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Rosy Cole

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Rosy Cole was born and educated in the Shires of England. Her writing career started in her teens. Four apprentice works eventually led to publication of two novels. Life intervened, but she returned to authorship in 2004. She has worked as a Press Officer and Publisher's Reader. Among widespread interests, she lists history, opera, musicals, jazz, the arts, drawing and painting, gemmology, homoeopathy and alternative therapies. Theology also is an abiding interest. As a singer, she's performed alongside many renowned musicians and has run a music agency which specialised in themed 'words-and-music' programmes, bringing her two greatest passions together. Rosy's first book of poetry, THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether, was published in April 2012, National Poetry Month, and two other collections are in preparation. As well as the First and Second Books in the Berkeley Series, she has written several other historical titles and one of literary fiction. She is currently working on the Third Book in the Berkeley Series. All her books are now published under the New Eve imprint. Rosy lives in West Sussex with her son, Chris, and her Labrador cross, Poppy, who keeps a firm paw on the work-and-walkies schedule!

Courts And Jesters



Review of THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS by Stephen Evans


There are a myriad questions one would wish to ask the author of THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS, but the overarching one is: Were you aware you were retelling the Easter story in a twenty-first century context?

Don't get the wrong idea, gentle reader, this book is slick and wickedly funny. Its sequence of vivid backdrops is injected with what purports to be fast-paced dialogue, but is actually a stream of interlaced monologues, cutting to the quick of the human heart. It is a filmic novel, as perhaps befits the work of a seasoned playwright and, on the face of it, screams out for translation to celluloid (or whatever it is the industry uses nowadays.) Whether such treatment could ever do justice to this complex-cut and multi-faceted gem is doubtful. It is a measure of Evans' genius that a creation stiff with Byzantine allusions, recurring motifs, classical and philosophical metaphors, can stand alone as a tale of pure comic lunacy.

The action opens when former environmental barrister Nick Ward is arrested for releasing a hundred live lobsters into the indoor pool at the home of the Mayor of Minneapolis. He then has the Department of the Environment fill it with non-chlorinated water and ice to illustrate the effects of global warming on arctic marine life. At the hearing, Nick is delivered into the hands of his ex-wife, Lena (once also his legal partner.) He still considers himself married to her and the stress of divorce appears to have magnified the instability of a sensitive mind.

By dint of psychic manipulation of the proceedings, Nick ends up in Lena's custody for the duration of his sentence to community service, pending a psychiatric evaluation. This involves exercising dogs at a local animal shelter. Here he becomes awakened to the plight of the furry inmates who are 'euthanised' within a few days of being rescued if new owners cannot be found. Nick gets particularly attached to an Irish Wolfhound named Wolfram and when the dog's turn comes to be put down concocts a nail-biting and comically ingenious plot to save him, thus throwing into relief the colossal dilemma for the couple who run the sanctuary.

Meanwhile, Nick's passive handling of the domestic situation (an oxymoron that well describes his ex-wife's predicament) is gradually fretting Lena away from Mogadon Man, Preston Winter, her current squeeze. Nick is accident-prone and inclined to create chaos by his very presence so that Lena always feels pulled into responsibility for him. Although all the old contentions within the marriage are revived and Nick still proves impossible to live with, they come to a kind of existential truce.

On the day of Nick's assessment of competence to testify, there are hilarious scenes of confusion in the courtroom. Wolfram plays a part here, as does Sancho, an English sheepdog puppet, Nick's alter ego, who expresses himself more demonstratively than his tersely fluent handler. (“He's the best person I know. ...Real is trickier than people realise.”) Things are not going well and, in an attempt to prove that his animal activism is the product of a rational mind, Nick contrives to get hold of the bailiff's gun. In sheer frustration he threatens to do away with himself.

“What we need here is a good death... It's our method. Our proposal. Our solution... Inconvenience deserves a death sentence... But let's not hide it in an animal shelter or slaughterhouse or nursing home or prison cell or concentration camp. Let's get it out in the open where we can see once and for all exactly what we are responsible for.”

Deemed unfit to defend himself, Nick is referred to an institution until such time as he has recovered 'normal' behaviour on an appropriate therapy programme.


But there is a triumphal denouement in store where Eden garners the marginalised and dispossessed. It fits well with the story's interwoven themes. While it is off-the-wall as high as a kite, it is profoundly logical and we are led to ask the question who is really insane here? The protagonist or society? If, as the book maintains, one definition of insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting a different result, then the history of our race surely proves that it is a behavioural mean of the human condition, the fallout of our expulsion from the Garden. The reader also might feel that the reasons for divorce point up the differences in psychology between men and women more than anything else. The whole scenario calls for an innocent scapegoat. This shores up the status quo and enables all concerned to preserve their conceit of themselves.

Nick haunts the narrative like a mesmerised child craning to engage with a mystifying adult world. He has no apparent game-plan and claims to be piloted by visions. Underlying all, the secret snigger of the jester is a little unnerving, until it dawns upon the reader that it springs from glee at his adroitness in turning disaster and the randomness of fate into something coherent. That is his intrinsic gift to Life. To describe it as cunning is miles wide of the mark. The child's vision is both pristine and penetrating and affects by osmosis all who come into contact with him. In reality, Nick is the one holding everything together to the point of exhaustion.

It seems churlish to criticise so accomplished a piece, but the tension is occasionally misjudged. For instance, I suspect the scene where the dogs are about to be gassed, which assaults without warning, is meant to shock, but perhaps it is better to allow your reader to absorb the tension rather than leaving him pole-axed on concrete and obliged to do a re-run! 

This novel cannot easily be slotted into a genre. It is a dazzling mix of comedy, magic realism, roman à clef, literary parable. The Shakespearian device of telling a story within a story is employed at a children's party with spellbinding effect and is the most compelling and finely-crafted part of the book. Evans would make a consummate spinner of children's fables, forged with a ring of timeless truth.

His premise that we imagine who we love (insistence on the subjective case, but the objective knock-on is implicit) is resonant of the words of Our Lord, the shadow and substance of all types, and poses the same reflexive and heart-searching question: Who do you say that I am?






© Copyright Rosy Cole 2009 and 2015

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Congratulations, Stephen. This sounds like a fascinating, offbeat story. Amazingly imaginative. I certainly wish you the best of ... Read More
Thursday, 02 April 2015 03:15
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Oyster Shell



On St Patrick's Day, a passage from Entertaining Angels, my unedited novel of a dysfunctional family struggling in the aftermath of two World Wars as the millennium approaches.


Sibyl, a discontented widow, mother of Isabelle and grandmother of James, whose generations mystify her, reflects upon the day her father set sail from the Emerald Isle, never to return...


Sibyl had worried about the barbarian at the gate ever since she could remember. No doubt it was a legacy of the ethnic ancestor to which her mother, a jaunty Dubliner, had mischievously alluded from time to time. Bridie came from a long tradition of merchant seafarers so it was easy to imagine how such a thing could have come about. She had married Liam Locke, who kept The Wheel & Compass on the Dun Laoghaire waterfront, attracted by his brawny arms, brooding dark brow and silver-tongued blarney. All he lacked was an ass's jawbone. He said she had eyes to drown in, like a keg of Guinness, when she came to call her father from chimney settle to supper table. By now, he was mellow to bursting with tales of faraway climes. Fergus Collins was a renowned raconteur, a feature of the house, with his tales of deals closed at the eleventh hour and dewy-breasted slave girls in straw skirts, not so lippy as the fishwives from the Bay. The week after the wedding, the old salt caught a chill and reckoned it was time he weighed anchor on the heavenly shores. He was ready to go.

Bridie was a spirited lass who looked defeat in the eye and overcame it with a powerful sense of humour. She knew what it was to put on a brave face and make everyone warm to her cheer. She was a celebrity to imitate and a rock to depend on, so that her daughter's own strong will was naturally conquered. For several years, they had been snug as chick and hen together. Liam hailed from Coleraine and his folk still bedded there; neither Lough nor Liffey ran in his veins. In a fit of patriotism, he had gone to sea to put down the King's German nephew who, jealous of the British Empire, was creating a shameless dust in The Balkans to gain one of his own. The day he set sail from the Emerald Isle, they stood on the dock, mother and daughter, watching him go, astonished that he could leave them so blithely to keep a damned Protestant on the throne of England. Sibyl, hiding in the folds of her mother's skirt, sucked her thumb and hoped the King would be glad to see her Da. She was a full three years old, in a grown-up calico pinafore and square-buckled shoes. Last night, Liam had given her a wax doll to remember him by, dressed in sailor uniform. She thought she would call him Paddy, for he didn't exactly resemble her Da but the name rhymed with Daddy.


The boat diminished to a pinhead and dropped over the horizon. "Gone!" Sibyl said in forsaken tones.

"Gone he is, child, that's for sure," said Bridie briskly, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "Holy Mudder of God, will ya take that sleeve out of your mouth. You'll chew it to ribbons!"

Sibyl began to whimper, her hand imprisoned in her mother's. "I'm hungry."

"We'd best go and put on the tatty soup, then. When your Da's ship comes in, we'll eat oysters. That's a promise!"

Sadly, that was the last they were to see of Liam. Seven months later, his torpedoed vessel went down off the Port of Hamburg; he was swallowed by the deep and no proper priest to give him the last rites.

For all their adoration of him, for all their grief, they could not help feeling doubly betrayed. "Never forget, Sibyl," Bridie later instructed her, "your Da, God rest him, was as good as a Cartholic, even though his kin back in Antrim were wicked infidels!"

"What's infiddles?" asked the child, summoning an image of musical instruments that were out of tune.

"Why, heathen folks that don't know what's good for them and put the King in the Pope's shoes."

They went about Dublin with half of themselves gone and no one to go back to. O'Connell Street was no longer a proud thoroughfare but a seam of meaningless noise. Bridie had let go her playfulness. Her dealings with mankind, and not least with her daughter, were touched with an irony that kept her guard intact. She'd had to roll up her sleeves and serve behind the bar, keep brewers on their toes and cellar hands mindful of their duties, to say nothing of putting audacious patrons in their place. There were those who warmed mightily to her defensive ire.



As the seasons passed, she softened and began to give out again, so that Sibyl basked in the sunshine of her undivided attention. Now and then, one or two gentlemen friends came upstairs. Sibyl heard their footfall on the linoleum, saw their shadows cross the crack of her open door in that twilight between reality and dreaming. They brought with them the stale fumes of the Taproom Bar, spilled stout, rye whiskey and acrid tobacco, the oily hemp smell of dockers' overalls that had to be lathered in Sunlight soap and scraped with a knife before they went into the copper. None of the guests stayed. They seemed to be an irrelevance in the new scheme of things. Liam had become a cherished but distant memory, a legend of valour. But Sibyl, poring over her slate and chalks, often paused to wonder where he was. She sometimes had a sense of him watching at her elbow.

Then, late one November afternoon, as darkness was descending and the harbour lamp haloes quivered in drizzle, the clatter of a shire horse filled the yard at the back of the tavern. Its cart rattled and clanked in so unstable a manner as to suggest that it was not a brewer's dray. Sibyl, just back from lessons, flew to the window and, peering down into the crowded shadows, could just discern a kind of metal frame being unloaded between its driver and Stephen, the barman.

The sum of its parts, it soon became clear, was a double brass bedstead which took pride of place in Bridie's room in exchange for the old chipped painted one. Out came the Brasso and torn bloomers; Bridie polished so vigorously that the gleam of the acorn knobs matched the brightness of her eye and the dent in the cup did not matter. Her hair tumbled down from its combs and rose tinted her cheeks. Sibyl could only gaze in awe at such frenetic activity which had supplied a sparkle to more than the room.

"I don't like it," she said sulkily. "Where did it come from?"

"Why, bless your life, Mr Finnegan brought it. Mr Saul Finnegan."

"The rag-and-bone man!" She had spotted him trundling his contraption of a cart about Temple Bar behind a tired-looking nag. He wore an aged greatcoat with a fedora and bright red scarf like a man she had seen in a French poster in the art shop. His long greying hair and beard made him appear older than his face, but what had arrested her was the peculiar intelligence of his gaze. "I don't like him, either."

"That's an unkind tongue you've got on ya, Sibyl Locke. I'll not hear a word said against him. He suffered in the trenches, went to war for his beliefs, just like your Da."

"Well, he came back!"

"To be sure, he's paid a tidy price for't."

"Was he wounded, then?"

Bridie nodded, lingering over her chore to hug the bedpost in a daze. "In the shoulder. But there's some scars never heal. Brave he was, a corporal, a gentleman of rank."

"What, old Whiskers-on-his-chin-agin! He just fetches clarty rubbish."

At this, Bridie rounded on her daughter in fury, yanking her by the arm and delivering a smart blow to her behind. "I'll teach ya some respect! You've an uncouth way wid ya, my quean! Mr Finnegan's a man o' great taste, a dealer in the foine arts! Now go to your room and you can recite foive Hail Marys before supper!"


None of this augured well for Saul Finnegan's installation at The Wheel & Compass as Sibyl's stepfather. He and Bridie were married during the winter the partition of Ireland became constitutional. Sibyl was eight and painfully aware that her mother's brand new surname had, at a stroke, placed her at a remove.

Saul's presence about the tavern took a deal of getting used to. It was not that he was heavy-handed or domineering, far from it. His broken shout was kept for the street. At home he was gentle and soft-spoken and introduced Sibyl to the works of Charles Kingsley, Lewis Carroll and Louisa May Alcott, and to Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. He had been a schoolteacher before the war, Bridie said, in Liverpool.

At first, Sibyl resisted his engaging ways, unwilling to participate in her mother's treachery. She alone was left to keep the flame of Liam's memory kindled. And she was puzzled by the strangeness that came over her stepfather when he would sit quiet and withdrawn in his chair, seeing nothing. It frightened her, too, when he awoke abruptly from nightmares, crying out in terror and pain between sharp wheezing breaths, as though he were being strangled. Her mother's anodyne tones, which should have been reserved for Sibyl's ailments alone, would settle him.

In the end, Saul won her over. He was prepared to spend hours teaching her tricks with buttons and intersecting pencil lines, making her a toy yacht to float at the water's edge. Bridie was radiant and growing plump with contentment.

But it was not to last for long. The following autumn, Bridie was delivered of twins and the next year, triplets, all boys. Holy Mary, a blessed miracle! Father Murnaghan said. Bridie had been chosen by God to bring special joy to the world! He did not have to feed or bathe and change them, keep watch throughout the night daubing them with calamine when they came out in a rash, or burn coal tar to help them breathe through their spells of croup. If one fell sick, they all went down in succession. He did not have to scrub floors, make endless broth and boil heaps of soiled clouts. The neighbours rallied, but it fell to Sibyl to be her mother's second pair of hands. Her childhood was over. A litter of brothers now clamoured for Bridie's attention whose own health was nowhere near as robust as it had been. She could no longer cope with the tavern and the family was obliged to seek new accommodation in dingy rooms above a fishmonger's shop, not far from Saul's scrap yard down by the wharves. He did his best to turn a modest income, but a crippling darkness frequently came down on him.

It seemed to Sibyl, young as she was, that, were it not for the labour of women, the earth would cease turning.

On her shelf, in the room she'd to share with Callum and Davy, the twins, the model yacht with broken sails hove to against Paddy, the sailor doll, limp and lopsided. She took him down and shook the dust from him, overwhelmed with sudden loss that so much had intervened to pale her father's memory. From across the landing, Bridie called her to the table, but she ignored it. The second terse summons brought her to the kitchen door, still clutching the doll, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I won't eat it! I won't eat it! I don't want stew, I want oysters!"

"Merciful God and all the saints! What ails ya, choild?"

"I want oysters!"

"Don't be a little idiot! I've not the wherewithal to buy oysters, as well you know!"

"Be easy, Bridie, " said Saul placatingly. "Be easy on the child. We'll get to the bottom of this."

"But you promised," wept Sibyl. "You promised we'd have oysters when Da's ship came in, and it won't now, not ever, and we never will!"

Saul rose from his place at the head of the table, from the roughly-turned captain's chair that had arms where the others had not. Lifting a corner of Sibyl's gingham apron to blot her tears, he gently relieved her of the doll and put it to rest in his own bentwood rocker, leading her to the table. "Every voyage must come into harbour, colleen," he crooned, "though some be long and storm-tossed. This is the Heavenly Father's good food. And now we'll be sure and give thanks for't. In the War, we’d a bread ration scarcely bigger than what priests eat at Mass."

They ate in silence, while the fire blazed and crackled in the leaded range and the doll was melting into oblivion.



© ©RosyCole2009, 2015

Recent Comments
How can I pass this up? First of all, Rosy, your fearless vocabulary and gift for dialect. First I was nervous, thinking, "is Rosy... Read More
Thursday, 19 March 2015 16:45
Rosy Cole
I didn't mean to trespass on your manor, Charlie :-) I finished writing this story in 2001 and have been side-tracked ever since b... Read More
Friday, 20 March 2015 22:41
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The Memory Of A Lullaby



Today is Mothers Day in Britain, or more correctly, Mothering Sunday, the fourth Sunday in Lent. Since Easter is a Moveable Feast, the date is not fixed, but always falls close to Lady Day, or the Annunciation to the Blessed Virgin on March 25th. Before the schism with Rome in Tudor times, the whole of life revolved around the liturgical calendar which bound together all ranks of society and shades of belief and provided appropriate rituals for the expression of the whole spectrum of human emotions. Centuries later, when that way of life had long withered on the vine, right up until a decade or two after WWII, along with the seasons and the phases of the moon, those festal days were still marked in ordinary diaries as a matter of course, though few were observed. Some hark back to time immemorial in one form or another. Pagans will point out that these events were 'hijacked' by Christianity rather than subsumed in a new enlightenment about the nature of God. 


Mothering Sunday has no feminist charge. Traditionally, it was the day on which daughters who had gone into domestic service to relieve the burden on the family budget and increase the chance of meeting a spouse, were allowed home bearing gifts for their mothers. The gift of life itself was thereby honoured.

It's worth remarking that not all children are born to loving mothers, though the notion is an anathema striking at the very roots of our humanity. For them, I recommend the Rosary with its dynamic interior blessings. If approached with expectancy and an open mind, it will gradually wreak a change in perspective that is life-transforming.


I have looked high and low for notable quotes about mothers and have found them largely impoverished, either conveyed in platitudes and fluffy jokes, or else wreathed in an idealism and mystique that hints at our fumbling search for Mary, the New Eve and essence of motherhood. Such 'wisdom' subscribes very little to the arduous, if noble, struggle of trial and error that is a common reality amid the joys and delights. The quote lending a title to this post is one coined by widely-loved American blogger, Robert Brault, and couches a thought which, when examined, is quite profound and echoes the Hail Mary:

'Perhaps we are given a mother that we might take into death the memory of a lullaby.'

God bless all mothers today. May they and their children find their way, linked by a bond which hallows the positive. 


In celebration of the theme, these paintings are from the wonderful Pennsylvania-born artist of the 19th Century, Mary Cassatt, a friend of Degas.

'I used to go and flatten my nose against that window and absorb all I could of his art," she once wrote to a friend. "It changed my life. I saw art then as I wanted to see it.'

As a woman, she held her corner among the male-dominated artistic establishment of her day, and defied her father in order to study in Paris. He claimed he would rather see her dead than a Bohemian in that city. Thanks to her conviction and persistence, she was able to bring to the attention of the world a powerful feminine narrative that is fresh, subtle and mesmerising.







© ©RosyCole2015

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
"It's worth remarking that not all children are born to loving mothers". Deeply sad – and, sadly, true. Motherhood is a blessing... Read More
Sunday, 15 March 2015 15:54
Rosy Cole
I suspect you and I have similar experiences, Katia. I can't say that my mother should never have been a mother, because in the gr... Read More
Sunday, 15 March 2015 17:25
Stephen Evans
You and I have written of mothers, yours and mine. The distinction between mother and mothering maybe allows a broader and possibl... Read More
Sunday, 15 March 2015 18:03
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Up To Speed













The sixty-sixth day of the year!

Time's marching on apace,

The weeks are washed downstream as one

In destiny's mill-race


They say that life is what takes place

While, otherwise employed,

We image on the calendar

A purpose unalloyed


But then that's merely virtual

Vicarious, if you like,

It won't satisfy the deadlines

On a pledge's unpaid spike


We work, we love, we eat, we sleep,

We rest – it still goes fast,

If we can't grab it by the collar,

Our future will be past!




© ©RosyCole2009, 2015

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
I like the rhythm of your poem, Rosy.
Saturday, 07 March 2015 20:11
Rosy Cole
Thanks, Katia. It's just the way it happened :-) I don't follow fashions, prefer just to let the subject, as I view or experience ... Read More
Sunday, 08 March 2015 13:13
"...hither hurried whence...whither hurried hence..." How do you do it? Bullseye every time! You've written what I feel every day... Read More
Sunday, 08 March 2015 05:01
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Writing For Life

We are a small, friendly community who value writing as a tool for developing a brighter understanding of the world and humanity. We share our passions and experiences with one another and with a public readership. ‘Guest’ comments are welcome. No login is required. In Social Media we are happy to include interesting articles by other writers on any of the themes below. Enjoy!

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