The results are in!

Evelyn sits on the swing in the country park observing the people coming and going from the village hall with disdain. She is sweaty, hungover and a little dizzy. Her feet are braced rigidly into the muddy tracks hewn by the regular swinging of children’s feet, guarding against any unnecessary movement. She further steadies herself by hanging on to the cold metal chains either side of her, from which the plastic swing seat is suspended. She feels like she is literally hanging, a ghost floating like litter on the wind, the autumn squalls tumbling and mixing her thoughts with the decaying brown leaves that fall in the air around her.

She watches the people carrying a tea urn out of the back of a car into the hall, she can hear them laughing and joking. One man hugs the person next to him, he is swinging a carrier bag with what looked like biscuits in it, another woman arrives with a cake tin. Evelyn shudders, she hates all of them instinctively, although she doesn’t actually know any of them. She hadn’t wanted to come here to begin with, but it was complicated. She remembered the resentfully muttered promise she had made to her red faced father, when he sat crying at the kitchen table holding both her hands in his.

‘Your mother used to go there’, he had reassured her, but her mum was gone now, far be it for her to break with tradition, she thinks bitterly.

The events of the previous few days were a bit of a blur if she was honest. There had been sirens, again, wailing through the village like banshees, on a quiet night when wood smoke hung in the air, and people should have been warm and safe indoors. Instead, they peered from windows and doorways, wondering what was going on. As usual Evelyn was the source of the storm, the cause of the disturbance, the wild dervish manifesting turmoil and disorder in the otherwise bucolic community. The day she was born, Evelyn reckoned she had been nailed to a lunatic that followed her around wherever she went, creating chaos. She had grown into a young woman, the lunatic had grown with her, and the scale of the chaos between them had increased proportionately. Now they either raged all night or hung together suspended, inanimate amongst the broken glass and bruised knees of the night before.

She stands, and taking a huge intake of breath, heads stumbling for the village hall. Every step pounds in her head like a steel works hammer as she wills herself to place one foot in front of the other. She crunches across the gravel and looks in through the open door at the people sitting inside, she wants to turn and run, but one of them has already spotted her and beckons her in, gesturing to a chair. She sits down.

‘My name is Evelyn,’ she says, ‘and I am an alcoholic’.

© Kate Brookes 2026

 ‘Edith!’ Leonard shouted.

Edith glanced at the clock. It was time for Countdown – a new TV show which had soon become their favourite. She liked the presenter. He seemed like a gentle man. And Leonard was rather sweet on the pretty young thing who totted up the numbers.

She filled the teapot and placed their Silver Jubilee mugs on the tray. She wondered briefly if their majesties enjoyed it too. Although perhaps it was more of the Queen’s sort of thing, Philip being more of an action man.

‘Coming,’ she shouted back.

‘Edith,’ Leonard called again.

She arrived as the theme tune drew to a close. There was just time to pour the tea for them both.

‘Come on, Leonard, get your pen and pad ready.’

‘Edith,’ he said once more.

‘Alright alright, Leonard,’ she said picking up her own paper as the first contestant chose 

their letters.

WGLIAONGZ

‘Oh lord, a Z.’ Edith took a sideways glance at Leonard, then shouted the longest word she could find – glowing. She liked that word. It’s how she’d felt on the day they married. All white and innocent and full of excitement.

She’d won the first round then. That made a change.

ELEUGSRTG

‘Struggle,’ Edith had done it again.

And struggle they had. Married women weren’t allowed in the typing pool, so it had all been up to Leonard. At first, Edith had enjoyed being at home and joining in coffee mornings with the other women from the road.

‘Come on, Leonard, drink your tea, perhaps it’ll help you with the numbers.

Edith never bothered with that round. Leonard was good though. He’d always been handy with figures. All sorts of them.

‘Edith,’ Leonard said.

But Edith was too busy writing the next set of letters.

XARNEUBRN

Barren. This time she said the word in her head.

The coffee mornings turned bleak when the other women began to arrive with bumps, then little burbling creatures who quickly turned into fully formed talking beings.

Eventually, they gave up inviting Edith.

ACNOOLATR

The clock’s tick mirrored her heartbeat this round.

‘Control,’ she whispered.

It was a few years in when it began, Leonard’s control:

‘Take that new dress back.’

‘I’m cutting the housekeeping.’

‘Stop inviting those flibbertigibbets to the house. They give you ideas above your station.’

Leonard wasn’t even aware she never saw them anymore.

The woman was back with the numbers again. So Edith removed the tea cosy and tipped out the last dregs ready for the Conundrum.

‘Really, Leonard, surely you’ll get this.’ Edith never got the word using all nine letters, but Leonard quite often did.

YGMEEERCN

The Countdown clock sounded like a timpani drum as it counted down the seconds. Louder and louder.

She couldn’t get it. Damn it. If only, this once. Then Leonard spoke.

‘Emergency,’ he said.

With each round Leonard’s face had become greyer and greyer. But she’d wanted it so much, this one chance to win.

But now, she’d call the ambulance.

© Jane Ricot 2026

‘Rule of three’ my arse. Four is fine, and definitely my favourite number. OK, so it sounds suspiciously like the word for ‘death’ in Chinese, but where would architecture be without four-cornered rectangles? Then there are the four seasons, assuming you’re somewhere temperate. And the four elements: earth, air, water and fire. And of course the four cardinal directions: north, south, east and west – where would be without those, eh? Lost, that’s where.

So I was pretty irritated when the job ad said ‘Three Magi required. Important mission, must have own camel.’ I’d just put in my CV and covering letter, when my mate Balthazar admitted he’d already got one of the places, and applications were closed. ‘Strong field, positions already filled,’ he said smugly. He was so pleased with himself I soon got the lowdown on the whole project: head west, follow the star, find the prophesied new baby. It was the loss of promotion possibilities that were particularly galling – I’m happy to be a ‘wise man’, but ‘king’ would be a significant improvement. Apparently the prophecy says kings will worship the new King of the Jews, so an upgrade is pretty much implicit. 

I decided to show a bit of initiative and be a freelance fourth.

Did I mention I invented the compass? Four main directions, and multiples of four after that – what’s not to like?

‘Head west’ is a bit vague, even if there is a socking great comet to follow. Fortunately I’d read the small print, unlike the rest of them. ‘Bethlehem in the land of Judah’, was specified by the prophecy, so I set course for that, while the other three Magi were bumbling around, travelling via Jerusalem. Best avoided, if you ask me – especially with that psychopath Herod in charge.

So, I got there first. Of course I did: thorough research, sat-nav star, compass, and my best turbo-charged camel. The ‘rule of four’.

The palace was a bit of a disappointment, even if the innkeeper described it as their ‘garden room’. The ox and ass were a definite giveaway, but the new family seemed happy enough with a stable. They were thrilled with my gift, too. Balthazar’s a gloomy bloke at the best of times, but I couldn’t believe he was planning on taking some myrrh as a gift – I ask you, embalming ointment for a new baby? Unless it’s good for nappy-rash too. Melchior’s isn’t much better, it’s some sort of perfume: frankincense. Caspar’s got the right idea. Gold. Easily convertible into something really useful, like a year’s-worth of nappies.

But I’d had a much better idea. The prophecy was clear, this baby was a bit special, with a bright future, so a good long-term investment. Just the right candidate for a publishing deal. I dabble a bit in books, so I offered them an advance on the family memoir. The cash went down very well, and we’ve agreed a working title: ‘The Four Gospels’. Lucky, or what?

© Clare Elstow 2026