two extremely different and specific identities. One half, as its name suggests, is built around the church and is a, (mainly), well-to-do, haven of respectability, with its Georgian Manor, leafy, wide-verged streets, lined with large, detached houses, driveways, off road parking and a library. There is also a small 1960s estate, a mix of private, three bedroomed, privately-owned houses, with an enclave of housing association tenants bolted on for political expediency.
Down the hill, the other half of the village contains a higgledy-piggledy, hotchpotch of stone cottages, modern, town houses and rows of Victorian terraces, originally built for the employees at the local lace factory, brewery and estate workers, who made the short trip up the road, to toil on the farms of Lord Beresford on the other side of the village. Nowadays, the descendants of those workers still live in the red brick terraces, but are employed by industries in the nearby cities of Nottingham and Derby.

The rivalry of its residents compares to any found in much larger towns and cities. You would be hard pressed to find as much animosity at a local Derby football match in Liverpool or Manchester. The annual village fair, which includes a fiercely fought, tug-of-war competition, held on a boozy bank holiday weekend, regularly turns violent. For years, a police sergeant from the small town of Higton, was paid to referee the event, but when the ageing sergeant retired and the police station was closed down to save money in the 1950s, the residents were left to sort out their own mess, so a committee, made up of the vicar’s wife and a group of teetotal residents from both sides, sat in sober judgment over the proceedings. To this day, the committee still rules on complaints and accusations made by one side against the other. Most of the grievances are easily dismissed, but on a few occasions, a vote has to be taken with the chairperson, a lady with no connection to either side of the village, holding the casting vote.
Sutton is the older part of the village and dates back to Saxon times. Its name comes from the Anglo-Saxon term for South town, (village, or enclosure.) It was built on the plain at the bottom of a long slope, on the bend of a fast-flowing stream. They built a timber church, which, in bad winters, became a flood plain. Sick of paddling to church for their religious instruction, they erected another one, higher up the slope, using the soggy timbers from their original construction.
A hundred or so years later the Danes arrived, but instead of rape and pillage, the Vikings merely appropriated the land around the church and began to farm it. This community became known as Kirkby, or, the settlement by the church. Over time, the Danish intruders, became Christianised, improved the church building, and appointed one of their own number, a man from the nearby town of Derby, as priest. They reluctantly allowed their near neighbours to attend religious ceremonies, in an effort to re-Christianise the local population, who had, by now, become almost universally, heathen.

The church was rebuilt in stone during the thirteenth century, when the new Lord of the Manor, a distant relative of King Henry 111, was granted all of the lands around the area. Residents of Sutton sent emissaries to their new lord demanding a church of their own. The lord’s response was to add an extra tax on the ungrateful villagers, a tax that the residents of Kirkby were excused. The Sutton inhabitants were outraged and set about building a church of their own on the site of the original timber church, but on the eve of its consecration, it mysteriously burned down. A second attempt was made a year later but with the same result. Suttononians smelled a rat, and protested outside the stone church at Kirkby before Evensong. The parish priest dismissed their grievances and told them in no uncertain terms, that both instances of arson, were acts of an angry God, and if they didn’t start attending his sermons, they would be branded heretics and burned at the stake.
This threat worked to a degree, but there was always an undercurrent of hostility inside the parish.
Sutton attempted to build their own church on no less than twelve occasions over the following two hundred years with the same fiery result. When, at last, an Abbey was built on their half of the divide in the late 15th century, their joy was unbridled. That joy was soon to be bridled again, however, as in 1538 under instructions from Henry V111, the building was demolished and the land and possessions, seized by the crown.
Sutton decided that God really didn’t intend them to have a church and reluctantly fell in with their Kirkby hosts, which was a good job really, as a hundred or so years later, administrators decided that it was too much of the job administering two villages, so they combined them in a covenant and changed its name to Kirkby Sutton. The villagers only found out about it at the next census, and by then it was too late to do anything about it.
The villages expanded in the 18th century to accommodate the newly built mill on the Sutton side of the boundary, and the mill owner’s needs on the Kirkby side. New dwellings to house the relatives and administrators of the fledgling industry were built in Kirkby, whilst rows of stone cottages were erected in Sutton, meaning the dividing line between the two halves became ever closer.
When the mill closed in the mid-Victorian era, it was turned into a lace factory. Next door, the new owners also built a tannery. These budding entrepreneurs were soon followed by Barton’s Brewery, who took the crystal-clear waters of the stream to make their distinctively flavoured ales. Four streets of terraced housing were built on the southern edge of Sutton. The dwellings came complete with individual, outdoor lavatories and a series of communal water pumps. The larger houses of Kirkby, in general, became equipped with their own water supplies, albeit fed from a pump in the kitchens. This led to a near riot one summer, when, fuelled by a small outbreak of cholera in Sutton, the residents crossed the border, (a line of skinny, pine trees,) and begged their richer, and less smelly, neighbours for clean water. The gentry refused, so fuelled by the cheap, but strong, ale, supplied by the new Barton’s Brewery public house, the Suttononian men, invaded the North and smashed up the main pumping station that fed the privately-owned houses. The newly-formed, Borough Police Force were summoned, the riot was quelled and a raid was made on ‘suspect’ houses in Sutton. Several arrests were made, including that of a wheelchair bound lady of 75 years who hadn’t left her home in a decade.

During the first world war, an uneasy peace ensued with both sides of the village losing men in the fields of Flanders. When the war was over, it was decided that a small cenotaph would be built. The Kirkbyans wanted it to be outside the church. The Suttonians, outside the Tannery. A compromise was arrived at and the stone cenotaph was built on the dividing line between the two halves of the village. By now, this line was imaginary, as houses had been erected on both sides, and a tarmac road ran straight through the middle, connecting to a main road at the top end of Kirkby. An uninformed, outsider, would never have known the villages had ever been separate.
Typically, a row ensued over which side of the construction the names of dead would be carved into, so, sensibly, for once, the Sutton names were carved, facing the south and the Kirkby ones facing the north. Every year, on armistice day, the residents line up on either side of the tribute to remember their own. Villagers divided, even in death.
This story begins in the early 1950s.

A ten minute poem

The Old Soldier

Captain Tom’s a soldier, and
A modest sort of man
At ninety nine he worked out
A money raising plan

He said I’ll get my walking frame
Do a hundred laps of my yard
Before my hundredth birthday
It shouldn’t be that hard

So Tom set out on his crusade
He hoped to raise a grand
To give to nursing charities
Who need a helping hand

Tom marched up and down his yard
Medals glinting on his chest
The nation took to him to their hearts
And cheered him on his quest

Donations flowed like water
The hundred laps were done
The thousands turned to millions
But old Tom soldiered on

We saluted you, the hero
Of your war campaigns
And now in times of trouble
We salute you once again

God bless you, Tom Moore