ISLE OF I

COMPETITION

115 LE OF jjSINGLE 114LT SCOTCH 1,111911

URA

IN COMPETITION NO. 1993 you were invited to supply an extract from the sort of novel that features 'contented, loving pets in front of a crackling log fire, hot crusty bread fresh from the oven, homemade soup bubbling on the stove, a pint at the local pub, cricket on the village green, rambling roses clambering over picture- postcard cottages ... '

All these ingredients are offered by `bestselling author' Vernon Coleman in his Bilbury Pie — you just fill in the advertisement coupon and post a cheque. Three other corking good reads are also available: 'a superb novel which tells the story of Trevor Dukinfield who wakes up one morning to find that he is the owner of

Roses, roses, all the way

Jaspistos

his very own golf club'; 'a whimsical piece about the peregrinations of a village cricket team on its summer tour'; and 'for feline fans, Alice, which tells of a year in the life of a mixed tabby cat'. 'If for any reason you are not happy with your books you will be sent a full refund — no questions asked.'

The prizewinners, printed below, get £30 each, and the bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky is Rosemary Fisher's for the exquisite banality of her entry.

`Time for our Ovaltine yet, dear?' asked Tom, peering over his newspaper. `Sony, sweetheart. I was so busy smocking little Margaret's new dress that I quite forgot the time.' Putting my sewing aside, I headed towards the kitchen.

No rush, old girl. When you're ready.' Dear Tom. Such a kind and thoughtful man! The children adored him. As soon as they heard the cheerful whistling that sig- nalled Daddy's homecoming, they abandoned their board-games and skipped merrily out to greet him. Dennis, our son, would soon be a teenager. How the years had flown. Heavens, he'd be into long trousers in a year or so! I curled up contentedly on the rag rug that

Tom and I had made together, my head rest- ing against his knee.

I believe there's a good play on the wire- less at nine,' he said, munching appreciatively on his caraway-seed cake.

(Rosemary Fisher) Bicycling churchward along the leafy lanes of Little Pibney, Miss Entwhistle felt entirely at peace with her world. Behind her she left her little cottage, its garden abloom with roses, to the lazy devices of her old tabby cat Sylvester. Ahead, she anticipated the contemplative cool of the old village church and looked for- ward to gossiping with the regulars of the congregation, faces she knew as well as her own.

Yet the highlight of her Sunday evening outing would come when she passed Major Foxleigh's cottage, her heart skipping a beat as she called `Hallo!' to the dapper old gentle- man assiduously attending to his bees. Something about his immaculately creased trousers had long since captured her spinster heart, but none of her hopefully proffered greetings had ever blossomed into anything so daring as conversation. She sighed inwardly, pedalling harder, reflecting that such little pleasures would have to be enough. (Adrian Fry) It had been one of those soft English country- side days. Unable to sleep, Elizabeth slid silently from their bed and stood, naked, at the low window, watching the moon float above the spinney. Charles, also naked, opened his eyes. `Did you put the cat out?' he asked. `Yes,' said Elizabeth, and turned. Kneeling astride his moonlit thighs, she teased him into wakefulness.

`I cannot sleep, Charles.'

`Why, darling?'

`The roses. Did you do the roses? I have tried over and over again to ask you since you came up, my dear, but I had not the courage.'

Minutes later, he said, `And now you have found it.'

`Yes. Yes, I have found it. Are you cross with me?' She was breathing quickly.

Languorously, he shook his head.

`No, not cross.'

`And you did the roses?'

Aeons passed, and, until in the east its lord and master rose next morning, only the moon knew the answer.

(Paul Wigmore) An exaltation of larks, in a sky now entirely without cloud, accompanied the terrestrial choirs of blackbird and song-thrush. Bright sunshine was drying the wet bicycle-tracks of the village policeman, who had called a half- hour previously in his attempt to find the owner of a five-pound note handed in as lost. Miss Cosy, unable to help him on this occa- sion, had more than adequately compensated with a generous portion of treacle tart. She placed a clean tray-cloth on her best tray and arranged the teapot, strainer, milk jug, sugar bowl, cups, saucers, spoons, plates, cake forks and napkins, completing the ensemble with a selection of fancies still warm from the oven. All this she bore across the lawn to the summerhouse and her next visi- tor. She milked and sugared his tea from habit but maintained formality when she addressed him. `Do have a madeleine, Vicar.'

(Andrew Gibbons)