Daniel Kemp

I wrote my first book when I was in my late fifties, it was never published. My second came at the age of sixty-two. It is being made into a Film.

Could that be an answer to that question; money, fame, adulation? Not for me, they were not my driving force, but if they are yours then read on, and see if you can do it. If I can, then perhaps you can too.

Let me introduce myself. I’m two years on from that age of first awareness into the intricacies of the publishing world and still pushing onwards and upwards, prising open closed doors as I go. I am, by vocation, a Licensed London Taxi Driver, driving the iconic ‘black cab’ around the congested streets of our Capital City, but I have been many things in my life. I was a Policeman, then a Licensee of three English Pubs, in one of which I was arrested for attempted murder, standing up to what I believed was right. I got away with it, but I haven’t tried it since, in case the ‘do-gooders’ in this world think more of the perpetrators of crime than the innocents. That incident was thirty odd years ago when sanity still had a voice in the world, I’m not sure what would happen today if I repeated it.

I had a steady life, one where I knew, more or less, my income and expenditure on a weekly basis. I could afford a modest to good standing of living, depending on how hard I wanted to work. That was until fate hit me hard where it hurt the most, in my pocket.

In November 2006 a van, driven irresponsibly, crashed into me and effectively put me out of paid work for almost four years. If you’ve got to this point in the story, and now are thinking…“are yes, he must have been paid thousands of pounds and stayed in the comfort of his home writing,” then you’re sadly wrong. I never received anywhere near what I lost, but I’m not going to bore you with details. That enforced time away from work was when I was dawn into writing and its brought me to where I am today.

The first story found an agent who sent if off to publishers who; ignored it. The agent gave me a choice. Go through the whole routine again, or self-publish with an established publisher who would do it all for you. At sixty-two, there was no choice as I saw it. If I wanted my work to be read then stuff the word ‘vanity’ and let’s get it done.

The Desolate Garden came out in March 2012, and has been likened, by reviewers, to The 39 Steps, by the Film Producer to amongst others The Constant Gardener and North By North-West and my writing, my Waterstones the largest book retailer in the UK, to Graham Greene. It wasn’t based on knowledge or experience as is the usual advice given, of ‘write of what you know about.’

The story is a spy, murder mystery and although admitting to being on both the right, and wrong side of the law, I had no first hand knowledge of murder nor spying. Mystery perhaps, as life can often be that, as I am now finding out once again.

It is a good story, but I wouldn’t say it’s a great literary work of art, my next will be. (that’s an attempt at a joke, the reverse of the normal self-effacing, stereotype English kind)

Your imagination is one of the greatest thing that God gave you, but it is a curse as well as a blessing. It is limited in scope, and can hold you back from taking that first step into the unknown.

Visualise yourself in a bookshop with your book staring back at you from a shelf, then move forward in time and see someone taking it to read, paying for what your imagination crafted. Take that step and enter the world that I have the great fortune to have discovered. Travel along the way that I tread.

The Desolate Garden…Amazon…co.

The Desolate Garden…Amazon…com

By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp. Special appearance of Tracey Edges by kind permission of Grimsby Borough Council.

What in the world?  A woman steps away for a few quiet days with her

family at their country estates and returns to… Words fail, frankly.

Is Spot drinking tea or smoking it?  Enough nonsense!  I shall put an

end to this promptly and send the boy out for professional help.

As for you, dear readers, there is no help to be offered.  You are

subject to this disaster at your own foolish whim and whatever you are

smoking, let us pray it is potent stuff and can insulate your nerves

from the ride ahead.  Poor things.

I would wish you all a happy new year but I’m so muddled, I don’t know

what year it is anymore.  So there you have it.

Yours in grim spirits,

Aunt Alice

***

Dear Spot,

I barely know where to begin.  I was out of Town briefly to visit my

dear niece and nephew-in-law for the holidays and meant to fill this

letter with familial tales and delightful commentary on country

living.  However, I am met with your letter recounting vandalism, the

destruction of tea and what boils down to treason (albeit in

retrospect from where you are floating, but still! So disrespectful to

the Crown even in jest!)

Here is my current theory.  The tea you handled was laced with some

sort  of smuggled opiate and has affected your senses. (Unless the

pickles were gone over and it’s food poisoning.)

In either case, flying and invisibility are sure signs that you are

not in your right mind.  And even if you had such powers, I know you

to be a fine young gentleman who would not squander them in playing a

Peeping Tom outside some burlesque hall!  What silliness!  I myself

have never crossed the threshold of such an establishment and am

mortified to think that women are wearing curtain pulls—as if they

were dancing divans or lamp works! (How in God’s name is that

appealing to men I ask you?  I am breathless to think of all the

drapery I’ve never looked at twice and wondering if every man in my

company was eyeing them differently and drooling over every decorated

pane…)

No, there is no need to travel to any year for such a quest.  Women

NEVER will abandon their good senses and wear anything less than four

sturdy layers. Of that, I am convinced beyond argument.

Now, let us address your dilemma. If Giggles has sent the mad Welsh

off to the wilds of Greenland, then that is good.  Although you must

at some time, please send a note of apology to their ambassador in

London for inflicting those ruffians on his ice-encrusted nation.  It

is too horrible not to make some small gesture of amends.

And you must do your best to land somewhere tranquil, calm and

civilized where your reason can return to you, your coin is accepted

currency and where, providence willing, the effects of the tea and

pickles can wear off.

Yours truly,

Aunt Alice

***

Dearest all-knowing Auntie, you are wrong.

I hate to draw attention to any foible (what a great word) that you may have, but recently, thanks to Dickie’s traveling machine, I spent a rather eye-opening day on a beach in Brazil. It’s a country far away from civilized, dear old England but nevertheless; appealing. The women there did not wear four layers of clothing, Auntie, in fact they wore very little clothing. They stuck out all over the place!……AND, they wiggled as they walked. Spot almost went boss-eyed. The addition of tassels would, without doubt, have been more judicious.

Here again Giggles came up trumps. She was a most calming influence, pointing out that my stark, white colouring was not conducive to such sun, and my redness was causing alarm amongst the bronzed indigenous girls of Ipanema.

That was why she threw a bucket of water over me! I calmed down almost immediately. I was a little embarrassed, little being the operative word, but I shall not go into details in case someone not as intimate with Spot’s problems as yourself, Auntie, reads this letter.

Whilst we were there Giggles, but I should refer to her by her proper name, as she was working in her official capacity as chief radio operative for the whole of England, Tracey, received a message that is of great concern to the British Government. Apparently, Greenland has declared war on Wales, sending two fishing trawlers and a tug boat to attack! There is a ferry on standby as well! I would imagine that will be the …second phase.

I could only wonder at what Brenda, and her gang of miscreants got up to, over there. Oh what fun Spot was having with them! Ha Ha!

However, after reading your message, I did feel a pang of guilt. I would imagine that living in a land called ‘Green,’ when we all know its ‘White,’ does lend itself to being short-tempered and bellicose. Aren’t you pleased Spot studied his dictionary, Auntie? Bellicose and foible’s in one letter. I’m telling you that one day I will become a writer of great repute, maybe being mentioned in dispatches! Perhaps as good as that Renee Bernard and Vonda Norwood. One can but dream.

Where was I? Ah, yes, the apology. Well, I asked Tracey to send an apologetic note of regret to the Ministry of Tourism. However, as you can see in the intercepted telephone conversation between Brenda and that despicable Myrtle, the Minister of Tourism did not think to tell the Minister for War, and no one told the Welsh!

Spot

***

Classified Information. Recorded by National Security of America. Top Secret. 

Myrtle dear, I said, I’m still in Greenland. I’m on a tugboat just about to leave. I’m using a cellphone that one of the Virgins at Heathrow, dropped. Yes, I can hear you real well. No… Mack never got on the plane. Well, you know how those uniform wearing Englishmen feel about me… they’ll do anything to keep my voluptuousness captured and bound. At the airport, they nearly had me in their custody, but Mack was a quick thinker! He sacrificed himself by attempting to fondle the Virgins in the Heathrow airport. And let me tell you, Virgins can be vicious! Mack’s skinny body vanished in the middle of a large group of angry Virgins, who kicked him, and punched him, and pulled his hair! While the Bobby’s had their hands full trying to rescue poor Mack, I applied motor oil over every wobbly part of my massive-succulent-self, and then I slipped through the Virgin’s plane’s door, just before it took off.

Your father’s showering? How’d he make it out of that pit? What do you mean by that? No, your phone sucks, Myrtle. You should get one of these that the Virgins carry, because I said, I am happy to hear your father made it out of that pit. Okay, yes, that is good news about Phyllis The Younger. I’m sure she’ll be much happier living in Siberia.

What do you mean war? So what, if I caused everyone in Greenland, to panic! No. It’s not my fault, Myrtle… Those people lied to me. Greenland isn’t even green! It’s white, and nothing’s there, but ice! I don’t know… it’s like they want people to believe it’s a tropical paradise or something. Well, it’s NOT! I wasn’t about to go traipsing across that ice-rink they call a province, so yes, I did tell the authorities that English Spot and Tracey Edges were wanted in Wales, for the crime of kidnapping, Richard Branson.

When the plane landed in Greenland, I got off and saw men in uniforms coming at me fast… Of course, they heard the wonderful rumours about me… Those English fighter pilots bragged about our special night to everyone! I tried to run, because I had no time for fun, my feet slipped on the ice, my body rolled until I crashed into this tugboat. I applied my handy motor oil and then squeezed down into, I guess this is the hull, and let me tell you, it’s nice down here… I feel like I’m laying on a water-bed.

I used the Virgin’s phone to ring-up every authority station on that land of ice. I told them I was responsible for the national security of Wales. I told them Tracey and Spot were terrorists carrying white bags that-which read, “In this bag is a large knife, a gun and a bomb.” What do you mean, WHY? Come on… Myrtle, I had no idea it was such a popular Christmas gag gift! Not my fault most of the tourists visiting Ilulissat were carrying such bags!

Stop laughing Myrtle, and tell me what you meant when you said, ‘war?’ Greenland is sending its naval might to retaliate against, Wales? What’s your plan? … You sneaked Phyllis The Pigeon out of custody of the N.S.A and she’s now the General of Pigeon-Poo Warfare? Are you drunk? … Well, yeah, I’m sure a week’s diet of fresh leaks would cause 2000 pigeons to poo quite a lot on whatever they fly over! Phyllis The Pigeon-Poo General, has released her army of 2000, to drop their loads? But, Myrtle, I’m on THAT tugboat! Myrtle? … Myrtle? … MYRTLE???

***

Auntie,

It would seem the Brenda has her Richard and Dick in a twist, as well as her draws.

Let’s ignore the mad women for a moment, and get back to the important stuff. What I know you, Sherry and the staff at home really want to know about; my love life. My flag could be unfurled very soon!

I have the pleasure to inform you that Tracey is a mean cook of scrambled eggs, whipping them up whilst wearing cowboy boots and as I’m a lover of eggs, I propose to marry Giggles. She’s not aware of this momentous development, but she soon will be, Auntie, believe me!

Bye for now, Auntie. Love is in the air.

Spot.

***

Will Auntie approve of the forthcoming marriage? Will Tracey whip the eggs into submission? Will 2000 poo carrying pigeons start a North Atlantic War?

Can the world survive another Spot adventure?

Find out the answers to these conundrums next week in Female First. The UK’s most popular online celebrity gossip and lifestyle magazine.

If love played the game as played by fools,

Then life could be lived outside any rules.

That govern the heart as it learns to give

A love so pure that it’s a joy to live.

But life is lived on a higher string

That no love can twist or suddenly bring,

To the rationality of the pain and tears

As the heart is bled by loveless spears.

God woke one morning and after stretching, then breathing in the pure unadulterated heavenly air, finally accepted the inevitable. Ruefully he announced to the assembled Angels that the obvious had come to him overnight, whilst asleep.

“My word is not reaching enough souls, and although The Bible is read, it is not adhered to, nor followed by as many as I had hoped. We have, as you know, many and varied outlets, but they are not sufficient nor effective enough.

The way things are at the moment I might as well be on Face Book, or Twitter, for the amount of notice that is taken of me!”

Although I am being sarcastic in this post, it does have a message. The vast majority of people in this world actively participate on social forums rather than follow the teachings of Christ, and I’m not excluding myself from their number.

It appears strange to me that we have more faith in the power of internet mediums that we do in Biblical ones.

Could this be true?

As freedom is relative, and happiness simply an illusion. Is total exploitation the answer, and the final solution?

Dear all, 

I’m afraid that Aunt Alice is indisposed at present as a direct result of these communications from that mischievous child, Spot. Despite repeated attempts from friends, relatives and neighbours she will not cease to immerse herself with his constant misdemeanors and downright stupidity. She is far too benevolent where he is concerned! Our dearest friend, Aunt Alice, is resting ahead of the festive season and we can only hope that no more missives of incredulous brainlessness can reach her.

For those that find an interest in this boy’s foolishness, then please fortify yourself with whatever it is that you need to fortify yourself with, and read on. Don’t blame me if your Christmas is ruined!

Dearest Auntie,

Spot has had another mishap, this time not entirely his fault. Let me explain, and show the rudiments of time travel to you oh great, learned one.

It is not a machine as such, nor recognizable as one. It is a raw opal, which has to be rubbed. Now comes the problem. I was tutored in the rubbing by Dickie, he from the Branson pickle jar and related to Richard. One is supposed to rub and then wait, rub and wait, rub and wait for each number of the year one wishes to travel to. I hope that’s clear, otherwise we both will be in a pickle…Laugh there, eh! Spot is a bit of a joker, what!

Back to the nitty-gritty of things.

It’s a rhythmical thing you understand, but somewhat embarrassing. Hmm, standing, or sitting, rubbing a stone does look somewhat strange, so I put it in my trouser pocket. Yes, I have pants on as you so often advised, you were right in that respect, they keep my legs warm. However, I did get one or two odd glances from some elderly women who saw me rubbing away inside my pocket!

That’s what put me off my stroke, as it were. I rubbed once, then waited as instructed, then rubbed again but Spot became confused and lost count. I intended to rub eight times, therefore having a one and an eight, with intentions of adding a seven and then a three, making it 1873, thereby coming to find you dearest. I ended up with the year 1773 instead. I had made a miscalculation in the rubs, but that was not all. No longer was I in dear old England.

I had landed in a place where a version of my native language was spoken; with a mixture of Irish and native nuance ….Yeah Man, and Howdy were more often heard than…Watcha Cock. In actual fact no Watcha Cock did I hear. I was in a port where a ship was being unloaded. I innocently asked, as anyone would, what was in the sacks being lifted from the decks of the sea-clipper. On being told that it was my favourite drink; tea, I started into my little ditty, which is well-known to you of course:

 I love a cup of tea, but then I’ll need a pee. I hope there isn’t a queue before I need that W.

I sung a couple of choruses, all sung very melodic and tunefully you understand, but it caused a bit of a sensation. As night fell, the dockers, having no public conveniences nearby, promptly threw the sacks of tea into …the sea. (I really do rival old Percy Shelly in the poetry stakes, don’t you agree)

Well, I was flabbergasted I must tell you, such a waste, and the foul language being used was simply disgusting. Something about ..Up your ass King George. They then danced around a flag pole, (they had a huge one, unlike poor Spot) with feathers in their hair, mumbling in an unintelligible manner.

I thought it best to get the hell out of there; and fast.

Whilst I was having another rub, I thought of Brenda and Myrtle. I will send a message to lovely Tracey (I’m sure you’re wrong on your maths, Auntie. She would never cheat Spot) sending that pair, plus that mad Mack, on some stupid chase after me. I shall think of some dastardly place, oh yes I will!

Spot.

Auntie,

I was worried about all this rubbing going on inside my pocket so I booked an appointment with Dickie, he of the Branson variety and the two of us had a browse through the workshop manual of this time traveling thingy. Apparently, I was rubbing too hard. It’s a stroke that’s required rather than a rub, a slight delicate difference you understand. Whilst with him, I spoke highly of his brother, and all virgins in general, guess what, he then kindly added an application hitherto unknown. (I just had to find a use for that spectacular word; hitherto, loved it when I came across the ‘h’s’ in the old dictionary) I can now hover over a time and place, until happily landing wherever I want and, wait for it, invisibility. I used that recently, but with a great degree of dissatisfaction. More of that later, let’s be happy to begin with, and first I must tell you of Tracey, and the path I am leading Brenda up.

There is still a price on my head so I must avoid contact with the authorities at all cost and despite your rebuke of Giggles, (my nickname for Tracey) I have plans in her direction.

On Sunday morning last, during her worldwide broadcast from Siren FM (http://www.sirenonline.co.uk/section/shows/sunday-girl) she moved the first pawn, in the opening gambit, of the game I shall play with Brenda, Mack and the gum sucking, all conniving….Myrtle!

She reported, over the airwaves, that Spot had been seen boarding a Virgin plane at Heathrow airport, heading for Greenland….Da Dum Da Do! Let the game begin and off we go. Who will follow, and who will say….NO. Instantaneous poetry again, Auntie. Bet you’re impressed and hugging Sherry now in adulation? 

That falsehood wasn’t too far from the truth. I did travel, but not by plane. I went to Lapland, and visited Santa Claus by courtesy of the time traveller. It wasn’t a completely happy experience though. I’m afraid that I had a bit of a chill when I arrived, somehow infecting a reindeer there. I wonder if it was because I kissed him? He now has a runny nose, and it’s looking quite red by all accounts. I did manage to get my father a Christmas present though, one that I know he will JUST love to pieces. It’s a block of wood, six six-inch nails and a hammer. Let me explain. He often told me of a game he played when younger than me. He and a friend drove six-inch nails through a piece of wood, attached it to a string, then threw it into the road for cars to run over. Great fun, so he said. Hope he can play again if he ever gets a chance to stop playing games with Mrs. Ellis in the bedroom. They are still at it you know. I saw her car outside the family home, and the bedroom curtains moved when I left dad’s present outside. I think they have moved on from scramble and now playing monopoly, as I heard him say that he loves being handcuffed. One would think that they would be bored with board games by now.

I almost forgot to tell you about my time being invisible. Well, I saw a sign for a Music Hall and thought it would be a whizz to have a look inside, but it said; ‘Adults Only.’ So I switched the invisibility on. I wish I hadn’t. In fact I wish I had never entered. I shall never be able to look at a tassel in the same way again, nor pull a blind down in all my life! I’m not completely sure what song was playing in that Music Hall while tassels were whirling, and flabby bellies wobbling, but it had a line in it something like this….In the summer of sixty-four. Spot then had a brain wave.

What I intend to do, is visit England in the summer of 1964 and see just how hot it was that made women wear tassels! Brilliant eh? This will of course kill two birds with one stone. Not that I want to kill any birds or throw any stones. (That was another game dad told me he played when young, Auntie. He would stand at the roadside throwing stones at passing cars. Quite a hoot, I imagine) It will cure any common cold that maybe affecting me and I can then report back to you dearest one. Perhaps, if it is convenient for you, we could all visit that year and sunbathe.

You will note that I used a plural there: we. I have made some investigations, and it appears that a third is more than a quarter. However, I disagree with you over Tracey, and your allegation that she swindled the now rich Spot. I look upon it as a blessing as she must have hidden qualities when it comes to fractions. I was wondering if her aptitude with the odd….fraction…could, in the heat of that summer of sixty-four, be turned into an act of friction and directed in my direction, if you catch my drift.

Dizzily yours,

Spot

Meanwhile, in some far distant, evil, foreboding place, known to only Brenda, Mack and Myrtle.

Brenda is standing beside Seamus, the shire horse, eating a leek and sharing bites with him. She, along with Myrtle and Mack are standing in a field, not too far from Brenda’s pub the Castle Harlech, and looking into an eight-foot deep hole:

Brenda says, “Stop saying grave, Myrtle! Calm yourself. What is here is a pit,one that Mack dug. Now help him unload both Phyllis the Younger and your father from the horse cart. I would gladly have killed that tart, but I need the woman alive. Her pigeons will be used to help us find that gum chewing fool who left you. Her trained pigeons will act as spies and track down that boy named, Spot! She’s out cold due to her attempt to escape my rage by running through the door, which I then blocked with my magnificent body! She bounced off my buxom bosom, bumped her head and ever since she’s been resting for all of nine hours.

Eight-feet is a shallow pit I know, but Mack is old and it was the best he could do in an hour’s notice and all done with his bare hands. Hurry up….toss her in, then hand me another leek to share with my beautiful big, Seamus.

Myrtle, are you crying? That’s not blood on the sheet your father’s wrap in! It’s motor oil left over from the shower he had no time to take after he completed that task he owed me. After all, I would never have learned from the English pilots, you know… the ones you so carelessly lost, just how much your father made me unaware of, and do without! Payback’s a bitch and yeah, he learned hours of suppressing, for this soon to be Queen of Wales, was a little more than tiring as you can tell. The burns on his face will heal, in time. When after I had my fill, he was hysterical and crying. Some men don’t take well to overdoing it. I was annoyed! And so I gave him fourteen shots of stun gun. He’s peacefully sleeping it off. Stop worrying… If you drop him while he’s sleeping, it doesn’t hurt. You didn’t hear a word from Phyllis, after the thud her body made, did you?

Oh, that’s nice. Right on his head. Great! Now Mack, because protocol says six-feet for a proper burial, just fill the pit with two-feet of dirt. That way when they wake, they won’t have to be consoled from freaking out for thinking they were buried alive.That’s right my Myrtle dear, your mum’s not a monster. Fetch me and Seamus a barrel of smelly leeks and then meet us inside the Castle Harlech We can all enjoy some tea, while plotting a way to capture, SPOT in Greenland. We had better wrap-up warm!

******

Oh dear, oh dear, oh triple dear! What has Spot in mind in regards to innocent Tracey and will she escape suspicion of being in cohorts with Spot? Will Thomas The Tank Engine, and Phyllis The Younger, ever see the light of day again? Will Greenland turn BLUE when Buxom Brenda finds she has been led down The Desolate Garden path? (sorry, just could not help that) Last but not least, will Aunt Alice survive Christmas, shared with Sherry?

All these questions, and no doubt more, will be addressed in the New Year in Female First magazine. May all of us, wish all of you…..A Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Dear readers,

Why are you yet clamoring for this correspondence?  Can no one else reply to this boy with any success?  I swear I am advising Spot as best as I can, but the strange conduit that my postal service has provided me into the future makes me wonder…  Besides common sense, what else doesn’t translate in the centuries ahead?

My servants are desperate for each of his letters and it appears that the exchange is now entertaining my entire street and everyone in my narrow acquaintance.  My reputation is forfeit! If the papers get wind of this surreal friendship, I will be lost!

All that said, I cannot abandon the boy.  He is in URGENT need of assistance (or the care of a good physician who specializes in mental maladies…)

There.  I said it.

Aunt Alice

Dearest Auntie all-knowing, all caring, Alice, everything was good but alas, is not NOW!

Myrtle and I were holed up, (I like that expression. So much better than: in hiding or concealed don’t you think? Adds a certain amount of American cowboy culture to the whole thing. I can see the brave Apache warriors coming over the horizon now and, well, I suppose I better stop fantasising and get on with this report. Fantasising will get Spot nowhere, and into trouble no doubt) I wish I had proper English spelling on this iPad belonging to that Danny Kemp as I keep getting Z’s coming up everywhere. No matter, onwards and upwards as they say.

I was saying that to Myrtle, in a roundabout way with flag poles still playing heavily on my mind, when her mobile telephone rang. It was Brenda.

Yes, there I was, with the love of my life, when that kind woman interrupted us, at least at that time I thought her kind. No longer do I. I shall explain in my own inimitable way, direct and to the point. There is a ‘hue-and-cry’ out for all of us.

SPOT IS ON THE WANTED LIST!

£10,000,000 is being offered as a reward for any of us, on capture. At first, on hearing this, I was not in the slightest bit interested; as you know I am adept at disguising myself and I thought that Myrtle was so beautiful that she could pass as Marie Antoinette if necessary. The squint could be covered over with a pair of sunglasses, and the lisp need not be too pronounced, nor remarked upon, if we were careful. As for any other deficiencies she may have, clothes could have made a huge difference. But it’s not to be, Auntie. Myrtle is a traitor and BRENDA no better than a…despot! (Sounds a bit like a toilet that word, despot, don’t you think?) I have been deceived and being blamed for everything. I overheard my, (past tense should be used there) Myrtle say that if I had not fancied Lionel, I mean Lily, then the silly notion of being a reincarnated Queen of Wales would never have arisen. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?

Myrtle said, and I quote; ‘I will knock him off mum, and then we will be rid of him.’ What does….knock me off mean, Auntie?

Next came Brenda’s reply, leaving me in a state of exasperation. Clever word there, eh! Spot is going up in the world’s vocabulary. Bet you’re impressed Auntie dear. She, that’s the self-delusional one Brenda, then said to lure me to Wales onto the mountain where she and Mack are in hiding dressed as sheep, they would then, in her words; deal with me there. It’s called Mount Taffy by the way. She added, as way of an aside, that her husband, Thomas The Tank Engine, was in for a deathly surprise. Sounded ominous and frightful.

I don’t like the sound of it all, not one tiny minuscule of it! What do you think Auntie, should I dump Myrtle and take flight, OR, holster up my six-shooters, put on my spurs and ride up to Boot Hill, alias Taffy mountain, thereby becoming the new Wyatt Earp?

In need of advice,

Spot 

Dear Spot,

“Knock you off” means if I am properly informed, to do you great harm.  And by harm, I mean, murder.  I draw this from context mainly but I feel very confident that your Myrtle means to end your life, bury you in an unmarked hole and then head off with her bedlam-set mother to whistle a happy Welsh tune.  In other words, you’re about to be snuffed out.

Unless you follow the clear advice of my previous dozen missives and RUN!

At last, a ray of hope!  You must disavow these horrible people once and for all!  But, as I am a practical woman who is well aware of the cost of candles, I wish to persuade you to make the most of the moment.  It may seem mercenary, my dear boy, but let’s recall that anyone who seeks to destroy not only the quiet calm of good hard-working Englishmen enjoying a pint, end the monarchy and overthrow a perfectly good system of government but ALSO to kill my sweet if addled friend (I mean, you, Spot.); they do not deserve mercy.

Let the authorities deal with them.  But as you yourself have been bruised, kidnapped, assaulted, and much abused, I think you’ve earned that reward money!

Turn them in and collect your due.  Then with the money, you can finally return to the sanctuary of home and hearth where you are undoubtedly missed and wanted!

Ah, I must end my letter here.  My household staff are starting to place bets regarding your survival and it falls to me to regulate the odds.

Ever yours,

Aunt Alice

Dearest all protective Aunt Alice,

Spot is desolate, how could I ever have thought well of Brenda and Myrtle? They led Spot down The Desolate Garden path, and WHY was that?…….Anything But Hackneyed, I say.

Auntie, please believe me when I say that it was not me who typed those three incoherent sentences; it was that rogue Danny Kemp. You can tell by the illiterate style!

It’s a good job that he and that Renee Bernard don’t know each other, else we will be having people wearing Diamonds, Pearls and Opals all over the place. Never do!

Back to business. Spot has done, did, do it. Took your advice and turned the heathen in! All three of them WERE in custody. Note I used the past tense of ‘is.’ To be or not to be, that is the….IT’S him again, that Kemp. There, I’ve blocked him, but he is getting closer. We might have to do something drastic to delete him….permanently!

So, here comes the tale, or as they say at the race course; we’re off and running.

I tied Myrtle hand and foot, put her in a sack, slung her over my shoulder and deposited her outside radio Siren’s front door, a world renown broadcasting station. As I was leaving, a young beautiful, becoming lady, by the name of Tracey, stopped me. I had to explain what I was doing, Auntie. And I had to share the reward money to get her to cover my own withdrawal. But was I cute, or was…I cute!

She wanted a quarter of the £10,000,000. I took no truck from her. I beat her down relentlessly, offering only a third, and she accepted it. Spot’s a good egg at maths, eh! It was she who notified the police of Brenda and Mack’s hiding place and helped in my getaway..

She gave me a brownie cake. I think she loves Spot, Auntie. She has given me her Skype handle! Oh er, I’m in there all right! I will attempt to plant my flag pole in her office at some later date.

The news of Brenda and Mack’s escape came over her radio station’s network. Yes, she owns the radio broadcasting service, AND has connections. Big ones too! There was an unfortunate scene that I could hear part of, coming from the police intercom. I distinctly heard Brenda say…. ‘It’s Igloo Time Baby! Then the connection went dead, but I found this recording afterwards.

******

‘I knew I should have stored them English pilots in the igloo! But they said they were GENTLEMEN! They have obviously told the tale of when I exposed the best of myself! And now all of England has paid £10,000,000 to have me, and to hold me forever in their custody! 

Well England, for the albeit quite complementing use of force, I thank you for your mighty interest, but no matter how strongly your fighting men want to keep all of my intimate details to themselves, and no matter how much leaving their bondage saddens me, I must leave you now. For I am the soon to be Queen of the Isle of the Mighty.

Can ya hear me now SPOT??? How about you, Mister Who Wants To Rugby A lot??? I am loose and on my way to steal your newly earned £10,000,000, and use it to help me win the crown and become Queen of Wales. Woohoooo… OFF WITH SPOT’S GUM CHOMPING HEAD!!! And let’s not forget that Pigeon Loving Myrtle’s Dad!!! REVENGE!!!’

*****

As I was listening and shaking in my boots something really, really strange happened. Tracey, she does giggle a lot by the way, made me a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. (I hope you have forgotten that rhyme about tea, Auntie) She asked if I liked pickle on my cheese and when I said yes, she asked me to open the jar. As I did so, an ugly genie jumped from it. He was covered in white hair, on his head and face with bright shining teeth and a supercilious grin, said his name was Dickie Branson. I asked if he meant, Richard but he said no. Has a brother by that name apparently but he doesn’t live in a jar of pickles!

Anyway, the thing is he gave me three wishes Auntie, but I can only tell you one.The others must remain secret…..I hope you are seated, and feel quite stable. I would suggest that if you haven’t got sherry nearby then you rectify that situation….immediately.

I am now in possession of a …….Time Traveling Machine courtesy of Branson Pickles!

Where shall I go, Auntie?

Your ever obedient,

Spot.

Dear Spot,

My greatest consolation is that since pickle genies are notoriously unreliable as well as, quite naturally, non-existent, your question is purely speculative and very entertaining.  If it is a time machine, then the issue is not “where” but “when”.

I, for one, have always been curious about the middle ages and imagine that a civil feast with King Arthur would be extremely entertaining.  But I do enjoy the modern conveniences. Soap, gaslights and of course, my medicinal sherry.

Spot, my dear.  I have no idea what a radio is but I fear it sounds a bit…nebulous.  And as this Tracy person has also cheerfully robbed you of more money than you probably have sense, I must refrain from endorsing this new friendship.  I shall reserve my judgment since giggling women who consort with foreign demons who pop out of preserve jars—well, it just doesn’t sound properly British!

But then, pickles always did give me a touch of indigestion and at my age, one must avoid upset at all costs.

As we are on a lark here, by all means, feel free to drop off your calling card here after you tour the building of the pyramids of Egypt…  Silly boy!

Ever patiently,

Aunt Alice

Can the British Pickle Industry ever be the same? Will Virgin Airline withstand the rumours of producing GENIES? Will Tracey become head of the BBC….The British Bottling Corporation and will Female First ever be published…AGAIN?

Can you wait for next week’s edition? I’m so sorry, but you must!

 What can you tell us about your new book Why?

Why? is a story of love, complicated by both sex and violence. It is a fast paced tale of how one man’s crippling injuries, caused by an unprovoked and vicious attack, ruins the lives of all around him including Terry Meadows, the nineteen year old boy who fell in love with his daughter Laura twenty-seven years before the opening of this novel.

The pair only ever spent four days together, but the love that Terry had for Laura, and she for him, lasted until their deaths. It is somewhat autobiographical. The opening scene took place, and there was a girl who interrupted the proceedings who I then when on to date. We featured together on a UK televised dancing competition and I was absolutely besotted by her.

 Why is love such a powerful emotion to write about?

It’s my favourite subject. I don’t like the ‘hearts and roses’ kind, more the Margaret Mitchell type of relationship in Gone With The Wind, between Rhett and Scarlet. Deep down I’m an old romantic with a heavy touch of realism. Without the love of, or from, someone we don’t amount to much do we, but it’s a complicated emotion and not easy for some to enter into.

I wrote this simple poem to express that:

A laugh is infectious, a tear shed alone.

A love never offered, is a fear never shown.

I have a collection of poems, entitled Anything But Hackneyed, which is now available through Amazon as a Kindle.

People always say that the second book is the hardest, so how did you find the experience?

I loved it. I’m writing another one now, whenever I get the time. I’m reintroducing Lord Harry Paterson from The Desolate Garden into one I haven’t yet titled. I did a short story based on him some months back and it was well received so it seemed the logical thing to do. I still have Mitzy Collins to finish, and one day I will tell that story in full.

You write regularly for Female First, in the forms of short stories, letters and pomes, so do you have  a preference between them?

Poetry takes my mind off the real world and often it’s what’s happening around me that inspire those poems. There are some poems, relevant to the story, in Why?

My favorite contribution to the magazine is the Aunt Alice and Spot saga that I write in conjunction with Renee Bernard and now Vonda Norwood, both successful authors from America. I simply love it! They are great fun to work with.

What is the best feedback you have received from a writer about your work?

The very first review I had on The Desolate Garden from a kind Scottish school headmistress Fiona Johnson, who compared my novel to The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan. It was both unexpected and highly complimentary. I don’t think I could ever read something that shocked me quite as much as that did again!

Can I add an answer regarding a reader Lucy, and a special reader at that?

The smile on a fourteen year old girls face, one Saturday, when her grandfather bought The Desolate Garden for her, and I signed it with her name; Ruby. The enthusiasm on her face almost made me cry.

Which author would you have dinner with if you could?

Oscar Wilde or Ernest Hemingway. If neither of them were available then Jackie Collins. Now that would be a laugh.

What is your writing process?

I run the story through my head for a few days, seeing how far I can take it. If I’ve got a reasonable amount, just in my imagination, then I know I can build on it. By reasonable I mean something plausible, and worth enlarging on.

If you could pass on any advice to those who are looking to write a book what would it be?

I’m not being blasé but the writing is the easy part, what comes next is the really difficult bit. You will have to manage your expectation; expertly. The chances of becoming an overnight sensation are slim at best, and non-existent in reality. There will be only you to promote your work, market it and take the knocks that critics throw in your direction. Expect no help from anyone and you shouldn’t go too far wrong. The biggest help I have had has come from Female First.

Your work will be amongst millions of others, and in some cases with the authors giving theirs away with no value attached. Competition is vile.You will be told lies. One tactic is: ‘I’ve bought your book, will you now buy mine?’ False reviews can be, and are, posted on Goodreads and Amazon. Some can be spiteful, especially if you’ve stood proud, and ignored the fools and liars you will come across.

What is next for you?

If I’m lucky, then the start of filming of my debut novel The Desolate Garden. When that begins things will be so different, both financially and in the matter of time available to write. I might just have a holiday as well!

Read more: Female First.

Why?… UK.

Why?… US.

Why?… Signed editions and first chapter.

My new novella, Why? Is now available.

A story of sex, violence and the twenty-seven year love of a destroyed women by a confused man.

“I’m still a virgin, Terry. Be kind.”
SEX, VIOLENCE…LOVE and a MAD MAN!

WHY? US.

WHY? In Waterstones.

WHY? UK.

Signed copies from here….
http://www-thedesolategarden-com.co.uk/why/

Aunt Alice and Spot. By Renee Bernard, Vonda Norwood and Danny Kemp.

There is nothing more unbelievable to me than the notion that anyone is reading this without pure horror and a summons to the clergy for spiritual support. But then, who am I to say what a modern reader’s heart can withstand? It’s 1872 as far as I am concerned and since that makes me the most sensible woman in this mix, I won’t apologize for it.

I’ve dutifully attached Spot’s latest message as instructed by Mr. Kemp but let me say this just once: Run, dear reader!  Run while you still can!  There must be a lovely journal on dahlias somewhere to edify your intellect!  What?  No?  Very well.  Read on at your own risk.  And don’t forget to tie yourselves into your chair first.

It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Yours without approval,

Aunt Alice

*****

Dearest Auntie,

I address you in a deep sense of shame, tinged with heavy regret and embarrassment. I should have taken your advice and ran, but it’s too late for that now. Spot is in deep TROUBLE!

I shall have to be brief as the electrifying situation is changing by the millisecond. (Oh, I like that sentence. Conveys elements of intrigue, mystery and tension don’t you think? And I do so like tension!) I shall soon rival those international bestselling scribes Renee Bernard and Vonda Norwood. Yes, a writer I will be, my path is set.

I will start at the beginning, in fact, I’ll start with the fart! Not any old fart you understand, but a colossal one. If flatulence was to be measured on a scale of one-to-ten, then this one soared through the ceiling to unknown heights. Let me explain. We were feeding Seamus, the shire horse you remember, on a mixture of hay and the vegetable the Welsh prize above all others: leeks, but the hay ran out on reaching London. I could not replenish our cart load, although almost everyone was shouting out ‘hay’ on seeing Myrtle, Seamus and I. Very strange these Londoners.

The thing is, that for three days now Seamus has had only leeks to eat and, as you know they taste and smell the same as onions, well, that led directly to Brenda and The Dirty Dozen’s escape.

They were tied together, in a line with a guard at the front and back, on their way to be hung, drawn and quartered for the crimes of extortion, robbery and flashing. Yes, exposing themselves, heady stuff eh? As the huge gates to Newgate Prison closed behind them, Seamus let go! Did he let go, or WHAT!

It was the noise that first distracted those two guards but then, worse; far worse. If I smelled disgustingly after that escapade with the tin prunes, then I cannot begin to describe the utter stench that escaped from Seamus’s bum. The leeks brought on…the REEKS…I did say that I have considered poetry, didn’t I?

Everyone was overcome. Myrtle fainted and just as I was going to give her the kiss of life I saw the fellow Mack, strange-looking chap, with a chopper in his hand. He had a big one. I cannot say where it came from. He chopped the ropes that held Brenda and the grannies together and then, just when I thought they would run for it, the grannies threw off their clothes and they stood there naked. Even Seamus turned his head away. Myrtle re-fainted just as my lips met hers.

Then all hell broke loose. Brenda and the naked Dirty Dozen dived into the cart. Well, to be truthful, they sort of wallowed along into it. The guards ran off and thundered at the gates to Newgate to let them back in. They wanted no part in a pursuit.

Worse was to follow, and is still in the process of happening. Brenda asked how we had retrieved her message from that pigeon, and I said that I found it in her husband’s dovecote.  She said that was strange as it belonged to Phyllis The Pigeon. I thought she meant the Phyllis I had seen him with and just happened to say…”Oh, you don’t mind then?”

She twisted my muscular arm up my back, she is so immensely strong. I could not stand the pain and to relieve myself, I splurted out the whole story. How was I to know there was a Phyllis The Pigeon, aged ninety-one, and a Phyllis The Younger, her niece, aged thirty-one!

We are now on our way back to Wales with Seamus bolting along; blowing-off. That man Mack is sitting on his back with a cigarette lighter, lighting up his; you know what. I must say we are making considerable pace and keeping warm if nothing else. Fortunately all the naked flesh of the GRANNIES is hidden from view under a blanket of rotting green leeks.

What can Spot do when the leeks run dry? (figure of speak there, you see)

Spot

****** 

Auntie, it’s too late,

I’m trapped. Brenda has grabbed Spot, and holds me captive. She has hooked her leg around one of mine, and wrapped one arm around my waist, I cannot move. She’s a veritable contortionist! (Or should that be; vegetable?)  Now she’s stroking the back of Spot’s neck! I want my mummy. I’m frightened, Auntie.

Mack looks dark and ominous as well, he still has his chopper in his hand.

******

“Mack, keep control of that Shire stud, or I’ll make certain you and your big one get off in the ditch!” 

“Stop whispering sweet murderous talk to me, Myrtle dear… Once I quench my lust for vengeance by hacking your father physic into what is known as eunuch… Let me tell you daughter, it has been my experience that once fully developed, the Englishman do become quite tasty good soldiers.”

Myrtle dear, your English Spot has developed into quite a desirable young boy. Hand your mum another leek. I need something long and wide to munch on.

******

Danny Kemp’s iPad is on record and send Auntie, so you are getting the conversation between Brenda and Myrtle instantly. I didn’t catch whatever it was Myrtle said about murder.

OH MY GOODNESS, YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS….

Queen Brenda has taken a bite from another smelly leek. Does she not realise that those leeks are all that’s between the decency of the grannies and naked reality! If this is how she acts as a commoner, how she going to act once she is crowed.

Phyllis The Pigeon has just shouted out that Brenda was seduced by firemen. Haven’t a clue what that’s about.

******

“Don’t concern yourself with what happened with those erotic firemen and the bright shiny pieces they had in their hands. Look at me Myrtle, everybody wants a piece of your dear mum. You may complain, but in my defence, let me tell you this, they came equipped to give me a once in a lifetime chance to experience such a thing that could never be found in the ‘Massage Parlour’ back home in Bangor! Another tasty leek, my daughter, please!”

“Oh my daffodils, my imagination did run riot. I was instantly weakened, so much so, that it was then that the jealous soldiers, and those London bobbies took advantage of me. They bound my body and forced me to miss my date with that Russian man with the sexy name and cheap weapons. Men can’t help but do everything to keep me only for themselves.  Anyone need a leek other than me? Yes, another please, Myrtle. I’m insatiable!”

“What’s past is past. The jealous men of London merely put a little kink in my unwavering plot. We will succeed.”

******

She’s now patting my head, Auntie. Get off, get off you mad woman.

******

“Ah… but this toy soldier here may moan, but I like him now he has added substance to his build. So change your mind about insurance claims, Myrtle. After I delight in serving the young Phyllis The Pigeon, Rocky Mountain Oyster Stew, we’ll set-up your father to make good our situation.

That’s right, Spot… Keep squirming, squirm with all your might, but soon I shall be Queen of the Aisle of the Mighty with all Englishmen bowed before me. I wonder what it’s like to have one’s toes sucked?

Leek, please, Myrtle. I have a mind for a nibble.”

*****

Oh Auntie, I do so want my MUMMY…..

Spot

******

Auntie,

Hold the front page, we’ve been ambushed. The police are here and so are the NSA, but hold on a sec, it’s not THE..NSA, it’s the NANNIES SALVATION ARMY..NSA. I hope that’s clear Auntie, it’s all a bit confusing, I know.

What’s that they’re saying…”we have to take you into care.”…Oh, they mean THE DIRTY DOZEN, and the police are going after Brenda and Mack. They are getting away, on a soaring Seamus. I hope sherry is there to help you out with all that.

Oh, I didn’t expect that. Now that is a surprise. Brenda just called out to Myrtle, ‘take care of Spot, we will need him and RUN Myrtle, RUN!’ Perhaps there is some kindness in her after all.

What do you think, Auntie dearest one?

Over and out,

Spot

******

Dear Spot,

I do my best to brace myself before I ever contemplate even peeking at your letters.  I take deep breaths and even recite old scriptures to see if there is any chance that Divine Patience and Fortitude are yet attainable.  So far, nothing seems to help.

What a tangle!  I don’t know what the NSA is to begin with, much less an army of redeeming grandmothers and what do they have to do with anything?  I am picturing nothing short of mayhem and worse still—I’ve pulled out all my lavender sachets in the hope of warding off even the strange psychic hints of that wretched animals gaseous outbursts!  I fear even reading about such things has made the air in my parlour seem oddly tainted—and I am not content at the discovery!

I thought we had moved past this male tendency to linger on bodily functions which are not dainty or delicate to bring up to a lady.  Much less to mention how flammable things have become…  Gracious!

For the last time, Brenda is ten degrees past criminal and I suspect a walking blueprint for “How to Get to Bedlam and Back”.  The only good news in any of this is that authorities of some kind have arrived and her shocking speeches about England’s finest and the abuse of vegetables.

By association, this makes Myrtle an unsavory and unsuitable associate and since both women seem determined to murder you in one way or another… Why are we still debating this?

RUN, SPOT, RUN!

Yours truly,

Aunt Alice

Will Spot run? Can Seamus get far on only leeks, and will Mack’s lighter keep lighting? These and other questions must be addressed next week. Until then dear readers, check in Female First for availability of Lavender sachets! I suspect there will be a shortage; soon.