“You were right, Lyn. A trip to England wouldn’t be complete without a tour on one of London’s famous, red, double-decker buses.”
Enjoying her role as a cheesy tourist, Mary snaps pictures while the other hostesses toss out questions to the perky young tour guide speaking into the intercom system. They’d seen many of the local points of interest and learned some fascinating history on the ride from London to the small English village where Mitzi Szereto’s roast and release party would be held.
“Oh, will you look at that!” Patsy presses her nose to the window by her top deck seat as the bus bumps along the worn cobblestones on the narrow road.
Lyn, Mary and Mac shift in their seats to admire the crowded stretch of storefronts lining the village’s main thoroughfare like a charming, old English postcard. A steeply pitched common roof connects the local businesses with fall flowers blooming in the boxes below the rows of second story windows.
The bus comes to a stop in front of a pair of matching, rough hewn benches bracketing each side of a sturdy, mullion windowed door below a sign announcing the village’s one and only pub.
“Here we are, Ladies.”
Mary sighs. “It’s so English. You don’t see that in the states.”
Mac nods. “I feel like we’ve stepped into a scene out of that old movie, The Quiet Man. I love that movie!”
“That was in Ireland, Mac,” Lyn points out.
Mac’s brows jump together momentarily in a confused frown before her shoulders slump. “Geez, that’s right. Well, Pffttt. I’m an American. What do I know?”
Patsy chuckles and bumps Mac’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Mac. A pint is a pint, and Mitzi said the whole town will be at the pub for the release party for her Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles. There are bound to be a few hunks in the bunch.”
“Hunks I can handle. It’s a local murder mystery I’m afraid of. Are you sure Mitzi hasn’t planned one of those murder mystery dinners to go along with her story? Because I suck at finding clues.”
Mary’s eyes widen with excitement. “I LOVE those, but I think Mitzi’s party is a simple English pub celebration. You know, hunky locals sharing pints of beer and delicious English fare.
“As long as I don’t have to eat Spotted Dick.”
Lyn laughs. “Have you ever tried it? It’s delicious.”
Mac shudders. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
“Speaking of hunks.”
They all turn to see a group of strapping young men in casual country attire round the corner, laughing amongst themselves as they file inside the pub. Lyn jumps from her seat and smoothes her sweater over the waist of her jeans. “What are we waiting for? Come on.” The other hostesses scramble to follow her, filing down the stairs and off the bus.
Soft music and laughter meet them when they step inside the pub.
“Wow! This is so cool!” Mary snaps more pictures.
Dim lighting illuminates the dozen round tables and the long, dark wood bar. A brick fireplace takes up all of one wall and thick, rough cut wooden beams run the length of the low ceiling. A large crowd is already gathered, several of whom wait at the bar as a burly bartender works the taps. Patsy spots a dart board in the corner. She flexes her biceps and grins.
“Oh, yeah. I’m going to challenge of few of these gorgeous guys to a game.”
Mac returns her grin. “Just don’t beat them too badly. You don’t want to make them mad and spoil things for the rest of us.”
Across the room, Oliver appears with a tray of glasses full of dark golden brew balanced on one hand. He nods his head in a silent greeting, looking dapper as usual.
“I hope that’s mead!” Lyn heads straight for him.
A waitress smiles at the rest of the hostesses as she passes by. Mary eyes the plates of fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, and roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and gravy on the woman’s tray and her stomach growls.
“Oh, my. What’s that she’s eating?” Patsy points to the closest table and the woman dipping her fork into a scrumptious looking confection covered in what looks like caramel.
Mary licks her lips. “I think it’s Sticky Toffee Pudding with custard.
“Yumm! We’re going to have a blast, girls.”
Mac scans the large crowd and spots Mitzi hugging Lyn. “Come on. There’s Mitzi. I can’t wait to talk to her. I just know I’m going to love her accent.”
Let's all welcome Mitzi Szerato and Teddy Tedaloo with 'Normal For Norfolk' (what a great title!
The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles)
by Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo
(Excerpt):
Little Acre was all abuzz with news about the murder of one of their native sons. Derrick Pickles, long-time proprietor of The Black Stag public house in the adjacent village of Kelton Market, had been found bludgeoned to death. Pickles had lived in the village since the day he was born, the pub having been in his family for generations. He’d taken it over from his father, who’d taken it over from his father, and so on and so on. The Pickles were a Norfolk institution, and Derrick was well-liked and respected in the community. Not even the taint of his only son going off to work in The City rather than positioning himself to one day take over the reins of the family business could dampen the locals’ affection for the family, though forgiveness wasn’t always as easy to come by. Feelings and memories ran deep in this part of the world, despite young Pickles defection to London taking place nearly two decades before, which, at least to the locals, might as well have been yesterday. Not even the death of his mother many years later could bring young Pickles back in line. But old Derrick stubbornly clung on, running the pub long after most publicans would have sold up and retired to Spain or Portugal—especially a widower with no one to stay behind for.
Enjoying her role as a cheesy tourist, Mary snaps pictures while the other hostesses toss out questions to the perky young tour guide speaking into the intercom system. They’d seen many of the local points of interest and learned some fascinating history on the ride from London to the small English village where Mitzi Szereto’s roast and release party would be held.
Lyn, Mary and Mac shift in their seats to admire the crowded stretch of storefronts lining the village’s main thoroughfare like a charming, old English postcard. A steeply pitched common roof connects the local businesses with fall flowers blooming in the boxes below the rows of second story windows.
The bus comes to a stop in front of a pair of matching, rough hewn benches bracketing each side of a sturdy, mullion windowed door below a sign announcing the village’s one and only pub.
“Here we are, Ladies.”
Mary sighs. “It’s so English. You don’t see that in the states.”
Mac nods. “I feel like we’ve stepped into a scene out of that old movie, The Quiet Man. I love that movie!”
“That was in Ireland, Mac,” Lyn points out.
Mac’s brows jump together momentarily in a confused frown before her shoulders slump. “Geez, that’s right. Well, Pffttt. I’m an American. What do I know?”
Patsy chuckles and bumps Mac’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Mac. A pint is a pint, and Mitzi said the whole town will be at the pub for the release party for her Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles. There are bound to be a few hunks in the bunch.”
“Hunks I can handle. It’s a local murder mystery I’m afraid of. Are you sure Mitzi hasn’t planned one of those murder mystery dinners to go along with her story? Because I suck at finding clues.”
Mary’s eyes widen with excitement. “I LOVE those, but I think Mitzi’s party is a simple English pub celebration. You know, hunky locals sharing pints of beer and delicious English fare.
“As long as I don’t have to eat Spotted Dick.”
Lyn laughs. “Have you ever tried it? It’s delicious.”
Mac shudders. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
“Speaking of hunks.”
They all turn to see a group of strapping young men in casual country attire round the corner, laughing amongst themselves as they file inside the pub. Lyn jumps from her seat and smoothes her sweater over the waist of her jeans. “What are we waiting for? Come on.” The other hostesses scramble to follow her, filing down the stairs and off the bus.
Soft music and laughter meet them when they step inside the pub.
“Wow! This is so cool!” Mary snaps more pictures.
Dim lighting illuminates the dozen round tables and the long, dark wood bar. A brick fireplace takes up all of one wall and thick, rough cut wooden beams run the length of the low ceiling. A large crowd is already gathered, several of whom wait at the bar as a burly bartender works the taps. Patsy spots a dart board in the corner. She flexes her biceps and grins.
“Oh, yeah. I’m going to challenge of few of these gorgeous guys to a game.”
Mac returns her grin. “Just don’t beat them too badly. You don’t want to make them mad and spoil things for the rest of us.”
Across the room, Oliver appears with a tray of glasses full of dark golden brew balanced on one hand. He nods his head in a silent greeting, looking dapper as usual.
“I hope that’s mead!” Lyn heads straight for him.
A waitress smiles at the rest of the hostesses as she passes by. Mary eyes the plates of fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, and roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and gravy on the woman’s tray and her stomach growls.
“Oh, my. What’s that she’s eating?” Patsy points to the closest table and the woman dipping her fork into a scrumptious looking confection covered in what looks like caramel.
Mary licks her lips. “I think it’s Sticky Toffee Pudding with custard.
Teddy Bear picnic cake for Teddy Tedaloo |
Mac scans the large crowd and spots Mitzi hugging Lyn. “Come on. There’s Mitzi. I can’t wait to talk to her. I just know I’m going to love her accent.”
Let's all welcome Mitzi Szerato and Teddy Tedaloo with 'Normal For Norfolk' (what a great title!
The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles)
by Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo
(Excerpt):
Little Acre was all abuzz with news about the murder of one of their native sons. Derrick Pickles, long-time proprietor of The Black Stag public house in the adjacent village of Kelton Market, had been found bludgeoned to death. Pickles had lived in the village since the day he was born, the pub having been in his family for generations. He’d taken it over from his father, who’d taken it over from his father, and so on and so on. The Pickles were a Norfolk institution, and Derrick was well-liked and respected in the community. Not even the taint of his only son going off to work in The City rather than positioning himself to one day take over the reins of the family business could dampen the locals’ affection for the family, though forgiveness wasn’t always as easy to come by. Feelings and memories ran deep in this part of the world, despite young Pickles defection to London taking place nearly two decades before, which, at least to the locals, might as well have been yesterday. Not even the death of his mother many years later could bring young Pickles back in line. But old Derrick stubbornly clung on, running the pub long after most publicans would have sold up and retired to Spain or Portugal—especially a widower with no one to stay behind for.
Being the only pub in the village, The Black Stag was a magnet for the
locals, not to mention tourists in search of some local colour. Kelton Market
was conveniently situated in the county, what with the ruins of an old castle
located just outside the village and a bustling crafts and antiques market
taking place on weekends, so it was a rare day, indeed, when the pub wasn’t
busy. The fact that a murder had been committed was not something the residents
of this part of Norfolk were accustomed to. The most crime they ever got was of
the sort involving the theft of a cockerel from a farm or some youths out
joyriding on a tractor. But murder? No. Murders happened in London and
Birmingham and Glasgow. They did not happen in Kelton Market.
Therefore when Thelonious heaved open the heavy glass door of Little
Acre’s one and only newsagents in his quest to buy a copy of the local
newspaper (or as local as he could get), he discovered quite a crowd gathered
inside the cramped little shop. A trio of men representing three generations
and an elderly woman who had to have been pushing the century mark were
gathered in front of the till, talking animatedly and all at the same time, the
garrulous din being added to by a frumpy sixty-something woman behind the
counter. She appeared to be refereeing the conversation, her heavy arms
flapping and waving about as if she were attempting to direct a newly landed
plane to an airport gate.
The youngest of the men was dressed in a white beekeeper’s suit, the
hood of which had been pushed back behind his head. Hair the shade and texture
of the round bales of hay Thelonious had seen in the fields of the surrounding
landscape kept falling down over his eyes, causing him to reach up to swipe it
away, whereupon the same thing happened all over again. He had the open and
guileless mien of someone who’d grown up in the country and had little to no
experience with big city life. The oldest of the trio had a pickled and
world-weary look about him that could only have been achieved from a lifetime
of heavy drinking. His deeply creased face was the colour of cured tobacco
leaves, his overall appearance untidy and unwashed. He clutched an unlighted
cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, the skin and nails stained a
sickly yellow-orange from nicotine. Had it not been for his expensive-looking
leather jacket, Thelonious might have mistaken him for a homeless man. The
third fellow was aged somewhere between the two and, judging by his collar,
appeared to be a vicar. He kept trying to get the group to quiet down, his pale
palms making circles in the air as if he were washing invisible windows.
Instead of having the desired effect, the group became even more animated, as
if seeking to exorcise the vicar’s fruitless attempts at calm.
The elderly woman to whom no one paid any mind bashed the rubber-tipped
feet of her Zimmer frame against the worn linoleum floor until she was in
danger of toppling over. Nevertheless, the accompanying staccato of
protestations coming from her shrivelled maw continued to fall on deaf ears.
Her hunched form looked as if it might crumple into a heap of ancient bones as
she slammed the rattling frame of steel to the lino again and again, her grey
head bobbing up and down on her withered neck like a nodding dashboard dog. But
no matter how much she crashed and banged and spluttered, she could not be
heard above her village compatriots, who were determined to get their points
across despite the fact no one was listening to anyone.
It didn’t take long for Thelonious to determine that something was
definitely up—and the headline shouting at him from the front page of the Walsham
Courier pretty much confirmed it. He pulled a copy out from the news rack
and waddled over to the side of the counter, stretching upward on his short
legs to hold out some coins to the sour-faced shopkeeper, who abruptly ceased
her refereeing to gawp at him. Not that this was unusual—Thelonious got gawped
at a lot, especially by people who’d never encountered his sort before. You
would think she’d be a bit more discreet when it came to paying customers, he
grumbled inwardly, biting back the urge to tell her to get a new front door
fitted. The one she had weighed as much as a London bus. His right shoulder was
beginning to ache something awful from the impact of it against the glass when
he’d pushed it open. He hoped the B&B his publisher’s UK office had booked
him into had a bathtub and decent hot water system so he could have a long soak
later, because he didn’t fancy looking elsewhere for accommodation, especially
at the beginning of the summer tourist season. For him to be able to work, he
needed a home base, a sense of order. Chaos was not Thelonious’ style.
With newspaper in hand, he made his way out of the newsagent’s, only to
pause outside to examine the cards and notices that had been placed in the shop
window (which apparently cost each poster the princely sum of five pounds a
week to display). He was curious as to what kinds of items and services people
put on offer in these Norfolk villages and expected to see advertisements of
either an agrarian nature or for church jumble sales. Not surprisingly, they
were positioned too high up for him to read properly, but he did manage to make
out a card for an electrician slash handyman as well as a flyer for a
beekeeping school before his neck threatened to join his shoulder in protest.
Thelonious trundled back to where he’d left the
Mini, climbed up onto the driver’s seat with the usual fanfare and aggro, then
set off down the little high street with its requisite tea shop/café, gift
shop, post office (closed due to government cutbacks), and pub, which went by
the rather portentous name The Drowned Duck. Within moments he’d reached the
Norman church that marked the end of the village high street. It was also the
turnoff for Baxter House Bed and Breakfast. Home at last!
Mitzi Szereto is an author and anthology editor of multi-genre fiction and non-fiction, has her own blog “Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog” and is creator/presenter of the Web TV channel “Mitzi TV”, which covers the “quirky” side of London.
Mitzi Szereto is an author and anthology editor of multi-genre fiction and non-fiction, has her own blog “Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog” and is creator/presenter of the Web TV channel “Mitzi TV”, which covers the “quirky” side of London.
Check out my new releases: Normal for Norfolk (The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles
"Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto's Weblog" http://mitziszereto.com/blog
Mitzi TV: http://mitziszereto.com/tv
Twitter: @mitziszereto
Also @ Facebook, MySpace, Flickr
Mitzi TV: http://mitziszereto.com/tv
Twitter: @mitziszereto
Also @ Facebook, MySpace, Flickr
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