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

As promised here is the first chapter of the third Amy Rowlings mystery: The Murder Awards.

The Murder Awards

Chapter One

Spinton Town Hall was built in 1910 in the popular Edwardian baroque style and consists of several large meeting rooms, a council chamber, complete with a huge colourful coat of arms above the mayor’s chair, and a nicely appointed assembly room which was the biggest space in the building and boasted a vaulted ceiling, oak panelled walls and a diamond patterned parquet floor. It was lit by two rows of low hanging crystal, waterfall, chandeliers with pairs of fan-shaped sconces set at intervals along the walls.

Amy Rowlings stood alongside a hungry and impatient, Acting Inspector Bodkin, in the mostly well-behaved queue for the buffet, which had been set out on a series of tables that took up almost the entire length of the room.

Amy was wearing a blue, thin strapped, calf length, bias cut dress with a plunging V back. She had finally bought it from Brigden’s nearly new fashion shop in the town after being tempted by it for weeks. It had taken a month to save the twenty-five shillings the dress had cost. Bodkin was dressed in his spare, navy blue work suit with a white shirt and blue tie. Bodkin could never look smart, no matter how well his clothing was pressed, it seemed to hang on him as though it was at least two sizes too big. Amy did her best to keep him on his feet, knowing that once he’d sat down for more than five minutes, his trousers would begin to rumple and look like he’d been wearing them for a week.

The detective looked longingly at the rows of plated up sandwiches, sausage rolls, quiches and cheese and pineapple speared sticks.

‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ he said.

‘Bodkin, you were offered a sandwich before we left home, it’s your own fault.’

‘I wasn’t hungry then,’ he replied, sticking his neck out so he could look along the queue.

‘Bodkin?’ The detective swivelled around to find himself face to face with his old boss, Acting Superintendent Laws who had recently taken up a temporary post down in Maidstone.

‘This is a … erm, pleasant surprise, sir. I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.’

‘I thought I’d do my bit, Bodkin. Chief Superintendent Grayson has been my superior for twenty odd years. It would have been churlish of me not to come and see him get his public service award.’ He closed one eye as he thought. ‘What are you doing here though, that’s the question?’

Laws suddenly spotted Amy who was doing her best to hide behind a large woman just ahead of her in the queue. ‘And you have Miss Rowlings with you as usual. You two seem inseparable, even when you’re supposed to be at work.’

‘I was asked to stand in for Chief Inspector Harris, sir. He had to withdraw at the last minute, something to do with the case he’s working on.’

‘Hmm, well, you could have dressed for the occasion man. That looks suspiciously like your work suit.’

‘It is my work suit, sir. I only have two.’

Laws leaned forwards.

‘You could have hired appropriate clothing for the night, Bodkin. You’re not even wearing a bow tie, let alone white gloves.’

‘I couldn’t get hold of a pair of white gloves, sir. As I said, it was late notice, I wasn’t aware that I was coming until this afternoon.’

‘Your girlfr… erm Miss Rowlings seems to have got the dress code message.’ He held out his gloved hand to Amy. ‘You look very nice, my dear.’

Amy took his hand and shook it gently as she waited for Laws to return to type and berate her for involving herself in Bodkin’s cases. Instead, he smiled at her. ‘My erm, my wife couldn’t make it tonight, sadly. So, I brought my former secretary with me… where is the woman?’ Laws scanned the area looking for his guest. Ah, here she is.’ He put a podgy hand on the blonde woman’s back. ‘Bodkin, you already know Trixie, don’t you? Trixie, this is Miss Rowlings.’ Laws turned away as he spotted a waiter with a tray of drinks.

Amy’s heart sank. Trixie was a secretary at Spinton police station and lived in a flat on the floor below Bodkin’s at Bluecoat House. They had got off on the wrong foot and their relationship hadn’t improved since.

‘Oh, we’ve met, actually,’ Trixie said. Pinching up her face she looked Amy up and down. ‘You’re a machinist at the Mill, aren’t you? Did you make that dress yourself? You’re very clever.’

Amy glared back at the blonde bombshell. Trixie was a platinum blonde with bright, oval shaped, blue eyes and lips that looked like they had been inflated with a bicycle pump. She wore a glittering, white and silver, full length, off the shoulder gown, which showed off of her fulsome breasts to their best advantage.

Amy tipped her head slightly and examined Trixie’s dress carefully.

‘I actually bought mine, Trixie, but I think I might have run yours up at the factory. We do a lot of good quality dresses for the lower end of the market.’

As Trixie’s mouth dropped open, Bodkin took hold of Amy’s arm and hurried her away from the queue.

‘Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, Bodkin,’ Amy said, narrowing her eyes at the detective. ‘I’m perfectly calm.’

‘What is it with you two? Can’t you at least be civil to each other?’

‘Civil…? She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Anyway, she started it, as usual.’

‘But couldn’t you have ignored her, just this once?’

Amy’s eyes opened wide.

‘You are joking aren’t you, Bodkin? If you think I’d let that… CREATURE, get the better of me then you really don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

Bodkin sighed.

‘It was a spiteful thing to say. I can see why you reacted.’ He took a pace back and admired her. ‘You look fabulous.’

‘Thank you, Bodkin. You look quite presentable too, very handsome, but please, I’m begging you, don’t sit down until you get home.’

When the fifty or so guests had finished their buffet meal, long-serving councillor Ray Dimple walked onto the stage and tapped the microphone twice to check it was working. Then, pulling out a typed sheet of paper from his inside pocket and after tapping the microphone once more, either for luck or reassurance, he cleared his throat and addressed the crowd.

Dimple was a fat man with button eyes, a turned up nose and a huge flap of sagging skin that hung over his collar almost hiding his white bow tie.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said in his flat, almost emotionless voice. ‘Tonight, we gather here to show our appreciation to some of the stalwarts of our community…’

Dimple droned on for a further five minutes, noting the achievements of the outgoing mayor before wishing the newly appointed mayor the ‘best of British luck’ for his tenure. The new mayor, councillor Robert McKenzie, climbed the three steps to the stage to polite applause and made a short speech, assuring the guests that he would do his best to live up to the standards set by his predecessor before handing over a silver plate, engraved with the town’s coat of arms to the former holder of the office.

As McKenzie left the stage, Dimple stepped up to the microphone again, and in his monotonous tone, announced that the Spinton Council, long service shield, would go to John Anthony, the clerk to the council, who was reluctantly retiring in two weeks’ time.

Dimple’s voice droned on as he presented awards to retiring or long serving council staff and Bodkin was beginning to find it harder and harder to stay awake. His head began to nod and he was only saved from falling asleep by a dig in the ribs from Amy’s elbow.

‘Uh, what…?’

‘Grayson’s up,’ Amy hissed.

Bodkin shook his head to clear it and tried to concentrate on the ceremony.

‘… since the reorganisation of the Kent region police force and the building of the new police station, Spinton has seen a noticeable fall in crime…’

Bodkin almost choked.

‘What? We could do with building another cell block, we fill them up so quickly,’ he muttered.

‘… the man who has brought two evil murderers to justice this year alone, the man who keeps our streets safe for our families, Chief Superintendent Stuart Grayson!’

Bodkin and Amy got to their feet and applauded politely as Grayson took to the stage. Amy liked the man, he was so much friendlier than his underling, Laws, and had given permission for Amy’s one-woman band, investigations agency, ARIA to be given police accreditation.

‘You should be getting that award, Bodkin,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘You caught the murderers, not him.’

‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’ Bodkin replied.

‘You see, you should be up there, you can quote John Milton. You really are full of surprises, Bodkin,’ Amy said, her eyes shining.

The Man of the Year Award went to a local businessman, Nelson Kelly. Dimple took a step back and applauded as the recipient climbed the steps to the stage.

Kelly was a handsome man who looked a few years younger than the forty summers he had actually been on the earth. His mop of unruly, straw-coloured hair flopped over one eye and had to be occasionally brushed back with a sweep of his white gloved hand. His company, Kelly and Crowston Development Limited had become very influential in the town over the last ten years and had been responsible for building not only the new police station and the apartment buildings that went with it, but had also set out a five-year plan for the development of the land on which a swathe of dilapidated Victorian houses stood. Kelly intended to build a new armaments factory on the site, a proposal that was backed by the government which had suddenly found itself years behind Nazi Germany in building up the country’s outdated military.

After a rousing speech, promising modernisation and prosperity for all, Kelly stepped down to a mixture of cheers and mutterings. His plans were not universally accepted in the town. A compulsory purchase order had recently been issued to allow the land to be acquired and more than a few owners of the ill maintained Victorian terraces, felt they had lost out financially on the deal.

As Kelly stood, surrounded by back slapping well wishers at the foot of the stage, a female cloak room attendant scurried in from the corridor on the right-hand side of the assembly room. She stood patiently for a full minute before announcing in a loud voice that there was a telephone call for Mr Kelly. She held out her arm before leading him down the passage to the telephone that was situated on the wall just outside the cloakroom.

A few minutes later, Grayson approached Bodkin with Laws and Trixie in tow. After congratulating his superior officer on his award, Bodkin introduced Amy.

‘You know Miss Rowlings of course. She’s the—’

‘ARIA investigations,’ Grayson said, enthusiastically. ‘Of course, how could I possibly forget.’ He beamed at Amy as he held out his gloved hand. ‘That was a fine piece of investigative work you carried out in the Villiers case, my dear. I only wish some of my officers possessed the same intelligence.’ He gave Bodkin a quick nod. ‘Present company accepted of course.’

Just then, a woman screamed, her voice carrying above the hum of twenty or so conversations.

Bodkin was first to react and hurried across the parquet floor towards the sound of the horrified scream. Amy weaved amongst the crowd behind him, trying not to trip as her two and a half-inch heels clicked staccato like across the wood block floor.

She reached the wide, airy corridor only a few yards behind the detective who, after taking in the scene for a few seconds, suddenly turned and held out his arms, trying to block the view of any onlookers.

‘Please, go back, stay in the assembly room,’ he said.

Amy took a pace to the side so that she could see what the now sobbing, woman had witnessed but she was soon caught up in a rush of bodies as the people behind her pushed forwards, eager to get a better view.

On the floor in the centre of the corridor lay the prone figure of a fair-haired man. He was lying on his back, his eyes and mouth wide open. His once white shirt now covered in blood. Sticking out from beneath his sternum was the bone handle of a cook’s knife. The front of the woman’s cream dress was covered in the man’s blood, as were her elbow-length white gloves. The fire exit door at the end of the passageway was wide open and the telephone handset was hanging on its chord. On the right, the double swing doors that led into the kitchen were wedged open. A caterer’s trolley, stacked with plates and cutlery had been parked up against the wall.

‘It’s Kelly,’ the word spread quickly through the circling crowd as they craned their necks to see the horror that lay just behind Bodkin.

‘Keep control here, Bodkin, I’ll ring for a bit of back up,’ Grayson said as he pushed his way through the crowd to get to the telephone.

Acting Superintendent Laws began to usher the horrified guests back into the assembly room.

‘Back off, please, there’s nothing to see here,’ he said.

Trixie put a hand to her mouth and then swooned into the arms of a tall, dark-haired businessman, who half led, half carried her to a nearby table, sat her down and began to fan her with an elegantly folded table napkin.

Amy stepped forward as the kneeling woman continued to sob uncontrollably. Crouching at her side, she put an arm carefully around her shoulder.

‘Shh, shh, help is on its way,’ she said soothingly.

The woman lifted her head and looked tearfully at Amy, the area under her eyes were smudged with black mascara.

‘Poor Nelson,’ she sobbed. ‘Who could do such a thing?’

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.’