What happens when writers meet…
…well I’m not sure I am at liberty to divulge such information. However I did write a story about us all before we got together. How many Resolute titles can you find hidden.
Photo of the Resolute Authors at Trinity College Bristol April 2025
Mayhem at the Village Hall
The stage was set, the village hall was pristine, and sunlight shone through sparkling windows. Paintings displayed on easels were strategically placed around the perimeter.
“It is the Art of Life.” Sighed Mrs Russell wistfully.
“Unexpectedly poetic.” Agreed Mrs Leigh with satisfaction.
The two women had curated the exhibition with a great deal of ingenuity, while the third member of their trio, Ms Cresswell, sat outside watching the grass grow and contemplating words that rhymed with the Blaxhall Ship.
Mrs Dunn blustered in disturbing the peace. “Where shall I put my Wheel of Fortune, can’t have a fete without the fun.” She trilled.
“As you can plainly see the art exhibition is in the main hall. We’ve set up games down by the duck pond.” Mrs Russell said sternly. “Go and see Ms Cresswell, she is supposed to be directing people outside.”
“Jolly good, the sun is in its ascendancy at that point of the field, very little shade. Come along Janet – you will have the west in your eyes, the future is bright. I do hope you remembered the suncream this year.”
And off she popped, with the mousey Mrs Hancock in her wake, a spinning wheel balanced on a trolley with a sign proclaiming everyone’s a winner.
On the way to their allotted spot, they passed Mrs Carter setting up her homemade jam and chutney stall. The tablecloth billowed but you could clearly read the words Repression, Rebellion and Redemption; it was her mantra. She was always asking people to support the latest good cause and stand up against the patriarchy, or META, or AI, or KDP – whichever letters had fallen out of favour that week.
“Oh, I’m so glad you are here; I must have another jar of your marmalade. I scraped the last of mine on my toast this morning. I’ll settle up later.” Mrs Dunn picked up the jar nearest to her from the corner of the table and continued on her way, oblivious to the fact it was weighing down the latest petition.
An errant page caught on the breeze. Dr Oakley spotting the incident immediately ran after it before in ended up in the duck pond. However his dog Princess thought this was a game and got to it first, shredding the page with teeth as sharp as a warrior’s sword.
“Keep your dog away from my otters!” Squealed Ms Neville who, funnily enough, was also in the vicinity looking for marmalade.
As if there was not enough drama going on there was a sudden wail like a banshee from the skies.
“Look Mum,” said Ben. “A Vulcan bomber.”
“Right on time!” stated Wing Commander Rumbold looking at her expensive timepiece. “I declare this years’ gathering officially open!”
“Can I have a go on the wheel of fortune now?” Asked Ben.
She handed the young chap a crisp fiver, with the king’s head on and sent him on his way. He was among friends and wouldn’t go far.
“Hello young Ben, come to try your luck?”
“Yes please Mrs Dunn.”
He handed over his money and spun the giant wheel. Mrs Hancock gave it a nudge to move it on, so he could pick a golden prize rather than just win a lollypop. They had been stuck together in the jar since 1989.
Ben chose a can of worms but was exceedingly disappointed when they turned out to be a joke. He pulled out the giant worm on a spring and stuffed it in his pocket – best not to leave litter that Dr Oakley’s dog might chew up or Ms Neville’s Otters.
Then Ben went in search of real worms by the pond.
Everyone was having such a good time. Mr Trembling and Mr Stevens were putting the world to rights in the beer tent. Mrs Carter had just about sold out of her preserves and had collected lots of signatures on the petition to stop the Newlands Nursery Company taking over the local village toddler group. Mr Chamberlain was discussing art with Mrs Russell. Ms Cresswell was reciting her latest poem to Mrs Leigh.
Toward the end of the afternoon everyone started to gather inside the village hall. Reverend Aston had judged the cakes on the cake stall and was coming to present prizes and give her closing remarks.
Ben ran up the hill to join the others, pretending to fly a Vulcan, making all the right noises, can of worms in his hand.
He bumped into Mrs Russell as he entered the hall. “What have you got there young man?” She looked at the can in his hand. “I’ve not seen one of these for many years.”
She opened the can, expecting a giant joke worm to appear and make everyone laugh, instead she was confronted by a can of real slimy ones. She dropped them on the floor and they squirmed in all directions.
“We are all God’s creatures. It could have been worse – he could have dropped a severed hand into the proceedings.” Muttered the reverend Aston; not many people knew her penchant for gruesome crime fiction.
Ms Cresswell, trying to avoid standing on a worm heading in her direction, stepped backwards and suddenly knocked into one easel and they all toppled like dominoes.
Mrs Leigh let out a cry, and while trying to rescue her precious painting, entitled “Regency man in wet shirt”, she stood on a particularly fat and juicy worm.
“You, Local Killer!” Screamed Ben. “That was the last survivor of Centauri!”
Suddenly a cupboard door burst open “I’ve found it!” An excited Mrs Nicholson stepped into the fray with a pot of lost glitter. Unfortunately, she slipped on a worm, threw the pot in the air, and covered everyone in sparkles.
Mrs Hancock sat in the corner giggling; this was the best fun ever!