Roger Simstridd was old-style Fleet Street, having earned his spurs in the days when you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face for cigarette smoke, a bottle of whiskey was in every desk drawer and editors ruled with a rod of iron which they weren’t afraid to use every time they lost their temper. Simstridd, when David met him, was a man weighed down by three bitter divorces, numerous children all estranged, and the deep cynicism which comes from reporting on the sourer side of human nature.
Back then he was a Fleet Street legend because of his unerring instinct for smelling out scandals however deeply buried. It was probably true to say, in his view, if something wasn’t hidden under layers of lies it wasn’t worth writing about in the first place. The scoops he garnered on the back of his intransigence, made knees knock at all levels of society, industry and government. He was a great reporter although that same intransigence never made him popular with editors. He was ethical to a fault and refused to exaggerate to enhance a headline, flat out rejected any suggestion of bending the facts and used to say, ‘if an effing story, isn’t the whole effing truth and nothing but the effing truth, then it’s not effing getting Simstridd’s by-line.’
One of the many bees in his bonnet, on which he’d been accumulating files for years, was the enormous sums of government money used to fund research into extra sensory perception, not just in this country but the US, Russia and China too. Simstridd’s goal was to haul into the light of day, the scandal of what had been spent on crazy, no-hope projects. The problem was, whilst he was able to dig up a lot, the more he dug, the more his views changed. There were things out there, he told David, that simply didn’t fit expected parameters. He didn’t want to write about some of the things he’d come across because he’d be laughed out of the business, but neither could he bring himself to write the dénouement originally planned.
Recently Simstridd had been approached by a national paper to resuscitate the years-ago, abandoned project. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in the best of health, having survived on alcohol, cigarettes and chips for 60 of his 70 years. He said he was way past taking on a big project like this, but he knew a man who might.
The advantages for David were many. He could do a lot of it from home, and that worked out well for both of us. Although there was no shortage of volunteers to keep an eye on Sara when she accompanied me to the office, it did slow up productivity and as she could crawl at a faster rate than most of us could run and yearned only to beat us to the stairs so she could hurl herself down, things could turn a little tiresome.
Finding myself totally overruled on the birthday party, I took the lazy way out and left planning in the hands of my Mother and Mother-in-Law, although apparently things got a little heated when it came to Victoria Plum versus The Munch Bunch and peace was only brokered by David suggesting a half and half arrangement. I did say I’d make the birthday cake, a suggestion which was greeted with so much amusement from all sides, that I felt it verged on the hurtful.
I was touched when a couple of days before her birthday, a parcel arrived addressed to Sara. In it was a set of building bricks from Mrs Millsop with a card, and also a tiny bracelet from Alison, who was back on her feet in every sense of the word. Glory and Ed sent something for me rather than Sara, on the basis I’d appreciate it and she wouldn’t. It was a rather gorgeously coloured, thin, pashmina shawl which was surprisingly warm and the brevity of the note - Glory didn’t waffle - didn’t hide her affection. I left the box which was from Ruth, Rachael and Sam till last, It turned out to hold two carefully tissue-wrapped, beautifully made and painted puppets; a girl in a flower-covered straw hat and her dog. The dog bore more than a passing resemblance to Katerina and I wondered if they’d had the puppets specially made. They were gorgeous items but obviously needed to be put away until Sara was ready to handle them which, judging from the problem we had untangling strings after their journey was probably not going to be until her twenties. With the wooden cross-bar handle and attachment of a multitude of strings, the puppets could be operated in a highly professional manner, elbows and knees, jointed and moving as well as hands, feet and head. David raised his eyes to heaven when he saw them,
“Lovely, but if she gets her hands on them now, those strings are going to be impossible. Maybe we ought to cut a few out?” I was horrified and said so, I thought what we should do is establish them as decorative ornaments for her room, at least for the next few years and David said that sounded more sensible and he’d suspend a couple of hooks from the ceiling, which would hold the T-bars.
* * * *
We had the party on her actual birthday which fell on the weekend, and Laura and my Mother had truly pushed the boat out with mini bridge rolls; egg, cream-cheese and salmon bedecked, as well as enough cakes and pastries to cover next year’s birthday too. When I mentioned this to David, he instantly made me feel mean.
“Look at the pleasure they’re getting out of it.” He said. I had reservations about the amount of pleasure Laura was garnering, but thought it best not to say. I think in her initial enthusiasm for the idea, she’d totally underestimated just how long it took to butter and fill more mini bridge rolls than you could shake a fist at. I also think she probably shot her bolt way before the party started, and as soon as everyone had arrived and lavished praise on the table, she declared herself a wee bit tired and thought she’d sit down with a cup of tea for ten minutes – a break from which she didn’t rise until it was time to leave. Nevertheless, I genuinely appreciated everything she’d done and to be honest; sympathised. I knew to my cost that anyone with any sense of self-preservation did well to stay out of the way of my Mother and Aunts Edna and Kitty in serving mode. All three were hot-wired to sense an empty plate or cup from the other side of a room, and the speed with which this was remedied could send you flying if you got in the way.
Other than Sara, there were a few other babies and parents we’d gathered from our NCT class, although it has to be said that as I suspected, all the little ones sat through the party looking puzzled until it came to the cake, candles and Happy Birthday, at which point they all looked positively alarmed.
By the time everyone left and we got Sara to bed, it felt far later than the 7.30 it actually was. We’d put her down in the usual back to front mode because our babygro situation hadn’t improved. On the couple of occasions we’d re-attempted the right way round, she’d not only wriggled out of the babygro but her nappy too - I’ll say no more.
Collapsed at either end of the sofa, because we really felt we had to hold out until at least 9.00 before we could head for bed, David put the television on and I think I must have drifted off, until he said,
“Stella, don’t.” I jerked awake; had I been snoring? I hated it when that happened.
“Sorry?”
“You’re going to get all the strings tangled again and it took us hours last time to get them sorted.” He was looking at the armchair across the room where the girl in a colourful, flower-covered straw hat and her brown and white dog were dancing merrily, one on each of the broad arms of the chair.
“David,” I said. “That’s not me.”
~end~
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to say a heartfelt, thank you to the people who’ve earned my undying gratitude for their support, both professional and personal, without them, the Strange series would have remained in my head, and I think, on balance, it’s probably better out than in!
Thank you to the saintly designer Gail D’almaine who creates all my book covers. She always manages to read my mind as to exactly what I want, then produces it, ten times better than I ever imagined. It is also the long- suffering Gail who takes my publicity head shots, and has to put up with a lot of whining because I hate having them done. We’ve had many an undignified tussle, last session we headed in through a hotel revolving door and I revolved all the way round and out again, forcing Gail to chase and bring me down with a perfectly timed rugby tackle. She eventually got me in place and pos
ed and I honestly don’t think you can tell how firmly I’m roped to that chair. Well done Gail!
I couldn’t wish for a more wonderful publisher than Nicky Fitzmaurice of Satin Publishing. This book is a shining example of what patience, expertise and gritted teeth can produce, in the face of some truly daft questions, deadlines to be met and an author with a tendency to rock in a corner when things don’t go well. Should you want to get hold of her, you’ll find her recuperating in a dark room, in the local rest-home for beleaguered publishing professionals.
The biggest acknowledgements go, of course, to you Wonderful Readers who’ve taken Stella to your hearts – it is so much appreciated and I love getting your letters, emails and social media messages – please don’t stop letting me know what you think.
I hope you enjoyed this third outing of Stella’s, and should any of you lovely lot feel inclined to write a few words, please know reviews are always welcomed with open arms, small shrieks of delight and a happy dance, unless they’re dreadful, in which case just small shrieks.
The Strange series was originally going to be a trilogy, but as time has gone on it seems to me Stella and co. have a lot more to say, so we’re heading at least for a quadrilogy and who knows, it might not end there.
If you’d like to be kept up to date with my Bookish News & Views Newsletter, which comes out roughly once a month and features, new releases, special offers & introductions to other authors, just drop me an email or make contact through my site.
Finally, as always, love and thanks to my family for putting up with me – and Stella!
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05..04.20
e: [email protected]
w: marilynmessik.co.uk
About the Author
Marilyn was a regular feature and fiction writer for national magazines when her children were small. She set up her first business from home, selling toys, books and party goods, before opening first one shop then another. When she sold both shops, she moved into the world of travel, focusing on B & B’s and Country Inns in New England, USA. Her advisory, planning and booking service flourished and she concurrently launched a publishing company, producing annual, full-colour accommodation guides to the areas.
In 2010 she set up a copywriting consultancy, to help businesses shape their messages to optimum effect.
She’s blogged for The Telegraph online, created and published The Vintage Ladies Collection, written for businesses with Getting it Write and The Little Black Business Books and published four Paranormal Thrillers. She’s been married to her very patient husband for more years than he deserves. They have two children, five grandchildren and, somewhat to their surprise, several granddogs.
Read more at Marilyn Messik’s site.
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