Cora Crippen’s Last Supper by Judy Mitchell

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 after, but I love the attention he gives me and the way he looks at me with those big, droopy eyes. I’m quite besotted, Clara. Let’s clear these things away and then we can go up and have a drink and a game of whist. 

Is Paul unwell? He does look frightfully pale but then winter doesn’t really suit him, does it? I saw Kate at the weekend. They are at the Metropolitan this week alongside Deverez and Terriss who are doing their Vampire Dance. Beats me how that is still doing the rounds, but it seems the public love that type of female domination act. Have you seen it? It’s not so much a dancing entertainment as an interlude. He plays a painter, all studious and engrossed in his art, until she enters, dressed, or should I say, draped in transparent silks. You’ll know Mildred Deverez, of course. Then she does this wild and sensuous routine and he is mesmerised by her undulating form and becomes embroiled in her dance of death. It really is quite passionate in an animal-like way especially at the end when he falls at her feet, they grapple and then she bites his throat and he is lost forever.  

I did wonder what the suffragettes outside the theatre make of such a power-play? We saw them in the West End at Christmas. They were reasonably quiet, selling their Votes for Women paper, but fancy having to carry a billboard for hours on end. Hardly a flattering fashion accessory, I’d say. Some of them seem so downright ugly and wear such drab clothes. I half expected to see them chaining themselves to the railings but they didn’t and the police were happy to stand by and avoid any nasty scenes.  

They say there are women jailed at the prison, every week. You can just see the gatehouse from the upstairs window. Force feeding is so cruel. Monsters those wardresses. When it’s still, especially on a Sunday, I swear you can hear the exercise bell ringing. Peter says I am imagining it. It gets more alarming every time I look in his newspaper. Kate Vulcana says that she has had men challenge their act recently. It seems some men think women shouldn’t be part of a strongman act. One chap stood up in the stalls and taunted poor Kate just when she was about to lift this huge barbel. Atlas said he was ready to swing for the guy.  

Ah, here comes Paul. Let’s go up and find an easy chair. And here comes Mama’s favourite boy, come to Mama, sweetie-pie. Where did Peter get to?  Has he gone to the cellar to get some coal for the fire?  Peter, are you there?  Can you come now and clear these plates? We are going upstairs. Bring us all a drink. Paul will have a whiskey.’

Mapping Your World by Vivien Teasdale

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. You can get photocopies of sections of these, subject to copyright restrictions, which are always very useful for future reference. Most large libraries have them. They often also have Goad maps, which give details of streets and the buildings on them – they were used for fire insurance purposes, but are wonderful for family history, local history or for producing a fantasy town that is realistic in number, type and names of shops in a town.

When it comes to books, you discover that maps are not always what they seem. One book I recommend is: Britannia Obscura by Joanne Parker. If you have a fancy to explore underground, or overground, wombling free, this book is for you as it maps things you wouldn’t normally think of: the cave systems of Britain, the megalithic sites, lost canals, ley lines and the air space above us, together with the history behind them. They open up a whole new world of where to set that murder mystery, that story of ancient times or a fantasy world of ley line travel.

Another book which takes a different view is Fifty Maps and the Stories They Tell by Jerry Brotton and Nick Millea. Beautifully illustrated and very readable, it includes examples of maps from different cultures and times, such as a map of the classical world by Ptolemy who was the first to use lines of latitude and longitude, an Egyptian map of the twelfth century, a Persian map from the tenth century and a fourteenth century mappae mundi which even shows the Garden of Eden.

Many of these maps do not follow the expected pattern of having north at the top, nor do they necessarily bear any relationship to the world we know today. But they were effective for their time. One gives the complete journey for would-be pilgrims, showing the roads to be travelled, together with rivers, mountains, cities and sacred sites – pilgrimage and travelogue in one.

Aztec maps, tapestry maps from Tudor times, field maps, a bathymetric map of the ocean floor made during HMS Challenger’s expedition in 1862, and a map of the trenches of Ypres all get full explanations of their origin and purpose. Perhaps the most interesting is the Drink map of Oxford from 1883. It was actually produced by the Temperance Union to show how decadent the place was and how drinking impinged on the poorer classes most, but also showed exactly where you could buy a drink! Not quite what they intended.

Not all maps were concerned with reality. There’s a map of Hell from Dante’s Inferno; maps, beautifully drawn by J R R Tolkein, of Middle Earth, Helm’s Deep and the Hornburg; C S Lewis’s map of Narnia and the Treasure Island map of R L Stevenson.

And these bring me back to the reason I began writing this. I’m writing a fantasy story for which I’ve discovered that I need a map. Not the beautifully illustrated ones by Tolkein et al, but rough sketches. So far I have a map of the world (so I can work out what sort of weather might be found in various places), a map of the different regions with rivers, mountains, deserts and towns along whatever journeys my characters travel and a map of the capital city in which much of the action takes places (so far). Later I might need a map of the seas and the islands or maps of houses, temples or parks. Who knows? None of this will necessarily go into the book as such. But they are fun to draw, the whole landscape can be changed as needed, and at least I can work out a realistic time for travelling from A to B.

APRES LE CONFINEMENT by Virginia Hainsworth

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.  

The Heart of a Broken Boy by Juliet Thomas

 

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 hope. She was his Mother, and she should have been honest with him from the start. Even now he was almost sixteen, she’d still never told him the truth.

A thought floated and then settled on him like a shrouding blanket, he would be forever alone, there was no point even chasing it anymore.

A ping from his phone shifted his attention. As he opened the message, he saw himself on the screen, a witness recording to his embarrassment that he knew would have travelled halfway round school by now. His one and only friend, Matt, warning him with the simple message ‘Sorry mate’.

His stomach curdled further, feeling sick with humiliation. He’d tried to do it when no-one was looking, near the lockers at home time, but some sneak had taken great pleasure in filming it on their phone. On the footage, you can just about make out what he’s saying, desperation oozing for the world to see.

Upon asking her to be his date for the Leavers Prom, Caitlin had squirmed and looked over her shoulder, before giving an apologetic, ‘No, thanks, erm, I’m just going to go with Lisa and Hayley.’

Her cheeks had flushed, and she’d shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, before seizing her opportunity to escape, to walk home with her younger sister.

He wouldn’t mind but she wasn’t exactly in the ‘cool’ squad either, but there were levels, and he was firmly at the bottom. It had taken a full day of shaky hours in lessons where he’d watched the teachers’ lips moving but not heard a thing as he’d zoned out, practicing the words in his head, to finally pluck up the courage.

And now everyone knew about it.

His phone was pinging again, comments on Snapchat, someone had already posted it.

He picked up his phone like the grenade that it was and hurled it at the wall, hearing a satisfying crack as it bounced to the tiled floor. His Mum would be fuming, but he didn’t care, it served her right for trying to pretend that everyone would love him as much as she did. How could she be so clueless?

His stomach gave a loud rumble and he realised he hadn’t eaten lunch, given his preparations he’d not been remotely hungry. He opened the fridge looking for a snack when to his surprise he spotted a full bottle of vodka on the shelf. His Mum hated vodka, why was it even in here?

That will do, he thought to himself and twisted the unopened cap, threw his head back and took a swig, immediately coughing as the cool liquid burned his throat. He laughed to himself and took another, this time enjoying the sharpness, happy to feel something.

His Mum would be home in half an hour from work. He kicked off his school shoes and ran upstairs to change out of his school clothes taking the vodka with him, swigging joyously in-between getting changed.

He felt manic now; more alive with frustration, bitterness, and the physical warmth of the vodka lining his stomach. His mum would know soon enough how he felt, but first it was Caitlin’s turn.

As he quickly got his stuff together and ran downstairs, he froze at the bottom, catching himself in the hall mirror. Stilted images had flashed before him, racing down the stairs alongside like a shadow, something he’d not seen before, unrecognisable, and yet vaguely familiar.

He closed his eyes, desperately trying to drag them back; jagged angry voices, a boy hiding at the top of the stairs, a man with greasy hair, a faint smell of leather and tobacco, charging footsteps, his arm raising, the slice of a red label of, was it a vodka bottle?

He held his breathe, anticipating a loud noise and flinched, a crashing thud, glass splintering, his Mum screaming. And then nothing but pure blackness.

Simon opened his eyes, feeling clammy and nauseous, staring closer into his reflection in the mirror. His fingers traced the deep faded scar across his forehead, carving its way to the wide indent at his crown. 

Despite many painful operations, he was still vastly different from his peers, still attracting unwanted attention, not beautiful, or special or unique. Disfigured, ugly, unwanted.

He shook his head and took another swig of the vodka, still peering into the mirror, and finally there it was. The image of a boy, grown into a young man, the spit of his father, gripping a vodka bottle, anger seething through every fibre of his body. 

Now he knew the truth.

 

 

Note: This story followed a writing prompt, the first part of the sentence in bold. 

Blackhand by Gareth Clegg

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 Year of the War

We struggled for almost a week, trudging and falling in our snowy descent. But finally we cleared the snow-line, and those most able-bodied of us fell to the ground, kissing the green shoots that broke through the crusted earth. As I stared at my fellow survivors, I marvelled that we’d made it this far in good health, but the blackened fingers all around spoke of hardship to follow. 

“Once it’s black, it won’t grow back.” We grew up hearing that motto from our parents and village elders. Most of the men will struggle to lift a slops bucket when they get home, while I seem to have been lucky, if that’s what you can call it. Just two toes and the little finger on my left hand are coal-like in appearance. I can’t feel a thing in them, not even the blade of my knife.

Day 14 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

We’re saved! The village of Hammit welcomed us, offering shelter for brave warriors. A healer looks over the worst cases as I write this. I don’t hold out much hope for any of those unfortunate wretches. But the villagers tell that their healer is a miracle worker. Praise the gods that it is so.

Meanwhile, those who made it through that godforsaken pass sit huddled around the tavern hearth, luxuriating in its burning heat. Ryden, the old barkeep, wonders how we can stand it that close to the leaping flames, that we’ll scorch our skin into ruddy leather. He doesn’t understand that we each hold within us a core of ice that feels like it will never melt, even if we thrust ourselves into the roaring inferno.

Day 15 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

So much for miracles. The village healer saved two of the twelve men he was tending. Fucking charlatan! Jorge was about to put his axe through the bastard’s skull, but I made him see straight. More senseless killing won’t bring his brother back now. I went with him to view the blackened face. I’d never seen Jorge as much as sniff, but tears welled in the gigantic bear’s eyes and his frame shook in silent grief. Unable to watch, I left him to it.

Day 18 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

I dream of black faces and clawing hands reaching for me through the snow, dragging me down a slow and tortuous descent into the icy Hel far below. When I awake, my heart lies solid, a block of ice, cold and unfeeling. I rise before dawn, unable to lie in this damned bed any longer, and head out. Perhaps hard work will pull me from this cursed melancholy?

Day 21 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

Sleep eludes me. I search for it, like a drowning man grasping for the surface, and it always feels to be there, but just out of reach. I hide in my hut at night after drinking myself into a stupor, but even unconsciousness last only a few hours and I’m plagued by those dead faces—soldiers, enemies, friends—they’re all the same. Rotten black leather, creaking and twisting as they stare at me full of hatred. Why did I survive? Why were they sacrificed to the ice? I don’t understand any more than they do. I’m nothing special, a carpenter with a strong back and sawdust between his ears. 

Day 28 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

I chop wood. Dawn till to dusk. Day after day. The sound relaxes me, the rhythm like a mantra. I no longer join my brethren in their drinking and debauching at the tavern. It does nothing for me. I have little to say to any of those I once called brothers, even Jorge. 

Thoughts of Jorge intrude on my work and the heavy axe skitters from my hand as it hits the edge of the block instead of the centre. Jorge worries me. I don’t know why, but he isn’t the beast he once was. My body has bulked out with this constant activity. When I’m not splitting logs, I’m heading into the forest to fell trees and then drag them back here. It was a struggle at first, requiring the aid of the two old nags that pull a plough once the ground unfreezes. Now I do it alone, rope wrapped around me like a lover’s embrace. 

Every day, Jorge seems to diminish, growing weaker, almost shrinking in on himself as greybeards sometimes do. All the while, I grow in strength, able to work longer, harder and with even less sleep. The other men grow restless, starting fights and taking the villagers for granted. No more do they pay for their upkeep, they believe that they should sup and dine here for free, and seize whatever they desire from the townsfolk. It will not end well.

Day 1 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

I dreamt of home last night. It seemed I watched as my former life passed me by for hours, days even, but when I awoke the sky remained as dark as when my head hit the straw-stuffed mattress. I’d never killed anything before the levy came through—except perhaps a pig or two, but that was for food. That split eyed sergeant asked my name, thrust a spear into my hand, and kicked me in the arse every time I fell out of step with his new recruits. We soon learned to hate that old bastard.

Day 14 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

I woke during the hours of darkness again and headed out towards the trees to fell them out of earshot of the sleepy villagers. But before leaving the village, I heard screams from the tavern. I hefted my axe and sprinted through the ankle-deep snow to find the old barkeep screaming through a bloodied and broken nose to stop them hurting his daughter, Yelga.

I burst through the door, taking the damn thing off its hinges in a burst of splinters, and spotted Jorge and Larryk by the roaring fire. It burnt like a furnace while they fed broken furniture into the beast. I ignored them when I heard a woman’s scream from the back room and burst in to find Torvik pawing at the poor girl’s torn dress. He yelled at me to get out, that I could have my turn later. I told him to leave her or there would be trouble.

Jorge and Larryk stared as I escorted the girl from the back room. Their eyes lingered on the bloody axe-head trailing a line of crimson as I dragged it behind, but they said nothing and made no move to do anything other than continue feeding the fire. When I reunited Father and daughter, I told them to go home and lock their door.

Day 15 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

Yesterday was difficult. After the incident at the tavern, the villagers remained indoors during the day while I confronted my once brothers. They were a ragtag group of filth-encrusted vagabonds. Had I once looked like that? I told them it was time for them to move on, that they weren’t welcome here anymore. It looked like they might argue for a moment, as several of them drew weapons, but Jorge put an end to that. He was their leader, but I could see the fight had gone from him. Dark sunken eyes stared out at me as he gripped my arm in a warrior's embrace. 

“You’re staying here then to protect them?” he asked. I just nodded. “You’ve changed, Ivar. No longer the frightened boy we picked up nearly a year ago. May the gods go with you. I will take these sorry sacks of shit somewhere new, somewhere larger. Goodbye, brother.”

I waited, watching as they shuffled off. It took a solid blow across the face from Jorge to get Talle moving, he’d been the nearest thing to a friend that Torvik had, but he fell into line. The group departed and slowly the villagers appeared, nervously approaching, led by Ryden and Yelga.

Day 25 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

The snow is receding at last, green rushing back to the land. Soon the folk will be tilling the soil and planting, while I continue to chop wood. Yelga seems to have taken a fancy to me, and who am I to complain, she’s a fine-looking woman. I have even developed a taste for mead again, and Ryden is always happy to keep my flagon full. 

The people of Launbrekka have come to calling me Ivar Blackhand, the spread of the black mark from my little finger now covers my hand to the wrist. It concerns me, and I can’t explain how I still have full use of the fingers, but there is no discomfort and everything works as it should.

I grow stronger every day, and now easily drag two trunks back from the forest edge after felling them. The villagers think I’m some sort of gift from the gods, sent to protect them from the ravages of war. I’m not so sure, and I fear for all of us should the dark creatures from my visions ever descend on our peaceful village. For now, the dreams persist, and I keep my axe always within reach. But with Yelga by my side, at least I sleep a little more soundly now.