Overheard Conversations

A few light-hearted paragraphs for April and not one word is from my imagination! Who’d have thought that one day I would be able to combine all these overheard snippets, gathered over the years, into the short piece below? Just to warn you that as my proofreader is still very busy with her work project, any incongruous spellings, punctuation etc are entirely down to me.  Anyway, here goes…

Overheard Conversations

It is rare to overhear a full conversation and, as far as I am concerned, a few isolated phrases floating in my direction, often on a bus, are usually of even greater comedic value than the entire dialogue. As an aspiring writer, whenever I hear anything that amuses me, I try to commit it to memory then, later, write it in my notebook for possible future use. I am now going to delve into both and draw on a few overheard snippets of conversation for this piece.

The first that springs to mind was from a fellow passenger on a bus many years ago, talking to her friend about her forthcoming holiday, “We’ve decided not to go to Spain this year because of the Basque Separates and all the bombs they’re setting off”, she informed her knowingly, while unwittingly disclosing her ignorance. I immediately wondered what possible terrorist threat a set or two of lingerie could hold for tourists on the Iberian Peninsula and whether certain colours constituted a greater danger than others. Where the chosen holiday destination turned out to be I never discovered, as I was then lost in mental images of M&S underwear engaged in illicit activities!

Not long after this, I was on another bus journey when my ears caught a few words of a conversation between two or three men sitting near me. To whom they were referring remains a mystery. “He is obviously a bad influence” one remarked. “He’s ruined the Isle of Wight”. Another voice then piped in with, “And Rochdale”. This left me wondering who could have caused the marked deterioration of two places so geographically and scenically diverse. I wasn’t aware that the IoW had been ruined and as for Rochdale, perhaps its commanding views over Bury, Accrington and Huddersfield are gone forever. I’ll never know, though my husband did wonder if they were discussing a football manager.

Back in my teens, while waiting for a bus, the chit-chat of two ladies in the queue caught my attention. “Well dear,” said one to her companion, in familiar London tones, “I got up at 6 o’clock this morning, washed down the walls of me loo and then I’d finished me work for the day”. ‘Lucky her’, I thought, wondering how her housework could consist of one chore a day. I always remembered this statement with amusement and a year or so later when Monty Python burst on to our TV screens, with Terry Jones playing a middle-aged housewife with a high-pitched voice, I thought how easily he could have incorporated that into one of the sketches. When I worked for the BBC in the 70s and 80s, I met Michael Palin and related this anecdote to him. He found it as amusing as I did and agreed Terry could have capitalised on it. He also revealed that some of his best comedy material came from conversations he had overheard on buses, so it’s no wonder he went on to travel round the world on public transport.

Our one and only trip to a nearby town afforded more amusement from an overheard conversation, this time during lunch in a pub restaurant. The family at the next table, consisting of two parents, three young children and Granny, was certainly not blending into the background inconspicuously and we couldn’t believe it when Mum got up in the middle of the meal and walked out. “Where’s Mummy going?” asked the eldest, a girl of about four. “She’s gone to put some money on an ‘orse”, replied Dad, as if it were the most normal behaviour in the world – so it probably was to them. This little anecdote provides me with the necessary link to my next thought. In the unlikely event that I should ever own a horse, I intend to name it “Viking”, then hope that someone will ask me why so I can reply “Because he’s a Norse”! Given my background in England’s Capital City and if the equine creature were large, I could perhaps add “M A B it’s a big ‘orse” as in the old song “Maybe it’s a-because I’m a Londoner….” (a joke from a comedian I saw on television), though perhaps this is getting a bit too silly now. So back to the topic in hand…

Children, especially toddlers, are often a source of entertainment and my cousin, a born mimic, was a leading light in this field. She was only about three years old when her mother overheard her talking to the lady next door. So there was this toddler, arms folded on the top of the fence, Norman Evans style, chatting away. This would have been acceptable, cute even, if my aunt hadn’t suddenly realised, with horror and great embarrassment, that throughout this in-depth conversation, her daughter was mimicking their neighbour who, it should he mentioned, had a broad Norfolk accent and a speech impediment resulting from an operation years earlier. Deciding she must put a stop to both the conversation and her daughter’s behaviour, my aunt called her in, then told her she shouldn’t speak to their neighbour like that. “Why not?” came the bewildered enquiry, “She speaks to me like it”. Well, there was no answer to that, especially when dealing with a three-year-old with the gift for mimicry. My aunt just hoped her elderly neighbour hadn’t noticed but it didn’t stop there. A few days later, my aunt’s heart sank when she was in the garden and her neighbour said she wanted a word with her. “It’s about your little girl”. She then proceeded with, “I think there’s something wrong with her. She talks in a very funny way. You should take her to the doctor”. Not expecting this approach, though surprised and relieved her neighbour had failed to recognise herself in the very realistic impersonation, my aunt said, “I expect she’ll grow out of it”. “I don’t know” came the concerned reply. “She definitely talks funny. My Elsie never did, and I think you should take her to the doctor”. Needless to say, my cousin was not taken to see their GP and continues to be a mimic to this day, and despite the fact that she is a nun, she is still one of the funniest and most entertaining people I know.

As to further overheard conversations, watch this space!!

© Chasqui Penguin, 2024

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

The Island Adventure

Happy Easter to you all! As we near the end of March, I have finally found time to post this story which I wrote over 10 years ago as my home assignment for the local writers’ group. We liked to explore different genres and one month we decided to tackle the subject of a children’s story. Written from the perspective of an 11-year-old, I hope I have captured the outlook of a child and the adventure he took part in.

The Island Adventure

Moving house? I looked across the room at my twin sister, Carolyn, and she looked as horrified as I did. It was the end of March, the start of the Easter holidays, and Mum and Dad had sat us down for a talk. It transpired that our dad had been offered promotion, on condition he moved from London to his company’s new offices on the South coast in about six months’ time. As we knew, our grandparents were in the process of moving to that area themselves, after many years in the Midlands and now the plan was for us to move in with Grandma and Granddad who had recently taken possession of the old family home, left to Granddad in his brother’s will. Great Uncle Horace had hardly lived in the house since he had inherited it from his parents. He had spent much of his life in South Africa where he had been manager of a diamond mine. He would come home periodically but rarely made contact with any of us which is why Carrie and I had met him only a couple of times. To us he had seemed very big and scary – not at ease with children – and for that reason we had nicknamed him Uncle Horror.

I was particularly upset at the thought of leaving the area. I had just got into the school athletics team and as I was 11, would be going up to the senior school in September. I would also be leaving my best friend, Andy.

After the discussion with Mum and Dad, who assured us that the move would be for the best for all of us, Carrie and I went up to my room to talk about it. Apparently, the house we would live in was being divided into two flats – the ground floor for our grandparents and the first floor for us. Above that, the attic was being converted into two bedrooms and a bathroom, for Carrie and me, so we would have our own little semi-flat. A double garage was being built and the first floor would extend over this so in all there would be two bedrooms, one living room, a kitchen and bathroom downstairs and the same above but with three bedrooms plus our rooms and a bathroom above that. It sounded ideal in many ways, but I was still not keen to leave London, whereas Carrie was not so bothered as she would be starting at a new school on her own. Her best friend, Jackie, had recently emigrated to Australia with her parents and, as Carrie said, e-mailing from London or further South made no difference to her. Mum and Dad had a list of schools in our new area and had found one which we could both attend. They talked to us about it, then applied for two places. We were accepted on condition we went for an interview towards the end of August and passed a test which would be set on the day – at least if we both got in, Carrie and I would know each other, if no-one else.

With my grandparents’ house due to be finished by the end May, the plan was for Carrie and me to move down there first, as soon as the summer holidays started in mid-July. Mum and Dad would follow a few weeks later, when they had sorted out various details and sold our London house. Apparently, Dad’s company had lent him some money to make the move to another house but had agreed that it could be put towards changing and improving his parents’ house as we would be living there.  Apparently, it was interest-free and from this I presumed that his boss didn’t want to see the house before or after the changes were made, they just had no interest in it.

The Easter holidays and the summer term sped by and before long we were saying goodbye to friends. I was sorry to be leaving Andy and had even asked him if there was any chance his family would be moving near us as his dad and mine worked for the same company, but he told me there was no hint of this. However, Mum had promised that Andy could come and stay with us in the October half-term so that was something to look forward to. Meanwhile we would keep in touch my e-mail and social networking sites. Towards the end of July Mum and Dad drove us to our new home. We were able to take only the bare minimum beyond our clothes, so we made sure we had our laptops, mobile phones and a few games to keep us occupied. We felt sure that it would be a dead-end sort of place, with nothing ever happening. Dad and Mum stayed for a couple of nights then went home and rang us when they got back to say the house sale had been confirmed and they should be moving down around the end of September.

Grandma and Grandad made us very welcome and took great pleasure in showing us round the house. We were thrilled with our rooms at the top which overlooked the large back garden, bordering on a small lake with a tiny island in the middle. A narrow bridge linked the garden to the island which had a bungalow situated in the centre. Beyond that was a high brick wall denoting the final boundary of our land. Carrie, an avid fan of adventure stories said it looked like a scene from one of her favourite books– and while I wouldn’t admit it to my classmates, I enjoyed these as well. This set me wondering if there was any chance of anything exciting happening there and even though I felt sure nothing would come of this island, it did look a bit mysterious and I bought a diary (for 10p, reduced as we were more than halfway through the year) to record anything interesting that happened to us. I wrote on the first page in my neatest writing “Our New Life and All our Adventures” by Michael Russell. It wasn’t much but it was a start.

The first few days without Mum and Dad were filled with chatting to Grandma and Granddad, going shopping with them and helping around the house. We weren’t right on the coast but one afternoon we got a bus to the seafront and walked along the beach. It was a warm day but there weren’t many people there and it was certainly not a holiday resort, though it was pleasant enough but with hardly a hotel or guest house within a five-mile radius, tourists were not attracted there – and that’s how the locals liked it. Granddad recalled his childhood when he and his brother would spend hours on the beach in the summer holidays, building sandcastles, paddling, swimming and even fishing and said that years ago he had decided to retire back to this area – his inheriting the family home had been unexpected but coincided with his retirement so while the house was being renovated, he and Grandma had moved down, rented an unfurnished cottage in a nearby village and then moved all their furniture again once the two flats were ready at the end of May. On the way home from the beach, we met a couple of surly looking men who just grunted at us and walked on. Our grandparents told us that they used to work for Uncle Horror – one as the caretaker of the house, the other as his handyman. Apparently, the caretaker, Reg, was rather put out when my grandfather claimed the house and told him he had no need of his services, while Granddad thought Fred the handyman might prove useful from time to time, though he had not had any jobs done by him as the builders had left everything in perfect condition. Reg, it seems, had got a job as a barman at the local pub and had a room rent-free there as well. Despite, this apparent good fortune, he seemed to hold a grudge against my grandparents which was rather worrying.

I asked Granddad about the island and the bungalow on it, but he said he hadn’t even gone across to look at it since he’d moved back. As children, he and Uncle Horror weren’t allowed over there as though the island belonged to their father. The bungalow was rented out, so it was considered trespassing or at least invasion of their tenants’ privacy. However, it was empty now and Granddad told us he was thinking of having that done up and decorated and using it as a summer home! “Perhaps for weekends away”, he had said, as it would save all that travelling and paying for hotels! It sounded great and I asked if we might be allowed to stay there – he said he’d think about it but as present he felt sure it was not habitable as no-one had lived there for many years and he doubted if Horace had even ventured across. He seemed too busy with his life in South Africa to take much notice of a dilapidated little cottage like that on his couple of trips home each year. He hadn’t bothered to modernise the house or even get it decorated, despite knowing Fred well.

Next door to us lived the Pennington family, Mum and Dad with a son and daughter who were not only just a few months older than Carrie and me but also twins. My grandparents asked them over for tea on our first Sunday there, thinking it would be nice for us to have some friends in the area and surprisingly, we all hit it off well from the start. Stephen and Eleanor (Steve and Ellie to their friends) were both going to the school which had us listed as likely future pupils. They had just finished their first year there and told us that their parents both worked at that school as teachers, but they weren’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. We told them about our home and schools in London and in the course of a couple of hours we learned that Ellie loved playing the piano, drawing and reading adventure stories, while Steve was in the local athletics’ team. These interests endeared them both to us. Carrie was very fond of music and had recently started to teach herself the guitar and, of course, I was still upset about having to give up my beloved athletics, having put in so much to get into the school team back in London. I asked Steve what the chances were of me joining the local team and he reckoned excellent – as he said, they are desperate for members to swell the numbers, so you don’t even have to be very good. That was encouraging as I didn’t think I was local county standard or even approaching it.

Grandma and Granddad liked to get up and go to bed early. As a result, we had an earlier bedtime than usual. Well, when I say earlier, we went up to our rooms and either Carrie would come into my room, or I would go into hers and we would play board or card games or use our computers. One night we heard voices – at a distance at first but they got louder. Not loud enough to make out what was being said, in fact, it was as if they didn’t want to be heard. We crept to the window and peeked through the curtains – there were two men on the bridge, walking across to the island, carrying parcels. We wondered how they had they got into our back garden to walk on to the bridge, and what they were doing We watched them walk on to the island and to the bungalow. A few seconds later a light went on inside the cottage, but we couldn’t see any more. This was rather puzzling, and Carrie and I waited and waited but nothing happened – no-one came back over the bridge or put the light out in the bungalow. It was quite a mystery. Carrie wondered if it would turn into and adventure for us. Before going to bed I made my first entry in my diary; “Mysterious happenings on the island – watch this space!”

We didn’t mention it to our grandparents as we wanted to see if anything happened the next night. We stayed in my room and peered through the curtains every so often but heard and saw nothing. Just after midnight, when we finished our game, and had decided to get some sleep, we heard voices and sure enough, as with the previous night, two people were walking across the bridge. They seemed to be carrying boxes and as we watched we saw them go into the bungalow and then the light went on. We kept on watching and about 10 minutes later they came out and made their way back over the bridge. Arriving in our garden, they looked round and then one leant against the old oak tree and lit a cigarette and at that moment the full moon shone down, clearly showing Reg and Fred, the caretaker and handyman. What were they doing and why were they lingering in our garden? A few minutes later a car horn hooted, the two men walked to the wall at the side of our garden and reaching up took hold of a few more boxes. They then proceeded to walk back to the bungalow and obviously leave them in one of the rooms before retracing their steps, then disappearing out of sight as the cloud covered the moon. We heard a car start up and race off down the road. They were up to no good that was certain! That night the second entry in my diary was made.

Carrie and I decided we would investigate, and the next morning asked our grandparents if we could go over to the island with Steve and Ellie for a look round. Granddad went and checked if the bridge was safe and walked across to the island and had a look round. He came back and said we could, if we didn’t do anything silly like swimming in the lake or climbing any of the trees over there. We promised to just have a walk round and come straight back. We rushed next door to invite our new friends to join us. Their parents welcomed us and agreed to their trip to the island with us, his mum serving us a glass of lemonade each before we set off. Steve took us up to his room, which like ours overlooked the lake, and we told him and Ellie what we’d seen and heard. He said he had heard voices but assumed they were people walking home along the road at the side of their house and hadn’t thought any more about it. We then set off for the island, deciding that as it had no name it should be given one by us.

We set foot on the bridge at exactly 2:35 p.m. (I made a mental note to include this in my diary). It was a short walk across but we stopped halfway to look at the many ducks which were swimming on the family lake. When we arrived on the island, we made straight for the bungalow. We looked through the first window but could see nothing as the curtains were drawn. We then walked round the back and saw that a door was partly open. We walked in and found ourselves in an old-fashioned kitchen – an old stove with a kettle on it caught our attention, then a box of tea bags, two cups and a packet of biscuits on the old, battered table. It looked like someone had been in there recently and we had a good idea of their identities. The room was long and narrow and ran from the back to the front of the house, with a window at each end, neither of which had curtains. We walked into the hall and turned into the room on our left. It was dark in there, but we found the switch and turned on the light and were faced with boxes of various shapes and sizes filling most of the room, from the floor almost to the ceiling. These were probably the boxes being taken over the bridge by Reg and Fred – they must have been doing it for months. We walked into the other rooms, finding them empty, with one giving us an uninterrupted view of the land and wall behind the lake, through a rather dirty window. We walked back into the room with all the boxes and decided to open one or two of them. They were filled with shredded paper, mounds of it fell out and landed on the floor and all over us. It seemed insane that someone would be storing boxes containing nothing of any value. Then Ellie saw something blue in the middle of it all and pulled it out – it was a strong plastic bag with a drawstring. She opened it and tipped out – one large white glassy stone. I gasped as I wondered if this could be a diamond, but I kept quiet as I watched Carrie and Steve opening two other boxes. These they were the same as the first with loads of shredded paper and somewhere in the midst a blue plastic bag with one white stone inside. It was then I voiced my opinion that these could be diamonds and if so, we were looking at a fortune. But why was the room a storing place for diamonds, hidden in large boxes?

Just then we heard voices and froze.

“Who left this door open?” a rather gruff voice asked.

Steve turned off the light and we all tried to hide. The voices got closer, and footsteps passed our door continuing into the kitchen. We heard the sounds of tea being made and a conversation, revolving around when Reg and Fred would arrive, and how many boxes The Fence would take. I got out my mobile and started to text Granddad, simply saying “Call Police to Island – crooks in bungalow, we think we’ve found diamonds hidden. We are ok”. I put my phone on to silent and a few minutes later got a reply from his Grandad. “Police on way, I’m coming over”. It seemed like an eternity, but we stayed silent. Then more voices in the doorway and Reg and Fred were greeted by the first two men. Still no sign of the police but then another set of footsteps. One of the men in the kitchen called out, but no reply. The latest set of footsteps walked into the kitchen and then we heard Granddad’s voice, “What are you lot doing in my house and on my island?”

“Still doing the job of caretaking”, sneered one voice, obviously Reg’s.

For no pay, Reginald Butterworth?

“Grab him!” commanded Reg and there was a scuffle. I could endure this no longer and indicating to the others to keep quiet, I crept out of the room, with Steve close behind me. We peered round the door of the kitchen and saw two men holding Granddad firmly, with a knife to his throat. Steve and I crept back but not before the men caught sight of us and pulled us into the room. I twisted and managed to get away and started to run, out of the door and to the bridge. I gathered later from Steve that they were so stunned by those turn of events the chap holding him let his grasp slip slightly and Steve then rushed out of the door and caught me up on the bridge, expecting one of the men to follow us but there was no sign of them. We reached the garden just as two large police officers were hurtling out of Grandma’s kitchen door. One raced towards the bridge, while the other stopped and quickly verified who we were, confirmed by Grandma who had rushed out to us. He told us to stay put till his two colleagues in another car arrived and they would want to speak to us. They were with us within a minute, accompanied by a dog, and as dog and handler made their way across the bridge, the other stayed in the garden while Steve and I quickly told them about Granddad being held prisoner by a man with a knife and that the girls were still in the room with the boxes of diamonds. He quickly radioed back to HQ and set off over the bridge, saying not to go back to the island unless accompanied by a police officer and more were on their way.

Grandma went back into the house to look for the next police car and in a couple of minutes two policewomen arrived. By then Steve had phoned home and his Mum and Dad, looking terrified, had joined the three of us in the garden. The policewomen assured us all that their main concern was Carrie and Ellie, and they ran across the bridge and disappeared round the back of the bungalow.

We stood and waited but before long a group of people, with a dog, started to walk across the bridge. As they neared, we recognised the four men from the kitchen, all handcuffed to the police officers. They took them out through the back gate and into the waiting cars and drove off. Over on the island stood five people, all waving and three of them continued to wave all the way back across the bridge. Grandma ran to Granddad, Steve and his parents enveloped Ellie is a hug, while Carrie and I rushed to each other. It was quite a reunion and having been assured that none of them was hurt, Grandma led the way back into the house, clinging on to Granddad all the time, and immediately put the kettle on. We all sat in the kitchen, borrowing a couple of chairs from the hall, and told the lady police officers the tale from the time we heard voices around midnight a couple of nights ago. They both made notes and told us we had been very brave. They then took more details from Granddad about his capture and asked if they had used the knife. He assured them they hadn’t. Reg had told him if he kept quiet he wouldn’t get hurt. Granddad did as he was told, mentally noting the descriptions of the four men and anything they said.

Then Carrie and Ellie were asked about their part in it all and between them the girls told them about the room full of boxes which seemed to contain nothing but shredded paper till Ellie found the blue bag with the white stones. The girls produced three of the bags and tipped the stones out on to the table. It was generally agreed that these were likely to be genuine diamonds, almost certainly good quality ones, and then the older of the policewomen made a phone call, asking for two detectives to come along to investigate possible diamond smuggling.

While waiting for their colleagues to arrive, the policewomen asked Grandma and Granddad if they had any idea why these men had picked their island for this. Granddad told them that the lake and island were all part of the property belonging to the house. He went on to explain about his brother Horace leaving him the family home in his will, after working for the last 30 years or more as a manager of a diamond mine in South Africa, spending far more time there than here. He also told them that Reg and Fred had worked for Horace, and it seemed more than a coincidence that they were apparently tied up in some diamond smuggling crime. He then added a surprising piece of information – he and Grandma had been looking through some paperwork, kept in a metal locked box. Granddad had had to force the lock to get in and inside found some documents relating to the release of diamonds – signed illegibly – and ann expired passport with a photograph of his brother but with the name Herbert Anstruther and an address in South Africa.

Soon after this the detectives arrived and heard all that Granddad had to say about his brother, Reg and Fred, showing them the documents and passport in the metal tin. The detectives said they would need these as evidence and hoped Granddad would let them go. He said he was willing to help in any way. Then they looked at the diamonds the girls had brought across in the pockets of their jeans and said that things were beginning to fall into place. After this they asked us all to go across to the island with them and when we arrived Steve and I were asked to show them the room where we found the boxes. They carefully looked through those we had opened but found nothing else, then set about opening a few more boxes and sure enough the little blue bags with one diamond in each was inside all the shredding. They then tackled the remaining boxes which was very time-consuming.

The detectives took the all the diamonds back with them, along with the metal box, and said they would be contacting us again soon. That evening we rang Mum and Dad and told them all about it. When he was assured that we were all fine and unhurt, Dad said that even as a child he had never liked Uncle Horace, and the older he got the more he felt he wasn’t exactly trustworthy so to find out that he was involved in diamond smuggling didn’t seem to surprise him too much. Mum admitted that she had never taken to him and had often expressed heer concerns about Dad being related to him.

That night I filled my diary to the end of the month, recounting the events of that one day! Another dimension was added to the saga the next day when newspaper journalists and photographers descended on the house, and we were famous for a few days in the local and national papers. Amid all the media coverage, the police returned with a large lorry and collected all the boxes from the bungalow.

A couple of weeks later a Police Inspector rang and arranged to see us that afternoon. He came with the news that an international diamond smuggling ring had been broken and Reg and his friends had confessed to police and given the names of others involved. It seems it had been led by Uncle Horror (a more apt name for him that even I had imagined) who for many years had been stealing large quantities of diamonds from the mine, then got forged papers to allow their clearance through customs. He was then selling some of them on to a dealer (or Fence) in England and those in boxes were being shipped to other dealers in various countries, with labels claiming that the boxes contained Christmas decorations! He was also travelling on a forged passport so although Horace Russell was employed by the mining company, he was never known to leave South Africa. Tracing the movements of Herbert Anstruther, the police found that his arrival in the UK – about twice a year – coincided with an influx of diamonds on the market about six weeks later. After Uncle Horace’s death, Reg and pals had decided to continue the trade with the diamonds they had stored in the bungalow but had apparently panicked when Grandma and Granddad took over the house. These criminals had changed the locks on the bungalow doors, but one of them had carelessly left the back door open the night before our first visit to the island, and this proved to be their undoing.

In due course Reg and his partners in crime were given life in prison which we hoped would be for the rest of their lives. The newspaper coverage of this gave us another few days of fame and we were all pictured with the little bags with the diamonds in them, then we had to hand them back to the policemen. However, we four children did receive a small reward for our part in helping to capture them and our respective parents spoiled us with a few gifts.

By the end of August things had calmed down a lot, though we still felt like adventurers and had decided that if we couldn’t find any more real adventurers, we would invent them as games. The first task was to think of a suitable name for ourselves. Steve came up with the Double Twins and even now, about 10 years later, we are still known as that by family and friends. Carrie and I went for the test and interview by the headmaster at the school Mum and Dad had chosen and found ourselves facing Steve and Ellie’s Dad, Mr Pennington. I am sure it was just a formality because he asked very few questions regarding lessons and gave us a very easy test of sums and English language. By the time we started there in mid-September, The Double Twins were legends; it seems everyone wanted to be our friends!

Steve and I joined the school athletics’ team and were both running for the local team as well. As Steve said, when he saw me rushing over the bridge when we had got away from Reg and his cronies, he knew I’d have no trouble making the team, though I think fear gave us both an extra spurt that day.

Granddad decided to renovate the bungalow and let us use it as our own. However, we were not allowed to stay overnight and had to ensure we had our mobiles with us in case of any trouble.

Mum and Dad moved down towards the end of September, complete with furniture, and when Andy came to stay for half-term that October, he brought news with him – his family would also be moving down here. The London office would be closing in the New Year and our dads would be working in the same building again, only in a new location. It was like a dream come true and although he started at our school a term later than us, Andy had no trouble settling in – the best friend of one of the Double Twins was welcome any time, only now I had three best friends, as well as Carrie who is the best sister in the world. At that point the five of us began hoping for more adventures like our heroes in the books experienced, though in reality they were all played out from our imaginations rather than being actualities, thankfully. I think the ducks were grateful too as they had seemed rather disturbed by all the activity that afternoon and it took them a while to resume their leisurely swimming on the tranquil water.

As to the island, we did name it: Adventure Island!       

© Chasqui Penguin, 2024

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

The Muses’ Darling – Chapter 12

Welcome to the first Marlowe Month of 2024! With the 460^th anniversary of Christofer Marlowe’s baptism on 26^th February, I thought it an appropriate date to post the next chapter from The Muses’ Darling (unfortunately my proofreader is still busy so apologies for the errors it no doubt contains). This chapter brings Kit back from Kent to London and into the world he has recently begun to inhabit after his years at Cambridge University.

The featured image is of Nonsuch House, a prefabricated home built in the Netherlands. In 1578 this was transported to London where it was erected on London Bridge.

If you have missed earlier chapters and would be interested in reading them, here are the links:

The Photograph (mini biography), The New Playwright (Chapter 1), The Journey to Canterbury (Chapter 2), Back Home in Canterbury (Chapter 3), A Wet Monday (Chapter 4), A Double Surprise (Chapter 5), The Gifts (Chapter 6), One Day Leads to Another (Chapter 7), An Eventful Weekend (Chapter 8), A Tour of the Kent Countryside (Chapter 9), An Unexpected Disclosure (Chapter 10), An Overnight Stay in Rainham (Chapter 11)

The Muses’ Darling

Chapter 12

London Beckons

Over dinner Kit apprised Sir Francis and Thomas Walsingham of his time in Rainham. Matthew, who was also present, had already given them details of his contribution to the venture, ensuring he made it clear that Kit was not returning till the evening as he was following a lead. Skimming over the preliminary details, Kit concentrated on the main news, including his chats with the innkeeper, and then from the time the five “suspects” arrived and his attempts to overhear their chatting at their table in the nearby alcove which kept all, but the last man to join them, out of his view. He admitted that eavesdropping wasn’t as easy as he had hoped but he did hear enough to realise the conversation was swinging between both English and Latin, and the Latin had a theatrical ring to it. Listening intently, Kit learned that that the life of a queen by the name of Revecu was in danger, due to her disloyalty to the empire, and when Rochester Castle entered the equation, the group of plotters hoped the weather would be fine. Kit was intrigued but continued to keep a low profile, often looking out of the window while eavesdropping, when he suddenly heard a voice nearby.

“Kit Marlowe, as I live and breathe!”

“As you can imagine, I was stunned to be recognised,” he told his fellow diners at Scadbury Manor. “It was only when the man approached my table that I felt he looked familiar, then remembered we had been to school together. I searched my memory for his name, and it came to me: John Dale. We had always got along well in the short time we knew each other in Canterbury before we went our separate ways.” 

“This is most interesting,” Sir Francis remarked, while the others nodded. “So, is he implicated in this plot to assassinate our queen?”

“Please, Sir Francis, let me continue.”

And while omitting the reminiscing between John and himself, Kit went on to reveal that the conversation at the inn had revolved around the writing of a play. He introduced the names of the five amateur playwrights, details of their trades and any surrounding information which might be applicable to their enquiries, finally informing them that John had lent him a copy of the script. He outlined the plot of the play but said he wanted to examine it in depth to make sure he had missed nothing sinister or suspicious when he had read through it earlier that day.

“So, Kit, do you think these five young men are involved in a plot to assassinate our queen, covering their plans with this play?” the spymaster enquired.

“Basically, no. As I said, I want to go through the play line by line to see if I can read anything between them which would indicate a seditious intent. I have the script here which you are welcome to look at, but I do intend to write out a copy for you, Sir Francis, to peruse and will make another for my own investigations.”

“A copy of the play would be advantageous. I would welcome familiarising myself with it before making up my mind about its dangers or otherwise. I shall also try to verify their story of inviting the queen to attend the debut at Rochester Castle on her 55^th birthday, and whether she actually has any intention of watching this drama at a later date. I am surprised news of this hasn’t filtered down to me, but she has her own staff who deal with the entertainment side of her life, and Edmund Tylney, our Master of Revels, holds sway on such matters.

“Kit, do you know when your friend and his writing colleagues received the reply from Queen Elizabeth’s staff?”

“Not exactly, Sir, but recently as far as I could ascertain. I didn’t pry as I didn’t want to arouse suspicions regarding my ulterior motive for asking, especially knowing that you could find out accurate dates and details from Lord Burghley yourself.”

“Probably wise to continue your low-profile stance, Kit. Also, I have been out of London for a little while, but I shall be returning to there on Tuesday as I have an appointment with her majesty on Wednesday so may find out more then. Perhaps on Thursday you could visit me, Kit and we can exchange news and views.”

“Certainly, Sir. If it’s acceptable to you, I shall travel back to London tomorrow. Tamburlaine has been fully shod and should make the journey easily in the day.”

“Kit, why not stay till Monday? It will give you and Tamburlaine a day to rest and if you leave in the morning, you’ll be able to try your hand at buying the horse, all in daylight.

“Thank you, Sir, for extending the invitation, which I accept gratefully. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Sir Francis gave a wry smile.

“However, do you have a valuation for Tamburlaine from the blacksmith?”

“Yes, I do, Kit, but Thomas has the full details.” He nodded to his cousin who took over the conversation.

“Jack believes he is worth three pounds ten shillings but in London could command a higher price and there is the question of whether the saddle and reins etc would be included – if so, that could raise the cost further.”

As Thomas paused, Sir Francis took up the conversation. “Bear that in mind but please don’t go beyond five pounds, Kit. The government isn’t made of money! If Tamburlaine is not available for less than that, then we shall have to find a similar horse elsewhere for you. You can let me know on Thursday. Would 3:30 that afternoon suit you?

“Yes, Sir Francis, that would be perfect, and I hope to have procured Tamburlaine for less than five pounds well before then. That’s the equivalent of the sale of one play for me, or near enough,” Kit revealed. “so I wouldn’t want to part with that amount, even if it isn’t my own money. Anyway, if Tamburlaine is mine by the end of Monday, I shall bring you the documents to prove it when we next meet.”

“That’s good and all is settled for now. Oh yes, and if you do ride Tamburlaine to Seething Lane, you can give him shelter in the stables behind my house.”

“Thank you very much, Sir Francis,” Kit replied gratefully.

Turning to Matthew, the Spymaster asked, “What do you make of Kit’s findings against yours?”

“I think I may have got it a bit wrong,” Matthew answered looking slightly ashamed.

“Perhaps, only time will tell, but to be fair to you, my boy, Kit had the advantage of knowing this John Dale fellow so was able to get further with his enquiries. I shall also be seeking information from Queen Elizabeth about this whole play affair and take it from there. I shall keep an open mind but may want you and Kit further involved at a later stage if there is any doubt in my mind regarding the safety of our monarch.”

“I shall be happy to help, assisting Kit in any way I can.”

“Thank you, Matthew and thank you, Kit. And Kit, please join me in my office after this meal to show me the script.

“Certainly, Sir.”

Half an hour later, spymaster and intelligencer were in the office, both poring over the script.

“What do you think of the standard of the writing, Kit?”

“Not too bad, though I have been asked to improve it where I can and have already made some notes and will be going through it carefully to see if any other changes would give the audience a more enjoyable outing. Some of the Latin is begging for correction but that’s an easy enough task.”

“Do you mind leaving this with me to peruse tomorrow afternoon? It will be a relaxing way to spend a couple of post-prandial hours, and I shall return it to you in the evening.”

“That’s fine, Sir. I just don’t want to forget it as there is much work to be done on it, in terms of copying and amending, and I don’t feel I can keep it too long.”

Kit was relieved to be without the script for a few hours as it meant he couldn’t persuade himself to work on it. Instead, he decided on an early night, and looked forward to a relaxing day after the hectic fortnight or so since he had left London.

The next day proved to be cool and wet so staying inside was the only option, though Kit had made a quick dash to the stables to visit Tamburlaine before spending the afternoon in conversation with Thomas on various topics. About an hour later they invited Matthew to join them and quizzed him about himself, his studies and aims in life.

“So, Matthew,” Thomas began, “tell us a little about yourself.”

“Well,” began Matthew, “I am from rural Suffolk, and my father is a yeoman and runs the family farm, with help from my mother and paid labourers. I have an older brother called George and three younger sisters. He also studied at St John’s college at Cambridge but is now back at home tutoring the children of the local dignitaries. Having gained my BA last year and in due course my MA, I hope to follow in his footsteps but a few weeks ago agreed to join the spy ring to earn more money for my studies and to pursue some adventures. As far as I know, George was never employed by Her Majesty. In fact, he would have been more likely to enter the church as he is very religious but was also keen to be a tutor and return home to Suffolk and he has achieved his aim. He is walking out with a nice young lady called Frances and I am sure they will be announcing their desire to get married before too long.”

Kit and Thomas were listening intently and coming to the mutual conclusion that Matthew seemed honest enough but also naïve and Kit privately determined to instil some sense and learning of life into him while under his guidance. The three young men than turned to something more exciting: gambling via a couple of games of cards, followed by a session of draughts, with each coming out on the winning side more than once, and slightly richer into the bargain.

After a lazy day, which ended with Sir Francis handing Kit the Queen Revecu script, telling him that he could read nothing between the lines either, but it was possible a plot was within the written words so to look out for any hints, with Kit nodding in agreement.

“By the way, does the play have a title yet, Kit?”

“It has the working title of Queen Revecu but they are hoping to come up with one which might be a little more enticing to an audience. They have even asked me for suggestions, so that’s something else I shall be thinking about.”

“Thank you, Kit, for all you have done over this weekend and sleep well.” Kit knew he was being dismissed and wasn’t sorry to make his way to his room. After packing his belongings, he lay in bed reading the script again before placing it under his pillow, with his dagger. The 8 a.m. call woke him and after doing last-minute packing, he took his bag down to breakfast, after which he took his leave of Sir Francis, Thomas and Matthew who was also starting his journey back to Cambridge. There were secure plans in place to inform Matthew when and where he would be needed and Kit, with the charm he could turn on and off, assured him that he looked forward to working with him.

By 10:30 a.m. Kit and Tamburlaine were heading north. He decided to make straight for the stables near the imposing Nonsuch House, a prefabricated residence which stood on London Bridge along with numerous other less impressive buildings. He hoped he wouldn’t have to return Tamburlaine. As he rode, he rehearsed his best bargaining skills to use on the owner. Just after midday the premises hove into view and before long Kit was in conversation with Robert Alderson. Understandably, the stable owner was initially averse to parting with Tamburlaine, but Kit was patient and persuasive. He pointed out that while he was a few days late returning the horse, the stables would be benefiting from the sovereign he had left as a deposit for his non-return. The arguments to and fro persisted for well over 20 minutes before some middle ground was reached.

“So,” said Robert, “you are prepared to pay two pounds and forgo half a sovereign if I sell this horse to you. Is that right?”

“Yes,” said Kit, “as long as you include the saddle and the other necessities for riding a horse.”

“I’d be giving the horse away.”

“All right, if I forgo the full sovereign, would you do me the deal just outlined?”

“That would still only bring the cost to three pounds and the horse is worth at least that without the riding equipment.”

“Three pounds ten shillings?” queried Kit

“Four pounds and he’s yours, with his saddle etc.”

“Three pounds fifteen shillings is about all I can afford.”

“Then you can’t afford this horse.”

“I’m disappointed. We got on so well and I think he’d miss me.” Kit patted Tamburlaine who whinnied and, as if on cue, laid his head on his would-be master’s shoulder.

“My last offer: Three pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence and he’s yours, as he stands now.”

“He’s mine,” Kit enthused, raising his voice a little and feeling in his purse for the money.

“So, you keep the sovereign I left when I hired him. That makes my payment to you two pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence.”

“That’s right,” agreed Robert Alderson.

Kit held the money tightly in his hand, while asking, “Would you please write out a payment receipt, so I have proof of my purchase?”

“Yes, of course. I am an honest horse dealer and hirer and am happy to put it in writing. Come into the office and we’ll finalise this purchase.”

Kit followed him into a small room with a chair and desk, with papers neatly sacked at one corner. Robert sat down and proceeded to write out the details of the sale. Can you read and write?” he asked Kit.

Kit nodded.

“Good. So what is your name?”

“Christofer Marlowe”

“Christofer with an f?”

“That’s right.”

Robert continued to fill in the receipt, then slid it across to Kit to read, asking him to sign it.

This Kit did before asking, “Sorry to be a total nuisance, but would you please write out another copy for me to take as well?”

“Why do you need two?”

“Well, the horse is a gift from an uncle, and he wants us both to have proof of purchase.”

“Seems fair enough,” Robert conceded, unaware that he was signing a document which the government would eventually file away in the big cupboards where so much documentation was hoarded.

Kit added his signature again and taking both sheets of parchment, handed over the due amount and thanked Robert very much for reaching a mutually agreeable settlement and telling him he would not only take great care of Tamburlaine, but bring him along from time to time to visit him.

“Tamburlaine?” queried Robert.

“Yes, I gave him the name.”

“Did you name him after that play my wife and I saw at The Rose recently?”

“Yes.”

“Any reason why?”

“I wrote it,” replied Kit as he turned and left the office, with a wave of the documents. He then put his head round the door, and said, “I hope you enjoyed whichever of the plays you saw.”

“We did but have only seen the first so far.”

“I’ll tell Philip Henslowe, the owner of the Rose when I see him tomorrow. He’ll be as delighted as I am.”

With that Kit walked to Tamburlaine and waving again to Robert set the horse at a trot as they approached London Bridge. There were stables not far from the rooms he rented, and he decided to get Tamburlaine settled into his new home before eating.

Once across London Bridge he set Tamburlaine to trot on the familiar route home. He passed the street where he lived, turned left and into a stable yard. A young lad greeted him asking if he wanted to leave his horse with them for a while.

“I’ve just bought him,” replied Kit. “And I’d like this to be his new home. How do I go about booking him in on a permanent basis?”

“That’s for the boss to say. I’ll get him.”

The boy walked off and a couple of minutes later returned with a man Kit recognised as someone had had had some pleasant chats with in the local tavern on a few occasions.

“Good afternoon, Sir. My name is Peter Flinte and I am the owner of these stables. Do I understand that you would like to book a stable for your horse on a permanent basis?”

“Yes, that’s right but first I’d like to ask for details of costs and if I can retain the stable while I am away with my horse.”

“The usual price is 7 pence a day, which includes feed and grooming, but not renewing shoes. But for a week, it could be reduced to three shillings and ninepence, that’s six and a half pence a day, paid at the start of the week. Does that sound suitable?”

“Yes, it does, but is there a monthly rate?”

“If you want to pay monthly, the cost would be twelve shillings for the four weeks, or six pence a day.”

“That’s a worthwhile saving and I shall think about it, as it is quite an outlay.”   

You can swap between daily, weekly or monthly payment. You can retain the stable by paying in advance, but as he won’t be needing food or grooming, the retaining fee would be half the weekly or monthly amount. We write and date payment slips for you so each time you pay, you have proof.

“That sounds fine. I’d like to book him in for one week to begin with, just to see how he settles.”

“A good idea, some horses settle immediately, others pine for their owners or previous homes, but we take good care of them all and eventually they look upon this as home. We have five permanent residents here so your horse will make six. What’s his name?”

“Tamburlaine”

“Unusual name”

“I got it from a character in a play.”

It’s certainly original. Anyway, bring Tam… er…

“Tamburlaine”

“Yes, bring him along please and I’ll find a nice stable for him with plenty of straw.”

“I imagine that’s a description of all of your stables?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “We treat all the horses in our stables the same, no pampering but we do give them good care.”

“Sounds perfect.”

With that Kit led Tamburlaine to the stable Peter had indicated and the horse walked in as if it was already his home.

Kit handed Peter the three shillings and nine pence for Tamburlaine’s first week in his London home and was given a piece of parchment on which the start and finish date was written, along with the amount received.

In bidding Kit goodbye, Peter told him he could visit any time he liked and see his horse.

Kit thanked him more than once and then made his way to his rooms, to leave most of his luggage, then give the nearest tavern his custom as he was starving. He would have the remainder of the day off, then start on the copying and amending of the play the next morning.

The sunshine next morning woke Kit around 8:30 and he found a plate of bread and honey outside his door, the custom of his landlord who knew his tenant kept unusual hours. Having eaten breakfast, Kit set about revising the Queen Revecu script and aside from breaking off for a light lunch at the tavern and making a small detour to check on Tamburlaine, who seemed fine and delighted to see him, he worked on the script till just after 4:00 p.m.

Pleased with his progress, he laid his quill down and got ready to visit his friends at The Rose. He decided to give Tamburlaine an outing and hoped to leave him for a couple of hours at the stables where he had bought him only the day before. He was in luck and for two farthings Robert Alderson promised to keep him safe. Kit enjoyed the early evening walk to the playhouse where he found Philip Henslowe in his office, with Ned Alleyn, the drama performed that afternoon having ended shortly before. They both greeted him warmly but, with profuse apologies, explained that they had a meeting with a new playwright in the next few minutes but hoped they could all meet up later in the week. Ned suggested a meal at the nearby tavern on Thursday – his day off from the theatre that week – and this suited the three of them. However, remembering his appointment with Sir Francis, Kit told them he wouldn’t be free till 6pm. With a wave and assuring them he would see them on Thursday evening, he left them to await the arrival of the new playwright – someone who had begun to intrigue Kit and he made a mental note to ask Philip and Ned more about this mysterious stranger in their midst.

© Chasqui Penguin, 2024

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

The Upstart Crow Facts Series: 15 Known and Likely Facts about Mary Shakespeare (née Arden) – Mother of William, The Bard

Having posted my Upstart Crow Facts List on John Shakespeare last month, it seems appropriate for his wife to follow. This article first appeared on adoseofdavidmitchell – a website dedicated to comedy actor David Mitchell, with full of information on his roles and other aspects of his professional career. It is run by my lovely X/Twitter friend @JazzyJaney and I recommend a visit to this site, especially for comedy fans.

The featured image is a painting of Asbies, Mary Arden’s house in Wilmecote. Inherited from her father, this house was on the Arden Estate.

You may also find the following of interest:

My 50 Facts on William Shakespeare

My 50 Facts and more on Christopher (Kit) Marlowe

My 16 Facts on Robert Greene

My 15 Known and Likely Facts on John Shakespeare (William’s Father)

Mary Shakespeare (née Arden)

15 Known and Likely Facts about Shakespeare’s Mother

With no records available, Mary Arden is thought to have been born in a year between 1535 and 1540, the youngest of her parents’ eight daughters.

Her parents were Robert and (probably) Mary Arden.

Her father, Robert Arden, was the owner of Glebe Farm in Wilmecote, 8 miles from Stratford-upon-Avon, and from a noble Catholic family. The Arden family’s ancestors are said to have been given land by William the Conqueror.

Mary would have grown up learning how to manage a house, cook and plan meals as much as a year ahead, in addition to helping on the farm.

On the death of her father in 1556, she inherited Asbies, part of the Arden estate in Wilmecote, now known as Mary Arden’s House. Along with her sister, Joan, Mary was an executrix of his will.

Mary married John Shakespeare in 1557 and moved into their Henley Street home, in Stratford, which he had bought the year before.

John Shakespeare’s father, Richard, was a tenant farmer on land owned by the Ardens, so it is likely Mary and John had known each other since they were children.

They had four sons and four daughters, though not all survived to adulthood, but their most famous son was William Shakespeare, born in April 1564.

Three months after his birth there was an outbreak of the plague in Stratford and Mary took their baby son (their two elder daughters having already died, possibly of the plague) to her family home in the countryside, which was untouched by the epidemic, where she stayed with her sisters.

John Shakespeare was a glover by trade, also dealing in wool, and possibly leather, and was a prosperous businessman, though his fortunes fluctuated. He also took on civic roles, which elevated the Shakespeares further in the town.

Mary’s role was to look after the family but it is likely she also helped with cutting out the leather for the gloves and saddles made by her husband. She also sold some of her inherited land, when times were hard.

Mary, like most wives, would have been expected to deputise for her husband, by dealing with any business colleagues who called at the house. As a result, she probably became adept at this skill.

It is most likely that Mary was illiterate; she used a running horse as her signature, which would have been stamped on to documents from a wax seal.

Mary died in 1608 and was buried on 9^th September at Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon.

Mary Arden’s House was bought by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust and, together with its farm, is now an historic museum, open to the public.

 

© Chasqui Penguin, 2024

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

The Upstart Crow Facts Series: 15 Known and Likely Facts about John Shakespeare (father of William, The Bard)

With December often being a busy month for so many of us, I am posting another of my Upstart Crow Facts Lists, hoping that readers can dip in and out of it easily. This article first appeared on adoseofdavidmitchell – a website dedicated to comedy actor David Mitchell, with full of information on his roles and other aspects of his professional career. It is run by my lovely X/Twitter friend @JazzyJaney and I recommend a visit to this site, especially for comedy fans.

The featured image is the Shakespeare family’s coat of arms, granted to John in 1596.

You may also find the following of interest:

My 50 Facts on William Shakespeare

My 50 Facts and more on Christopher (Kit) Marlowe

My 16 Facts on Robert Greene

John Shakespeare

15 Known and Likely Facts about William Shakespeare’s Father

John Shakespeare is thought to have been born in either 1531 or the 1520s, probably in the village of Snitterfield, Warwickshire.

His parents were Richard and Abigail Shakespeare (née Webb).

Richard Shakespeare was a tenant farmer, and some of the land he worked belonged to Robert Arden, father of John’s future wife Mary.

John was a glover by trade and dealt in leather. He was a good businessman and ambitious, moving to Stratford-upon-Avon where he bought a house on Henley Street in 1556. This was known to have fine furnishings and the latest “mod cons” of the day.

John married Mary Arden, probably in 1557 in her parish church in Aston Cantlow but no record survive to support this. They had eight children, born between 1558 and 1580, five of whom lived into adulthood, among them William Shakespeare who was born in 1564.

In Stratford John became involved in civic duties which, over many years, included the important roles of alderman, bailiff and ale taster, and in 1568 he was elected mayor.

John is thought to have sent William to the King Edward VI School in Stratford from the age of seven, and it is likely that as a result of his role as alderman the education was free.

As well as being a glover, John bought and sold wool illegally (trading in many parts of England) and had another sideline as a moneylender and was said to have charged some of his clients an interest rate of 20% on the loans. However, the government employed informants to spy on suspected moneylenders and John was caught and fined 40 shillings, half of which is likely to have been paid to the informant, Anthony Harrison. This is recorded in the National Archives.

The government was also well aware of the illegal and very lucrative wool trade and paid informers to report the broggers, as these dealers were known. It was possible to make thousands of pounds in the illicit sale of wool – a vast sum of money when a house cost around £50.

In the 1570s the illegal wool-selling network collapsed, following a recession, and John Shakespeare found himself in debt. As a result, his wife Mary sold her land in Wilmcote. This consisted of Asbies, the part of the Arden estate she had inherited from her father. At some time in its history, the Henley Street house was apparently divided into two, one half still owned by the Shakespeare family while they rented the other half to neighbours who turned it into an inn. In 1846 it was bought by The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust.

In 1579, to further help the family finances, William (aged 14) had to leave school and it is likely he worked in his father’s gloving business. This destroyed any hopes he may have had of going to university.

In November 1582 William married Anne Hathaway and the couple lived in the Henley Street house with his parents, and later with their children Susanna, Judith and Hamnet (twins) who were born in 1583 and 1585.

In 1586 John was struck off the town council for non-attendance at meetings.

In 1596 John Shakespeare was granted a coat of arms (making him a gentleman officially), his application in 1570 having been withdrawn for unknown reasons. William’s application, on behalf of his father, to the College of Arms in London still exists, together with the drafts, and once the coat of arms had been granted the Shakespeare family would have been allowed to display it over the door of their house and on their possessions. The French motto on their coat of arms is “Non sans droict”, meaning “Not without right”. The family would also have received the letters patent, this being the official document granting the coat of arms. However, this does not appear to have survived the passage of time but it is known that it was written in English, though many others of the era were in Latin.

John Shakespeare died in 1601 and was buried on 8^th September in the Holy Trinity churchyard in Stratford. Despite his achievements, it seems unlikely that he was literate as his signature was a pair of glover’s compasses.

There are no known portraits of John Shakespeare so whether he resembled his famous playwright son or looked more like Harry Enfield, who played him in Upstart Crow, remains open to speculation.

© Chasqui Penguin, 2023

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

The Muses’ Darling – Chapter 11

It’s Marlowe Month again and we’ve reached Chapter 11. I must admit that my proofreader hasn’t had time to check through this. Therefore, with many apologies for any howling errors, I am taking the advice of Upstart Crow’s Kit Marlowe to “chuck it on as is”! I am certain that the real Christopher Marlowe agonised over each word before it reached the stage, but real life and comedy are so often poles apart!

The portrait of Sir Francis Walshingham, Queen Elizabeth I’s Spymaster, is the featured image and was painted by Jacobus Houbraken.

Marlowe Month will return early next year. In the meantime, you can find the previous chapters of The Muses’ Darling, via these links:

The Photograph (mini biography), The New Playwright (Chapter 1), The Journey to Canterbury (Chapter 2), Back Home in Canterbury (Chapter 3), A Wet Monday (Chapter 4), A Double Surprise (Chapter 5), The Gifts (Chapter 6), One Day Leads to Another (Chapter 7), An
Eventful Weekend (Chapter 8), A
Tour of the Kent Countryside (Chapter 9), An Unexpected Disclosure (Chapter 10)

The Muses’ Darling

Chapter 11

An Overnight Stay in Rainham

At 7:30 a.m. the next day, Matthew Abbing was given a call by one of the Scadbury Manor staff and told he was expected in Sir Francis Walsingham’s office at 8:00 a.m. and would be escorted there for a chat in private. Matthew leapt out of bed, rushing so as not to be late for the appointment and was ready and waiting by 7:55 a.m. when his escort arrived at his door.

Entering the office, Matthew was greeted by Sir Francis who was seated at his desk and indicating the chair opposite. Matthew sat down feeling rather nervous, having no idea what to expect but feeling sure it would be a reprimand at least. Therefore, he was surprised to find that Sir Francis was affability itself.

“Good morning, Matthew. I hope you slept well last night.”

Yes, Sir. Thank you.

“Good. Now I have asked you here at this early hour to establish exactly what you overheard at the Rainham inn.”

“Much as I told you yesterday, Sir.”

“Would you go over it all again, please, just to refresh my memory?”

“Well, basically, I heard a group of people at a nearby table talking about assassinating the queen, and mentioning Rochester Castle, which seems to be the place it would take place. I think the landlord is party to the plot, but his brother in Rochester wants nothing to do with it.”

“Is there anything else you remember? Were they speaking quietly? Did you get a look at any of the group, if only a glimpse, and did they speak about being Catholics?”

“They were speaking at a normal volume, but they were at a table in an alcove so it was difficult to hear all their conversation, especially as the inn was very noisy. I did notice that at some points they were talking in Latin. I spent years studying this at school and university but am not very fluent in the language so may have missed some crucial details they obviously wanted to keep secret. I didn’t see them all very clearly but would recognise three of them again. None was very outstanding, but one has short light brown hair a beard and is of slim build. The other two looked alike, perhaps brothers. Both had shoulder-length dark hair and were wearing identical blue doublets and grey breeches. And no, I didn’t hear the Catholic religion mentioned but, as I said, it was difficult to hear but I sure that they are planning an assassination, and I am very keen to help overturn this plot.”

“With such little information, I can’t assume that a plot is afoot till I know more, Mattew. I shall speak to you further about this over breakfast, when Thomas and Kit are there to offer their views.”

“Yes, I understand, Sir, and if there is anything I can do to help you gain more information, I am happy to do so.”

“Yes, you may well be required but, I shall let you know fuller details soon. Although I am somewhat displeased with the way you were stalking Kit, I realise that it was with good intentions, so am going to give you a second chance but you must, and I emphasise MUST, obey orders and not work on your own till you are fully trained. Kit will be training you. He is a first-class intelligencer, fluent in Latin and with enough experience to make decisions based on the information available. I want you to learn from him and always obey him. Kit will report back fully to me on your progress or otherwise. Is that understood?

“Yes, Sir, and thank you. I have been so worried that you would not want to continue to employ me.”

“As I said, you have a second chance. Don’t squander it, Matthew, and keep me informed either directly in person, but preferably via Kit, of all developments.”

“Yes, I will, Sir. I am very sorry and have learned my lesson.”

The gong sounded, announcing the serving of breakfast. Sir Francis and Matthew walked to the dining room where they found Kit and Thomas enjoying a joke together. As breakfast proceeded, the spymaster informed each of his guests of their duties over the next 48 hours. Thomas was to have an equine Friday, with responsibility for riding Tamburlaine to and from the blacksmith’s and establishing the value of the horse. Matthew and Kit were to travel separately to Rainham where Kit would stay at the Apple Tree, spending time drinking in the bar, preferably at a window seat, in an attempt to gather more information about the plotters. Matthew was to stay at the inn opposite, requesting a room at the front, the idea being that it would overlook the Apple Tree. If his request was denied he would need to linger outside till he saw one or two of the plotters entering the Apple Tree then, using a secret signal, communicate the news to Kit. They would each spend the night at the separate inns and unless there were significant developments requiring their stays to be extended, they would set off back to Scadbury on Saturday morning, half an hour apart. Unless circumstances indicated it, they would not acknowledge each other, though Kit would approach Matthew if this situation changed.

After breakfast and with a farewell to Tamburlaine and Thomas, Kit set off for Rainham, riding a chestnut horse called Chestnut.

“What a coincidence – a chestnut horse called Chestnut” Kit had told the ostler who laughed and said that he’d heard that joke before – countless times.

“I must be losing my originality”, Kit quipped. Anyway, I shall take good care of Chestnut and bring him back safely tomorrow.”

Kit arrived in Rainham towards lunchtime and made a beeline for The Apple Tree. He noted that the inn opposite was called The Swan, and was impressed by the precise and accurate directions Matthew had given him of the whole route, being keen to praise him for this later. Although he didn’t relish training this apparently inept recruit (‘What was Sir Francis thinking of?’ Kit asked himself), he was prepared to give him the best chance of becoming a full member of the team, and believed in giving credit where due, though he would not let him get away with any acts of folly.

Having stabled Chestnut and tipped the stable boy, who promised to give the horse his best care and attention, Kit entered the inn and booked a room for the night, left his luggage in the neat and sunny room, then made his way down for lunch, seating himself by the window around the time Matthew arrived at the Swan. He thought the chances of a midday meeting of the plotters was slim but was prepared, just in case they did arrive. He had an outline of the appearances of three of the five from Matthew and would keep his eyes and ears open for any hint of their arrival.

On his ride from Scadbury, Matthew had had time to think about his conversation with Sir Francis that morning. He wasn’t too sure if he wanted to be trained by this man he had been following, and who had taken exception to it. However, he had kept his thoughts to himself and had agreed with a nod and a smile to Sir Francis, relieved he would not have to undergo any punishment or even dismissal. He needed the money to complete his MA and this job also held promise of excitement. He even wondered whether he could get on the right side of Christopher Marlowe and even become friends with him. He would see how things between them turned out on their first assignment together, as a starter.

After lunch, when there was a lull in custom, Kit took the opportunity to chat to the innkeeper, Ned, and by introducing Rochester into the conversation learned that the man did have an older brother, Sam, who owned an inn there. They had originally run it together, taking over from their father, but had gone their separate ways when Sam had married soon after Ned had become engaged to a girl whose family owned the Apple Tree. He elaborated a little on his family’s inn, which had been opened by their grandfather in 1515, and had named it the Red Fox after his surname Reddington and their grandmother’s maiden name, Fox. It had always been earmarked for Sam, so Ned held no grudge and was happy in Rainham with his wife and young family.

Deciding that he could elicit no more without arousing suspicion, Kit took his leave and set off to bump into Matthew, apparently by chance but not in reality. This happened on cue, and while Kit pretended to ask this perfect stranger for directions, he updated Matthew on developments in a form of code. He told him he intended to sit by the left side window seat from an early hour. As Matthew was staying in a room overlooking The Apple Tree, he would signal to Kit if any of the plotters he recognised went through the inn door.

Matthew returned to his room at The Swan, seating himself on a chair near the window – a perfect vantage point for overseeing all comings and goings at The Apple Tree. Kit had taken a circuitous route back and spent the afternoon in his room working on notes for his next play. As soon as he heard increased sounds from downstairs, he made his way to the bar, ordered a glass of wine which, he was assured, was the produce of Kent grapes. He took it to the window seat and noticed Matthew at his post – he was sure he could be seen but gave his trainee the silent signal, receiving the same back. Kit ordered a meal and was just finishing the first course when Matthew signalled that two of the plotters had entered the Apple Tree. Kit acknowledged this with the secret sign. He watched the two men walk to a table in the nearby alcove, where Matthew had first encountered them, and prepared to listen. At that point there was nothing of note, just exchange of family news. Then two others joined them, followed by a fifth a couple of minutes later. The last to arrive sat at the end of the table and was partly within view but wishing to keep a low profile, Kit averted his gaze and concentrated on eavesdropping. Before long, questions about how the plans were going ensued. The inn began to fill up and the conversation was becoming less audible. Suddenly, Kit found himself overhearing a chat in Latin from the alcove – or was it chatting? No, one of them seemed to be reading from a document with references to the queen, or a queen as this was sometimes followed by what appeared to be the name Revecu which in turn had associations with disloyalty to the empire which was punishable by death. Kit found this puzzling as at no time was Queen Elizabeth mentioned by name, but some plot was afoot it seemed. Reverting to English, the men openly mentioned Rochester Castle and hoping the weather would be fine. Kit found all this puzzling but hoped that further eavesdropping would fill in the missing gaps in his limited knowledge. The dip into Latin had an almost theatrical feel to it but where was all this heading?

Having finished his meal, Kit sat back to listen harder. At this point, a voice from the fifth man in the alcove shocked him:

“Kit Marlowe, as I live and breathe!”

Kit sat up, wondering how he had been recognised but as the man walked towards him, he realised he looked familiar. Older than when they had both attended the King’s School, he found himself staring at John Dale.

“Well, this is a surprise – the star pupil of our old school! How are you, Kit?

“Fine, John, and you?”

“I’m fine too, thanks – out for a drink with friends. Why don’t you join us?”

Kit could hardly believe his ears, and readily agreed. Taking his glass of wine with him, and giving Matthew a quick signal, he followed John to the alcove, where he was introduced to Robert Fairley, Thomas Silbrook, Anthony Goodson and Nicholas Denville. John introduced his former schoolmate as “Christopher Marlowe, known to all as Kit, the author of the two Tamburlaine plays”.

All nodded with impressive looks on their faces and told Kit how pleased they were to meet him.

“So, are you currently working on a play, Kit?” John asked.

“Yes, it’s in the formation stage and I want to finish the first draft then asked the actor who played Tamburlaine whether he would be interested in playing this new character.”

“Sounds exciting”

“Yes, but also nerve-wracking.”

The conversation drifted into theatre life – a far cry from the reason Kit was in the Apple Tree but he went with it. However, it soon became apparent that he was among like-minded people as all five companions were playwrights, albeit amateur. Each had written dramas, but none had ever had their works staged and they had decided to get together to produce a play to be performed at Rochester Castle to celebrate Queen Elizabeth’s 55^th birthday on 7^th September. Each had contributed scenes and they had worked together and finished the invented story the previous year. They had then spent time seeking and finally receiving permission from the Queen herself to perform this play at Rochester Castle and there was a possibility that she herself would welcome seeing it at Hampton Court in the late autumn. Although John had had some acting experience from his days at school and a couple of parts in  plays put on by family and friends for Christmas celebrations, the others were writers only. However, they had managed to put together a cast of capable amateur actors who lived in the area. Rehearsals were in progress, but the finer points of the production were still in discussion. John was hoping Kit could give them some helpful tips and produced a copy of the script and asked him if he would read it.

“Yes, definitely, but I’ll need time to go through it so may I borrow it overnight and meet you back here at lunchtime tomorrow?” All readily agreed but it was decided that just one of them would meet. John volunteered, relishing the chance to chat further to his former school friend.

Kit flicked through the script and gathered it was set in Ancient Rome with a fictitious Queen Revecu as the central character.

“I’m intrigued,” he told his new friends. “Tell me more about the background to this.”

“It was Anthony’s idea,” John explained, nodding to him.

“What inspired you?” Kit asked.

“I was thinking back to schooldays – I attended Maison Dieu in Ospringe and studied Latin which I always enjoyed.

“Me too,” Kit agreed, adding “And would you believe this, my father is a Maison Dieu ‘old boy’, but he would have left by the time you started there. He received a good education, but wanted better for me.”

“The King’s School has a very good reputation across Kent. You and John are credits to the place.”

“Thank you. Anyway, how did you set about writing this play?”

“I wrote an outline of the main characters and plot, then asked John if he thought it viable to write a play from that. He agreed and we started it together but it wasn’t progressing well, and so we called in reinforcements! Our paths had all crossed in the past, mostly here in the The Apple Tree!

Kit was intrigued by the storyline and told the assembled company that it had already claimed his attention. He told them to continue with their discussions, if they were happy for him to listen in. They in turn were delighted and asked him to add any points of use and to correct any ideas which would not work. Kit was in his element, and between the six of them they set out a plan for the staging of the play, which included Kit’s suggestion that all lines in Latin be translated by an actor speaking to a servant who was lacking in an in-depth knowledge of the language. This would help audience members who were not familiar with Latin, while not making them feel inferior. It would be the servant who was considered ignorant!

“Clever thinking”, said Anthony/.

“Pleasing the audience is the key to any production,” replied Kit. “That is, if you want to entice them back in the future.”

“We’ll have to see how well this one works out before we look ahead”, put in Robert.

Kit laughed, adding, “I am sure it will all go well.”

“Wait till you read it,” said Nicholas. “You may want to alter your opinion then and if so, please be honest with us.”

“I shall definitely be honest,” said Kit. “There’s no point in letting something through if it can be improved and I am a great critic of my own work and want it as perfect as possible, so have made changes when one of the actors in my plays has made a very good suggestion.”

The conversation drifted on to areas of Rochester Castle which would be most useful for each scene and how to move the audience from one room to another, so no one missed any of the action. It was an adventurous plan, Kit had to admit, but seemed likely to succeed with  good planning.

A couple of hours rolled by before the group decided to order their final drinks and then make their way home. By this time, Ned had joined them for a tankard of ale after a busy Friday evening serving a continual stream of customers.

“I have a few walk-on parts in this play”, announced Ned proudly. “Didn’t want a speaking part – would have to learn too many words and I’m not good at that. So, walking on stage and walking off again is ideal for me. My brother Sam refused to take part as he doesn’t like the idea of appearing in public, but his son is going to be the young prince, son of Queen Revecu” and he has a few words to say.”

As Ned walked back to his post behind the bar, John and Kit confirmed their meeting in the alcove for noon the next day, with his old schoolmate asking Kit not to order any food as the meal would be his way of showing gratitude for the help with the play.

Kit waited for the group to leave, then made his way back to the still-vacant window seat and signalled to Matthew to join him. Five minutes later with drinks in their hands, Kit gave his trainee a deliberately vague outline of the events of the evening, omitting to tell him there was no plot but a play in the making. He was keen to tell Sir Francis first about this whole episode but did advise Matthew to set off for Scadbury the next morning. Having hastily written a note to Sir Francis, which briefly explained that he would be staying on till the afternoon to follow up a lead, but would be back in time for dinner, Kit asked Matthew to hand it to the spymaster as soon as possible on his return. They then parted, with Kit promising an update when they met again at Scadbury.

Once in his room, Kit lit two candles and settled down to read the script, but then decided that daylight and a fresher mind in the morning might be the better way to acquaint himself with this drama. He pushed the chair against the door handle, sought the relative comfort of the inn’s bed and while waiting for sleep to overcome him, began to wonder if would-be playwrights had become the theme for this trip to Kent – first Richard, now John and friends. What next? ‘Not Matthew as a budding playwright, I hope – don’t think I could take on that aspect of training with him as well.’ With that thought he fell asleep, waking as the sunlight drifted through the gap in the curtains and giving him a few hours to go through the play.

By noon he was at the alcove table, ale in hand, script on the table, with some notes laying on top. His luggage was at his side, and he had made sure Chestnut would be ready to leave at any time. John arrived and embraced Kit who immediately offered to buy him a drink.

“Only on condition you accept my offer of a meal – at my house, cooked by my wife”.

“That’s too good an offer to refuse”.

“Well, that’s decided then, and we’ll set off once we’ve finished our drinks.”

“I must check on my horse first”, said Kit.

“Bring him with you – he can share the stable with my horse, Silver. The house comes with a big field and a few outhouses so there will be plenty of room for him and he can share Silver’s hay.”

“That sounds wonderful, said Kit. “But let me pay you for the hay at least.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it,” John told him as he downed the final drops of ale and the pair stood up, and bidding Ned farewell, they set off to collect Chestnut.

John’s house was only a five-minute walk away, so Silver and Chestnut were soon getting to know each other, amid a big pile of hay.

John’s wife, Margaret, welcomed Kit warmly and soon had the meal on the table. Their two children Edward and Joan were quiet and well behaved, while their parents and Kit conversed. John told Kit that after leaving the King’s school he had taken an apprenticeship as an engraver, under the tutorship of the silversmith, Anthony Goodson, and the two became good friends. Kit vaguely remembered that John had always had beautiful handwriting, so engraving seemed the perfect job for him. John then went on to reveal that Robert and Thomas also worked together as tailors. They were cousins, who had taken over the shop owned jointly by their fathers, learning the skill of making clothes from the two brothers. Nicholas was the town crier and worked in all weathers to bring the news to Rainham’s residents.

Kit told them of his days at university and his subsequent luck of having Tamburlaine the Great performed at the only playhouse south of the Thames, which had opened the previous year. Of course, he made no mention of the spy ring, his walk round Rochester Castle and the fire and food discovery, but did chat about his visit to his family, the birth of his friends’ twins and the engraved silver baptismal gift he gave his godson.

After the meal the old boys of Canterbury’s King’s School pored over the script and the notes Kit had made and John said he would pass them all on to his fellow playwrights. They met every Friday evening at the Apple Tree so there would be something positive to discuss next time. Secretly, Kit was keen for Sir Francis to see this script as proof that no plot was afoot.

“John, do you happen to have a spare copy of this script which I could borrow? I had to rush through it this morning to get the gist of the play but would dearly like to read it again at a more leisurely pace. I think I may be able to improve the Latin,” he said knowing full well that he had already done so in note form, safely stored in the inner pocket of his doublet.

Yes, we made a few copies, so we have two each. I’ll get the other one for you now.”

Having looked through it quickly, Kit then made ready to leave, with a promise to keep in touch and to return the script on his next visit to Kent. He felt sure there would be more stays at Scadbury in the near future and he could make a day trip to Rainham to return the document. Meanwhile, he had provisionally accepted an invitation to the debut of the play, hoping to be free to spend a few days in Kent in early September.

With a wave from atop his borrowed horse, Kit set off, arriving at Scadbury Manor as the sun was getting low in the sky. He was pleased to find Tamburlaine back at the stables, with new shoes, and giving a whinny of delight at seeing him. Kit patted his neck, hoping this horse would soon be his but would have to find out whether Sir Francis was happy with the blacksmith’s valuation and prepared to pay the amount estimated.

He made his way to the house, and slipped a note under the door Sir Francis used as an office to let him know he would be joining them all for dinner that evening. It had been a long day, and Kit knew it would be late before he could get any sleep as he had much to tell Sir Francis, and that would be in privacy, once the others had left the dinner table.

© Chasqui Penguin, 2023

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

Announcements

Travelling by train in the UK can be a good, frustrating or even amusing experience. We found the latter on a trip home 20 years ago which became memorable because of all the announcements throughout the journey, and these are as near to verbatim as I could recall when writing this a few days after the journey. Since then I have updated a few details but it is basically as written thirteen years ago .

As our weekend in London in September 2010 drew to a close, I set off for the railway station with my husband. It had been a fun couple of days meeting up with  friends and chatting, when not listening to some great music. Despite our fears of missing the train, we arrived with about 10 minutes to spare and were able to find seats together and get ourselves sorted out well before it set off.  A couple of minutes before Departure Time we heard an announcement along the lines of:

Midland Mainline is sorry to tell you that this train will be leaving London later than planned as the crew is on another train which is late arriving here.  We hope to be leaving around 5:20. 

This announcement was then repeated a few minutes later before the train set off, at a slow pace, around 5:15 p.m.

A few minutes into the journey another announcement informed us that the snack bar was closed for stocktaking but should be opening shortly.

Soon after this we received another MM apology for the slow progress of the train – this was due to our following the London to Manchester train which had left St Pancras late. It transpires that maintenance work on the usual lines had resulted in all trains from London to Manchester setting off from St. Pancras instead of Euston.

The next announcement was full of promise:

The snack bar is now open. 

My husband, in customary fashion, went straight off to buy a coffee and hadn’t been back more than a couple of minutes, cup in hand, when the familiar sound of an impending announcement could be heard:

We apologise to all our customers but the boiler has broken down in the snack bar so there will be no hot drinks until it has been repaired.  We are working on it at the moment.

The train continued at its leisurely pace when another announcement was heralded by a rustling sound from the speakers and the poor stewardess had to inform us all that

We have run out of sandwiches and have only two cheeseburgers left.  However, we do have a good supply of crisps and chocolate.

By this time, a few of us in the carriage were beginning to see the funny side. 

Looking out of the window, it seemed the train was picking up speed, though it was still some distance from its first stop.

Another announcement, this one bringing good news:

The boiler in the snack bar has been repaired, with the complimentary tea and coffee drinks available again.

Less than 5 minutes later:

We apologise again but the boiler in the snack bar has broken down again.

We reached our first stop – a few passengers got on and one asked where the snack bar was. We directed her, adding that there was no tea and coffee.

The train set off at a good pace and we wondered if we would make up any lost time.  We watched the cattle and sheep in the fields to our left as we sped by.  Darkness began to fall, gradually at first, then in one quick movement it was black outside, and it seemed as if the train would continue at the normal speed.  It was 7:00 and the train had been due at our destination at 7:01 so we were about an hour late – at least we had comfortable seats. I didn’t miss the coffee or tea, never having been keen on either.

We were speeding along happily. Suddenly the train slowed down and finally stopped.  Another announcement:

We are sorry for the delay, but the speed sign has been knocked over and the driver couldn’t read the speed he was meant to be going at so he’s had to slow down and stop and is now speaking to the Signal Box staff to find out.  We will continue as soon as possible.

We did and normal speed was resumed for an uninterrupted 10 minutes before this announcement:

We wish to inform you that the snack bar will be closing in five minutes for stocktaking and will not open again on this journey.

A rush to the snack bar ensued….

Uncharacteristically, there were no further announcements for another half hour when a scheduled stopped saw more people pouring on to the train than I would have thought possible.  The young lady who chose a seat opposite to us told us she had been travelling for five hours, having set off from Cheltenham that afternoon – usually a two-and-a-half-hour journey back home. After four trains and one bus connecting two stations she’d had enough, especially as this had involved her being given wrong information which sent her to Birmingham and then Leicester.

We set off again – not long now.  Another announcement:

May we suggest that you fill in a Complaints Form which you can collect from the Booking Office on arrival?  We will be arriving about an hour later than planned and so you should be entitled to compensation.

We finally found ourselves back on familiar territory. By then it was nearly 8:00 p.m. We called in at the Ticket Office, en route to the taxi rank, and were handed a Complaints Form.  We took one look at the queue for taxis, with none in residence, and decided to walk into town and wait for a bus.  This proved to be a wise – and cheaper – decision as a 58 was just pulling up at the bus stop when we arrived and by 8:20 p.m. we were home.

The next day I completed the Complaints Form and posted it to Midland Mainline. We received some train vouchers in compensation and used them for a visit to Lincoln the following summer, so not a bad outcome after all.

As our weekend had been spent at a Neil Young Convention it did cross my mind that it was the Spirit of Crazy Horse (the native American, not the band), causing havoc on the Iron Horse, to which he objected as the building of the railroad was destroying the sacred lands of his people. We shall never know!

© Chasqui Penguin, 2023

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

A Significant Date and Find – Part 2

Following Part 1, this is also dedicated to Neil Young, whose music I have admired since I discovered his talents in 1967. As with Part 1, this counterpart has not been proofread professionally, but I hope that will not detract from any reading pleasure.

PART 2

My enthusiasm for Neil Young’s music has never waned and I have remained faithful to it throughout these last 56 years. I have to admit that some albums are not as good as others, but he is always prepared to experiment, change musical direction, jam with a variety of musicians and be generally unpredictable, while his writing remains among the best in Rock. He has dabbled in many themes but frequently returns to a subject of mutual interest – the native peoples of the American continent and their despicable treatment. His skills with words have inspired me to write – not songs but stories – and through his wealth of topics, I have found numerous ones of my own to pen.

However, I do think of the 1980s decade as Neil’s Wilderness Years when he signed to another record company. After a few releases, encompassing various musical genre, the owner sued Neil for recording albums which were “unrepresentative of his music”. The court came down in favour of Neil, concluding that as he had encompassed a variety of musical styles throughout his career, nothing could be considered unrepresentative of his music. After the court case Neil returned to his old record company and came back with his familiar electric style in 1990 with Crazy Horse and one of his finest albums ever, Ragged Glory.

During the 80s Neil had other things on his mind. At that time, he and his wife Pegi were involved in starting a school for disabled children. With their son Ben suffering with cerebral palsy, like his older brother Zeke but more severely, they found there was no ideal school for Ben in the San Francisco area, so they followed Pegi’s idea and opened The Bridge School which is still in existence and goes from strength to strength. They rely a great deal on the use of computers and technology in general to help the children and though Neil ploughs in quite a large amount of his personal fortune, for many years he organised a benefit gig every October which spanned two days and attracted Rock’s biggest names who happily gave their time and musical talent for free, with Neil playing a set both days. The children and their parents had complimentary tickets for front row seats, the rest of the audience bought theirs, and a good time was had by all and a fair amount of money raised for the school each year. These concerts have now ceased but the Bridge School is still a going concern.

Although so many of Neil’s songs are sad or protest against injustice, they have given me so much pleasure over the years and I have to say that with my interest in words and writing, Neil’s scribal talents have long proved irresistible to me. However, my parents must have considered me a tone-deaf Philistine and I do recall my mum telling me in my teens that there would come a day when I would like 1930s dance band music and opera! This day has never dawned and by the time I was 40 she seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that her only daughter would continue through the rest of her life listening to the high-pitched singing (or whining, as she put it, though not me as I love listening to his voice) that Neil is so famous for, along with his acoustic and electric guitar playing which has a recognisable style of its own. Added to his long hair, Neil was also famous for his patched jeans and my mum once made the hilarious statement, “You’d think with his money, he could afford to buy himself a decent pair of trousers”, seemingly unaware that the scruffy appearance was deliberate and financially unrelated.

In 1981, my husband and I “trekked” by underground, from West to North London to see Neil’s Rust Never Sleeps film – a recording of his 22^nd October 1978 San Francisco gig with Crazy Horse. In the foyer of the cinema were some application forms to join the newly formed Neil Young Appreciation Society (NYAS), an invitation I could not refuse, and I am proud to say that I became one of their earliest and longest-serving members, receiving the first edition of the Broken Arrow magazine, which is synonymous with the society, and to which I have contributed many articles over the years. Through the NYAS (run by fans for fans, so it is a labour of love), I have made many friends around the world – some I have never met but others I have got to know from the get-togethers and we have kept in touch by email across the miles. The first I attended was in 2003 when a group of us met in a pub in Hammersmith, prior to Neil’s Sunday night concert at the former Odeon, now Apollo. Here I should point out that the NYAS comprised about 90% male and 10% female membership and as I have not only been a regular contributor to Broken Arrow over the years but also one of the few females writers, I discovered that evening that my fame went before me because as I was introduced to fellow fans, my name was recognised and, much to my husband’s amusement, I was given hugs and references were made to the articles I had written over the years. That was my 15 minutes of fame!

Later that year we had a Convention in South London which was virtually 48 hours of wall-to-wall Neil Young music, with his albums being played and tribute bands as well as solo musicians entertaining us on the Friday and Saturday evenings. Two years later we had another similar Convention to celebrate Neil’s 60th birthday and in 2010 with Neil approaching 65, another Convention was organised to celebrate this birthday and sadly, turned out to be the last. It is a lot of hard work for the organisers, and I was involved in this on the periphery, but we all agree that each one was a great success and very worthwhile, with all profits from the events going to the Bridge School. Unfortunately, after many years and over 130 quarterly issues of Broken Arrow, the NYAS is no longer in existence, but the magazines are a reminder of a part of my life which gave me the chance to write about various aspects of Neil’s music and what it means to me.

Born in November 1945, Neil is fast approaching his 78^th birthday, but shows no sign of slowing down. He is releasing albums from his archives on a regular basis and his website Neil Young Archives comprises over half a century of his music, along with articles and regular updates, many from Neil himself.

Looking back to the day I bought that Buffalo Springfield album, I never thought that 56 years later I would still be listening to Neil, nor could I have ever imagined how his music would constitute such a part of my life. One of the many things I have learned about Neil’s music is to expect the unexpected and it is this which has kept his releases and concerts so interesting, while his faith and commitment to the music, as well as his enduring principles concerning wider issues, ensure his permanent popularity with so many rock musicians and fans alike.

Thank you so much, Neil!

© Chasqui Penguin, 2023

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

A SIGNIFICANT DATE AND FIND – PART 1

This was a home assignment for the local writers’ group, and is dedicated to one of my long-time heroes. It is said that he has made a career of perfecting imperfection and in line with this approach I have not had these recollections of mine proofread. In actual fact, my proofreader is very busy, and I have no desire to take her away from her paid work, with deadline, to go through my ramblings. Therefore, many apologies for any errors which I have overlooked while doing my own proofreading. Hope they will be more amusing than horrifying!

The featured image is of a mug, the 1973 photo showing the man who is the subject of this piece, and was a gift from a like-eared friend. So now we can step back 56 years as I introduce my teenage self.

Part 1

It was August 1967 – possibly 18^th; that is certainly the date marked for any milestone celebrations of this event. In many ways it was a significant summer both personally and for most of my generation. I was 16, had finished my O-levels at the end of June and, for the first time in years, had no holiday homework, just weeks leisure time stretching out before the arrival of my results and the start of my college course in September. The year 1967 also went down in modern history as The First Summer of Love and while I embraced some of the hippie ideals, such as peace not war, along with the music, there were other aspects I steered clear of, particularly the drugs. At the time I had a strong American influence from my best friend, Camilla whose father’s job had brought the family back to London from California for another three years. I also exchanged letters with a pen pal in Missouri who had very similar musical tastes to ours and she had recommended a new West Coast band called Buffalo Springfield.

With little in the way, of money I wasn’t given to impulse buying till one day in the middle of that August (quite possibly 18^th), I was walking past a record store and there in the window was an eponymous album bearing the two words Buffalo Springfield. It was like a magnet, I suppose, as within a minute I was inside buying the record – handing over my hard saved thirty shillings and feeling almost unable to wait to play it. Initial spins were very favourable with all the tracks written by various members of the band, and one in particular, standing out – the almost haunting Neil Young song Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing. Camilla and I were hooked immediately and as we got into the album were struck more and more by the writing talents of this young Canadian and, to this day, I wish I had bought shares in him! There was one thing puzzling me about the album, the titles of the songs on the first side didn’t seem to match the lyrical content but as a Dylan fan I was quite familiar with this slant. However, one day on the radio I heard For What It’s Worth and realised that while this title didn’t appear in any of the verses, nor did the song itself appear on my copy of Buffalo Springfield, despite being listed as the first track. Something not right there. I subsequently bought the single of For What It’s Worth, and listening to it confirmed its omission from my album, so wrote to Atlantic Records in London to complain! To this day, I am still awaiting a reply! However, in a way the laugh was on me as it transpired that my album was a limited pressing and while I had had to buy the single for the familiar price of six shillings and eight pence, I also had a rare Buffalo Springfield recording gracing Side 1 of the album! This was the track Baby, Don’t Scold Me, written by Stephen Stills. I have seen this rare release for sale online for the princely sum of $599 – a bit more expensive than the 30 shillings (one pound ten shillings) I paid for it in those pre-decimal days! I understand that the original release was replaced by the record company about three months later. This second pressing included For What It’s Worth, another Stephen Stills track which is still played by some radio stations today and at no time in this song is the title mentioned!

My interest in Buffalo Springfield and the band members increased over the following months, with all the songs becoming familiar friends in my head. I sent a letter to their record company in California and was rewarded with a nice reply, telling me that I was only the third Buffalo Springfield fan to have written to them from England, and enclosed were a number of photos of the band (most featuring Neil in fringed suede) and a biography. For a short while I thought I shared my 11^th December birthday with Neil Young, but Camilla put me right – his 11/12/45 birth date was in fact, the American way of writing 12^th November! I continued to listen avidly to my treasured album and particularly to Neil’s contributions which already showed he had a great writing talent and Camilla and I felt he would go far. Clancy was released in the States as a single and was subsequently banned from radio play because of one unacceptable word in the lines “Who should be sleeping but is writing this song, wishing and a-hoping he weren’t so damned wrong?” Goodness knows what the censors of the mid-60s would make of today’s releases but, unlike them, I was neither offended nor affected in any way by the blatant swearing Neil had engaged in(!) but was very impressed by the fact that he had effortlessly and correctly used the subjunctive in bemoaning the error of his judgement.

The next year I bought their follow-up album, Buffalo Springfield Again, which featured the sensitive and memorable Neil Young songs Expecting to Fly and Broken Arrow. These were a foretaste of future songs and highlighted his emotive singing and playing which was impossible for the listener to ignore. However, soon after this Neil left the band, only to rejoin for their third and final album Last Time Around before the five of them went their separate ways. In 1968 Neil made a beautiful, soft solo album, then joined forces with a group called The Rockets, and with their name changed to Crazy Horse, they hit our generation in 1969 with their electric album Everybody Knows This is Nowhere. Since then, he and Crazy Horse have witnessed many line-up changes, with collaborations on record and in concert, and Neil is at his electric best with original members Billy Talbot, Ralph Molina and “newcomer” Frank Sampedero who joined the band in 1975. The four of them complement each other so well musically and all of Neil’s famous electric tracks, including Cowgirl in the Sand, Cortez, Hurricane Powderfinger and Over and Over have been made with Crazy Horse.

By the time Woodstock came along in August 1969, Crosby, Stills and Nash had made a name for themselves as a supergroup, to become even more super when the two words “and Young” were added. For all Buffalo Springfield fans, seeing Neil Young and Stephen Stills back together in a band was like a dream come true and over the ensuing decades there have been continuing, albeit intermittent, collaborations between these four musicians.

In January 1970 I got my first chance to see CSN&Y Live at the Royal Albert Hall and about a year later, soon after the release of his hugely successful After the Gold Rush album, I was in the second row for the recording of Neil’s solo, acoustic BBC In Concert and had the unforgettable pleasure of meeting him afterwards. Knowing I would be at his Royal Festival Hall Concert a few days later, I asked him if he’d sing Clancy. He said he wouldn’t promise in case he forgot but his memory didn’t fail him and without any announcement (for which I shall be eternally grateful) he launched into this song which has been a favourite of mine since I first heard it back in 1967. Those of you who recall February 1971 may wonder how I got tickets for both concerts in the midst of the seven-week postal strike. Well, it wasn’t easy, and it was a matter of persistence in phoning to book and then going along to pick them up. Added to that was the confusing changeover to decimalisation but for me I shall always remember that month, and 23^rd and 27^th in particular, for seeing Neil in two of the best concerts I have ever experienced – and more than 50 years on, I have a lot to compare them with, including about a dozen other Neil Young gigs, though not one of those has disappointed me.

Part 2 to follow – if not next month, then soon after.

© Chasqui Penguin, 2023

X/Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

It’s Happened Before

My long-held philosophy revolves around all good things being worth the wait. Sometimes there are some pleasant surprises in life, and I would like to share one of these with you now. For once the British weather had a positive part to play in the story! I should add here that this tale is another from my apparently over-active imagination, according to my husband – still trying to decide if this is a compliment!

No prizes for recognising legendary guitar hero Jimi Hendrix as the subject of the featured image.

It’s Happened Before

A few weeks ago, my husband Jack and I decided to have a day at the coast to celebrate our wedding anniversary. However, when we arrived the bright sunshine, which had accompanied us for most of the journey, had turned to rain and the beach was only just visible through damp mist. The idea of a leisurely walk along the promenade was out of the question, so having found a very pleasant eating establishment we whiled away about an hour and a half there chatting over our meals and hoping for a change in the weather – no such luck; it poured down with a determination known only in the depths of an English summer. However, a leaflet holder caught my eye. On investigation, I found a variety of pamphlets advertising an assortment of local places to visit so took a handful and returned to our table. As Jack and I pored over them, we were both drawn to a nearby venue called Adventure City, and within this there was an activity entitled It’s Happened Before. It promised fun and interest for those with a fondness for nostalgia and history.

Making our way the short distance to the rather bizarre-looking new building, we were pleasantly surprised to find no queue. We approached the box office and found we could buy a ticket which covered all on offer, and was valid till the end of the season, or buy one for a named activity. Having just the afternoon to spend there, we opted for the latter, and for £20 each we were escorted to a room and promised a trip into the past which would last for just over two hours. Yes, it did sound expensive, but the treat offered and the fact that this was part of our anniversary celebration made us “push the boat out”, as it were.

A young woman escorted us into a small room with a screen and a variety of levers. She then handed us an electronic device and asked which experience we would like to choose. We looked down the categories: History, Entertainment, Famous People, Sport and Occupations. Clicking on each heading revealed a drop-down menu showing the range offered within each. After a quick chat, Jack and I opted for a trip to Woodstock in 1969 and being present in the audience for the Jimi Hendrix set on the Monday morning, 18^th August. Giving us each a headset, a kaftan, a string of beads and a headband, she told us to wear these and watch the screen. A few seconds later, we were wearing the kaftans over our own clothes, and it seemed as if we had been transported to a field, with a good view of the Woodstock stage. We had arrived just before Hendrix and his band walked on and, in the subsequent two and a quarter hours, we had the full experience of an event we had previously only known via albums and film. Jimi’s famous rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner sounded wilder and more exciting live. Our guitar hero used his Fender Stratocaster to great effect with unrestrained versions of so many songs we knew from our album collection. And we revelled in finally being able to see one of our rock heroes live – after all these years and yet going back all those years. It really was a quite extraordinary experience, with the time passing so quickly. Before we knew it, we had returned from the field on Yasgur’s Farm, to the small room in Adventure City, feeling exhilarated but nevertheless wondering if we really had experienced Woodstock live or whether it had been just an illusion.

We were allowed to keep the extras, as they were called, but had to hand back the headsets, of course. And so, while still wearing the kaftans, beads and headbands, we made our way back to our car, encountering looks of amazement from passers-by and one barely muffled comment, “Ageing hippies!”, which didn’t bother us at all! We had seen Jimi Hendrix live – an experience we had so sadly crossed off our Wish List in 1970 – and that’s all that mattered.

By the time we got home we had decided to make a few more trips to Adventure City to live through more of the past. There was a lot on offer, at this stage only in the English language, but I held out hope that they would branch out and we could perhaps go to the Aztec and Inca civilisations and meet their famous leaders and the people they ruled over, with interpreting included. However, for our next trip we are going to pursue the live music theme and later delve into history in a virtual reality setting. Watch this space!

Woodstock Festival – August 1969

© Chasqui Penguin, 2023

Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin