A Taste of Culture
JAN EDWARDS, born near Billingshurst in the Sussex Downs, moved to London in her teens where she worked as bookseller for the Man Booker Prize instigator, Martin Goff.
She had many jobs from stable girl to horticulturist via motorcycle sales before qualifying as the first female Master Locksmith in Britain. She later returned to school to earn a BA in English Literature.
She is a past chairperson of both the British Fantasy Society and the annual FantasyCon. Her short fiction, poetry, interviews and reviews have appeared in publications as varied as Dark Valentine, New Horizons, Starburst, Visionary Tongue and Kennels and Cats Monthly. The author lives near the Peak District National Park with her husband, Peter, and the obligatory cats.
Dracula gradually becomes accustomed to his new surroundings ...
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HE WAS HUNGRY. But the first stand, crudely painted in garish colours, proclaimed its contents to be “Earth Friendly”. He averted his eyes. This was England. Roasting oxen and warmed bread—that’s how it used be at English country fayres when he had visited them in years past. Now it was all lentils and tofu and other vegetarian creeds that offended him deeply.
He shrugged lightly and moved around the gathering’s perimeter to gauge the extent of delicacies on offer. Darkness had only just fallen and he was in no hurry—happy to feel, if not part of the crowd, then at least in contact with life; not merely humanity, but life itself: and the music that rose all around him, so vibrant, so invasive with its rapid, heartbeat rhythm. It pleased him greatly. These modern sounds were unfamiliar to him, but then every generation renewed the angst of misunderstood youth through its Art. It was part of the mystique of life.
He moved on, admiring the scenes before him. People, and so many of them in such a small place, and so varied. His stomach muttered discontent, reminding him he had to fill the void before he could think of doing anything else. What would a fayre have to offer other than sweetmeats doled out for infants and would-be infants alike?
He could see any number of options. Chinese? No. He had never found them satisfying. Italian? Maybe not—even the smell of garlic gave him indigestion.
A tall black woman brushed passed him, her cinnamon-scent lingering with him as she walked away. He paused, rotating slowly to follow her progress, until she vanished into the crowd. He’d follow if she were alone—the bulky lad trailing behind her could be a stranger; but somehow he doubted it.
The lights on a ride close by him so stung his eyes with their flaring intensity that he had to raise a hand to block the worst of the glare. Maybe he was getting too old for all this frivolity. Perhaps he would skip all this noise and settle for a liquid supper, like in the old days when life was so much simpler. There was an inn on the far side of the green. Quiet in comparison to this melee, but suitable. He’d find something there. But a companion? He never drank alone. It was not civilized.
He cast around for an easier option, and almost blundered into a burger-stand. He shuddered at an abomination surpassing tinned spaghetti and, reeling away from the hideous stench, quite literally stumbled into a small, lone figure huddled in the shelter of the vehicle, borrowing warmth from the occupant’s vile trade.
Engrossed in the contents of her purse, the young woman was unaware of his presence until she looked up, face flushed under the fairground lights. She was an open invitation. Wide deep green eyes, and soft flawless skin made more tempting with its painted-on beauty. And a neck that arched in slender elegance as she looked up into his own dark eyes.
“Oh! Pardon, Monsieur.” Her voice was low, but oddly childlike in her surprise at his sudden appearance.
He bowed low, and smiled, anticipating a treat he hadn’t thought to find in Britain’s rural wilderness. It didn’t matter where on this earth he found himself, it would always be hard to beat a good French red.
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