I hate, really hate doing revisions! Wicker Wood Secrets Uncovered

Duchess did not like her new surroundings. Foreign domestics? Who ever heard of such a thing. Did they bathe regularly? Who employed them to be in her house. The boy of course. He had no idea of what she required and no taste in the people they employed. Servitude was required and these colonials had none of that.

The entrance hall was smelly. The smells of urine and faeces reeked from some of the cleaning trolleys. In her household the Privies were emptied in the late evening and by morning no odours remained.

The fare, as she suspected: would be was best forgotten. She was determined not to eat it. Two managerial types, whom she could not remember employing, came and interviewed her and she set her terms, maybe she reasoned the boy sent them to see after her care and comfort.

Her sleeping quarters were now adequate if not as large as she would like, but there was room for her small dining table. She insisted on dining each evening by candlelight. The single stand and a plain white candle was acceptable, if not giving generous light. The other daily coalitions she took on a tray, adorned with a white cloth – of course, while seated.

All in all, the living was primitive, but the boy on a rare occasion when he did visit assured her that the alternative, which would be imprisonment in a Garret was not an attractive option.

As time progressed, however, she grew tired and not as in control of her moods as heretofore. She wanted to consult one of those nice young men, perhaps from the Apothecary, since he wore a similar uniform, but the boy warned her not to dare, or there would be severe consequences. He might imprison her again behind the Confession Box.

She adjusted to a daily routine and time passed. Still the boy only visited infrequently. Then one spring as the days lengthened, he started to visit and converse more frequently.

The boy visited more often now, never with any interesting gossip. He was only interested, it seems, in telling his own stories, ones the Duchess presumed were from his past, his youth, when he lived away from the family. Then she remembered he never lived outside of Bowen Court, at least not for any time.

The stories, the tales he told were vile. No sane human would be involved in such depravity. She hoped he was telling her about his dreams as the scenes, he was able to replay in her head, terrified her, although the telling seemed to excite the boy.

She began to close her mind to his wants, yes wants, he wanted her to know what she had assisted in. He called it that assisted, helped, because she did not stop him. As the time passed he became more insistent that once again she would allow him to be free to do more killing. He enjoyed doing that he said: got off on it. A vulgar sentence it seemed: even though it was one she did not understand.

Over time Duchess got weary, tired, confused again. The world she knew was crumbling. Georgie was becoming aware again.

Duchess tried to resist on those occasions when the boy dressed her as a man and sneaked her out in that guise, from her room to the hospital wards: terrible confused places full of sadness. Georgie was not being honest. He would not let her walk in a normal fashion: her normal deportment. He made her slouch along walls, often making her drool, and mutter obsenities. It was most distressing for her to act in that way, but somehow in those occasions she did not have the will to resist.

Always she wanted to go back to her rooms and take to her bed. Then when they returned she could wash the disguising smell of madness from her body, powder herself, resume her wardrobe, lie on her bed and cry.

The fairies seem to have hacked D2D (draft 2 digital).

My D2D (draft to digital) account has been hacked. But D2D are denying that their system revealed my – wait for it – PASSWORD - not the login the f-ing PASSWORD.

I'm ultra careful and use a separate password for all places I log in to. I change them frequently – I add things to the original. Like Billy...BillyBunter...BillyBunter1957 or BunterBillyagain....

A man in Irish if a Fir, a Big Man is a FirMór, or maybe Fear Láidir if I imagine my password getting over weight, or muscled. Then I add numerals to the password as in fat man from 1967: FearRamhair1967.

So then if my exclusive password was not hacked on D2D and emailed back to me as one used to watch porn on the net while they filmed me doing so. Send the bitcoin! 

Pure twattle: Coc Tarbh in Irish.

If D2D say they were not hacked and my password only was revealed – but it was not according to them. I suspect they have not found the hack yet.

More from Peggy's Secret, Streets of Birdsong and Buteo buteo.

Twenty years or so after I moved to Dublin, I was down home for a funeral. It was a bitterly cold wind-chilling, sleet shower throwing, winter day and I went for a warmer.

In the pub beside a big glowing turf fire a brown over-coated figure crouched to catch the heat, his worn, wide brimmed, battered hat, steaming-off the dampness. The barman brought a pint of Smithwicks. Johnny took a Suicre Bag from a pocket and spooned sugar into the glass.

I went over and tried to talk to him. He ignored me as if I wasn’t there, continued stirring his sugaring beer and didn’t look up.

“We used to live near you. I was two or three. We lived in Maloney's house. Dad and yourself were friends. I think you used bounce me on your knee.”

He looked up into my face with eyes as red as the turf coals and the swirling beer.

“You had fair hair, almost white. Pull up a chair and tell me how you are.”

I told him how I was. He told me stories of rabbits snared, Christmas Turkeys Mam raised and sold, Whist games, Twenty Five and Tricks Trumped, House Dances, Card Tricks and Fools Jokes. All the time he sipped beer sweetened for his old taste.

I asked if he still did the Card Tricks. He didn’t he explained: his hands like his taste were old and faltering. But, he said, he was having a good day and he would show me a trick It would remind us of the old knee-bouncing days.

From the deep coat pocket he took a well worn deck of playing cards held captive by rubber bands. He released the bands and passed the deck into my hands. “Box them!” He instructed. I shuffled the deck and proffered them back. “Do it again,” he said, “‘till you’re satisfied.” I boxed them again and then once more.

The normal buzz of conversation had faded as drinkers gathered around. “Johnny is doing a trick,” was the rallying call.

I offered the cards again. He shook his head.

Softly head deeply bowed, concentrating, he instructed “You hold them and turn over the top card. It’s a ten of spades.”

I placed the ten of spades on the table between us.

“It’s a fine trick!” I ventured. “How did you do it?”

He looked up slightly. “I’m not finished yet!” He tapped the side of his nose with a skinny shaky finger and then this unique human being: who went to school ‘Til the sixth book only, without hesitation without looking up at me or at the cards in my hand, named all remaining cards before I turned them over and placed them on the table.

I asked again how the trick was done. He only smiled and sipped his beer.

This is from the new collection of short stories...

From Peggy's Secret.
https://books2read.com/u/mdLo7X

Donie made the trip to the bog. It was almost a daily ritual when Jonnie was alive. Well! A fair day ritual then. There was nothing as miserable as a wet day in the bog, no shelter and maybe a whipping wind. The wind in summer, made the bog cotton dance on their tall thin green stalks, and the gentle breezes created miniature tornadoes, never, ever, more than a few few tall.

Thank God. The turf is all saved. Poor auld Jonnie. I miss you. At this time of the year with your turf saved you’d say: Sound now for the winter. We have a shed full of dry turf.

I went to the Nursing Home to see The Sister. Most days now she just sits beside her bed muttering, and sobbing. I think she’s remembering things that upset her. She’s troubled. I’d say she’s angry about something. You know the way she used get. All huffy - with that look on her face.

Maybe she feels ashamed that it’s turned out this way. Sometimes she gets frustrated when you don’t understand what she wants.

Poor Peggy her mind is trapped in the past. She just has today and there will be no tomorrow: all she has is yesterdays. Just yesterdays. Only the past for company...

I have your caged birds. They're singing again, went silent for a few days after I moved them.

Ringo, the Mule, with his fringe, took a bit longer. The call eegits birdbrains, feather heads, but I think the birds missed you as well.

What that lot are at isn’t right. She deserves a lot more.

Somethin’ has to be done about it. For all our sakes, I better start looking for him. For the boy.

Still plugging away on the sequel....

Fanahan was down, depressed some would call it, but since he did not believe depression existed: for him: he was just down.

He was wearing his dark funeral suit. In fact it was also his best suit, a recent purchase that fitted him. Not a fitted, bespoke suit – an off-the-peg selection. He always considered he was lucky that his build was fairly average, if anything can be fairly average, and he could buy a suit that either fitted him, or fitted him with minimum free alterations. Free alterations? Bullshit! When he called back to collect this suit pants that had been reduced, tucked in, at the waist, he threw his eye on a nice slim fit jeans and a smart looking shirt, and a white under-shirt and a pair of slip-on shoes. The ensemble was charged to his card and the free alterations call-back added three hundred lids or so to his bill. All in all, suit and ensemble, he dropped nearly a grand with Humphrey his personal shopper. That was how he introduced himself – a bloody new title for an uppity shop assistant.

Milo had died. Or to be precise Milo had drank himself to death. This time, in this establishment, with booze left on the shelves. In other words: he failed to drink his Dublin Pub dry, as he had with the other ones. He previously got big money for selling land at hefty prices, to developers. He than went into the Vintner business, buying pubs, and becoming his own best and long time customer. “I was right,” Fanahan muttered, when he got the news,“this time the liver packed up before the supply ran out.”

Cremation was not a real funeral, a real internment. Putting a small box into a grave was the norm now. Six by four that was what a man deserved, and six down as well. This undertaker had just bent down and placed the wooden box covering the urn of ashes, a couple of feet deep.

Give me a better send off, Fanahan thought. Scatter my ashes over twenty virgins! Jees! Where would you get twenty virgins today? Primary School? Grade School? All jail bait? Convents? No not any more!

“Gerry, give me another pint and a large brandy chaser. Those photographs on the wall of the football match. Milo said I could have them after he was finished with them, For sure that time is now. Take them down and I'll bring them with me.”

“He didn't say you could have them, he used them to annoy you – remind you that Cavan beat Galway, in a bleedin' All Ireland Final, but I don't like them either. So take them out of my sight. This is a changed Pub from now on. I might even consider barring some of the customers!”

Grate Pictures, just great for starting a nice fire in a grate! Bloody Bob Tyrell, Superintendent Tyrell, the player who won the match. He fell on his feet! Retired, wrote a memoir and is now a security expert on the radio and TV spouting on criminal issues. SHITE.

Detective Inspector Shamus Fanahan! Stuck in a policing rut and not going anywhere fast. No woman, no kids, no prospects and now – God help us all no best pal. Milo a best pal? Well OK. No pal at all.

Looking again for forgotten gems I found a rough draft from Here Lies 60's scene.

Brigitte offered another scene. “The Lock.” He remembered the Canal and the Lock, the Barge and Lannigan.

They followed the street and left the rows of town cottages to a place of solitary farmhouses. From behind they heard the clip clop of a horse approaching. A low flat hay cart drew alongside. The driver beckoned and they joined three children who sat, legs dangling over the back of the cart between the road and the seesawing bogie. Through a gate they looked into a farmyard where a woman dressed in a long black dress washed clothes in a small bath, scrubbing the soaped clothes along the sideways leaning washboard.

Near the bridge, they climbed up the steep and narrow lawn, and jumped off, onto the grassy canal side below, and looked up waved thanks to the centre stone and looked beneath into the lock and the tall black water-keeper gates with sluices that leaked bright, splashing streams to the water level below, and above in the higher stairs, to the harbour beside the grain stores, the swans, the water hens and the beds of green lilly pads with white lilly flowers.

A long, black, narrow barge puttered from the narrow upstream channel into the harbour, and waited for the lock side keeper. Lannigan appeared in the splendour of his uniform: a black-grey suit, preceded by his fob and chain secured waistcoat and puffing pipe, grasped beneath a thick grey moustache and a battered narrow brimmed hat. He went quickly to winch the splashing, noisy, water into the lower trough, raise the level then open the gates to capture the barge; then lowering the water to the lower level and releasing the barge into the lower stairwell of the canal, so that it could continue its journey.

Job completed the keeper returned to his green gated, rose-arched, cottage pathway, and stopped to remove his hat and mop his brow, checked his timepiece before entering the twilight interior to await another puttering summons.

They ran up the hill to the higher level and walked canal-side, past the hazel groves the hawthorns, greengage trees and the damsons, towards the castle and their secret place above the straight keep wall: conquered just like the high orchard barrier with pointed stanchions fashioned from the rusty hay turner.

High above the ruins, the dungeons and the lower staircases, moat-circled from invasion by the sedentary blue-green Grand Canal waters, and the diamond glitter on the tumbling darting, skirting Barrow river flow, on their regal seat in the window, beside the battlement walk, they kissed, hugged, sighed, talked and dreamed.

A few years ago a few of us wote about Malevolent Slugs taking over a garden.

K. Langer is a slug, with a wig. So is Harry a  Mutant Slug who can project his thoughts. Both of them are mind readers and strangly so is Hedda Hoppa and Hedda is a frog....occasional players pop up now an then, like Fly on the Wall...Most of this is in a Cork Accent...Like. Thoughts are in Italics....

Chapter 14.

Lies. Lies. Sluggary Duggary.

Quay Langer was lounging nearby and now straightened his wig and slithered into view, slimy, and puffin': he was well out of condition.

Nor fit ar all. Boy. He thought....

Well out of condition. Disgrace. Harry added. Will you tell this Harridan what I tell you to say.

“Yes. Boss. You sent for me. Like.....” He said out loud.

And this time keep your thoughts to yourself. Toe the line, Don't rock the boat. Stums the word.

Jese Boss- don't have a boat. Langer thought and strangely Hedda understood all the exchange.

Now that's a turn up for the book, she thought. Must be all this clean living.

Who's a Harridan? She shouted the thought it as well. Blank stares from the two World Leaders. Still trouble at the transmitter? Good.

“Now. The Boss Like, Wants me ta Tell Ya, Like. Dat He Wants to Clean up de Garden. And Like. Wants to bring in Help ta Do It Like. He Says t'wil be T'Riffic when he's finished. A great Place ta Live.”

For Slugs. That is....ha ha ha. Both slugs thought at the same time.

Thought so. Hedda thought but not in italics. Knew you boys were up to something.

We Don't Like...wants to take over the place or an-tin. Klanger thought. To a scream of Guarded Thoughts from Harry. Keep with the message.

“Twil All be. Like. Peaceful. A Peaceful Place .To Live, Work and Play. Like.....”

Yea! Yea! Hedda knew he was lying, lying through the teeth he hadn't got. Both of them in fact were lying. One lying by omission, the other by submission. Well Klanger was relaying Harry's propaganda and Harry wasn't telling the whole story at all. Her journalistic instincts told her these facts, in fact, were not factual facts, at all, in fact.

Exhausted she looked around for sustenance and spied a fly. She was about to strike when the fly cried out. “Hey! Ya can't eat me! I'm the observer to all this documentary history. Ya can't eat me! I'm the fly on the wall, that sees and hears everything!”