TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME OUR GUEST AUTHOR, JACQUELINE VINCENT, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTER ONE OF HER NOVEL, 'MID-LIFE MANIFESTATIONS' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- 7 days ago
- 9 min read
Midlife Manifestations
By
Jacqueline Vincent
Chapter 1
After the funeral
“Flip it or fix it?”
I stand in front of my mother’s house in contemplation. The house I re-mortgaged to give her the money needed to visit Debs, my sister, in New Zealand every year. These visits helped soothe the painful arthritis that crippled her during the damp English winter months.
Crabbe Court has been the family home for eons, except for the unfortunate event a hundred years ago, but I’ll explain more later.
Dilly stay on track.
Let me explain a little more. A year ago I was a rising star at Bobby’s department store in the city centre when Mum asked me to mortgage the family home, and flushed with success at work, and with my next goal, the director’s position in my sights, I agreed, thinking of this as an investment.
Then the worst happened: Mum died. A shock to everyone. Although, mercifully, in her bed while she slept.
My sisters and I were totally floored by her death. Just two days before, on Halloween, she was still yelling at the village kids for messing up her plant pots and spilling dirt everywhere. Those little terrors couldn’t even wait for her to get to the door with their candy. And the following day, she had packed her bags in readiness for the flight to the Southern Hemisphere, and I’d committed to a short-term tenant, whose rent paid the mortgage.
This was my arrangement with Mum. Whenever she went away, I rented out the house to cover the mortgage and give me a break from the payments.
When she died, from an undiagnosed faulty artery, I cancelled the agreement with my not-to-be tenant, who was furious, and I got a bawling out from her, accusing me of reneging, but as luck had it, Denise, my youngest sister…
Don’t worry you’ll get used to us, and I despair Mum couldn’t find any other letters in the alphabet for our names. Oh, you don’t have a clue, do you? My name is Dilly. See, I told you.
…is an excellent negotiator and knew of another local short tenancy. After all, who’d want to sleep in a bed where the previous occupant recently died?
I introduced you to another sister, Debs, at the beginning, but she isn’t in this story because she lives on the other side of the globe with her children and animals, living her best outdoor life. For this reason, Debs missed Mum’s funeral, but thankfully, Joe, the vicar, allowed us to Zoom the entire service. So, they joined in spirit and tears, with their livestock bleating a harmonious chorus in the background.
***
One year later.
“When are you going to sell this relic?” Clemmy asks as she walks across the weed-covered path from the church, where the congregation remain swapping stories after the blessing of Mum’s headstone.
Surprise flickers across my face, and before I open my mouth to say, ‘But you love this house, you spent every summer holiday here’, she adds.
“Nan’s gone, and without her it feels spooky.” Her entire body shivers; the black gossamer veil covering her eyes and soft blonde hair flutters in unison.
“I’m sorry you feel like that. Let’s go have a cup of tea inside,” I reply, not knowing what else to say to my only child, who since my divorce from her dad has sprouted prickles. So I hook her arm in mine and say, “It’s been a tough time.”
“Including for Dad,” Clemmy says, patting my forearm as we stroll up the pathway alongside the house towards the kitchen.
‘And Dad,’ my brain goes into attack mode as I once more travel through the hurts he put me through before, during and after the divorce. ‘Stop it, Dilly! You’re only punishing yourself with these thoughts.’ I square my shoulders and determine his behaviour will not fill my headspace, and push open the door to the warm Crabbe Court kitchen.
The interior of the early Victorian Crabbe family home smells musty and unloved, and a shiver zigzags its way through the entire length of my spine as I take in the hollowness. Before I linger on this unwanted feeling, I suggest, “Get the kettle going while I open the windows for some fresh air.”
“But it’s freezing,” she whines, pulling her black wool coat tighter around her middle in protest at any fresh air getting near her.
I run up the stairs and into Mum’s bedroom and open the timber sash window, where I notice paint flaked from the lintel with a trail of white flakes from the dormer to the edge of the tiled roof. How strange. The exposed wood starkly highlights the extensive renovation needed to fix or flip the house, a decision I’ve put off for an entire year.
I hear the whistle of the kettle, change out of my church attire into something more comfortable, and hurry to the kitchen and find Clemmy opening and closing cupboards.
“Where are the cups, Mum?”
“Top cupboard by the back door.”
“Well, that’s stupid. Who keeps cups on the opposite side of the kitchen from the kettle?” She huffs and yanks open the stuck-in-the-seventies orange Formica door. The aluminium handle comes away in her hand. “You’ll need new units if you’re staying.”
“I won’t. There’s nothing wrong with these—an easy update,” I say, thinking of the tiny budget I have to make repairs for fixing or flipping for the best price.
“Or stripping out completely. Better to sell now and get rid of this creaking money pit.”
I’m really sad Clemmy doesn’t like my old home, which has been in the Crabbe family, as I mentioned before, for eons. Except during the period from the nineteen-twenties to the seventies.
It was after a great-uncle, who must remain nameless as he brought shame on the family after he lost Crabbe House in a card game. Luckily, Mum and Dad re-purchased the crumbling pile at an auction in the late seventies, which they then renovated, and like a time capsule, nothing has changed since.
“Let’s sit outside,” I suggest, and pick up my mug with ‘World’s Best Mum’ in garish pink lettering on the side. A present from Clemmy, when she thought I was the greatest mum. Now, with her coat wrapped around her middle, the tiny mourning veil hiding her green eyes, and lips turning into a scowl, I wasn’t sure who she loved.
“But it’s freezing.”
“Probably warmer in the sun near Grandpa’s wisteria. Come on, it’s a beautiful day.”
She picks up her mug, Mum’s, the one with ‘World’s Best Gran’ in bright blue, and my heart melts as she follows me across the kitchen. Perhaps she really misses her.
“Bring the biscuits,” I call out as I wrestle with the small picket gate, long past its renovation date. The hinges create a shrill squeal as I kick the swollen wood, and it crashes open, before swinging back and hitting my mug, splashing tea onto the concrete pathway. Something else to fix, and I groan.
“This is lovely. Mum and daughter sharing a cup of tea.” Although I didn’t see the black look she gave me, I felt it.
She slurps her cooling beverage in silence, gets up and takes the mugs into the kitchen, and then I hear her call out, “Bye, I’ll see you later.”
‘Well, that was dramatic. I wonder why she bothered to walk over to find me. And why does she want me to sell?’
***
Later in the day.
The day is sunny with tiny white clouds scudding across the sky, chased by the chilly November winds, and after I change into old clothes; I settle on the warm timber bench and flip through the book I’d been reading before the service, before Clemmy’s visit.
I have reached an interesting part, and the suspect I suspect has killed the vicar but has a dubious alibi; however, he definitely wasn’t in the graveyard at eleven p.m. when someone murdered the neighbourhood-watch president.
Perhaps I’m not cut out to be a sleuth, and place the open book on my lap. I’ll let Geoff and his fancy piece solve real-life crimes. My heart begins its usual thumping against my ribs whenever my thoughts drift to those two scheming behind my back. Taking our nest-egg and going on holiday. That’s what hurt me the most. I’d earmarked those savings to visit my sis, Debs, and her brood.
One damp day last August, I checked the balance, excited to learn how much interest had accrued, and the account held a big fat zero pounds. My innocent inquiry to my then-husband regarding the money’s disappearance prompted a shocking response: His needs were above mine or ours. I don’t need to go into the arguments that rocked our marriage, but you understand. In the end, he justified spending the money on his fancy piece, because he supported me whilst I was a stay at home mum looking after our daughter and a drain on his income, and now we finally had savings, he felt entitled to spend some.
Later that same day, exhausted from rowing with him, I sat and picked up Police Monthly, and guess what? A two-page article promoting fast-tracked university cops. And there’s my husband, smooching with Detective Scarlett Winston-Jones on a beach! A tropical beach, all palms and white sand.
The money — my money, from my salary when I worked at Bobby’s — funded his holiday to the Maldives. A congratulation present for her, the Scarlett woman, fast-tracked to DC.
The cosy mystery novel in my hands trembles as I fight the pictures in my head, and after several deep breaths, my heart slows, and the book regains its stillness. Thank goodness for Pilates.
‘Look, Dilly, it’s over and you’ve got a lovely house.’ I’m glad I inherited Mum’s house after the divorce. Otherwise, he and his DC would have walked away with half. ‘You’ll have enough money to do as you like if you sell.’ This thought comforts me.
I could keep it and do Airbnb. After all, Whitchurch desperately needs more tourist rooms. However, I’ll need to fix the house and garden before I do anything, and my DIY skills are zero.
Sighing at the enormity of the decision, I pick up my book, ‘Coffee Shop Magic’, and dive into the story.
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Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQHYXNLV
Hardback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQHSGJYK
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AUTHOR BIO
Jacqueline lives in the rugged beauty of Galicia, Northern Spain, alongside her wonderful partner, John, four rescued street cats, and two horses. A storyteller at heart, she has been spinning tales since she can remember, weaving her deepest passions into every page.
Her writing journey is driven by a simple philosophy: write what you love. Her historical equestrian novels were born from a desire to create the very books she craved as a child. Meanwhile, her Midlife series is written for the pure joy of it. As a post-menopausal woman herself, Jacqueline writes with wit and hard-won wisdom about the "juggle"—balancing the chaos of teenagers, career demands, and aging parents, all while navigating hot flushes and night sweats.
Originally from the picturesque county of Dorset, Jacqueline’s life took a bold turn at fifty when she set off to travel the world. She never truly moved back, choosing instead to trade the rolling hills of England for a life of adventure abroad, returning home only to visit.
Achievements:
She wrote a monthly article in the Purbeck Times about her travels across Europe in an ancient motorhome. She also wrote a four-page spread for Motorhome Monthly about the renovation of the said motorhome.
Shortlisted for the Fish prize one year. For a piece of flash.
Been included both poetry and short stories in Arts Ascent, Good Life in Galicia, and Distant Voices, Talking Drums.
Won prizes in Good Life in Galicia.
Honourary mention the 2025 Winnie award for Amalie’s Perilous journey in the YA catagory. A US based horse and arts competition.
Winner 2025 Winnie award for International novel with Gelvira the Visigoth.
Hourourable mention for Fede’s Letters in the Historical Society 2025 competition.
Honourable mention for Amalie’s Perilous Journey in the Historical Society YA 2025 competition.
Publications:
YA
Amalie, The Bronze age Series. (Girl with horse adventures), Amalie’s Perilous Journey, Amalie and the lavers and Amalie’s Clan.
Gelvira the Visigoth. The Barbarian Series.
For adults
The Longing, a stand alone LBGQT which for five seconds reached the giddy heights of number 1 in the US, literary fiction category.
Fede’s Letters, a dual protagonist story, set during the Spanish Civil war and today. An historical novel from the perspective of Fede, who writes letters to her brother in England, while fighting the Nationalists, in the hills of Galicia. Only for them to be lost for decades. Felicity, Fede’s great-niece finds them after her mother’s death and is determined to find
her lost ancestors and her legacy.
Midlife Manifestations, Spellbound sisters cosy mystery. Dilly has hit middle age, she’s lost her job, her husband, her home and her daughter hates her, but the money pit known as Crabbe Court is hers. Will she ‘Fix it or Flip it?’ A decision she wrestles with until a dead body lands at her feet.
Links:
Instagram jacquelinepvincent
TikTok jacquelinepvincent
I also have a readers’ group if anyone would like to join to receive news and special offers.
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COMING SOON: On Monday, 18th May, our valuable team member, author David W Thompson, will be sharing an excerpt from his novel, 'Sister Witch' - Book One of the 'Legends of the Family Dyer' series.
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