The September 2016 TCWG Creative Writing Competition: Where to find the stories and how to vote

 

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All tcwg site members (and any other interested parties) are invited to read and enjoy the stories entered in the September 2016 TCWG creative writing competition.

If, having read all the stories, you would like to register your vote for the winner and placings, then please follow the voting instructions set out below. This is not obligatory, but if you choose to join in, your participation will be very much appreciated.
JUST FOLLOW THE LINKS TO ALL THE STORIES (which are listed below), AND YOU WILL FIND EACH STORY IN TURN.
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The deadline for entries into the July 2016 Creative Writing Competition passed at Midnight on the 30th. September 2016.

The topic for the September stories was set by the winner of the July 2016 competition , Peter Barnett who graciously agreed that there should be an open topic with each writer choosing his or hers topic of choice.

11 members have entered a total of 13 stories, and thanks are due to them for their efforts. Advance thanks are also offered to all those group members who I hope will now support the competition by reading the stories and registering their vote in the form of a comment below on this post.

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VOTING PROCEDURE.

As in previous months, when voting it will help if voters will make sure to quote the name of the story when posting their vote, particularly in the case where an author has entered more than one story.

Voting can now commence and will continue until 11 p.m. on Monday the 10th of October 2016.
There are no restrictions as to who is allowed to vote, all that is asked is that the voter reads all the stories and votes according to their preference. A brief reason for the choice is welcome but not mandatory.
Voters are requested to vote 5 points for first place, 3 points for second, and 1 point for third place.
Please do not submit any other point combinations such as 3/3/3, 4/4/1, 5/2/2, etc.
Writers are requested not to vote for any of their own entries, and voters are asked not to comment at length about the stories or record any thoughts that you may have on them, until after voting closes.

There will be no detailed summaries posted as to how the voting is progressing throughout the voting period but as soon as possible after voting closes a tabulated list of results will be posted separately and the winner declared. If then you wish to describe in detail the reasons for your choices, or comment at length about some or all of the individual stories, a separate page will be set up at the end of the voting period and after the result has been posted.

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List of entries received. (If I have inadvertently missed an entry or entries, please advise.)

JAVA LAVA. Written by Peter Barnett

https://aasof.com/2016/09/23/java-lava/#more-20343

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THE ROAD TO HELL. Written by Charles Stuart.

https://furryfeatures.wordpress.com/2016/09/27/the-road-to-hell/

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TEEING OFF WITH A BOILED EGG. Written by Atiller.

https://atiller16.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/a-september-2016-ctwg-short-story-entry/

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BETHANY’S CHAIR. Written by Capucin.

https://davidgoodwin935.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/bethanys-chair/

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A FUNERAL. Written by Colmore.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/setember-2016-ctwg-story/

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THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY. Written by Araminta.

https://detectivemouse.wordpress.com/2016/09/28/the-persistence-of-memory/

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THE AUCHENSHUGGLE BIRD. Written by Lostinwords.

https://lostinwords2.wordpress.com/2016/09/27/september-2016-competition/

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THE FINAL MEETING. Written by tp_archie.

http://tparchie.deviantart.com/art/The-Final-Meeting-637202826

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THE RED SWEATER. Written by ExpatAngie.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/september-entry-short-stories/

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TWO SIDES OF A DIFFERENT COIN. Written by Danthemann.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/sep-comp-entry-two-sides-of-a-different-coin/

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BRIAN LARA LOVES BATTING. By Danthemann.

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/sep-comp-entry-brian-lara-loves-batting/

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INVENTORY OF A BEACH BAG. Written by Seadam.

https://seadamsblog.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/inventory-of-a-beach-bag/

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Mme. ROSE. Written by ExpatAngie. (To find … Scroll down from The Red Sweater.)

https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/2016/09/30/september-entry-short-stories/

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Pleasant reading and please  remember to vote.

 

 

The September 2016 CW Competition. Full details of how to enter.

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A FREE ENTRY WRITING COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL!
Details of the September 2016 Creative Writing Competition.
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The topic for September has been set by the winner of the July 2016 competition Peter Barnett who has graciously agreed that there should be an open topic with each writer choosing his or hers topic of choice.

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The length of the story in September has been set at between 250 and 750 words and competitors are reminded that multiple entries can be accepted on as many different topics as each individual competitor chooses
Closing date for entries will be Midnight on Friday the 3oth. of September 2016.
The period for receiving votes will be announced when the competition closes, and votes will not be accepted until after the competition closes.
The “prize” for winning this September competition will be to set the topic for November 2016.

Voting.
After the competition closes there will be a vote to decide the first three places.
Just after the closing date, details of how to vote and a vote collection point will be set up here on this competition blogpage.

How to enter.
Post your story on your personal WordPress blogs and post a link to your story in the form of a comment below.

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And a reminder to those still without their own WordPress site.

WordPress is not the most user friendly of sites but if I can manage it (admittedly not without some frustrations), then I am sure that we all can  … help in setting up your own blog is available, so please ask.

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For those unfamiliar with the workings of the monthly competition a list of detailed rules for the competition can be found here …
https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/competition-rules/

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Pleasant writing and good luck with your stories. After the encouraging increase in the number of entries last month it seems that we may at last be coming to terms with the new arrangements … please can we make September a bumper month.

 

The August 2016 TCWG Creative Writing Competition. Full details of how to enter.

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A FREE ENTRY WRITING COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL!
Details of the August 2016 Creative Writing Competition.

The topic for AUGUST has been set by the winner of the May/June 2016 competition  Seadams who chosen “ISLANDS” and has commented as follows …

ISLANDS.
“I’ve been thinking about islands and their connotations recently. I am quite fascinated by islands, and the idea of living on one permanently (but then, I suppose I already do.)

Island – isola – isolate…insula – insular…

I propose for August we write a story with an island setting – be it desert, tropical, luxurious; real or imaginary; legendary or metaphorical; Channel, Canary, Balearic, Pacific, Hebridean, Caribbean…stacks, reefs, atolls, archipelagos…but no cheating, please: no peninsulas.”

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The length of the story in August will be the regular “between 500 and 3000 words”, and competitors are reminded that multiple entries can be accepted, particularly of the shorter variety.
Closing date for entries will be Midnight on Wednesday the 31st. of August 2016.
The period for receiving votes will be announced when the competition closes, and votes will not be accepted until after the competition closes.
The “prize” for winning this July competition will be to set the topic for October 2016 when I am proposing that we will have a lower limit of 250 to 750 words, giving an opportunity for some writers to make multiple entries.

Voting.
After the competition closes there will be a vote to decide the first three places.
Just after the closing date, details of how to vote, and a vote collection point will be set up here in this competition section.

How to enter.
Post your story on your personal WordPress blogs and post a link to your story in the form of a comment below (“Leave a reply” panel.)

For those unfamiliar with the workings of the monthly competition a list of detailed rules for the competition can be found here …
https://tcwgshortstories.wordpress.com/competition-rules/

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Pleasant writing and good luck. There are still a few teething problems (some more aggravating than others), but please persevere, and with Autumn approaching let’s try to get back into double figure entries once again.

Remember … help with your problems is available so please ask.

Encounter on the Mountain

Encounter on the Mountain

The fog lay thick around the village as Jean gathered Hercule and Lottie from their kennel, buttoned his coat and headed out up the mountain, the dogs moving quietly beside him, thick white coats blending with the fog. His father must have gone to Sibylle’s to collect his passengers for tonight’s trip so he waited. The village clock struck one-thirty. Then he heard the sounds of the group passing by some fifty metres away along passage de Fennilon, the quiet shuffle of muffled feet on the cobbles.

Jean followed them, keeping what he judged to be three to four hundred metres or so behind, enough to release the leading group from any suspicion of being followed, but close enough to know if the group were being followed by others, the dogs padding along obediently beside him. As he walked following the familiar (at least to him and other villagers) path up the mountain, Jean wondered if he was getting into something deeper than usual. He recalled the visit from Meaulnes, the local Resistance leader, the day before. He had explained briefly the need to take a party over the mountain the following evening, the urgency stemming from the fact that the bosches would likely be extremely interested in one of the group whom they were actively hunting. Gilles had immediately agreed to do it and point blank told Jean to keep out.

Continue reading Encounter on the Mountain

Colmore’s tcwg competition entry for June 2020.

HARVEST MOON. Written by Colmore.

The lads from the Postlynch Estate farm were in good heart as they set out for Winchbourne, specifically The Corner Cupboard Inn for the annual local Harvest Supper. A time to catch up and socialise at the squires’ expense with the lads – and importantly the lasses – from the neighbouring farms and estates. New friendships and relationships could be formed to be nurtured like a candle flame through the dark, cold winter months and, in the case of existing relationships, banked up warm, in both cases ready to burst out into open flame in the lighter, warmer summer days.

The evening was warm and as the sun set, draining the colour from the sky, the harvest moon started to rise, slowly flooding the landscape in an eerie red light.
“Wow,” Tommy Hawkins exclaimed, “not seen one like that before ever.”
“You be not old enough, my lad,” laughed Old Miles who was rumoured by the local young’uns to be at least 100 years old, a notion he himself never denied for fear, as he put it, of spoiling the magic. The older lads simply knew that he did a first-class impression of Santa Claus every Christmas.
“But beware,” Miles continued sucking his old clay pipe, “a harvest moon that colour can bring grave misfortune on the unwary or imprudent. Treat it as an omen.”

The cart lurched on the rutted road as they entered the small town, the way illuminated by the ever rising moon and the odd light peeping through drawn blinds. The lads were beginning to josh each other as to who might meet favour with which particular girl.
“I do believe, Tommy Hawkins, you’d be made for young Eva from Dugdale,” Jo Riley called out to general agreement.
“Aye, Jo, she’s fairer than your young Rosie.” Henry Evans retorted. “Bigger up top and….”
“Calm it, boys,” Miles cut in. “We ain’t even seen a drop of drink and you’re squabbling.”
Just then the cart made as if to turn off left and Miles suddenly shouted to the driver, “Where you going, Fred?”
“Down Cowl Lane.” Fred grumbled in a surly fashion. “Same as always.”
“No ‘ee don’t, Fred Longbotham. Not on a night like this with a blood harvest moon; we’re not going past the old Abbey ruins,” Miles cut in. “A moon like that is an omen of likely bad things and it ain’t worth risking it.”
Jo Riley called out, “Why not Mr. Miles, sir? Surely there’s nothing to be seen down there except the old ruins,” but was silenced by a glare from Miles.

Fred grumbled and resumed his course down North Street before turning into the High Street where the inn, all lit up with lanterns, awaited the would-be revellers. The lads tumbled into the inn, some straight into the arms of girlfriends, others looking around and greeting friends and acquaintances from around the neighbourhood. The noise was deafening but punctuated by the shouts of Jim the landlord and his staff and beningly watched over by Jim Hawkins, the sergeant from the local police house.
“Sergeant Jim,” one lad shouted, “why not send one of your constables then you could enjoy this off-duty.”
“I’ll enjoy it anyhow, Howie,” Hawkins smiled cheerily. “I knows this is your first Harvest Supper, so let me put it this way. Me, free pints and food, a night off from the missus – and I gets to see you lot misbehave. Then I’ve got something, if I needs it,  to keep you all on the straight and narrow for another year. You young’uns just love it when I threatens to tip the wink to your fathers.”
Howie, suitably chastened, retreated to find his group from Colliers Farm who were in full flow. Meanwhile young Jo Riley was getting on well with Rosie Smith with whom he first became acquainted back in early spring, several late night treks back from a neighbouring farm having proved worthwhile. The beer flowed and the food appeared in good time and in sufficient quantity to line the revellers’ stomachs.

The evening wore on and Jo who, to the amusement of some of his elders, had his neck firmly buried in Rosie’s neck, whispers,
“Rosie, it’s still a warm evening. Fancy a stroll with me?” To which Rosie giggled and nudged Jo to get moving.
“Off to the privy,” he said to the other lads and lasses who took hardly any notice so engrossed they were in various raucous conversations except for Sergeant Jim who noted simply that nature was taking its course which doubtless would likely result in a February wedding before the tell-tale physical clues became too obvious. He looked round and noticed Rosie gone too thus confirming his suspicions.

The moon was setting, shedding its last baleful rays across the earth before the full appearance of the stars in the clear night sky. The couple headed down the back lane stopping to trade kisses before they got to an open area abutting on the ruins of the old abbey. 
“Why don’t we do in here and we could lie awhile?” Jo whispered to which Rosie responded with a nuzzle in his neck.
“You done this before, Jim Riley?” she whispered.
“No, my love. You be the only one my Rosie.” And with that they sunk to the ground, Rosie consenting to let the front of her dress slip.
Rosie awoke some time later and noted the sky seemed darker, as if the stars had been switched off, the grass and ground beneath her seemed cold. She heard the church clock strike and she counted eleven. She heard some shouts in the distance.
“Eleven o’clock. That’s when the carts leave,” she thought. Panicking she shook Jo awake.
“What is it, my lovely?” he enquired groggily.
“It’s eleven o’clock. Time the carts leave the ale-house. Come on, Jo Riley, we’ll miss the ride home.” She shook him one more time.
“Oh, my lovely. I was having such a dream. Dreamt I was being received by strange figures yet I wasn’t afeared, just nervous. Seemed to be carrying me off to a better, safer place, somewhere distant.” 
Rosie shook Jo harder, more urgently. 
“Come on Jo. We must go. Now!” Rosie shouted as Jo staggered to his feet. Rosie began to run across the field struggling over the weeds and bits of broken masonry. As she reached the road, she met Sergeant Hawkins brandishing a lamp along with Miles and two of the other lads from Postlynch obviously searching for her and Jo.

“Where’s young Jo?” Old Miles’ voice cut in above the general expressions of concern. Rosie looked at him, her face deathly pale in the light of the lamp.
“He were fast asleep and didn’t want to get up. Muttered something about a dream and being carried off…. But I swear he was behind me.” Old Miles looked up and saw his concern mirrored in Hawkins’ face who jerked his head towards the Abbey. 
“I hope we’re not too late,” Miles muttered as they stumbled across the uneven ground, “no sign of them.” They reached the wall surrounding the old Abbey but nothing. They felt along the wall until they reached the gate on the west side which was locked. But peering through the bars, Miles discerned three shapes making their way towards the ruins of the Abbey Church, two tall shapes dressed like monks dragging a third between them.
“Too late. They got him,” was all Miles would say as he and Hawkins returned to the waiting cart.

It was Hawkins who found Jo’s jacket the next morning not far from the old gateway. He took it up to Postlip but few words needed to be spoken. 

THE END.

David’s List of suggested Topics.

*David’s List of Suggested Topics. (A provisional list).

A Anguish

A Artistry

B Bravery

C Cowardice

D Democracy as in Parliament (sorry about that) or not!

E Education

F Friendship

G Gold

G Greed

G Garbage

H Heavenly bodies or Earthly Sins – hmm, loads of scope with that one!

M Memories – school, Uni. work, family, time gone by etc.

O Omens – good or bad

Q Quarry as in hunting

Q As in quarrying

T Tension

X Xenophobia

Z Zoological

Colemore’s January Story

Dinner at Calverly Hall

Helen and I walked nervously up to Calverley Hall – the “Big House” as the real locals called it – on a bitterly cold evening.

We’d been told very early on when we moved here that “interesting” new residents would likely be invited to dine (not to “dinner” note) with the Misses Bridges after a suitable period of residence, usually between six months and and a year. I was secretly gratified that, within seven months of moving here, Helen and I were obviously considered sufficiently qualified. That said, we had met very few people who had actually been invited and those who had seemed unable to offer much information on our hosts. It seemed the Hall had been in the Bridges family for centuries and the twin sisters were the only remaining members of the family who resolutely maintained the property as it had been in their parents’ time.

It was a dark Friday evening, the 10th January, the full moon beginning to rise in the north-east. Owls called in the trees roundabout and this only served to heighten Helen’s particular anxiety. The foul weather of the previous night had cleared, leaving various puddles to be circumvented by the light of our torch and that of the moon, accompanied by a chill, northerly breeze. The last hundred yards we proceeded up the drive to the Hall, our feet crunching on the freshly-raked gravel and our way lit by discreet lamps hung in the trees.

I pulled on an ancient, well-worn polished bell-pull creating a sonorous sound deep within the Hall. After a minute or so, we were admitted by a uniformed footman. We were relieved of our coats and ushered towards the drawing room.

“Dr James and Mrs. Moore,” the butler announced, as we were shown in to what I would describe as a typical late Victorian or Edwardian room, with dark maroon wallpaper, thick lustrous green curtains and ancient mahogany furniture. I counted twelve guests, recognising several of the couples as patients from the surgery and who Helen and I greeted. Two elderly ladies dressed in elegant dark dresses finished off with antique jewellery, who came forward to greet us.

“Good evening. Dr Moore and your wife, I presume. How good of you to join us this evening. I am Patricia Bridges,” she proffered a bony hand encircled at the wrist by a clearly expensive, but understated, bracelet, “and this is Francesca, my younger sister.”

Younger sister, I wondered? They both seemed identically old to me.

“Ah, Dr. Moore, our new local doctor, I understand, from Crossways Surgery. The newest addition to the partnership I understand.” Francesca added.

Drinks were served from silver trays conveyed by three staff in matching uniforms and, after some small talk with various guests, my attention was taken by the portraits hanging in the room.

”But you take an interest in our family portraits, I see. The ones you are currently looking at are of our parents. My father, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Bridges in his bush uniform…. Just his medals missing from this. He won quite a few you know.”

“Excuse me, bush uniform?” I cocked my head in curiosity.

“Oh, sorry, yes. South African dress for wearing in the heat of summer in the veldt. And this here,” Patricia glided noiselessly to the next portrait. “Our – I mean Francesca’s and mine – mother painted a while back.”

I looked at Lady Olivia’s portrait and saw a lady dressed in what I could only think was early twentieth century fashion with her bunched up hair secured at the front by a small but clearly valuable tiara, high necked formal dress, sparkling necklace and white lace gloves. Indeed her daughters here before me were dressed in a similar fashion and looked like clones of their mother.

My study of the portraits and the conversation with Francesca was cut short by the sounding of a gong followed by the sonorous tones of the butler announcing that dinner was served. As we moved through chatting to the various guests, I couldn’t help but think that the ladies of the house seemed much older than they were reputed to be especially given the apparent age of their parents.

We entered the dining room with its splendidly set Victorian mahogany polished dining table, the individual places set beautifully with antique cutlery and crystal glasses all shimmering in the bountiful candlelight and our place names set carefully set out alongside the handwritten menus. We gathered at our allocated chairs with staff behind each one. Grace was said, in Latin, by Patricia and, as we went to sit down, our chairs were eased in by the staff.

I chatted to Mrs. Hobley, the wife of the retired manager from the Shrewsbury branch of one of the major banks but the conversation seemed principally to revolve around her arthritis (of which I already knew quite a lot, she being a very regular patient at Crossways) and the similar sufferings of Clarissa, the Hobleys’ aged corgi. Mrs. Gent on my other side – “oh do call me Jenny, you’re not being my doctor now” was more fun and extremely flirtatious but sadly to the point where her alcohol consumption began to make her conversation suggestive. I began to look at the family portraits on the walls of the dining room when Patricia stood up, clapped her hands and announced loudly

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve decided as is traditional at these gatherings that the gentlemen should move places before desserts are served and take a different seat. So if you’d all care to move three seats to your right….”

“I think they call this inter-course adjustment,” Jenny giggled to me before blushing bright red. I moved on smiling and trying not to laugh at the joke which I had heard before several times – but only at medical dinners.

I saw Helen looking across at me and rolling her eyes as she was about to be seated next to dear Mr. Hobley and no doubt shortly be assailed by tales of his angina as well as his wife’s arthritis and Clarissa’s ailments. I realised that I was about to be placed next to Patricia Bridges who gestured to me to sit down.

“So I trust you are enjoying yourself, Doctor,” Patricia.

“Yes, very much,” I replied, trying not to pull a face. “But tell me, I don’t think I’ve seen you or your sister at our surgery. You are looked after – medically – I assume.”

As soon as I spoke I saw an unmistakable look of angst cross Patricia’s face. She averted her eyes and then stumbled,

“Well, no, you wouldn’t have done…. You see we rely on a private physician from town. He comes down and sees us every few months to check us over.”

“What you have a private doctor from Winchester?”

“No, no, dear boy, London of course. Dr Wade’s father and his grandfather before him were the family physicians. Consulting rooms in Harley Street, you know, so we’re in good hands.”

“But what about emergency care? We all suffer infections and the like that can strike from time to time, especially in winter. You don’t need to rely on Harley Street doctors to come to your assistance. And if there was an accident?”

I sensed a mixture of irritation and tension in Patricia but seemingly driven by a growing angst as she clearly didn’t like my line of questioning which, from my side, was driven as much by natural curiosity as concern for a couple of delightful elderly ladies within our town and within our surgery’s catchment area. I decided to change the subject.

“So, I understand you and your sister have always lived here and the Hall has been the seat of the Bridges family for many years.”

Patricia visibly relaxed now the questioning was back on neutral ground.

“Yes, indeed, the Hall was first built by Sir Holroyd Bridges in about 1625 from the profits of the tobacco trade with the Colony of Virginia but it was enlarged and remodelled to create the current layout by General Sir Jefferson Bridges who was my great grandfather. That was back in the Victorian era hence the sober decoration and panelling of the interior. And then my father, whose portrait you’ve seen in the drawing room added the orangery, as he called it, in which we are now seated to give space for formal dinners. Oh, we used to have such wonderful dinners when my parents were alive.” Patricia was almost shrieking with mirth and beginning to attract nervous glances from Francesca. “ I remember Lloyd George coming to dine one evening – there’s a picture of Francesca and me on his knees somewhere.”

But the more she talked, my brain, with its admittedly limited knowledge of history, began to recall that Lloyd George belonged to the first half of the twentieth century. That coupled with her description of her father’s early 1900s army uniform and her mother’s dress in the portrait made me begin to doubt her mental state as she seemed to be living in a past age – one long before she could have been born. And yet, if they were her real mother and father….

For several days I struggled with the problem and grew frustrated that the Bridges sisters were not registered as patients at the surgery so I could not check their ages and a search of the NHS database failed to reveal any information. Then, a week or so later, I searched the Medical Register…. Dr. Wade from Harley Street, I dimly recalled Patricia mentioning his name. I searched but no luck but then putting the name and street into Google I chanced upon something.

“Doctors Wade of Harley Street, London W1 – the Wade family of Harley Street were a well-known family of private medical practitioners based at number 52 Harley Street for many generations. The practice was founded in or about 1830 by Dr. Cornelius Henry Wade who studied medicine at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge and at Papworth Hospital in the early years of the nineteenth century. Through the patronage of his father, Lord Wade of Skillingshaw, the renowned military General, Wade soon developed a lucrative practice attending to upper class military patients.” I skimmed the next two paragraphs until I came to,

“The last member of the family to carry on the Practice was Dr. Henry Wallace Wade, who studied medicine at University College, Oxford and the John Radcliffe Infirmary, joining the practice under his father, Herbert, in 1971. Upon Herbert’s retirement in 1974, Henry Wade carried on the practice, eschewing modern practice methods, until his untimely death in 2009 in a car accident whilst returning one morning from visiting elderly patients in Hampshire.”

I sat back feeling confused. The good Doctor Wade had been dead for just over ten years and had obviously been killed returning from, one presumed, an overnight stay at Calverly Hall. Surely Patricia and Francesca would have known about the death. And they couldn’t have gone without any medical treatment for all this time, not at their obviously advanced age.

I asked one or two of the staff at the Surgery if they knew anything about the Bridges to be met with shakes of the head except Jenny from the dispensary,

“My Dad used to do odd casual work up in the garden at the Hall after he retired. He always said the Hall had a weird feel to it as if the ladies were living in a – well – time warp as he used to say. They belonged to the past. Same went for the household staff too. Dad said most of them were like frozen waxworks.”

“And he recalled another odd thing – the mother, Lady Olivia, would appear at the windows and yet she must have been dead these past fifty or sixty years.”

“Was your father sure it was Lady Olivia?”

“Oh quite, he was once admitted to the front drawing room and saw the portrait of her Ladyship. Recognised her straightaway.”

“To top it all,” Jenny continued now happily in full flow and ignoring the telephone much to a colleague’s obvious annoyance, “the household never bought, never buy any supplies in from the town, no meat, no veg, no fruit, no nothing. We just assumed it’s all grown in the garden or bought in from somewhere else. The Bridges make no use of the local community except to invite people for these strange dinners from time to time but don’t know why. Never do anything for the town. Just not visible as if they don’t really exist.”

I must admit to forgetting about the conversation for a few months due to pressure of work until one balmy evening in late May I was walking home from the local hospice after attending a little party for the retiring manager. Unaccountably, being distinctly non-religious, I decided to take a shortcut through the local churchyard. The light was beginning to fade as I marched up the main path that led to the gate onto the field that lay behind my home. As I drew level with the back of the church the Bridges family memorial loomed large and, at that moment, a figure materialised out of the monument which I recognised from the portrait in the Hall as being Lady Olivia complete with high necked dress and jewellery. Transfixed I watched the figure glide across the churchyard along the path which led to the Church car park and which still had a space traditionally reserved for the Bridges family. As I watched, two other figures approached from the car park gate, each wearing so far as I could tell a hat and coat and carrying furled umbrellas. The first figure stopped, greeted the two arrivals from the car park with kisses on their cheeks whereupon Lady Olivia proffered an arm to each of the other two and they walked together to the memorial and, as they passed, the nearest turned towards me. Patricia nodded an acknowledgment and then along with her mother and, I assumed, Francesca disappeared into the memorial.

I arrived in surgery the next morning to find Jenny and one or two of the other staff deep in animated conversation.

“Have you heard, Doctor? The old ladies at the Hall have vanished along with the staff….”

“What died? All of them? Surely that’s not possible.”

“Well nobody knows – they all just seem to have vanished into thin air. There’s nobody there at all. Apparently the Police are up at the Hall now trying to work out what’s happened.”