Tuesday 31 December 2013

Probably my Last Post of 2013... 'The Prize' Part One

You didn't get your Monday Fiction yesterday - my apologies.  Slightly sidetracked by an elderly relative going into hospital, necessitating rushing around by my husband and some concern on my part.  Still, at least you got your Ballet Boyz inspired poem. Hope you liked it.  I'd say hope the Boyz liked it, but...

So here is the opening of the short story I had been going to work on yesterday but couldn't.

I hope you like it.


The Prize

Part One


There were ten of them, taking their bows to screaming applause.  Lucy’s eyes slid from one to another in post-menopausal admiration.  I completely understood why; they were like a box of expensive chocolates, each one different, each one finished to perfection, a visual feast, an enticing promise, and any choice between them would have to be made purely on the grounds of personal taste.

The audience continued to scream and applaud and whoop; it was only the interval, some of these people were going to have no skin left on their palms by the end of the show. I wondered idly whether any of the stunningly masculine young men on the stage bore any resemblance to my individual preference – a bit soft-centred with the possibility of nuts.

Lucy nudged me for attention.  ‘Which one, Kate?’ she yelled over the raucous, adoring crowd.

‘What, first, you mean?’ I answered, making her giggle.

We were still giggling and choosing and weighing up the various merits of each of the young dancers long after the curtain had dropped and the lights had come up. Martin interrupted us long enough to announce he was going to the bar, and we trailed after him, still arguing the merits of the one with the Movember mustache and the one with the tats, the local boy or the really hot one… of course, then we had to establish exactly who we meant by the really hot one, and that led to a decision that there were at least three really hot ones…

‘You’re disgraceful!’ Martin told us; I ignored him – well, he was Lucy’s friend, not mine, so I didn’t care what he thought of me.

‘Thank you!’ she said, and turned away to order drinks.

I’d won the tickets to the show in a phone-in - a box for three for the last night of the troupe’s tour of the north of England.  Lucy had suggested Martin  for the third ticket because he had a car and didn’t drink and was trying to impress her by showing how cultured he was.  We’d have done better to fork out for taxis, though.

‘You do know neither of you’d have a chance, don’t you?’ Martin went on plaintively. I drew a huge breath to protest this, but Lucy got in first.

‘What are you on about?’ she demanded.  ‘We know we’re both old enough to be their… older sisters… but that’s not what it’s about!’

‘And we’re not that bad, you know!’ I put in.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he muttered. 

‘If I were you I’d stop talking now,’ I suggested.  ‘Or we’re both likely to thump you.’

‘You can always walk home,’ he said.

‘Do you know,’ Lucy said, ‘I think that’s a good idea.  We can share a cab, can’t we?’

‘Course we can,’ I said, backing her up stalwartly.  ‘And anyway, it said in the programme that the one you like drives a London taxi. We can ask him for a lift!’

Martin huffed off.  Lucy didn’t really seem too bothered. 

‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘his days have been numbered ever since I found out he thought a pliĆ© was half a set of pliers and I realised he was neither cultured nor handy round the house!’

There was a surprise waiting for us when we got back to our box; a serious-looking young woman with a clipboard and a smile that changed her face.

‘Oh, Ms Turner? Kate Turner?’

‘Yes?’

‘Pauline Dennis, publicity and PR… we were wondering if you’d mind posing for a few photos after the show, giving us a bit of an interview about why you entered the contest and what it is about the guys that made you want to see them?’

I glanced at Lucy, who nodded encouragement.

‘If my friend can join us, why not? Except we’re going to struggle to get home…’

‘Oh, we can organise a car for you, no problem. Enjoy the second act.’

The rest of the show passed by in a very fast-paced, fluid, beautiful blur as we watched the liquid movements and raw power of the young men on the stage as they flew and turned and brought life to the music backing them, telling its story with elegant strength and pulling us to bits with their sheer beauty.  Okay, we were maybe old enough to be their mum, but if we had been, we would have been so proud…

Trying to keep my body language properly reserved during the photocall and interview was difficult.  Lucy and I sat on a sofa in one of the green rooms with several of the guys behind us and at our sides. At least I didn’t have to resort to sitting on my hands like Lucy did, and I answered the rather pedestrian questions with as much decorum as possible; no, I wasn’t really a typical ballet enthusiast, but I’d been doing some research which had led me to look at an unusual production of one of the classical Tchaikovsky ballets and this in turn had led me to discover the troupe and I’d been fascinated… of course I had to enter the competition and was thrilled to win…  Why? Well, really, a chance to do more research… What for? Well, I’m an author and my latest work is about angels and if anyone ever made it look like humans could fly, it was these guys…  

Wrap-up, then. Contact details for copies of the photos and handshakes all round… even their fingers were powerful, potent.  The one I liked most seemed to give my hand a special squeeze, but I could have been imagining it.

We got as far as the street before our decorum slipped and we did that thing women do everywhere, however old, however respectable, when the moment calls for it and communication by words fails.  We looked into each other’s faces and screeched and waved our hands and did that little dance that goes with it, and then laughed.

The car we were waiting for arrived and we shut up very quickly as the window rolled down and we saw our driver and prepared to fight for the honour of sitting in the front passenger seat.

‘Ladies,’ he said. It was the one with the glorious tats…



To Be Continued…

(I would like to add that this isn't going to be *that* kind of a story. I've got two romance novels at third and first draft stage, and I can't be doing with all that in a short story, especially not one with ten leading men... someone would be bound to feel missed out... or anxious... so don't worry... and Part Two should be cooked for Monday)

Monday 30 December 2013

Monday Fiction - last of the year...

Good Morning.

Today I'm hoping to have a couple of things for you.

Firstly there's a new poem, inspired by the Ballet Boyz.  Several of you will have heard of my minor obsession with these very talented young men, but I wonder how many of you have actually looked at their website or have seen examples of their work.

For example, some of the boyz have made a short film for Channel 4 Random Acts, and it's the performance which inspired today'z (Sorry, today's) poem...


On ‘The Estate’, a dance of modern life

Feral boyz
Hawk the highrise concrete hood 
Stalk the swings.

Smoke
Wait
Watch

Hooded eyes linger
Bleak
On the slowing crawl

Alone now
Anguished reach
It stops
Stills
Stares

Feral boyz focus
Free run to see
Curious
Dispassioned

Feet slink
Slide the brink
Staircase down
The boldest two
Advance in
Fear and stealth
To be first
To plunder
To rend. One leaps
Lands on the corpse.

Above, the elderly, with shopping bags
Mutter about pigeons
Fail to see the scavengers.





Tuesday 24 December 2013

'Keep Calm and Write Stuff'

The final gift from my Advent Box from the very talented S... a framed and hand-made collage featuring the above slogan.

Excellent advice!

There are, as ever, too many pies and too few fingers.  I have a novel to edit, another at first draft which needs a lot of work, an idea for another in the sequence but with an edge to it that I'm sure will take me to some scary places... the possibility of radio work in the new year, a sequence of poems I want to write about modern dance (yes, really!) and so many other projects to keep me busy.

But today we had icing of Christmas Cake (it looks like Mark Nevin's song...) and will have mince pie making once the pastry has rested.

I envy pastry.

Have a wonderful Christmas everyone, and remember - Keep Calm, and Write Stuff.  Works for me!

Monday 23 December 2013

Monday Christmas Storytime...

Hello.

Well, I don't really write Christmas stories - I've never really been moved to do so and that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

However, some time ago now, I did write a story which is relevant to the time of year...  enjoy, and Merry Christmas to you all.  May these dark midwinter days be filled with brightness for you all.

Maryam’s Cave

I know the places where magic comes to earth; it came for me, there, and no-one will believe me or my story, so I have never told it before.  And in time to come, when other people more learned than I come to tell the story, what they say will be wrong, and mistaken, but I shall not be here to tell them.

We have always been a people who uses the landscape, wherever possible; a cave makes a good storage place, or stable, or a home, if you’re travelling and there’s no other shelter. Or sometimes, a tomb.

It happened, on this day, that I walked to the cave where we kept the oil jars; it was a hot day, and I wanted shelter.  My father was looking for me, I knew; the one I was betrothed to was coming to look at me again, and they were going to discuss if I was old enough yet, if he was wealthy enough to support me yet… men’s talk.

I didn’t feel old enough to be married, and my sisters giggling and my aunts laughing behind their hands and my mother, pale, silent, and so I ran out when they weren’t looking, and I went to the cave because it would be cool there, and quiet.

And so I went in, and sat on the rocky ground amongst the dust and the oil jars and looked at how the cave was not so dark, inside, and the outside was all bright glare, brighter than I remembered, bright… so bright…

I do not know how he got there, but there he was, and I did not know who he was, or what he was… taller than my father by half his height again (and my father is not a short man) his skin shone as if it were moonlight and starlight and above him wings, like the wings of doves made larger and there was such fierce beauty in the sight of him!  His eyes all golden fire and his body smooth, with no mark upon it and he smiled down on me and said,

‘Maryam.  Don’t be afraid; I have something to tell you…’ and I listened, and doubted, and was afraid, and all at once, my heart thudded in me as over all my fear and doubt came a sense of joyfulness that filled me up as if all the angels in Heaven were singing…

And the day was brighter inside the cave than out of it, and golden light and yes, I knew that there was something magical in that cave for me that day.

And later, in another cave in another town at the back of an inn, more magic; my son born as all children are born, in blood and pain – and don’t let any of the old wise men tell you any differently – they were not there to see or hear it!


And I suppose here, in this cave now, is more magic; he is dead and we brought him here to prepare his flesh and now he is gone. But there; you are hearing a mother’s grief, and you will not believe me. No-one ever believed me. And no-one ever will.

Monday 16 December 2013

Mid-Monday fiction... finally.

Sorry to all of you who have been waiting for the story - I was sidetracked by the White Rose Centre.
On a separate note, my Advent Box gift today is superb; a hand-stitched brooch in wonderful colours!

Difficult to know what to give you, today - it's so near Christmas but I don't have anything suitably festive...
This story was written after a discussion of which invention has been important to me and got me thinking about possible unseen repercussions...




‘The Writers’ Friend’


‘Good evening, Bethan.  And how has your day been?’

Bethan turned from her battered Davenport to smile at her brother.  He stood in the doorway of the parlour, one hand still on the door handle, waiting to be invited in.

‘A strange mixture of exciting and dull,’ she told him.  ‘Are you coming in, David, or not?’

‘For a moment only,’ he said, coming to perch on the arm of the sofa near where she was seated at the Davenport. ‘I’m off out again. How’s the hand today?’

Bethan gave a grimace of frustration as she massaged the heel of her right hand and her wrist.

‘Painful, I’m afraid.  It slows me, and makes my handwriting so atrocious as to be almost illegible! Why, I had a letter this morning – let me read it to you – which begins, ‘My dear Stone’, - you see, he thinks I am Mr John Stone, rather than Miss Johnstone -  however, ‘My dear Stone’…’

‘Wait a moment.  From whom have you been receiving letters?’

‘That’s the exciting part of the day – you know I told you I had sent a little something to the offices of ‘The Reader’s Frende’ for publication – well…’

‘Bethan? You have not had your piece accepted? But…’

Bethan cleared her throat and once more began reading from the letter before her.

‘…I am writing to express my appreciation for your story, ‘The Quiet Street’, which I am sure our readers will enjoy…’

‘You have! Well done, Bethan! I knew you were good enough!’

Bethan smiled warmly up at him.

‘Thank you, David! He will have more of my work, he says, if there is some.  But…’

‘But your hand still pains you. Well, it will heal if you keep on with your exercises.’  David dropped a fraternal kiss on the top of her head.  ‘I must be off – Lucas has promised me a tour of his new business!’


The problem of Bethan and her writing was still with him when he knocked on the shiny black door of his friend’s new venture, a steam-powered printing press (‘I won the deeds in a card game, please not to tell Father,’ Lucas had confided).

‘It’s all very wonderful!’ David said, looking about him at the great, black beasts of machines hissing and snorting like mechanical dragons all about him.  ‘What will you use it for?’

‘Humbert – you remember Humbert? – he has a broadsheet he wants me to bring out. And several publishing companies are already our clients.’  Lucas pulled a sheet of impeccably-printed typeface from the top of a pile.  ‘Every one the same and every one perfect!’

David frowned in thought as he followed Lucas around the rest of the premises.

‘You’re very quiet today, old fellow.  Anything wrong at home?’

‘Hmm? Oh, no, no… well, m’sister’s hand… I was wondering… can these contraptions of yours print off just one of something?’

‘Well, of course it could! But it would be rather wasteful; we can make more than a hundred copies an hour, you know…’ 

David laughed. ‘Of course, of course! But there’s my sister with a damaged wrist and desperate to write, and here are you with these wonderful things!’ He dipped his hand into a tray full of tiny, backwards letters.  ‘If there was just some way Bethan might put these letters onto her page instead of a pen…’

Lucas grinned.

‘If you promise to invite me to supper so I can meet the lady, I’ll see what I can do…’


It was some weeks later that a knock at the front door brought Lucas and a large, heavy box into David and Bethan’s parlour.

‘Lucas! You’ve never done the thing?’ David exclaimed, surprise and delight in his voice. 

‘Come, take a look.’ Lucas, eyes bright with anticipation, beckoned his friend over. ‘Miss Johnstone? This may well concern you closely, so…’

‘In what way can it concern me? David?’

Lucas unfolded the sides of the box to reveal a large, heavy block of wrought iron with dozens of levers and buttons and keys.

‘My dear Miss Johnstone. When your brother told me you required a way of writing without having to use a pen, I took it upon myself to make this machine, which I hope will be of service to you… if you care to see…’

Lucas fed some paper into the device by twirling a large wheel at the side of it, clipped it under a restraining wire, and began hitting buttons in sequence. With a click and clack not dissimilar to someone dropping cutlery, levers moved keys and small, neat lettering began to appear on the paper.

‘But this is marvellous!’  Bethan exclaimed.  ‘How wonderful!’

‘Lucas, this is really the very thing I was looking for!’ David put in. ‘Is it difficult to operate?’

‘No, not at all,’ Lucas straightened up.  ‘In fact, if Miss Johnstone would be willing, I would be happy to teach her the rudiments.  I call it my ‘Automatic Handwriter’.

‘But that’s an abominable name!’ Bethan protested with a laugh.  ‘I shall call it my Writers’ Friend’!’

‘Well, then, Miss Johnstone,’ Lucas said.  ‘If it will be convenient for you, I shall be here in the morning to give you your first instructions.’


Bethan was a quick learner, and under Lucas’ patient tuition, was mistress of the Writers’ Friend within a week (although Lucas still kept calling, just in case, as he put it, the Writers’ Friend should be in need of alteration.

One morning, some six weeks after he had delivered his first tutorial, he arrived at the Johnstone household to find it in some confusion; David was striding about the parlour muttering imprecations under his breath whilst Bethan, looking pale and not a little distraught, tried to calm him and compose herself.

‘But, my friends! Whatever is the matter?’ Lucas asked.

The siblings exchanged glances.

‘Bethan has had a letter, David said.  ‘From that confounded publisher of ‘The Readers’ Frende’.  After having led my poor sister to believe he would willingly publish any more of her work that she chose to share with him, he has now taken it upon himself…’

‘If you will let me read the letter,’ Bethan suggested.

‘Please do – if it will not distress you too much?’

With a sigh, she shook her head and began to read.

‘‘My dear Miss Johnstone,’ she began. ‘ ‘Firstly, I wish to apologise for having addressed you, in error, as Stone in our previous correspondence.  This was due to an error on my part, a misreading of your handwriting’ – it was true,’ Bethan interrupted herself, ‘that it was particularly bad at that time due to my injury – ‘but now that I know I have been corresponding with a lady, I feel it is my duty, as a Christian and a father, to point out to you the impropriety of a young lady such as yourself attempting to seek payment for publication of literary works. To this end, I must regretfully decline your enclosed story, ‘The Green Garden’ and implore you to take up more ladylike pastimes in the future.

‘I remain, etc, etc…’




Monday 9 December 2013

Storytime Monday

Hello.

Today's story came from a Writers in the Rafters exercise but which I never took to the group as I wasn't able to make the meeting.  So it's not really had an audience before... hope you like it.


Cover Story

‘Good morning, ‘The Bookship’, how can I help?’ Evan said.  His voice was crisp, polite, helpful as he shifted the handset to wedge it between his shoulder and his neck, his fingers clattering across the computer keyboard. 

‘Yes, it’s due in today’s delivery… may I check your address and phone number, please..?’

Meanwhile Luke was unpacking the delivery in question.  He looked up, grinning, as I passed.

‘I think they’ve sent everything this time, Bosslady.’

I nodded and went aft to the kitchenette that formed the barrier between the shop floor of the barge and what I laughingly called an office to make coffee for me and the boys.

Well, ‘boys’ is a misnomer.  Luke’s easily into his thirties and Evan just a little younger.  Employees, if you like, although I prefer to think of them as minions.  Even though it is me brewing up.

Luke is of medium height, sharp and smart and clean, good looking in a dangerous kind of way.  His hair is that light, white blond that you always associate with Bond villain assassins.  Evan’s hair is determinedly boy band in style, and dark.  He broods for effect, but his work is always spot-on.  They drive my Saturday Girl, Jenny, absolutely potty trying to decide which she likes best, or which one likes her best, depending on her mood.  Today being Thursday, however, I was spared Jenny’s agonizing.

And The Bookship?  Well, I got the barge – and it is a barge, 14ft wide, twice the width of a standard narrowboat - for a pittance and was able to sweet-talk and bribe my way into getting planning permission to anchor it solidly on dry land and turn it into my current venture.  We’re moored on a wide green bank overlooking the Dee Estuary just along from a parade of shops on the Thurstaston side of West Kirby.  It’s a good little town, with its independent businesses and quirky streets and a refined seaside air.  My friend Anne runs a bric-a-brac shop on the parade behind the Bookship, and she sends over any books she finds in her house clearances.

We keep a small, but select, run of new books.  I’m really hot on local interest, so Gladys Mary Coles, and some of her protĆ©gĆ©s, have an entire shelf between them.  There’s a bit of history, something of the sea, and I will order in on request. But most of our space is given to second-hand stock.

Of course, I don’t call it that.  There are three distinct sections: Pre-Browsed, Obviously Good Reads and Much Loved.  The bookshelves line the walls to leave as much space as possible for browsing, but there is one area, at the bows, where I’ve had seating fitted around the natural angles of the boat, and this is where we set up The Table.

The Table is a hireable space which any group, subject to a few checks, can use for meetings.  We have knitters and twitchers and writers and gardeners booked in on a regular basis.

I put the coffees on a tray and carried them through to the counter by the till.  Evan was there, checking the diary.

‘Luke? Coffee’s ready,’ I called through.

Once the three of us were assembled, I ran through the plan for the day.  I’ve learned from experience, of course, that everything is subject to change without notice, so these plans were more in the line of naĆÆve optimism than actual objectives.

‘How’s the diary looking?’ I asked.

‘The Table’s booked for 10.30 to twelve with tea and biscuits.  That’s the Lighthouse Writers…’

‘I wish they’d find themselves a real lighthouse,’ I grumbled, causing Evan to grin.

‘You know you love them!’

‘Ha!’ I said.  ‘They arrive early and sit there reading the stock while they wait, they linger afterwards, they never reshelve anything and they read out their own work.  Loudly.’

‘You should join in,’ Evan said.  ‘Give yourself a couple of hours off and see what it’s like on the other side of the counter for once…’

‘Or charge for the extra time,’ Luke suggested. 

I shook my head.  ‘That would be mean.’

‘Which, Bosslady? Charging them by the minute or joining in?’

I didn’t quite growl at Luke; my secret yearning to be a Real Writer wasn’t really a secret.  The fact that I was actually rubbish, however, was very much a secret and if I sat in at a writing group on my own barge my cover would be blown in an instant… I had a bit more pride than that.

‘Anything else happening?’ I asked in a determined change of subject.

‘Yes,’ Evan said.  ‘Table again, two until four – Christobel Mallen.’

‘It’s a new booking, so we’ll need to keep an eye on them,’ I said.  ‘I’m not quite sure we’re quite what they need.’

‘And do we want to encourage or discourage?’ Luke asked.

I frowned as I finished my coffee.

‘I’m not sure yet.  Depends on whether they frighten the books or not. The order book… Luke, you said you thought they’d sent everything?’

‘It was fine, all present and correct.’

I nodded.

‘Excellent.   Evan, if you don’t mind letting them know their books are ready for collection, that’ll be great…’ I glanced at the clock on the wall opposite the till.  I ran it fast so that we manage to close nearly on time and the customers still felt we’d stayed open that extra few minutes just for them.  At the moment, the clock said 9.55; although we start work at 9.30, we don’t open until 10. ‘Right.  I’ll clear away, Luke, if you don’t mind opening up?’

I wandered off to wash up, half-listening to Evan’s welll-mannered voice as he called with the good news that the books ordered had arrived.  There was a little porthole in the hull near my sink, and I could see out to the bright spring morning.  It would be a slow day; they all were. That’s why I love this job.  Somehow, I turn a small profit, and it’s enough.

A clatter on the steps and Luke’s face appeared in the doorway.

‘Bit of managerial clout required outside, Bosslady,’ he said.  ‘It’s Dotty Peg.’

‘What?’ Dotty Peg was a Known Pest in the area and the bane of us poor shopkeepers.  We ring each other up to complain about her, but we never can quite bring ourselves to do anything about her.  ‘Okay, I’ll deal with her.’

‘Can I watch?’ Luke asked, grinning.

I scowled as I followed him up the stairs; I’d prefer not to have an audience but, well, maybe I’d need a witness.

On deck, I went over to the wooden steps I’d had built as access to the Bookship. 

Dotty Peg was at the foot of the steps, one hand clutching the handle of a buggy which held a singularly ugly child: Dotty Peg herself, wearing a Guantanamo Bay Orange fleece, old black tracksuit bottoms and ancient trainers, looked rather as if she were channelling her Inner Spacehopper.

‘You’re breaking the law!’ she announced when she saw me.  ‘And it’s not good enough.  I’m going to report you!’

‘Perhaps if you could tell me what the problem is..?’

‘You have no disabled access!’ she said, swaying from side to side belligerently. 

‘Are you disabled?’ I asked.  Not all disabilities are visible, after all.

‘Well, of course not!’ she said.  ‘But there’s the pushchair…’

‘Was there anything in particular you were looking for today?’ I asked, determined to make a stand.  Dotty Peg didn’t usually buy anything from the shops she visited. 

Unfortunately for my stand, one of the Lighthouse Writers, super-early today, arrived just then and decided to be helpful.

‘Pardon me,’ the writer said, ‘but there’s a disabled entrance just around the side there…’

I hurried back to head Dotty Peg off at the doors; she was already tapping at the glass when I got there.  Unwillingly I opened up and she pushed past me, parking the buggy next to the first editions.

‘I’m leaving Martin here for half an hour,’ she said.  ‘I want to go round Waitrose and it gets very busy in there…’

‘It won’t be busy for another hour,’ I told her.  ‘And we don’t do childcare…’

‘I left him with the lady in the newsagents last week…’

Yes.  Only because they had a new girl on and she didn’t know what to say when Dotty Peg had announced she’d be back in twenty minutes for the child…

‘I’m afraid you can’t leave him here.  I’d have to call social services if I found an abandoned child and, what’s more, those bags on the back might contain a bomb.  I’d have to call the police.  Or the bomb squad…’

She spluttered and tried to find words to throw at me, but I nodded in a fairly friendly way and turned my back; the helpful Lighthouse Writer was looking disconsolately at the space where The Table ought to be.

‘You’re rather early, I’m afraid,’ I told her.  ‘We’re not due to set up for another fifteen minutes.’ 

‘Couldn’t you..?’

From behind me I heard a loud wail and turned to see Dotty Peg’s ugly child – and pushchair - still there, in the middle of the Bookship.

Evan and Luke were both grinning at me as I goldfished my mouth open and closed a few times.

‘Stop that!’ I ordered, trying to be the tough Bosslady we liked to pretend I was.  ‘You know, I’ve a good mind to call the Busies on her!’

Evan passed me the phone and I lifted the receiver but didn’t yet dial.  What would happen to the ugly child, if I did?  Would he and Dotty Peg be separated?  Would it make her behave any differently?  For all I knew, she might be on her own with the child and her forays into Waitrose by herself her only respite…  Instead, I phoned Anne in the bric-a-brac shop; I could at least spread the word amongst the shopkeepers.

‘Second Chances,’ she said.  ‘Can I help?’

‘Anne, it’s me.  We’ve just had Dotty Peg in the Bookship – thought you might like to know…’

‘That’s funny,’ she said.  ‘She parked that baby of hers on Jones the Veg just after nine…’

‘Okay, thanks.’ 

That was enough for me; if Dotty Peg had already inflicted her child on Jones the Veg, she wasn’t getting away with dumping him on us as well.

I called the local police – it wasn’t an emergency, after all, just an annoyance – but when they heard it was for an abandoned child, of course they hurried round.

Give our local Busies their due, they’re an Equal Opportunities employer, all right.  Where for once it would have been appropriate to send a female police officer, they sent two huge burly chaps who filled up the Bookship with reassuring solidity.

‘And this isn’t your child?’ one asked.

‘Absolutely not.  If it were, I’d dress, wash and feed it properly.  And I wouldn’t leave it in shops with people I didn’t know.’

‘Did the lady say anything about where she was going?’

‘Waitrose,’ I said.  ‘Although she really wasn’t dressed for it.’

Meanwhile, Evan and Luke were heroically trying to set up The Table for the Lighthouse Writers, who had arrived en masse by now and were fascinated by the scene.

Someone from Social Services arrived then to take charge of the child, and lifted him out of his pushchair.  Underneath where he’d lain were a couple of pomegranates.

Further investigation revealed Dotty Peg’s route around the shops; she’d already been to Waitrose, as the baby had a jar of own-brand olives in his possession as well as a few other things…

I was relieved when the authorities went outside to wait for Dotty Peg’s return; it meant I just had the Lighthouse Writers to deal with.  They were ready for their tea now.

Just another slow morning in the Bookship.  Don’t you just love the quiet life?



.






Thursday 5 December 2013

Advent Calendars and Advent Boxes and a Shameless Self-Promo

I'm writing this while watching the Sadler's Wells production of Matthew Bourne's 'Swan Lake', recorded from Sky Arts.  While this may  not seem to have any connection with advent calendars, bear with me and I'll try to explain... but don't hold your breath!

Monday's fictionfest featured a story which included, as one of its characters, an avian human with swan-like wings.  This story led to a friend of mine asking if I'd ever seen Bourne's  'Swan Lake', in which all the swans are portrayed by male dancers. I hadn't; she lent me her DVD, and I was an instant convert.  What's more, I can even claim watching it to be research.  Said research led me, eventually to the BalletBoyz and their all-male contemporary dance company.... and the BalletBoyz have an online advent calendar...

http://advent-calendars.org/online/?yt=P4zKyx78FAb%2BjPQVLiSztJ8%2BTZ4a8ufp08D%2BkDfIWBsTxct%2BS62iuj65ke8%2Bd6bOrWWS1sV%2BeAzK2D9u6ib%2BK5QdX6GYd9H%2BO5lQlHuN7wp%2BAdznhiCRpwx%2BGNIq5yfobaR%2By_vr_koeQk0%2BxD7Ys1FOG0V%2BxaCjVWFzuTx%2B5MsVU6ZxbIj%2BfBadwxWGZnN%2B0WlgTEFNeHL%2BZuJaO6RbtMp%2Bf9DLwyqCqlV%2B-s2nxXDpapx%2BueqcMoqhs2N%2ByF8RKRLFmbD%2Btf_G_pRbK6V%2B8jfHWBynhTR&t=Onyyrgoblm%20Nqirag%20Pnyraqne%202013&i=uggc%3A%2F%2Fevpuneqwnzrfbayvar.pbz%2Fvzntrf%2Fovtoblm.wcrt

Not every day features the Boyz; there's an eye-opening performance by Christopher Walken on Day Two.  it's reasearch.  Honest.

Advent Boxes.  So far, my Advent Box from the lovely and talented and creative S has given me... Christmas cupcake cases, I heart Santa socks, Christmas tissues, a beautiful little bag made from recycled materials, and a sandwich box with a monkey face. This last had a little note: this made me think of you.

Finally, to mention samples of my work are now up on Authonomy and YouWriteOn.  I'm getting lots of helpful feedback and it's even generating the odd sale or two... Hurrah!

Monday 2 December 2013

Your Monday Fiction Break

Good morning.

I often get annoyed when people at my writers' groups feel the need to 'explain' their stories before they read them out. It always sounds like an apology and makes the audience think they're going to hate it.  If you're that worried, people WRITE BETTER TO BEGIN WITH!

So I will get straight on with 'Through a Lens...', pausing only to tell you that it came from a Writers in the Rafters commission - imagine you're being followed round all day by a film crew.  What does it feel like...?

I liked one of the characters so much I kept him; he's inspired two novels to date and I'm thinking about a third...

Through a Lens, Darkly

‘Rafe, I should never have agreed to do this…’

‘Probably not,’ Rafe said.  ‘But it’s good for your career, Chiquita.’

That’s not my name, incidentally; Rafe travels a lot with his job, and likes to collect foreign endearments to try out on me.  ‘Chiquita’ I didn’t mind.  But one day he came home from France and called me a little cabbage. I nearly thumped him one.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ I asked.

Rafe reached out to neaten the collar of my second-best blouse.

‘I’ll be fine; it’s just a day, after all…’ His engaging, lopsided smile turned into a grimace as he looked over my shoulder through the window.  ‘Ah… I think they’re early!’

He grabbed his coat, and left through the back door just as the knock came at the front door.


The driveway was suddenly cluttered with vehicles, none of which were ours.  A short woman in ridiculous shoes and an overlarge winter coat was tripping up the path, but the girl on my doorstep was much more normally dressed.

‘Hi, I’m Meg, production assistant for ‘Scribbler’s Cribs’, you’re expecting us?’

‘Um…’  Ignoring a sudden urge to introduce myself as ‘Chiquita’, I shook her hand.  ‘Jennifer Swift, nice to meet you, Meg.’   

The other woman arrived and we stared at each other.  Meg showed she had the best manners by introducing us.        

‘Ms Swift, this is Helena Hancar, the show’s host.’

Helena nodded to me, and pushed past into the house.  Several hunky men with cameras and sound equipment wiped their feet sheepishly and trundled in after her. 

Meg gave an apologetic shrug.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get Tom started on some mood shots in your garden?’

Tom, another chunky hunk, wearing a fleece and a knitted panda hat waved at me from the middle of what I optimistically called a lawn.

‘That’s fine.  Just keep away from the back garden shed, okay? My husband’s on nights this week and he’s trying to sleep…’

‘In the shed?’

‘Rafe can sleep anywhere; he just doesn’t want a camera barging into his bedroom while he’s doing it.  Anyway, come along in.  Kettle’s not long boiled.’


Helena had made herself at home in the sitting room, sprawling elegantly in Rafe’s winged armchair while she talked to camera.  She ignored my friendly glower and kept on with her speech.

‘…to the home of Jennifer Swift, author of the successful ‘Attached to an Angel’ series of light-hearted romantic novels about an unlikely relationship between a human woman and an angel.  With seven books already published, Ms Swift still lives in her modest three-bedroomed semi on the outskirts of Leeds…’  She fell silent and then nodded at Camera One.  ‘Okay, that’ll do to start with.’

Meg appeared at my side. 

‘Just ignore us – I know, it’s difficult, isn’t it? – Joe and Helena will look around while Pete watches your daily routine.  We’ll prompt you with questions; when you answer, make the question part of your reply.  Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I agreed dubiously.  Having never felt the urge to watch ‘Scribbler’s Cribs’, I didn’t know the show’s format, but I imagined that watching me snarl at my laptop might begin to pall after a bit.

‘Shall we practice?’ Meg suggested.  ‘Your husband’s on nights; what exactly is it he does?’

We’d talked about this; Rafe’s job’s quite unusual; finding the right way to describe it had been tricky.

‘My husband Rafe works in pan-global logistics,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa and firing up my laptop. ‘He’s often away, but never for too long.  Writing helps fill the time.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Now it’s time to start work. I usually check emails, and then get stuck in to whatever I’m working on.’

I began by firing off an angry email to my agent (‘Why did I let you talk me into doing this stupid show? I’ve better things to do, Rafe’s sleeping in the shed and IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!’) before loading up my latest project.

I fell into the plot with the same sort of relief you feel when you put your slippers on after a long, hard day at work… the dialogue flowed easily as my two protagonists flirted and advanced the storyline.  I introduced colour and texture in the descriptions, inserted hints and red herrings and then, about two thousand words later, someone cleared their throat; Helena was standing in the doorway, looking mildly cross.

‘Is this really what you do all day?’  she demanded.

‘I spend most of my time writing,’ I said, and, mindful to include the question in my reply, added, ‘it’s what I do all day.  It’s much more exciting to do than to watch, I’m afraid.’

Meg sidled into the room.
‘Well, Helena’s done her pretties of the house and we’ve got lots of footage of your creativity in action…  How about a brief interview now?’

Pete and Joe and Tom (looking a bit peaky, I thought, after the freezing cold of the garden) prowled around us while I tried to engage in the interview.

‘What gave you the idea for ‘Attached to an Angel’?’ Helena asked.

‘Well, there’s a lot of interest in angels lately,’ I began. ‘I’m particularly intrigued by how everyday people are reinterpreting the angel for themselves.  Also, in recent years, film, TV and books have been reinventing the supernatural stereotype - so I thought I’d redefine the angelic paradigm.’          

‘Yes?  And what was your starting point?’

I blathered on about angels in world religions, how - even within the sacred texts – their purpose and function changed, how that was still continuing.

‘Nowadays, people talk about their ‘guardian angel’, but originally angels were messengers, or conduits, if you like, for divine intervention…’

‘For all you say you’re breaking with tradition, your angel still has wings…?’

‘Not traditional ones, though - my interpretation has the wings folding up very tightly before sliding into pockets on either side of the spine to keep them out of sight of mortals – admittedly in contravention of regular physics, but if ever there was a metaphysical creature, it’s an angel. And if you examine the source documents, nowhere in the Bible does it say angels have wings; that’s a later theological conceit.  But I wanted to write about plumage. There was a lot of research.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, my six-foot tall angel is said to have a wingspan of around fifteen feet;  that’s a lot of feathers... once I’d done the initial research and extrapolated for the extra size – I had to find comparative species to study, obviously, and…’

‘Obviously…’

I stopped short; just as I’d begun to warm to my theme and really enjoy the discussion, Helena’s eyes had glazed over and her tone had become scathing.

‘Let’s break, now?’ Meg suggested.  ‘Jennifer - perhaps after lunch you could explain further?’


I decided on something more photogenic than that – I rummaged around until I had a bag of good-quality bread crusts (wholemeal, seeded, home-baked) and led an expedition to the local reservoir, the cameras following like three electronic stalkers.

I began hurling bread over the iron railings; we were on a wide concrete bridge across the eastern end of the reservoir; beneath our feet the overflow swished through, vanishing into the culvert that fed Farnley Beck.  Today we could see mallard and coot, black-headed gulls and Canada geese and a nice little cluster of tufted duck with some over-wintering pochard bobbing about near the willow-tree island; on a tree stump sticking up from the water, a cormorant held its wings out on either side to dry.

And then there were the swans.

The dominant breeding pair drifted across with pretend nonchalance and rapidly began to clear up the bread.  One of the geese took exception to the cob’s proximity and stood up on his tail feathers in the water, flapping his big wings and providing a great example of wing structure; primaries, secondaries, coverts overlapping and bonding, the pinions spread like extended fingers.  Cob wasn’t impressed, and sailed around in front of us to prove it.

‘You can learn a lot about how wings and feathers work from watching the local wildfowl,’ I said, mostly to camera.  ‘I’ve been following this family of swans all year.  They had six cygnets in the spring; little fluffy grey bundles that the pen carried round on her back.  Sadly, they lost two in the early floods, but the rest survived and until a few weeks ago, were still part of the family group…’ I felt the smile in my voice; I loved my reservoir and liked to pretend that the birds recognised me, singling me out over the local Chavs who came along every Sunday to drop cheap white bread through the railings.

Across the reservoir, the young swans launched themselves hopefully towards us.

‘Look! Here they come… you can see how there’s still a lot of grey in the plumage…’

One of the youngsters, ahead of the rest, came up for bread.  He got a bit too near to the pen, and the cob reacted, fluffing up his feathers and holding the great wings apart from his body, slinking his neck into an ‘s’ and getting protectively between his teenage cygnet and his mate.  The cygnet, still too young to recognise the pen as anything other than Mum, came on after the bread which was just a neck’s length out of reach.

This was too much for the cob, and he arced himself up and launched himself at his teenage son.  His feet slapped loudly on the water and he propelled himself forward, the huge smack and thump of displaced air thunderous as his wings drove him on, his neck outstretched as he reached towards the startled, fleeing youngster, chasing him half way across the reservoir until he was satisfied he’d driven off the intruder, and he gave himself a shake and sailed back towards his pen.

‘I hope you got that?’ Meg asked. Joe and Tom nodded. 

‘A dramatic display of the strength of these normally graceful creatures,’ Helena said with authority to the camera. ‘Swans are so powerful they can break a man’s arm with their wings.’ 

I wasn’t having that level of ignorance, not on my episode…

‘Well, theoretically they could,’ I said firmly.  ‘Maybe. But it’s never been documented.  And anyway, why? Why would they?  Unless it’s protecting a nest or a mate; swans don’t attack without provocation…’

‘I’m freezing,’ Helena interrupted. ‘Let’s get back and wind this up.’

I pulled a face at her back as she set off and immediately wished I hadn’t; Pete was grinning from behind his camera.


I let us back into the house, relieved that it would be over soon, and then froze as I heard Rafe’s voice from the kitchen.

‘Got rid of them early, did you, Chiquita?  I’ve just made coffee…’

‘Oh, so we’ll get to meet your husband after all,’ Meg said happily.  ‘Can we film him, do you think?’

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea…’

I got to the kitchen first, but only just.  There was Rafe, fresh from the shower and (mercifully) with a towel around his waist.  Droplets of water speckled his chest, glistened on the ice white plumage of his wings.

From behind me I heard a squeak from Meg, and Helena’s startled profanity, felt the shock in the air as the camera crew followed us into the kitchen and hastily began filming.

‘Please, don’t swear, whoever you are.’ Rafe said evenly.

I tried to speak but all I could do was point at his glorious primaries.

‘What?  Oh, Chiquita!’ Rafe protested.  ‘You know I hate putting the plumes away damp..!’  He tipped his head at us with a grin.  ‘Can’t do a thing with them after…’

He shrugged his shoulders and stretched out his deltoids, causing his wings to raise up, gave them a little shake to shed as much water as he could, splattering us with droplets, and then, cantilevering like a dozen mad umbrellas, his wings folded, and folded, and kept folding until he stretched his arms backwards and the wings slid into place beneath the twin sheaths on either side of his spine. 

Once tidy, he nodded to Tom.

‘Hello again… Tom, isn’t it?’

‘Again?’ I queried, turning to glare.

‘Sorry,’ Tom mumbled.  ‘I know you said not to, but I thought, if I was quiet…’

I sighed; I should have known that telling a camera man to keep away from the shed was akin to telling a group of teenager investigators to keep out of the haunted castle...


Oddly enough, Helena and the film crew lost interest in me after that.  They took over the living room – and Rafe - while I settled myself at the kitchen table, opened the laptop and plunged into my story again.  It was much later when Meg, her eyes shining, came to find me.

‘Thank you so much for agreeing to film with us!’ she said.  ‘This is going to be the best episode ever!’


Once everyone had gone, Rafe joined me, made me a cup of tea.

‘Don’t look so worried, Chiquita,’ he said, and I wondered briefly if he was going anywhere new soon; the name was starting to lose its mystique.  ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘But… your boss...? I mean…’

He settled into the chair opposite me.

‘All I did was answer a few questions; how we met, was I the inspiration behind the books.  Nothing too personal, of course.’

‘But… the kitchen… Tom… you…wings…’

He grinned that lopsided grin at me again. ‘You know, for a writer, you do seem to struggle sometimes!  Yes; Tom peeked through the shed window; it being a bit chilly today, I’ll admit, I was using the wings as a duvet… I woke up, saw him, knew we were rumbled, thought it better to play along, that’s all.  As for the Big Man, well, he does like us to be honest where possible… if the truth seems unbelievable, is that my problem?’

‘Rafe! They still saw them…’


‘Of course they did!’ He shrugged.  ‘They’re living, human creatures, looking at me with their living, created eyes.  But when they run the film back, they’ll see nothing.  Well, they’ll see a chap in a towel… the camera lens is artificial, not created, so it won’t have seen the wings; there’s nothing incriminating on film.  Now,’ he went on, getting up and rolling his shoulders forwards to open his wing casings and ease his plumage out.  ‘Any chance of a bit of a preen before I leave for work?’