Part 1.
In the county of
Northumbria, nestled snugly in a green patchwork quilt of
rolling hills and wild rivers sat the small market town of
PagansWart.
The dwellings
that made up Woodcutters Lane were like most others except for
one small abode. Built long ago when life was simpler, kinder
and goodwill was abroad amongst all men, it sat hidden down a
blind back alley away from the more normal offerings of
commerce and trade.
Standing two
stories high, it was strong and sturdy having weathered the
tests and ravishes of time. Within its walls, life was lived,
wares were bartered or bought and where many a tall tale
echoes like a mournful ghost bemoaning its fate to the dead of
the night. During its lifetime, this building has seen many
faces from cobbler, fishmonger, pawnbroker, grocer to a
tinker. Each adding their own page to the history within it's walls.
Our tale shall begin here.
*
Christmas 1897
With snowflakes
falling and surrounded by tall, dancing shadows cast by the
setting winter sun, a small figure scurried breathlessly
through the alley.
Elizabeth Rose
grasped the hem of her swirling black skirt as she ran, her
small boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow as her
imagination conjured phantom figures lurking in the black as
pitch coves of Woodcutters Lane. Reaching up to clasp her
bonnet, she glanced over her shoulder looking back into the
night from where she fled, her fear washing over her good sense
for she imagined the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickle as if
someone was watching her.
But to her wide blue eyes, the alley sat silent, dark and still.
Gasping with relief,
she finally reached its mouth where she screeched to a halt,
looking this way and that as she tried to compose herself for
she was about to enter PagansWart's main square where the
hubbub of the mingling masses were enjoying the last few days
before the Christmas break. Not only that, it was a Tuesday
and it was market day.
Sellers,
stallholders, traders, shirkers, tinkers and most likely
pickpockets came from miles around to partake in the age old
ritual of barter which brightened up the mundane existence of
those that lived in the shire. Situated in the main square,
surrounded by lop-sided, red tiled, white fronted, black
latticed shop fronts, the market was a hive of activity built around
rickety stalls laden down with wares of all types and persuasion
supplemented with wagon traders selling lotions, potions,
cures fer this and that from the backs of their carts.
With heaving breast,
she becalmed her thudding heart and taking a deep breath
stepped out into the babbling throng. To the curious onlooker,
Ms Rose was a comely lass, fair blonde of mane, short, slight
in stature with surprising strength forged from long hours in
the mills but with a fine turn of heel that bedecked her with
a fetching sweetness that was slightly offset by the naughty
gleam and knowing glint in her blue eyes.
Indeed, if the
patrons mingling about the market that winter's day realised
what she had been up to not an hour beforehand many a shock
would be gasped and many a fan would be unfurled to hide a
blossoming blush. For as Lizzie wound her way through the
market, she could only think of one thing as she grasped the
shilling in her pocket.
Her backside didn't half throb like a sore tooth!!
Surrounded by the
stench of spiked pig roasting on a spit mixing with the putrid
ness of the great unwashed, she stopped and turned to look
from whence she came. Reaching behind her, cupping her bustle
to give it a soothing rub, she winced at the memory.
Of Mr Tiggywinkle.
The gentleman who lived at number twenty-two Woodcutters Lane and who was the owner of Ye Old Spank Shop.
Trudging
through the ankle deep snow towards the bottom of the garden, Tess
O'Fee grumbled her discontent as she reached the spartan hedge and began
to pluck some choice branches before pulling out a piece of twine to
tie them together in a bundle. 
