Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The last people to see Dr Crippen’s wife alive, were their friends Clara and Paul Martinetti, retired music-hall entertainers who were at the Crippen’s house on the night of 31 January 1910 for supper and a game of cards.  Cora Crippen knew the couple through her involvement with the Music Hall Ladies Guild of which she was Treasurer. The Crippen’s house was on Hilldrop Crescent, Holloway, less than half a mile from Holloway women’s prison. It is likely that Cora Crippen was murdered later that night or on the following morning.  Her husband, Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen, who was called Peter by his friends, was hanged at Pentonville in November 1910 for her murder. He had poisoned her and then removed her limbs and head and the bones from her body.  She was buried in the coal cellar of the house. The Crippens lived with a number of cats and, at the time of her death, a dog which she had recently purchased. ‘He is rather cute, don’t you think? Another hopeless boy to feed and clean up afte

When we mention maps, we tend to think of a map of the land or some means of transport, such as the London Underground. They get us from A to B. Which is true, but it depends on what A and B are and, more importantly, where they are, both in time and space. This came out of a discussion about books we are writing or reading, which included a reference to a website: https://maps.nls.uk/geo/explore/#zoom=11&lat=51.49072&lon=-0.13305&layers=163&b=1 (courtesy of Gareth Clegg, not to mention the National Library of Scotland!) It’s a fascinating resource, allowing us to see, not only areas as they are now, but as they were back in time. Very useful if you write historical novels or even just out of interest to see what your little nook of Huddersfield (or anywhere else in Britain) looked like a hundred years ago. When they open again, you can book an appointment to visit the local archives or library and use the actual maps of your area from roughly the 1840s to date

I am in southern France, relaxing on a balcony, skin yielding to the warmth of the sun. Spreading oozing Camembert onto fresh, crusty still-warm bread. Biting into a luscious, ripe tomato, smiling as the juice runs down my chin. A slightly chilled glass of rosé is waiting to be relished.   Sounds of distant voices, conversing harmoniously. Far enough away not to disturb the tranquillity but drifting near enough to soothe, offering the contentment of community.   My body sits in my Yorkshire garden but my mind has flown to France. And that will suffice. For now. But the time will come.     This poem is exactly 100 words long, excluding the title. It was written in response to the Captain Tom 100 Challenge, set by his family on what would have been his 101st birthday recently. It is published for 17 May, upon the further easing of lockdown measures in England.   

  It’s not like it hasn’t been broken before, but this time it had been so obliterated that a disturbing numbness was spreading like ice cold water, freezing his chest, perhaps it would actually stop beating? Yet he also felt a snaking anger, hissing and curling in his belly, at himself for being so foolish as to think she would have even considered saying yes. That smug ‘specialist’ surgeon wasn’t so clever after all. When he was younger, his Mum had never explained ‘the accident’ and instead had furiously fussed over him: ‘You’re not like other boys, Simon, you are different, in a good way, special, beautiful, unique. She’d announced it like it was a desirable mix of something shiny and precious, like he was treasure to behold, to be proud of. Not someone who would invite over-the-top laughter from sixth-form boys or curious side-glances from the popular girls, followed by hushed whispers as he slunk by. Right now, he was furious with her too, she’d sold him a lie, a false h

Day 3 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War They said it would all be over by Yule and, fools that we were, we believed them. Now here we are in the Cragfall mountains, freezing our balls off, and dragging half those who are still alive. This wasn’t a retreat, it was a bloody route. The creatures that emerged from the Darkspire were like nothing we’d seen before. Even the grizzled veterans pissed themselves, dropping their weapons as they fled screaming from the darkness. Day 4 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War It was only a matter of time before Jurgen died. I found him this morning, eyes frozen open, and a more piercing blue than I ever remembered—perhaps it was the ice? His beard was a mass of icy tentacles, while black streaks rose up his face like soot from the smithy. He often spoke of how he longed to return to that warmth and beat metal until it surrendered to his design. But that forge will remain cold now, like him. Day 10 - Season of the Winds - Second