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  • #6238
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Ellen (Nellie) Purdy

      My grandfathers aunt Nellie Purdy 1872-1947 grew up with his mother Mary Ann at the Gilmans in Buxton.  We knew she was a nurse or a matron, and that she made a number of trips to USA.

      I started looking for passenger lists and immigration lists (we had already found some of them, and my cousin Linda Marshall in Boston found some of them), and found one in 1904 with details of the “relatives address while in US”.

      October 31st, 1904, Ellen Purdy sailed from Liverpool to Baltimore on the Friesland. She was a 32 year old nurse and she paid for her own ticket. The address of relatives in USA was Druid Hill and Lafayette Ave, Baltimore, Maryland.

      I wondered if she stayed with relatives, perhaps they were the Housley descendants. It was her great uncle George Housley who emigrated in 1851, not so far away in Pennsylvania. I wanted to check the Baltimore census to find out the names at that address, in case they were Housley’s. So I joined a Baltimore History group on facebook, and asked how I might find out.  The people were so enormously helpful!  The address was the Home of the Friendless, an orphanage. (a historic landmark of some note I think), and someone even found Ellen Purdy listed in the Baltimore directory as a nurse there.

      She sailed back to England in 1913.   Ellen sailed in 1900 and 1920 as well but I haven’t unraveled those trips yet.

      THE HOME OF THE FRIENDLESS, is situated at the corner of Lafayette and Druid Hill avenues, Baltimore. It is a large brick building, which was erected at a cost of $62,000. It was organized in 1854.The chief aim of the founders of this institution was to respond to a need for providing a home for the friendless and homeless children, orphans, and half-orphans, or the offspring of vagrants. It has been managed since its organization by a board of ladies, who, by close attention and efficient management, have made the institution one of the most prominent charitable institutions in the State. From its opening to the present time there have been received 5,000 children, and homes have been secured for nearly one thousand of this number. The institution has a capacity of about 200 inmates. The present number of beneficiaries is 165. A kindergarten and other educational facilities are successfully conducted. The home knows no demonimational creed, being non-sectarian. Its principal source of revenue is derived from private contributions. For many years the State has appropriated different sums towards it maintenance, and the General Assembly of 1892 contributed the sum of $3,000 per annum.

      A later trip:   The ship’s manifest from May 1920 the Baltic lists Ellen on board arriving in Ellis Island heading to Baltimore age 48. The next of kin is listed as George Purdy (her father) of 2 Gregory Blvd Forest Side, Nottingham. She’s listed as a nurse, and sailed from Liverpool May 8 1920.

      Ellen Purdy

       

      Ellen eventually retired in England and married Frank Garbett, a tax collector,  at the age of 51 in Herefordshire.  Judging from the number of newspaper articles I found about her, she was an active member of the community and was involved in many fundraising activities for the local cottage hospital.

      Her obituary in THE KINGTON TIMES, NOVEMBER 8, 1947:
      Mrs. Ellen Garbett wife of Mr. F. Garbett, of Brook Cottage, Kingsland, whose funeral took place at St. Michael’s Church, Kingsland, on October 30th, was a familiar figure in the district, and by her genial manner and kindly ways had endeared herself to many.
      Mrs Garbett had had a wide experience in the nursing profession. Beginning her training in this country, she went to the Italian Riviera and there continued her work, later going to the United States. In 1916 she gained the Q.A.I.M.N.S. and returned to England and was appointed sister at the Lord Derby Military Hospital, an appointment she held for four years.

      We didn’t know that Ellen had worked on the Italian Riviera, and hope in due course to find out more about it.

      Mike Rushby, Ellen’s sister Kate’s grandson in Australia, spoke to his sister in USA recently about Nellie Purdy. She replied:   I told you I remembered Auntie Nellie coming to Jacksdale. She gave me a small green leatherette covered bible which I still have ( though in a very battered condition). Here is a picture of it.

      Ellen Purdy bible

      #6236
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        The Liverpool Fires

        Catherine Housley had two older sisters, Elizabeth 1845-1883 and Mary Anne 1846-1935.  Both Elizabeth and Mary Anne grew up in the Belper workhouse after their mother died, and their father was jailed for failing to maintain his three children.  Mary Anne married Samuel Gilman and they had a grocers shop in Buxton.  Elizabeth married in Liverpool in 1873.

        What was she doing in Liverpool? How did she meet William George Stafford?

        According to the census, Elizabeth Housley was in Belper workhouse in 1851. In 1861, aged 16,  she was a servant in the household of Peter Lyon, a baker in Derby St Peters.  We noticed that the Lyon’s were friends of the family and were mentioned in the letters to George in Pennsylvania.

        No record of Elizabeth can be found on the 1871 census, but in 1872 the birth and death was registered of Elizabeth and William’s child, Elizabeth Jane Stafford. The parents are registered as William and Elizabeth Stafford, although they were not yet married. William’s occupation is a “refiner”.

        In April, 1873, a Fatal Fire is reported in the Liverpool Mercury. Fearful Termination of a Saturday Night Debauch. Seven Persons Burnt To Death.  Interesting to note in the article that “the middle room being let off to a coloured man named William Stafford and his wife”.

        Fatal Fire Liverpool

         

        We had noted on the census that William Stafford place of birth was “Africa, British subject” but it had not occurred to us that he was “coloured”.  A register of birth has not yet been found for William and it is not known where in Africa he was born.

        Liverpool fire

         

        Elizabeth and William survived the fire on Gay Street, and were still living on Gay Street in October 1873 when they got married.

        William’s occupation on the marriage register is sugar refiner, and his father is Peter Stafford, farmer. Elizabeth’s father is Samuel Housley, plumber. It does not say Samuel Housley deceased, so perhaps we can assume that Samuel is still alive in 1873.

        Eliza Florence Stafford, their second daughter, was born in 1876.

        William’s occupation on the 1881 census is “fireman”, in his case, a fire stoker at the sugar refinery, an unpleasant and dangerous job for which they were paid slightly more. William, Elizabeth and Eliza were living in Byrom Terrace.

        Byrom Terrace, Liverpool, in 1933

        Byrom Terrace

         

        Elizabeth died of heart problems in 1883, when Eliza was six years old, and in 1891 her father died, scalded to death in a tragic accident at the sugar refinery.

        Scalded to Death

         

        Eliza, aged 15, was living as an inmate at the Walton on the Hill Institution in 1891. It’s not clear when she was admitted to the workhouse, perhaps after her mother died in 1883.

        In 1901 Eliza Florence Stafford is a 24 year old live in laundrymaid, according to the census, living in West Derby  (a part of Liverpool, and not actually in Derby).  On the 1911 census there is a Florence Stafford listed  as an unnmarried laundress, with a daughter called Florence.  In 1901 census she was a laundrymaid in West Derby, Liverpool, and the daughter Florence Stafford was born in 1904 West Derby.  It’s likely that this is Eliza Florence, but nothing further has been found so far.

         

        The questions remaining are the location of William’s birth, the name of his mother and his family background, what happened to Eliza and her daughter after 1911, and how did Elizabeth meet William in the first place.

        William Stafford was a seaman prior to working in the sugar refinery, and he appears on several ship’s crew lists.  Nothing so far has indicated where he might have been born, or where his father came from.

        Some months after finding the newspaper article about the fire on Gay Street, I saw an unusual request for information on the Liverpool genealogy group. Someone asked if anyone knew of a fire in Liverpool in the 1870’s.  She had watched a programme about children recalling past lives, in this case a memory of a fire. The child recalled pushing her sister into a burning straw mattress by accident, as she attempted to save her from a falling beam.  I watched the episode in question hoping for more information to confirm if this was the same fire, but details were scant and it’s impossible to say for sure.

        #6234
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Ben Warren

          Derby County and England football legend who died aged 37 penniless and ‘insane’

           

          Ben Warren

          Ben Warren 1879 – 1917  was Samuel Warren’s (my great grandfather) cousin.

          From the Derby Telegraph:

          Just 17 months after earning his 22nd England cap, against Scotland at Everton on April 1, 1911, he was certified insane. What triggered his decline was no more than a knock on the knee while playing for Chelsea against Clapton Orient.

          The knee would not heal and the longer he was out, the more he fretted about how he’d feed his wife and four children. In those days, if you didn’t play, there was no pay. 

          …..he had developed “brain fever” and this mild-mannered man had “become very strange and, at times, violent”. The coverage reflected his celebrity status.

          On December 15, 1911, as Rick Glanvill records in his Official Biography of Chelsea FC: “He was admitted to a private clinic in Nottingham, suffering from acute mania, delusions that he was being poisoned and hallucinations of hearing and vision.”

          He received another blow in February, 1912, when his mother, Emily, died. She had congestion of the lungs and caught influenza, her condition not helped, it was believed, by worrying about Ben.

          She had good reason: her famous son would soon be admitted to the unfortunately named Derby County Lunatic Asylum.

          Ben Warren Madman

           

          As Britain sleepwalked towards the First World War, Ben’s condition deteriorated. Glanvill writes: “His case notes from what would be a five-year stay, catalogue a devastating decline in which he is at various times described as incoherent, restless, destructive, ‘stuporose’ and ‘a danger to himself’.’”

          photo: Football 27th April 1914. A souvenir programme for the testimonial game for Chelsea and England’s Ben Warren, (pictured) who had been declared insane and sent to a lunatic asylum. The game was a select XI for the North playing a select XI from The South proceeds going to Warren’s family.

          Ben Warren 1914

           

          In September, that decline reached a new and pitiable low. The following is an abridged account of what The Courier called “an amazing incident” that took place on September 4.

          “Spotted by a group of men while walking down Derby Road in Nottingham, a man was acting strangely, smoking a cigarette and had nothing on but a collar and tie.

          “He jumped about the pavement and roadway, as though playing an imaginary game of football. When approached, he told them he was going to Trent Bridge to play in a match and had to be there by 3.30.”

          Eventually he was taken to a police station and recognised by a reporter as England’s erstwhile right-half. What made the story even harder to digest was that Ben had escaped from the asylum and walked the 20 miles to Nottingham apparently unnoticed.

          He had played at “Trent Bridge” many times – at least on Nottingham Forest’s adjacent City Ground.

          As a shocked nation came to terms with the desperate plight of one of its finest footballers, some papers suggested his career was not yet over. And his relatives claimed that he had been suffering from nothing more than a severe nervous breakdown.

          He would never be the same again – as a player or a man. He wasn’t even a shadow of the weird “footballer” who had walked 20 miles to Nottingham.

          Then, he had nothing on, now he just had nothing – least of all self-respect. He ripped sheets into shreds and attempted suicide, saying: “I’m no use to anyone – and ought to be out of the way.”

          “A year before his suicide attempt in 1916 the ominous symptom of ‘dry cough’ had been noted. Two months after it, in October 1916, the unmistakable signs of tuberculosis were noted and his enfeebled body rapidly succumbed.

          At 11.30pm on 15 January 1917, international footballer Ben Warren was found dead by a night attendant.

          He was 37 and when they buried him the records described him as a “pauper’.”

          However you look at it, it is the salutary tale of a footballer worrying about money. And it began with a knock on the knee.

          On 14th November 2021, Gill Castle posted on the Newhall and Swadlincote group:

          I would like to thank Colin Smith and everyone who supported him in getting my great grandfather’s grave restored (Ben Warren who played for Derby, Chelsea and England)

          The month before, Colin Smith posted:

          My Ben Warren Journey is nearly complete.
          It started two years ago when I was sent a family wedding photograph asking if I recognised anyone. My Great Great Grandmother was on there. But soon found out it was the wedding of Ben’s brother Robert to my 1st cousin twice removed, Eveline in 1910.
          I researched Ben and his football career and found his resting place in St Johns Newhall, all overgrown and in a poor state with the large cross all broken off. I stood there and decided he needed to new memorial & headstone. He was our local hero, playing Internationally for England 22 times. He needs to be remembered.
          After seeking family permission and Council approval, I had a quote from Art Stone Memorials, Burton on Trent to undertake the work. Fundraising then started and the memorial ordered.
          Covid came along and slowed the process of getting materials etc. But we have eventually reached the final installation today.
          I am deeply humbled for everyone who donated in January this year to support me and finally a massive thank you to everyone, local people, football supporters of Newhall, Derby County & Chelsea and football clubs for their donations.
          Ben will now be remembered more easily when anyone walks through St Johns and see this beautiful memorial just off the pathway.
          Finally a huge thank you for Art Stone Memorials Team in everything they have done from the first day I approached them. The team have worked endlessly on this project to provide this for Ben and his family as a lasting memorial. Thank you again Alex, Pat, Matt & Owen for everything. Means a lot to me.
          The final chapter is when we have a dedication service at the grave side in a few weeks time,
          Ben was born in The Thorntree Inn Newhall South Derbyshire and lived locally all his life.
          He played local football for Swadlincote, Newhall Town and Newhall Swifts until Derby County signed Ben in May 1898. He made 242 appearances and scored 19 goals at Derby County.
          28th July 1908 Chelsea won the bidding beating Leicester Fosse & Manchester City bids.
          Ben also made 22 appearance’s for England including the 1908 First Overseas tour playing Austria twice, Hungary and Bohemia all in a week.
          28 October 1911 Ben Injured his knee and never played football again
          Ben is often compared with Steven Gerard for his style of play and team ethic in the modern era.
          Herbert Chapman ( Player & Manager ) comments “ Warren was a human steam engine who played through 90 minutes with intimidating strength and speed”.
          Charles Buchan comments “I am certain that a better half back could not be found, Part of the Best England X1 of all time”
          Chelsea allowed Ben to live in Sunnyside Newhall, he used to run 5 miles every day round Bretby Park and had his own gym at home. He was compared to the likes of a Homing Pigeon, as he always came back to Newhall after his football matches.
          Ben married Minnie Staley 21st October 1902 at Emmanuel Church Swadlincote and had four children, Harry, Lillian, Maurice & Grenville. Harry went on to be Manager at Coventry & Southend following his father in his own career as football Manager.
          After Ben’s football career ended in 1911 his health deteriorated until his passing at Derby Pastures Hospital aged 37yrs
          Ben’s youngest son, Grenville passed away 22nd May 1929 and is interred together in St John’s Newhall with his Father
          His wife, Minnie’s ashes are also with Ben & Grenville.
          Thank you again everyone.
          RIP Ben Warren, our local Newhall Hero. You are remembered.

          Ben Warren grave

           

          Ben Warren Grave

          Ben Warren Grave

           

          #6232
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Looking for Photographs

            I appreciate how fortunate I am that there are so many family photographs on various sides of the family, however, on some sides, for example the Warrens and the Grettons, there are no photographs. I’d love to find a photograph of my great grandmother Florence Nightingale Gretton, as she is the only great grandparent I don’t have a photo of.

            I look on other people’s family trees on ancestry websites, and I join local town memories and old photos groups on facebook hoping to find photos. And I have found a few, and what a prize it is to find a photograph of someone in your tree.  None found so far of Florence Nightingale Gretton, although I found one of her sister Clara, her brother Charles, and another potential one, posted on a Swadlincote group: a Warren wedding group in 1910.

            Charles Herbert Gretton 1876-1954 and his wife Mary Ann Illsley:

            Charles Gretton

             

            The wedding of Robert Adolphus Warren and Eveline Crofts.  Photo in the collection of Colin Smith, Eveline Crofts first cousin twice removed. Reposted with permission:

            Warren wedding 1910

            The groom was Florence’s husbands cousin, but identifying my great grandparents in the crowd would be guesswork.  My grandmother was born in 1906, and could be one of the children sitting at the front.  It was an interesting exercise to note the family likenesses.

            Ben Warren the footballer is the man on the far right, on the same line as the groom. His children are sitting in front of the bride.

            There are many mentions of Ben Warren the footballer on the Newhall and Swadlincote groups ~ Ben Warren was my great grandfathers cousin, and is a story in itself ~ and a photograph of Ben’s daughter, Lillian Warren was posted.

            Lillian Warren (reposted with permission)

            Lillian Warren

             

            Lillian was my grandmothers first cousin once removed or second cousin. The resemblance to my grandmother, Florence Noreen Warren, seems striking.

            #6229
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Gretton Tailoresses of Swadlincote and the Single Journalist Boot Maker Next Door

              The Purdy’s, Housley’s and Marshall’s are my mothers fathers side of the family.  The Warrens, Grettons and Staleys are from my mothers mothers side.

              I decided to add all the siblings to the Gretton side of the family, in search of some foundation to a couple of family anecdotes.  My grandmother, Nora Marshall, whose mother was Florence Nightingale Gretton, used to mention that our Gretton side of the family were related to the Burton Upon Trent Grettons of Bass, Ratcliff and Gretton, the brewery.  She also said they were related to Lord Gretton of Stableford Park in Leicestershire.  When she was a child, she said parcels of nice clothes were sent to them by relatives.

              Bass Ratcliffe and Gretton

               

              It should be noted however that Baron Gretton is a title in the Peerage of the United Kingdom, and was created in 1944 for the brewer and Conservative politician John Gretton. He was head of the brewery firm of Bass, Ratcliff & Gretton Ltd of Burton upon Trent. So they were not members of the Peerage at the time of this story.

              What I found was unexpected.

              My great great grandfather Richard Gretton 1833-1898, a baker in Swadlincote, didn’t have any brothers, but he did have a couple of sisters.

              One of them, Frances, born 1831, never married, but had four children. She stayed in the family home, and named her children Gretton. In 1841 and 1851 she’s living with parents and siblings. In 1861 she is still living with parents and now on the census she has four children all named Gretton listed as grandchildren of her father.
              In 1871, her mother having died in 1866, she’s still living with her father William Gretton, Frances is now 40, and her son William 19 and daughter Jane 15 live there.
              By the time she is 50 in 1881 and her parents have died she’s head of the house with 5 children all called Gretton, including her daughter Jane Gretton aged 24.

              Twenty five year old Robert Staley is listed on the census transcription as living in the same household, but when viewing the census image it becomes clear that he lived next door, on his own and was a bootmaker, and on the other side, his parents Benjamin and Sarah Staley lived at the Prince of Wales pub with two other siblings.

              Who was fathering all these Gretton children?

              It seems that Jane did the same thing as her mother: she stayed at home and had three children, all with the name Gretton.  Jane Gretton named her son, born in 1878, Michael William Staley Gretton, which would suggest that Staley was the name of the father of the child/children of Jane Gretton.

              The father of Frances Gretton’s four children is not known, and there is no father on the birth registers, although they were all baptized.

              I found a photo of Jane Gretton on a family tree on an ancestry site, so I contacted the tree owner hoping that she had some more information, but she said no, none of the older family members would explain when asked about it.  Jane later married Tom Penn, and Jane Gretton’s children are listed on census as Tom Penn’s stepchildren.

              Jane Gretton Penn

               

              It seems that Robert Staley (who may or may not be the father of Jane’s children) never married. In 1891 Robert is 35, single, living with widowed mother Sarah in Swadlincote. Sarah is living on own means and Robert has no occupation. On the 1901 census Robert is an unmarried 45 year old journalist and author, living with his widowed mother Sarah Staley aged 79, in Swadlincote.

              There are at least three Staley  Warren marriages in the family, and at least one Gretton Staley marriage.

              There is a possibility that the father of Frances’s children could be a Gretton, but impossible to know for sure. William Gretton was a tailor, and several of his children and grandchildren were tailoresses.  The Gretton family who later bought Stableford Park lived not too far away, and appear to be well off with a dozen members of live in staff on the census.   Did our Gretton’s the tailors make their clothes? Is that where the parcels of nice clothes came from?

              Perhaps we’ll find a family connection to the brewery Grettons, or find the family connection was an unofficial one, or that the connection is further back.

              I suppose luckily, this isn’t my direct line but an exploration of an offshoot, so the question of paternity is merely a matter of curiosity.  It is a curious thing, those Gretton tailors of Church Gresley near Burton upon Trent, and there are questions remaining.

              #6225
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                William Marshall’s Parents

                William Marshall  1876-1968, my great grandfather, married Mary Ann Gilman Purdy in Buxton. We assumed that both their families came from Buxton, but this was not the case.  The Marshall’s came from Elton, near Matlock; the Purdy’s from Eastwood, Nottinghamshire.

                William Marshall, seated in centre, with colleagues from the insurance company:

                William Marshall

                 

                 

                William and all his siblings were born in Fairfield in Buxton. But both Emma Featherstone 1847-1928, his mother, and John Marshall 1842-1930, his father, came from rural Derbyshire. Emma from Ashbourne (or Biggin, Newhaven, or Hartington, depending on what she chose to put on the census, which are all tiny rural places in the same area).

                Emma and John Marshall in the middle, photo says “William Marshall’s parents” on the back:

                Emma and John Marshall

                 

                John Marshall was a carter, later a coal carter, and was born in Elton, Derbyshire. Elton is a rural village near to Matlock. He was unable to write (at least at the time of his wedding) but Emma signed her own name.

                In 1851 Emma is 3 or 4 years old living with family at the Jug and Glass Inn, Hartington. In 1861 Emma was a 14 year old servant at a 112 acre farm, Heathcote, but her parents were still living at the Jug and Glass. Emma Featherstone’s parents both died when she was 18, in 1865.
                In 1871 she was a servant at Old House Farm, Nether Hartington Quarter, Ashborne.

                On the census, a female apprentice was listed as a servant, a boy as an apprentice. It seems to have been quite normal, at least that’s what I’ve found so far,  for all teenagers to go and live in another household to learn a trade, to be independent from the parents, and so doesn’t necessarily mean a servant as we would think of it. Often they stayed with family friends, and usually married in their early twenties and had their own household ~ often with a “servant” or teenager from someone else’s family.

                The only marriage I could find for Emma and John was in Manchester in 1873, which didn’t make much sense. If Emma was single on the 1871 census, and her first child James was born in 1873, her marriage had to be between those dates. But the marriage register in Manchester appears to be correct, John was a carter, Emma’s father was Francis Featherstone. But why Manchester?

                Marshall Featherstone marriage

                I noticed that the witnesses to the marriage were Francis and Elizabeth Featherstone. He father was Francis, but who was Elizabeth? Emma’s mother was Sarah. Then I found that Emma’s brother Francis married Elizabeth, and they lived in Manchester on the 1871 census. Henry Street, Ardwick. Emma and John’s address on the marriage register is Emily Street, Ardwick. Both of them at the same address.

                The marriage was in February 1873, and James, the first child was born in July, 1873, in Buxton.

                It would seem that Emma and John had to get married, hence the move to Manchester where her brother was, and then quickly moved to Buxton for the birth of the child.  It was far from uncommon, I’ve found while making notes of dates in registers, for a first child to be born six or 7 months after the wedding.

                Emma died in 1928 at the age of 80, two years before her husband John. She left him a little money in her will! This seems unusual so perhaps she had her own money, possibly from the death of her parents before she married, and perhaps from the sale of the Jug and Glass.

                I found a photo of the Jug and Glass online.  It looks just like the pub I’d seen in my family history meditations on a number of occasions:

                Jug and Glass

                #6214
                Jib
                Participant

                  When Finnley got out of her full body bathing suit, Liz gaped at her.

                  “It appears your suit wasn’t that waterproof after all. You should have kept the receipt. Now you can’t ask for a refund.”

                  Finnley rolled her eyes while sending daggers. Liz caught them in extremis with her pen and put them down in writing at the end of her pink notebook for later reference. She thought maybe they could be an appropriate prop for the family betrayal she planned to write about in her next chapter. Daggers between the shoulder blades were always a nice effect.

                  “I don’t need a receipt, I ordered them online.”

                  “What do you mean? What does she mean Gordon? She looks so mad, she won’t answer me… and stop eating those bloody nuts. That’s not good for your cholesterol.”

                  “Actually that’s the reverse,” said Gordon.

                  “Stop eating them! I find the crunching noise and the movement of your tongue on your teeth disturbing.”

                  “She means she kept the email with the e-receipt. Knowing her she’s probably kept it in the trash for safekeeping.”

                  Finnley threw another pair of daggers.

                  “Ouch!” Gordon said.

                  “You deserved that,” said Liz. “You were mean. Now I need to talk to Godfrey. He’ll know the answers, he always know. Where is he?”

                  “Just behind you. I’m always behind you.”

                  “Don’t say that, it can be misinterpreted. Anyway, can you answer the question?”

                  “She kept the email with the e-receipt in her trash can. You know, it’s an internet thing. Like the writing workshop you asked me to help you organise.”

                  “Oh! I totally forgot about that.”

                  “You have 57 inscriptions. The chat session starts in 5, no 7 minutes. Should I be worried?”

                  “No you shouldn’t. Just do the typing for me please. You type faster than me, I’m still doing it with one finger, well two actually, now I can use both hands.”

                  “Okay, you’ll speak to me as if you were speaking to them and I shall write down your words faithfully.”

                  “You can do the speaking too, dear. Godfrey, you’ve known me for so long, you know better than me what I’m going to say.”

                  Liz looked at Finnley’s blue hands and turned back to Godfrey. “Oh, and before you do that, prepare some cucumbers slice, I need a power nap.”

                  #6213
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    “Well, I wish you would stop interrupting me while I fill in the empty pages of my pink notebook with gripping stories, I keep losing my thread. Most annoying!” Liz sighed.  She wrote Liz snapped at first and then erased it and changed it to Liz sighed. Then she added Liz sighed with the very mildest slight irritation and then became exasperated with the whole thing and told herself to just leave it and try to move on!

                    But really, Finnley’s timing, as usual! Just as Liz had worked out the direct line to the characters fathers mothers fathers fathers mothers fathers mothers fathers father and mother, Finnley wafts through the scene, making herself conspicuous, and scattering Liz’s tenuous concentration like feathers in the wind.

                    “And I don’t want to hear a word about apostrophes either,” she added, mentally noting the one in don’t.

                    “Oh, now I see what you’re doing, Liz!” Gordon appeared, smoking a pipe. “Very clever!”

                    “Good God, Gordon, you’re smoking a pipe!” It was an astonishing sight. “What an astonishing sight! Where are your nuts?”

                    “Well, it’s like this,” Gordon grinned, “I’ve been eating nuts in every scene for, how long? I just can’t face another nut.”

                    Liz barked out a loud cackle.  “You think that’s bad, have you seen what they keep dressing me in? Anyway, ” she asked, “What do you mean clever and you see what I’m doing? What am I doing?”

                    “The code, of course!  I spotted it right away,” Gordon replied smugly.

                    Finnley heaved herself out of the pool and walked over to Liz and Gordon. (is it Gordon or Godfrey? Liz felt the cold tendrils of dread that she had somehow gone off the track and would have to retrace her steps and get in a  fearful muddle Oh no!  )

                    A splat of blue algae across her face, as Finnley flicked the sodden strands of dyed debris off that clung to her hair and body, halted the train of thought that Liz had embarked on, and came to an abrupt collision with a harmless wet fish, you could say, as it’s shorter than saying  an abrupt collision with a bit of dyed blue algae. 

                    Liz yawned.  Finnley was already asleep.

                    “What was in that blue dye?”

                    #6211
                    Jib
                    Participant

                      Today the planets are aligned, thought Liz as she looked at the blue sky out the French door. The frills of her glitter pink Charnel bathing suit wiggled with excitement.

                      It was one of those rare days of this summer where rain wasn’t pouring somewhere in the garden. Every single day: clouds, clouds, clouds. If they weren’t above the mansion, they were above the pool. If they weren’t above the pool, they were flooding the lawn in between the mansion and the pool.

                      But today, the sun had risen in a sky free of clouds and Liz was determined to have that dip in the newly repaired swimming pool with a watermelon mojito served by Roberto in his shiny leather speedo. The pool had been half frozen half boiling for so long that they had forgotten the swimming part. Once fixed, the summer had turned into a mid season rainy weather.

                      ‘I don’t want to get wet before I get into the pool’, Liz had said to Finnley.

                      Liz looked at her pink notebook lying on the coffee table. Resisting the temptation to fill in the empty pages with gripping stories, she hopped on the patio, flounces bouncing and her goocci flip-flops clacking. With a sparkling foot, Liz tested the grass. It was dry enough, which meant she would not inadvertently walk on a slug or a snail. She particularly hated the cracking noise and the wetness afterward under her feet.

                      Roberto was bent forward. Liz frowned. He was not wearing his leather speedo. And his hands and pants were covered in green goo.

                      ‘What happened?’ she asked in front of the disaster.

                      Roberto shrugged, obviously overwhelmed by the goo.

                      ‘Green algae’, said Godfrey popping up out of nowhere with a handful of cashews. ‘The ice and fire had kept it at bay for some time. But once it was back to normal the pool was a perfect environment for their development. I already called the maintenance company. They come next week.’

                      ‘What? Next week?’

                      ‘Yes. That’s sad. It’s the season. We are not the only ones to have that problem.’

                      That said he threw a cashew in his mouth and popped back to nowhere he came from.

                      #6202
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        While Finnley was making the tea, Liz consulted the Possibe L’Oracle for a reading. It said:

                        “We are the collective of the Ancient Draigh’Ones, we greet you and your queries, Liz.

                         Well, well. Looking at the concepts you brought up in your last offering to this story thread, we couldn’t really pick up what your energy was trying to express.
                        Forgive us, humans still elude us at times. 

                         We must withhold points for continuity {audible snort} though, as it feels it needs to gather more support from your fellow companions {snort} for now. But who knows, you may just be a pioneer. Go on trailblazing Liz!

                         Psst. We’ll give you a hint, here are some trending concepts here you may want to check out for yourself.”

                        Perplexa the robot provided her typically superfluous additional information, with baffling lists of numbers, but Liz noted the many mentions of cleanliness and cleaning implements, and wondered why that hadn’t manifested into a marvelously clean house.

                        Leaf (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6198, 2 days ago
                        Cleanliness (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6200, 22 hours ago
                        The Glow (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6200, 22 hours ago
                        The Edge (1 ), with mentions by Tracy (1) — last seen in  #6199, 2 days ago
                        Cleaning tools (1 ), with mentions by Tracy (1) — last seen in  #6199, 2 days ago
                        Brush (1 ), with mentions by Tracy (1) — last seen in  #6199, 2 days ago
                        Jeffrey Combs (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6198, 2 days ago
                        The Times (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6198, 2 days ago
                        Drama (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6198, 2 days ago
                        Fern (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6198, 2 days ago
                        Time (1 ), with mentions by Flove (1) — last seen in  #6198, 2 days ago

                        #6175

                        “”Sorry, I’m only just telling you this about the note now, lovie. Your Grandma’s been on at me to tell you. Just in my thoughts I mean!” he added quickly.

                        Jane smirked and tapped her forehead. “Careful, Old Man. She’ll think you’ve completely lost it!”

                        Clara stared at him, a small frown creasing her brow. “So, the note said you were to call him?”

                        Bob nodded uneasily. Clara had that look on her face. The one that means she aren’t happy with the way things are proceeding.

                        “And then what?” asked Clara slowly.

                        “I dunno.” Bob shrugged. “Guess they’d bury it again? They was pretty clear they didn’t want it found. Now, how about I put the kettle on?” Bob stood quickly and began to busy himself filling the jug with water from the tap.

                        Clara shook her head firmly. “No.”

                        “No to a cup of tea?”

                        “No we can’t call this man.”

                        “I don’t know Clara. It’s getting odd it is. Strangers leaving maps in collars and whatnot. It’s not right.”

                        “Well, I agree it needs further investigation. But we can’t call him … not without knowing why and what’s in it.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “I’ll try and get hold of Nora again.”

                        #6174

                        Clara breathed a sigh of relief when she saw VanGogh running towards her; in the moonlight he looked like a pale ghost.

                        “Where’ve you been eh?” she asked as he nuzzled her excitedly. She crouched down to pat him. “And what’s this?” A piece of paper folded into quarters had been tucked into VanGogh’s collar. Clara stood upright and looked uneasily around the garden; a small wind made the leaves rustle and the deep shadows stirred. Clara shivered.

                        Clara?” called Bob from the door.

                        “It’s okay Grandpa, I found him. We’re coming in now.”

                        In the warm light of the kitchen, Clara showed Bob the piece of paper. “It’s a map, but I don’t know those place names.”

                        “And it was stuffed into his collar you say?” Bob frowned. “That’s very strange indeed. Who’d of done that?”

                        Clara shook her head. “It wasn’t Mr Willets because I saw him drive off. But why didn’t VanGogh bark? He always barks when someone comes on the property.”

                        “You really should tell her about the note,” said Jane. She was perched on the kitchen bench. VanGogh pricked his ears up and wagged his tail as he looked towards her. Bob couldn’t figure out if the dog could see Jane or just somehow sensed her there. He nodded.

                        “What?” asked Clara.

                        “There’s something I should tell you, Clara. It’s about that box you found.”

                        #6166

                        “Grandpa,” Clara said, partly to distract him ~ poor dear was looking a little anxious ~ and partly because she was starting to get twangs of gilt about Nora, “Grandpa, do you remember that guy who used to make sculptures?  I can’t recall his name and need his phone number. Do you remember, used to see him driving around with gargoyles in the back of his truck. You look awfully pale, are you alright?”

                        “No idea,” Bob replied weakly.

                        Tell her! said Jane.

                        “No!” Bob exclaimed, feeling vexed.  He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to rush into anything. Why was Clara asking about the man whose phone number was on the note? What did she know about all this? What did he, Bob, know for that matter!

                        “I only asked!” replied Clara, then seeing his face, patted his arm gently and said “It’s ok, Grandpa.”

                        For the love of god will you just tell her! 

                        “Tell who what?” asked Clara.

                        “What! What did you say?” Bob wondered where this was going and if it would ever end. It began to feel surreal.

                        They were both relieved when the door bell rang, shattering the unaccustomed tension between them.

                        “Who can that be?” they asked in unison, as Clara rose from the table.

                        Bob waited expectantly, pushing his plate away. It would take days to settle his digestive system down after all this upset at a meal time.

                        “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, Clara! Who was it?”  Bob said as Clara returned from the front door. “Not the water board again to cut us off I hope!”

                        “It’s the neighbour, Mr Willets, he says he’s ever so sorry but his dogs, they got loose and got into some kind of a box on your property.  He said…”

                        #6161

                        Dispersee sat on a fallen tree trunk, lost in thought. A long walk in the woods had seemed just the ticket……

                        Nora wasn’t surprised to encounter a fallen tree trunk no more than 22 seconds after the random thought wafted through her mind ~ if thought was was the word for it ~ about Dispersee sitting on a fallen tree trunk.  Nora sat on the tree trunk ~ of course she had to sit on it; how could she not ~  simultaneously stretching her aching back and wondering who Dispersee might be.  Was it a Roman name?  Something to do with the garum on the shopping receipt?

                        Nora knew she wasn’t going to get to the little village before night fall. Her attempts to consult the map failed. It was like a black hole.  No signal, no connection, just a blank screen.  She looked up at the sky.  The lowering dark clouds were turning orange and red as the sun went down behind the mountains, etching the tree skeletons in charcoal black in the middle distance.

                        In a sudden flash of wordless alarm, Nora realized she was going to be out alone in the woods at night and wild boars are nocturnal and a long challenging walk in broad daylight was one thing but alone at night in the woods with the wild boars was quite another, and in a very short time indeed had worked herself up into a state approaching panic, and then had another flash of alarm when she realized she felt she would swoon in any moment and fall off the fallen trunk. The pounding of her, by then racing, heartbeats was yet further cause for alarm, and as is often the case, the combination of factors was sufficiently noteworthy to initiate a thankfully innate ability to re establish a calm lucidity, and pragmatic attention to soothe the beating physical heart as a matter of priority.

                        It was at the blessed moment of restored equilibrium and curiosity (and the dissipation of the alarm and associated malfunctions) that the man appeared with the white donkey.

                        #6160

                        The message was scrawled in pencil on a roughly torn off piece of note paper. Bob had to squint to make out some of the words.

                        Hopefully you won’t need this but put this somewhere safe, just in case. The  man i introduced you to today will know what to do. 

                        And then there was a phone number. Bob wondered if the man would still be there. It was nearly 15 years ago and Bob’s memory was sketchy. He frowned, trying to remember. When the receptacle had been unearthed in the bad flooding of that year, he had contacted someone … how he got onto him he can no longer recall … some number from the archeological thingamajigs maybe. The person he spoke to came round, him and another fellow, said he shouldn’t tell anyone about the receptacle. Said it should be put back in the ground. Said it was important. The other fellow, the one he is supposed to call, made sculptures—Bob remembered that because there had been some sitting on the back of his truck.

                        Bob sat on the side of the bed and rubbed his head. He couldn’t really be bothered with all this carry on. It all seemed a bit crazy now, having to keep the damn thing buried. What’s all that about? And Clara was so excited, contacting her archeological friend and whatnot. Strange girl though, that Nora. He wished Jane were still here. She’d know what to do.

                        #6129

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        “Clearly,what we do next, my friend, is free the middle-aged lady,” Tara smiled smugly.”First rule, notwithstanding that I hate rules, if you don’t know what to do, do what you do know what to do, even if you don’t want to do it because at least you’ve done something.”

                        “Is that a Lemone quote?” asked Star. “Haven’t heard much of him lately.”

                        “No, I made it up myself.”

                        “Oh, well … I’m too tired to do anything.You do it, Tara.”

                        “No, you do it! Lazy tart.”

                        “I’ll do it!” says Rosamund, appearing from nowhere and bounding over to the wardrobe. “I want to borrow her lippy again.” She tugged at the door. “It seems to be stuck.”

                        “Let Star try,” said Tara. “She goes to the gym.”

                        “It does seem to be rather stuck,” said Star said after a few minutes of fruitless tugging. She knocked on the door of the wardrobe. “Excuse me, are you there? Excuse me … dreadfully sorry about all this.” There was no reply.

                        “Dead,” said Tara. “Darn it.”

                        Undaunted, Star tried again. After a particularly spirited tug, the door flew open and Star fell backwards. “She’s gone! But she left a note. Thank you, Ladies for your hospitality. This is a clue. At 4pm Thursday, go to the cafe on Main street. Vince French will be there..”

                        Tara gasped. “Who was she? That seemingly innocuous middle-aged lady.”

                        “Perhaps we will never know,” said Star.

                        #6119

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        “I think you’ve forgotten something, Star.”  Tara didn’t want to put a dampener on Star’s high spirits, but felt obliged to point out that New Zealand was still out of bounds with the quarantine restrictions.

                        “Not only that,” Tara continued, “Where exactly in New Zealand?”

                        This was unanswerable at this stage and was quickly forgotten.

                        “We can send Rosamund on a recce to find out more.  That way if she gets arrested for breaking the lockdown rules it won’t matter much and we can carry on solving the case.”

                        In response to Star’s look of outrage she added, “Well better than either of us getting locked up innit!”  Star had to agree.

                        “It will take two of us to keep an eye on Aunty April, anyway. And it would behoove us to have a thorough look at that wardrobe, and decipher those notes.  And check the lining of the fur coats. I read a book once and spies used morse code in the hem stitches for sending messages.”

                        “Do you know morse code?”

                        “Of course not, why would I?”

                        “Well then how will you know..?”

                        The conversation went on in a similar vein for some time.

                        #6116

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        “What a load of rubbish,” said Star later. “I don’t believe a word of it. Well, except for the part about Vince French not being in a coma, that bit rang true. But the rest of it’s downright nonsense, if you ask me.”

                        Tara waved to the waiter and ordered another two gin and tonics.  The Bell Bird Inn was conveniently located mid way between the office and their apartment, and needless to say, they were regulars.

                        “There’s definitely something fishy going on with April’s story,” Tara agreed. “The wardrobe, for instance. Those notes with the same handwriting.  I don’t believe she’s filthy rich, either. Nobody who is filthy rich ever says “I’m filthy rich”.”

                        “How would you know? How many filthy rich people do you hobnob with, then?”

                        “Let’s not get off the point!” Star cried, exasperated. “What are we going to do?”

                        “May as well start at the bottom and work our way up. Vince’s bottom. All we need to do is find Vince’s tattoo and we’ll have found Vince.  It’s fiendishly simple!” Tara looked smug.

                        “Oh, right,” said Star when she found her voice. “Right. Because it’s just so easy to peruse bottom tattoos on the general public.”

                        Tara giggled. “Don’t be silly. This is where we use our special unofficial skills. Remote viewing.”

                        “But where do we start?”

                        “Set the intention, and trust your intuition. Oh come on,” Star’s lack of enthusiasm was becoming tedious. “It will be fun!”

                        #6114

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        Aunt April blew her nose loudly into a tissue.

                        “Are you ready to talk, April?” asked Star gently.

                        April nodded, took a sip from her tea, put it on the saucer and sighed loudly. “I’ll do my best. You see, everyone thinks Vince French is in a coma. But he isn’t. That isn’t Vince.”

                        “Wait up, let me take notes,” said Tara. “So, how do you know that isn’t Vince French?”

                        “The real Vince has a tattoo of a bell-bird on his right buttock.”

                        Rosamund snorted. “Ooh, go Auntie April!”

                        “I had my suspicions … so I had to see for myself. On pretext of being a nurse, I managed to inveigle myself into the institution where he is supposedly being kept to look at his derriere. There are other small differences too, but that clinched it for me.”

                        Star nodded. “I see, well done! So you and Vincent French were having an …?”

                        “A liaison of rather a passionate nature. Yes.”

                        “And the wardrobe? The notes?”

                        “I had the wardrobe sent up.”

                        Tara looked puzzled. “But … what on earth for?”

                        “Oh, the wardrobe is a red herring. I really just wanted to get rid of it and rather than send it to charity thought you girls might make use of it.”

                        “And the notes? The fictitious Uncle Albie?” asked Star.

                        April screwed up her face and giggled nervously. “Well, you are a struggling start-up business and there were no social media reviews to go by … so it was a test really. To see if you were good enough to take on the case.”

                        Tara glowered at her. “And?”

                        “You passed! Congratulations! As Rosamund may have told you, I am filthy rich and money is no object. We must get to the bottom of this mystery.”

                        “Bottom,” said Rosamund and sniggered.

                        #6107

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        Star paused in the lobby. “I need some more persuading,” she said. “What if she dies in that wardrobe? What will we do with the body? Or, worse, what if she doesn’t die and sues us?”

                        Tara decided to ignore Star’s dubious reasoning; after all it was late. “She’s probably going to sue anyway,” said Tara morosely. “Another night won’t make any difference.”

                        “I’m going back. I can’t leave Rosamund to face the consequences of our drunken stupidity.” Star headed defiantly towards the stairs; the lift was out of order, again. “We would have to be on the eight bloody floor,” she muttered. “You do what you like,” she flung over her shoulder to Tara.

                        Tara sighed. “Wait up,” she shouted.

                        Star was relieved that Tara decided to follow. The building was scary at night – the few tenants who did lease office space, were, much like themselves, dodgy start-ups that couldn’t afford anything better. Missing bulbs meant the lighting in the stairwell was dim, and, on some floors, non-existent.

                        “I’m amazed they managed to bring that wardrobe up,” puffed Tara. “Just slow down and let me get my breath will you, Star.”

                        “My gym membership is really paying off,” said Star proudly. “Come on,Tara! just one floor to go!”

                        As they approached the door to their office, they paused to listen. “Can you hear something … ?” whispered Star.

                        “Is it … singing?”

                        “That’s never Rosamund singing. She’s got a voice like … well let’s just say you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy.”

                        “I’m going in,” hissed Tara and flung open the door.

                        “Don’t come any closer!” cried a woman in a mink coat; she did make a peculiar sight, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and brandishing a broom. “And you, shut up!” she said reaching out to bang the wardrobe with her broom. There were muffled cries from within, and then silence.

                        “Was that you singing?” asked Star in her most polite voice.

                        “Yes, what’s it to you?”

                        “It was rather… lovely.”

                        The woman smirked. “I was rehearsing.”

                        “We are awfully sorry about locking you in the wardrobe. We thought you were a masked intruder.”

                        “Well, I’m not. I am Rosamund’s Aunt April, and you …” she glowered at Star … “should have recognised me, seeing as how I am your cousin.”

                        “Oh!” Star put her hand to her head. “Silly me! Of course, Cousin April! But I have not seen you for so many years. Not since I was a child and you were off to Europe to study music!”

                        Tara groaned. “Really, Star, you are hopeless.”

                        Loud banging emanated from the wardrobe followed by mostly unintelligible shouting but it went something like: “Bloody-let-me-out-or-I-will-friggin-kill-you-stupid-bloody-tarts!”

                        “It wasn’t really Rosamund’s fault,” said Star. “I don’t suppose we could …?”

                        April nodded. “Go on then, little fool’s learnt her lesson. The cheek of her not letting me have pineapple on my pizza.”

                        “About bloody time,” sniffed Rosamund when the door was opened. She made a sorry sight, mascara streaked under her eyes and her red fingernails broken from where she had tried to force the door.

                        “Now, then,” said Tara decisively, “now we’ve said our sorries and whatnot, what’s all this really about, April?”

                        April crinkled her brow.”Well, as I may of mentioned on the phone, my husband, Albert — that’s your Uncle Albie,” she said to Rosamund, “is cheating on me. He denies it vehemently of course, but I found this note in his pocket.” She reached into her Louis Vuitton hand-bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. “That’s his handwriting and the paper is from the Royal Albert Hotel. He was there on a business trip last month.” Her face crumpled.

                        “Chin up,” said Tara quickly, handing April a tissue from the desk. “What does the note say?”. Really, this case did seem a bit beneath them, a straightforward occurrence of adultery from the sounds.

                        April sniffed. “It says, meet you at the usual place. Bring the money and the suitcase and I will make it worth your while.”

                        “Let me see that,” said Rosamund, snatching the note from April. She reached into the front of her tee-shirt and pulled out another crumpled note which had been stuffed into her bra. She smirked. “I found this in the wardrobe. I was keeping it secret to pay you back but … ” She brandished both notes triumphantly. “The handwriting is the same!”

                        “What does your note say, Rosamund?” asked Star.

                        “It says, If you find this note, please help me. All is not what it seems..”

                        “Wow, cool!” said Tara, her face lit up. This was more like it!

                        Star, noticing April’s wretched face, frowned warningly at Tara. “So,” she mused, “I suggest we explore this wardrobe further and see what we can find out.”

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