Died and Gone to Devon

Copyright (#ulink_1b6176b8-f2f4-5809-95e6-51e16a3b72ca)

Note to Readers (#ulink_59cfde9b-3790-519c-8adb-edacb9986b7f)

Dedication (#uf9e338c5-06d4-5a8d-b159-902827c9390f)

Part One – Winter

One (#ulink_a2ccb1bb-7923-5185-ac8c-8848bd0c684d)

Two (#ulink_b4f7aeb6-f1e7-5a6f-a5a3-bddfa16e7530)

Three (#ulink_dfa47c8c-e9d9-558e-8609-9140f6add2e6)

Four (#ulink_ff9d7328-f4c9-5585-9779-81939c53ea9f)

Five (#ulink_05d8f850-0901-5d84-bdf5-2b791e851443)

Six (#ulink_5e5243cf-e241-5011-a16c-6dd013034044)

Seven (#ulink_3952ee42-94ab-531a-8dd7-7217cbcc7dc4)

Eight (#ulink_348e3661-3f4e-57b4-91b6-157e198ec63d)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

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Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two – Summer

Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Part One – Winter (#ulink_6f1f926c-d649-5a4f-89cc-6a6184894302)

One (#ulink_d241a85c-70f9-5040-bdad-67212a5b366d)

For a newspaper which went to such lengths to remind its readers of the forthcoming jollifications – ill-drawn holly wreaths garlanding the masthead on Page One, other pages adorned with large woodcut prints of Santas and sleighbells – the newsroom of the Riviera Express was decidedly lacking in Christmas cheer.

Above the sub-editors’ table some optimist had hung a dispirited-looking mistletoe twig, but since most of the desk’s occupants were too old or too ugly to kiss, as a gesture it seemed particularly hollow. Outside the editor’s office a despondent-looking fir tree was already shedding its needles, while from the darkroom came the sounds of Terry Eagleton murdering ‘Santa Bring My Baby Back To Me’. It wasn’t a nice thing to hear.

Betty Featherstone was sitting on John Ross’s desk, swinging her legs and listening to the old bore drone on about the glory days.

‘Ayyyyy…’ he said with a growl, ‘it was just aboot this time o’ year. The old King was dying, the worrld was waiting for the soond of muffled bells. Fleet Street had come to a standstill in anticipation. Ye’re too young to know the name Hannen Swaffer, but let me tell you, girrlie, he was the finest – the greatest columnist ever. Hannen Swaffer!’

‘Yes, I think I’ve heard the…’

‘So old Swaff was sent off to Buckingham Palace to find out how things were going. He came back to the office and told the editor: His Majesty must be slipping away. He didn’t even recognise me.’

‘Ha, ha,’ said Betty.

‘You say that, girrlie, but I can tell you don’t mean it.’

He was right. Betty was inspecting the run in her stocking, successfully dammed with a dollop of Cutex Rosy Pink nail varnish, and thinking about the WI Whist Drive report she had to finish before going-home time. Or rather, she wasn’t thinking about it, using Ross and his interminable meanderings as an excuse not to.

Nobody told her, when she joined the Riviera Express from school, it could be this dull – and in the fortnight before Christmas, too! All she had to look forward to for the rest of the afternoon was writing up the tide tables, sorting out the church brass-cleaning roster, and finally doing something about the Bedlington Crochet Club’s seasonal chef d’oeuvre, a knitted Madonna and child complete with manger, now lopsidedly adorning the font in St Margaret’s Church.

‘Ye jest don’ get the quality of writer down here, girrlie. Now Cassandra of the Daily Mirror – that’s quality for ye!’

As she half listened to the Glaswegian’s monody she struggled to think of an intro. How many thousand stitches, she drearily thought, would it take to make a knitted Madonna? Wait a minute – I could turn that into the New Year quiz!

‘Ye ever read his description of Liberace? So brilliant I know it by heart.’