|About the Book|
Grimspittle reservoir, an expanse of thick brown water on which the occasional coot or mallard may squawk in surprise then disappear forever beneath the surface. Anglers have been known to drop their sandwiches and run away in fear from their catch,MoreGrimspittle reservoir, an expanse of thick brown water on which the occasional coot or mallard may squawk in surprise then disappear forever beneath the surface. Anglers have been known to drop their sandwiches and run away in fear from their catch, whilst only the bravest of divers dare to dip their fins and risk being mistaken for a large black pudding. These are haunted waters where less than a hundred years ago stood a proud but isolated village called Sodden-on-the-Bog. During long hot summers when the water level falls it is possible to see the cracked and bent spire of the village church and in drier years, where only a greasy pool remains in the centre, the ruins of a large manor house in the sun-baked mud. There are even reports of strange tracks in the silt, as though a large creature with tentacles had dragged itself out of the building to the shallow waters nearby. It is even rumoured that the museum in Buxton holds a collection of plaster casts of the same, but try asking one of the attendants. They will shrug their shoulders and usher you on to a boring vase in the corner that Romans used to spit in. It is as though Miss Arabella Pike had not existed at all.Sodden-On-The-Bog, 1912 – not the best of places nor the worst of times, just a small village in the North of England that Charles Dickens overlooked- a village with a rat problem, a very big rat problem- rats in suits and as tall as a man. And what of the women dressed in tweeds and all looking the same in sensible shoes? Strangers to the village they were, each having arrived from somewhere a little to the left and slightly to the south of the buckle on Orion’s belt. Add to this peculiar mix the vengeful sorcerer Tarantulas Spleen, the head of his secret service Vermyn Stench and as a final twist, whatever they were all looking for that slept deep beneath the cobbled streets, maybe only then will you realise why the whole place is better as a reservoir than a point on the map marked ‘Here Be Germs’.Lavender and Haddock, the first in a trilogy of books recounting the fate of a village, a town and a group of formidable women all named after fish, not forgetting a terrible misunderstanding with the Ministry of War.