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Get Published on Female First
Part Two
Dear young Spot,
That is what I wish to address first, your age!
I am highly flattered that you should take such a vigorous interest in me, but at sixteen years of age I wonder to what depths that interest has developed.
The sharing of a washing line, strung between two towers of Castle Barnard, displaying our ‘undies’ together, is somewhat fanciful in its extreme.
I believe it would be for the better if you restrained your imagination on such delicate matters.
As far as the rest of your communication went, it all sounded a load of drivel to me.
I am away from all civilisation and those that you may know; the insane, for some considerable time.
Outer Mongolia is to have a new radio station affiliated to Siren FM and I am to be head of station.
Tatty bye for now, Spot.
P.S. Do wash behind your ears. Perhaps even an occasional syringe of the inner ear would help to silence those sounds you believe you hear at night!
Tracey.
My dearest, all caring Sweetheart,
What an absolute wonder you are, Tracey! Head of a secret radio station for MI6 eh! I can read between the lines dearest.
What a step-up in your ever blossoming career. I have removed the offending washing line from the skyline, now hoisting it from the flag poles inside the Castle courtyard.
It is at the moment redundant as I have very few clothes to wash, preferring to send what I do have to the village for cleaning. That thought of the cleaning, brings me nicely to a strange happening that I would love to share with you.
It was Tuesday, last week, the day when that odd-looking girl from the village returns my laundry. She has a limp and a lisp and, if she had a different hair coloring, would look remarkably like Myrtle, that gum sucking daughter of the evil Brenda!
Obviously I’m mistaken but there is something about her that just…..well, not to mince words; haunts me.
She normally leaves my cleaning at the door, but not this time.
There I was checking at irregular times the front door, trying to catch whoever it was chalking that X on it that you saw, when there was a loud, demanding knock.
As if from nowhere she stood there. At my feet was a swirling, twirling mass of discarded outer leaves of leeks. Some were rotten and some fresh.
The smell was atrocious! It reminded me of my socks. I have only two pair you see, one is with the cleaners all week so I have only one pair to wear….Oops that poetic rhyme was, I assure you, unintentional.
That was not the only strange thing to happen. Over that previous weekend there had been an enormous party going on in the village, about two miles away, or at least I thought that was where it originated.
‘Land Of My Father’s,’ the Welsh national anthem, was sung so many times that when a Charlotte Church record came on, I cheered loudly. What a state for Spot to be in!
Now here’s the mystery.
On Monday morning, the local newspaper sent a reporter to quiz me about why Tom Jones, Katherine Jenkins and the complete Welsh rugby team were staying at Castle Barnard. They thought the party was held here!…WHY?
Spot
P.S. I may have to write to Dear Old Auntie Alice, as I’m in a bit of a quandary. Let me explain.
When younger I had a problem around girls, which I ascribed to my height. Being five-foot two inches tall was a little short for most, but I’m now thinking that I may have had some other disadvantage.
Recently I have employed a man from the village as a gardener. He is trying to sort out that hole that keeps appearing where the smell of rotting leeks emanate.
Whenever I look out of a window, to see what he’s up to, he has a least one girl, or more like several, chatting to him. Once, two accompanied him into the potting shed!
He’s two-inches shorter than I, and in my opinion no better looking. His name is silly as well; Little Willie.
Perhaps Auntie could enlighten me as to why he, and not me, is attractive to the opposite sex!
This is purely a field-test you understand dearest Tracey, as I have absolutely no intention of leaving your side.
Spot
MEANWHILE
That’s Myrtle, my daughter! I wouldn’t have recognised her without being able to see through her sunglasses. She has beautiful eyes. One brown and the other blue. I hope she understands the clue I just sent. She knows how much I loved leeks. I wonder how she knew I crashed and died here? No matter, I’ll work on how to contact her later, not as though I’m in a rush to go anywhere.
That party woke the village, but not Spot then. I must try harder to scare him!
Best place for all those old records, discarded here in the cellars. Someone with taste must have dumped them! She does grate on the ears that Charlotte Church!
I will have to make more noise about the place if I am are to frighten that spotty, stupid Spot child.
No amount of rattling of chains, nor loud music seems works.
Another thing I must try to do is repair that old radio in the basement. Then perhaps I can hear that battle-axe Tracey on her Sunday Girl program.
Hmm, Little Willie sounds an interesting person, one perhaps that demands my investigation. I wonder if he’s Welsh?
MEANWHILE
Dear Diary,
I have done extensive research into Virgins. They lost a prototype moon rocket the same day that mum escaped from that military prison. News was withheld of course, but the publication of their funding the restoration of the cemetery, surrounding Castle Barnard was too coincidental. I just knew instantly that mum had crashed in the grounds whilst bravely piloting that machine!
Today I made contact with….SPOT.
Previously I left his dry cleaning at the door, but today I knocked. He answered, and I now know mum is there.
As he opened the door, her leftover and eaten leeks were dancing in celebration around my feet in welcome.
Now to free her spirit!
Myrtle.
Will Spot finally come to his senses and realise there are ghosts in that there Castle? Has Spot got any sense?
Can Tracey save herself? Will Myrtle fall in love with Willie?
These and more stupid questions may have answers, but if not, pour yourself a glass of milk, sit back and await the next instalment of….THE HAUNTED CASTLE.
Tagged in danny kemp