And so it begins … again. Our second WinDarl cosy released and ready for promos, and now onto the third in the series. Horrid Herbs: When Sage Meets Stage, sees our amateur sleuths hamming it up as part of Treeton Am-Dram Society and re-enacting medieval punishments in Old Farrow, noted for its pig farming. Enjoy an extract from the first chapter.

In the Stocks

Five pairs of bare feet poking through little round holes of the cranky old wooden stocks, toes of every shape and size wiggling in the warm air.

On a satisfying March Sunday, when it was warm in the sun, but cool in the shade, Wendy May should be relaxing in her enviable Japanese garden, surrendering to clusters of delicate pink in the potent company of ethereal cherry blossoms. Instead of lounging in fitting spring garb, sunhat, and shades getting high on Sakura seduction, she found herself in a filthy white bonnet and rotten rags propped against a wall with four other reprobates in a re-enactment of medieval punishment in the stocks. Her dirty face, stained with splotches of mud, looked typical of the snot-nosed characters she’d seen in film and TV productions, though she believed that to be a fallacy. A way of drawing the audience in.

Treeton Am-Dram Society had gone to remarkable lengths to make the re-enactment authentic, paying a tidy fee to hijack Snell’s Pig Farm for the setting. Owned by Samuel and Josie Snell, the farm had been in the family for generations and teetered on the periphery of Old Farrow, one of eight villages that were part of the Linkville community surrounding Treeton. The holding occupied several hectares, comprising a farmhouse, outbuildings, and an array of farrowing crates and small bedded dwellings for the pigs, who mostly spent life outdoors.

The drama group had set up mock stocks outside an outbuilding, within spitting distance of a manure heap. Wendy sat in the middle, two scoundrels to her left, two to her right. Barefoot and busted, the scene was a decent re-enactment of how people suffered corporal punishment and public humiliation in medieval times. A crowd had gathered to watch proceedings, Prue Penn, a close friend of Wendy’s among them. Jon Windup, Wendy’s sparring, and sleuthing partner was elsewhere mooning over his maps. When Wendy asked if he wanted to join up, he’d sputtered his usual, “I’ll have to go away and think about it.” The man had dalliance down to a fine art and was no further forward in his deliberations, which, given his Mr Mel O’Drama-Histrionics temperament, surprised Wendy. He’d called that morning before she headed to Honest Tor to pick up Prue.

‘Good luck with the group. It’s a lovely day for it, and remember to take stock of the situation.’

He is and always will be Daft Jokes Jon. Wendy managed a smile, despite struggling to tolerate the niff when the wind blew a certain way. Not a seasoned country dweller, Wendy had enough rural living to accept obligatory odours, but moderate breezes wafting intense whiffs of dung and silage right up her nostrils made her retch. She was thankful she wasn’t in the pillory and could still hold her nose to stifle the stench.

‘Pooh,’ moaned Percival Knutt, the crusty birdman of Old Farrow, sitting on Wendy’s right. ‘Whose idea was it to do this silly thing on a pig farm? What a pong. Thank the Lord my mynas don’t smell like that.’

‘That’s my Dad’s pig farm,’ said Larry “Longsock” Snell—because his name was Larry and he wore long socks—sitting at one end of the stocks next to Percy, and at twenty-five, the youngest of four children of Samuel and Josie. A staunch vegan, he owned and idolised a pair of pet pigs, Sax and Snare, and often took them for walks around the village and beyond. Locals always greeted piggies on a leash as their proud owner nodded his approval, joining the chuckles and admiration of the prized pair.

‘Maybe you should get your dad to do something about the reek?’

‘Give it up, Percy. I’m not loving the funk, but farms smell. In medieval times, they put people in the stocks to make them suffer. To humiliate. It’s not supposed to be a comforting experience.’ Wendy couldn’t be bothered, but she was a captive audience, even though her mind fleeted to the long line of cherry blossoms along Triple Tree Marsh where she walked yesterday. She wished to see clumps of candy floss in white and pink, not wilt in gunge and muck among a torturous stink.

‘We’re suffering all right!’ Known for his impatience, Percival was often tactless and blunt, except towards his two pet Myna birds.’

‘Percival’s got a point. Why are we doing this on a farm? And whose idea was it to set up the stocks next to a dung heap?’

To Wendy’s left, Derek Matte, nicknamed Door Matte because of Joan, his domineering wife, was restless. Derek was one of those henpecked-at-home-take-it-out on-others types and Wendy and her bare tootsies weren’t happy to be next to a Matte with more prickles than coir. Sandwiched between twits in stereo and stuck in the middle with nowhere to go.

‘You must be missing your hogs, Larry, but don’t worry, I’m wearing my pork pie.’

‘Pork pie? I’m a vegan.’

‘And I’m a veggie, but my hat’s still a pork pie.’

‘A pig farmer’s son and you don’t eat meat!’ Larry’s admission had scandalised Percival. ‘And you and your daft hats, missy. Weirdos, the bloody lot of you.’

‘Don’t mind being a weirdo, but I’ll stop when I’m in your league.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The names of your birds, Percy. Dave Mark One and Dave Mark Two? I ask you. Why?

‘Exactly, and I’m no weirdo. How dare you!’ Lils Wacke, owner of Old Farrow’s wicca store, was not amused.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And so it begins … again. Our second WinDarl cosy released and ready for promos, and now onto the third in the series. Horrid Herbs: When Sage Meets Stage, sees our amateur sleuths hamming it up as part of Treeton Am-Dram Society and re-enacting medieval punishments in Old Farrow, noted for its pig farming. Enjoy an extract from the first chapter.

In the Stocks

Five pairs of bare feet poking through little round holes of the cranky old wooden stocks, toes of every shape and size wiggling in the warm air.

On a satisfying March Sunday, when it was warm in the sun, but cool in the shade, Wendy May should be relaxing in her enviable Japanese garden, surrendering to clusters of delicate pink in the potent company of ethereal cherry blossoms. Instead of lounging in fitting spring garb, sunhat, and shades getting high on Sakura seduction, she found herself in a filthy white bonnet and rotten rags propped against a wall with four other reprobates in a re-enactment of medieval punishment in the stocks. Her dirty face, stained with splotches of mud, looked typical of the snot-nosed characters she’d seen in film and TV productions, though she believed that to be a fallacy. A way of drawing the audience in.

Treeton Am-Dram Society had gone to remarkable lengths to make the re-enactment authentic, paying a tidy fee to hijack Snell’s Pig Farm for the setting. Owned by Samuel and Josie Snell, the farm had been in the family for generations and teetered on the periphery of Old Farrow, one of eight villages that were part of the Linkville community surrounding Treeton. The holding occupied several hectares, comprising a farmhouse, outbuildings, and an array of farrowing crates and small bedded dwellings for the pigs, who mostly spent life outdoors.

The drama group had set up mock stocks outside an outbuilding, within spitting distance of a manure heap. Wendy sat in the middle, two scoundrels to her left, two to her right. Barefoot and busted, the scene was a decent re-enactment of how people suffered corporal punishment and public humiliation in medieval times. A crowd had gathered to watch proceedings, Prue Penn, a close friend of Wendy’s among them. Jon Windup, Wendy’s sparring, and sleuthing partner was elsewhere mooning over his maps. When Wendy asked if he wanted to join up, he’d sputtered his usual, “I’ll have to go away and think about it.” The man had dalliance down to a fine art and was no further forward in his deliberations, which, given his Mr Mel O’Drama-Histrionics temperament, surprised Wendy. He’d called that morning before she headed to Honest Tor to pick up Prue.

‘Good luck with the group. It’s a lovely day for it, and remember to take stock of the situation.’

He is and always will be Daft Jokes Jon. Wendy managed a smile, despite struggling to tolerate the niff when the wind blew a certain way. Not a seasoned country dweller, Wendy had enough rural living to accept obligatory odours, but moderate breezes wafting intense whiffs of dung and silage right up her nostrils made her retch. She was thankful she wasn’t in the pillory and could still hold her nose to stifle the stench.

‘Pooh,’ moaned Percival Knutt, the crusty birdman of Old Farrow, sitting on Wendy’s right. ‘Whose idea was it to do this silly thing on a pig farm? What a pong. Thank the Lord my mynas don’t smell like that.’

‘That’s my Dad’s pig farm,’ said Larry “Longsock” Snell—because his name was Larry and he wore long socks—sitting at one end of the stocks next to Percy, and at twenty-five, the youngest of four children of Samuel and Josie. A staunch vegan, he owned and idolised a pair of pet pigs, Sax and Snare, and often took them for walks around the village and beyond. Locals always greeted piggies on a leash as their proud owner nodded his approval, joining the chuckles and admiration of the prized pair.

‘Maybe you should get your dad to do something about the reek?’

‘Give it up, Percy. I’m not loving the funk, but farms smell. In medieval times, they put people in the stocks to make them suffer. To humiliate. It’s not supposed to be a comforting experience.’ Wendy couldn’t be bothered, but she was a captive audience, even though her mind fleeted to the long line of cherry blossoms along Triple Tree Marsh where she walked yesterday. She wished to see clumps of candy floss in white and pink, not wilt in gunge and muck among a torturous stink.

‘We’re suffering all right!’ Known for his impatience, Percival was often tactless and blunt, except towards his two pet Myna birds.’

‘Percival’s got a point. Why are we doing this on a farm? And whose idea was it to set up the stocks next to a dung heap?’

To Wendy’s left, Derek Matte, nicknamed Door Matte because of Joan, his domineering wife, was restless. Derek was one of those henpecked-at-home-take-it-out on-others types and Wendy and her bare tootsies weren’t happy to be next to a Matte with more prickles than coir. Sandwiched between twits in stereo and stuck in the middle with nowhere to go.

‘You must be missing your hogs, Larry, but don’t worry, I’m wearing my pork pie.’

‘Pork pie? I’m a vegan.’

‘And I’m a veggie, but my hat’s still a pork pie.’

‘A pig farmer’s son and you don’t eat meat!’ Larry’s admission had scandalised Percival. ‘And you and your daft hats, missy. Weirdos, the bloody lot of you.’

‘Don’t mind being a weirdo, but I’ll stop when I’m in your league.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The names of your birds, Percy. Dave Mark One and Dave Mark Two? I ask you. Why?

‘Exactly, and I’m no weirdo. How dare you!’ Lils Wacke, owner of Old Farrow’s wicca store, was not amused.

TO BE CONTINUED…