Monday, May 16, 2011

The Garden of Tranquility at St. Marple's, Laverstone.

St. Marple's Church provides an area of welcome shade from the heat of the day. The owner, who bought the derelict building some years ago, was thoughtful enough to provide an area of artificial garden amongst the faux tombstones and graves of famous writers. If you were unaware of the artistic nature on the building and grounds, you might be tempted to believe that Dante had been reunited with his beloved Beatrice, or Orpheus had left his homeland and brought the remains of Eurydice to a backwater of Wiltshire.

In this tiny garden of contemplation, just yards away from the bustling market square, a wall of ivy-covered stone surrounds carefully tended gardens of saxifrage and aquilegia, cornflowers and aubretia. At the backs of the borders delphiniums and foxgloves stretch toward the sun, shaded by cherry and silver birch and the gnarled, ancient yew that guards the entrance.

A fountain bubbles at the base of the war memorial, a natural spring piped through the wall of the church though a small plaque warns people not to drink from it. The memorial was constructed in the thirties, the first and last echo of Dada combined with Epstein's futurism to produce a statue made from the barrels of guns and shells recovered from the Somme. The locals shunned it for years, preferring the simple obelisk outside the church of St Pity's a mile to the east. Someone has wound ribbons around the gun barrel fingers, though they hang limply in the heat.

The bees hum around the freshly planted summer bedding. Ox-eye daisies and osteospermum compete for the few that have found the garden. I switch my phone off to give them a little peace.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

DS Anna Wilde now in Print as well as eBook

Anna Wilde dragged a brush through her hair. It seemed to have a life of its own ever since she'd freed it from the severe spiky chop she'd sported since her days at Hendon. She was in two minds to tether it with an elastic scrunchie – it was at the just-above-the-collar stage where it looked messy whichever way she wore it. She left it loose and glanced at her watch: seven-twelve.

“Damn.”

She shrugged on her jacket, stuffed her wallet and phone in the pockets of her jeans and grabbed the handle of her suitcase.

“'Bye, Jo.”

There was no reply from her housemate and erstwhile lover. Anna wasn't surprised. Jo had been passive-aggressive toward her ever since she got her new posting.

She opened the front door, took a last look at the house and left. She's be lucky to make the seven-forty to Laverstone.



What happens to DS Anna Wilde?

12-05-2011 Hellebore and Rue