Work in Progress: 6.05

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The First of a New Series

After three weeks away from the new book with the working title of ‘471 Kingsland Road’, I am now back to putting down words. Progress is slow but I have managed a couple of chapters this week, and have all day today to press on with another. It’s coming together slowly, though I am still aware that what I am writing now might actually be a prequel to the start of the series, in the way ‘Banyak & Fecks’ was a prequel to the Clearwater Mysteries. What ‘471’ is turning out to be is character creation, an exploration of ideas, and the putting together of possibilities. It is still telling a story and a good one, and it is a valuable exercise.

It’s proving interesting to start something new, and difficult to leave behind the characters and themes that I’ve lived with since starting Clearwater late in 2018. Five years in the same world is hard to leave behind, so I have an inkling that I won’t actually be leaving it behind entirely.

‘471’ started off as an idea to write something that took place at the same time as Deviant Desire, but now I am thinking it might take place just after the last of the Larkspur series, starting in 1892 (instead of 1888). There’s a reason for this, and, if all goes according to the latest plan, there will be a twist just over halfway through the story which, I hope, will delight readers of Clearwater and Larkspur. That’s the current thinking, and the idea is taking shape and appealing more than my original idea, which was to have a completely separate series set around the same time.

I’ll say no more about that, but will leave it vague because I am still developing ‘471’ and what it might lead to. You’ll hear my thoughts on it as it progresses, so keep calling back to the Wednesday WIP to follow progress. Meanwhile, the Saturday blogs from now on will be a development of The Clearwater Companion, with interviews, images, unpublished sections, chapters and other background things to accompany Clearwater and Larkspur. This, I hope, will see me through the Saturday blogs of summer, and in the winter, when we have more time, we’ll return to interviews with other authors and blogs about research.

The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge

While all this is going on, I am continuing to revise The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge for its second edition and I have to say, I’m enjoying the process immensely. I am on the final edit of all 21 chapters and saving up to have the book professionally laid out ahead of a re-release in a few weeks’ time.

I’ll be back on Saturday with another page of The Clearwater Companion.

Photo: A hackney carriage waits at the end of a long row of horse-drawn hansom cabs facing the striking round portico and spire of All Soul’s Anglican Church on Langham Place at the north end of Regent Street. https://www.presbyterian.org.nz/

Cut: The Larkspur Legacy

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And The Clearwater Companion

Today, and now and then from now on, I am going to put up parts of the Clearwater and Larkspur series that were cut from the final publications. It’s probably best if you only read these after you have read the book in case there are any spoilers. Eventually, there will be a separate area on my site for these outtakes, and for other material that was/is destined for ‘The Clearwater Companion.’ I’ve decided that putting my energy into producing the companion for print will take me away from what I want to do when I get back to a new series in a week or so. Thus, over time, I’ll work to build up the companion online, so anyone can access it for free.

Meanwhile, it’s a rather long chapter that never was, but here is what was to be chapter twenty of ‘The Larkspur Legacy.’ In a nutshell, Dalston, Joe and Andrej are travelling across Europe to meet the boat but must make a stop in Vienna, where Andrej has been called by his father who works for the Emperor.

Note: This is the first draft and hasn’t been proofed. Some of what happens here is related later in the book by Bertie Tucker, which, I thought was a better way of telling this part of the story.

TWENTY

Vienna

DAY 10 of the Legacy voyage

Brought up in the workhouse, Dalston Blaze never imagined he would one day cross the channel on a steamer, ride a train to Paris, travel on night sleepers, or roll through the European countryside, let alone visit Vienna. The journey had taken four days, during which he had gazed from the window marvelling at the different styles of buildings when the train pulled into towns and cities, steamed through tunnels, and crossed land both flat and mountainous. During it, when not examining platforms for anyone who might be looking for them, he had sketched and read.

Joe had been doing the same, studying his ancient Egyptian writing, and pondering over Lord Clearwater’s clue. Keen to see the country they were making for, he was less interested in the scenery and more in the history and customs of where they were going once Mr Andrej had completed his business. The hours between changes, he spent flicking through a book, turning the words into images in his silent mind, and now and then showing Dalston something of interest. A pyramid, a thing called a sphinx, tombs and columns, but also drawings of strange creatures; a man with a hawk’s head, crocodiles, and, the image of their clue, a man with the head of a jackal. On one page of his book there was a plate, and when he showed that to Dalston, it chilled his blood. “Anubis,” the caption read, “God of Death.”

At that point, Dalston said he’d seen enough, and turned to Mr Andrej for conversation, asking where they were, and if they had to change trains again that day.

The Ukrainian had made the journey a few times before and knew exactly which train to catch from where, when to change and where to stay on the two nights they had broken the journey. At those times, he had been vigilant when sending their location back to Larkspur, but so far, they hadn’t noticed anyone on their tail.

Mr Andrej had also spent time looking at a small portrait Dalston had made of his intended, and not long after they’d left Paris, said, ‘What shall we call him?’

‘What?’ Joe signed, and when Dalston translated, signed, ‘She is a woman, and she has a name. Lucy.’

‘I think he means the child.’

‘He knows it’s a boy? How?’

‘Da, will be a boy,’ Mr Andrej said when Dalston explained. ‘I feel this.’

‘Have you talked about names? Andrej, perhaps?’

‘Would be find name, da, but, Miss Lucy says she already has one child called Andrej. Maybe, I call him Danylo, for my brother.’

‘Or Daniel, if he is to be British born.’

‘Is idea, da.’

The conversation had been repeated several times, both while traveling and when they stopped in a city to wait and send word back to London. On the nights they booked into a hotel, they stayed long enough for a reply to come back from Mrs Norwood.

Your message sent on to LH. W just left as planned. God speed.

Messages, Mr Hawkins had said, were to be as brief as possible, and as carefully written in case they somehow fell into enemy hands, but it didn’t take much for Dalston to work out that news of their journey was being sent to Larkspur and that Mr Wright, Frank and Chester had left for Greece and Egypt. Although leaving a few days after the Egypt party, so as to make tracking more difficult for Kingsclere, Chester would overtake them somewhere on their route, because he was joining an escorted tour that left France with a party of tourists and took them across the sea to Alexandria. There, he would leave the group, and, with any luck, vanish into his own people and set about his preparations unnoticed. Before the parties left London, Mrs Norwood had suggested they memorise their routes and arrival times, so every man knew where he had to be by when, but Dalston hadn’t been up to that challenge, and instead, wrote the journeys in symbols in his sketchbook. By his reckoning, as the train slowed to arrive in Vienna, James and Frank would be two days away from London, at the point where Chester was to leave them and make his way to the coast in the south of France. From Marseilles, he would travel with the Cook’s escorted tour directly to Alexandira, and if anyone was watching him, he would be able to pick them out with ease from among the well-to-do and rich; the only people who could afford the ticket. At the same time, according to his notes, the Legacy would be sailing east towards Genoa while Chester’s steamer cut across in front of it. A few days ahead of them, prehaps, but it was the same sea, and the crossing routes made for an interesting pattern in his mind.

Also, according to his notes, they were to spend no more than three days in Vienna before taking a complicated journey to meet the ship. Chester had shown them the route on one of his maps, and said it was one thousand miles by road, a figure Dalston couldn’t comprehend, but they had eleven days to reach the port, and he wasn’t unduly worried. They would probably take trains, and make more stops, however, because there was no rush, and apart from putting Kingsclere off their scent, Dalston was keen to see Venice, San Marino and other places he had never dreamt of seeing.

From the workhouse to this, he thought, as he closed his book and, began to gather his things.

‘You thinking what?’ Joe asked, after waving in his face.

‘Nothing. Just setting the journey in my head.’

‘Nearly there.’

‘Yeah. Pack up.’

No matter how exquisite the décor in a first-class carriage, there was nothing better than the relief of standing up after hours of sitting down. Dalston stretched his long legs, and, as the other two found their bags, and Mr Andrej scoured the carriage just in case, Dalston lowered the window to watch the approaching platform.

The locomotive made a great fuss of slowing, emitting groans and huffs as if it wanted those on the platform to know it had done a masterful deed and dragged these people all the way from Munich without stopping, when, in fact, it had stopped several times. He ducked back inside to avoid a cloud of steam, and when he looked again, through the last of the mist, he saw yet another sight he never thought a boy from the Hackney spike would ever witness.

Two liveried men stood on the platform, upright, arms behind their backs and their heads held erect. There was nothing new in seeing servants stand in that way, all the waiters in London did it, but these men weren’t waiters. They were dressed in yellow tailcoats finely adorned with thick, gold braid on the inner sleeves and the lapels, and beneath, they wore grey waistcoats with buttons that sparkled in the sunlight. A beam of it fell through the station roof as if specifically designed to highlight them, and left the other passengers gawping in shadow. The men had dark blue breeches to high stockings, and flat, black shoes beneath. They were several steps up even from Mr Nancarrow’s fine livery, but at least the Larkspur butler didn’t have to wear a wig of the last century.

‘Blood hell,’ Dalston said as the carriage stopped directly in front of the pair. ‘There’s some right nob on this train, and no mistake.’

The mistake was his.

Mr Andrej said something that sounded like a swear word, and added, ‘Why?’

‘Is the emperor aboard?’ Joe signed with a shrug.

‘Must be.’ Dalston looked along the tops of the seating, but saw no-one else rising. He assumed it was bad form for anyone to leave the carriage before the Emperor, and so hung back, but when Mr Andrej swore again and opened the door, it dawned on him these men were there to meet them.

‘I told them we stay hotel this night,’ Mr Andrej said, standing back to usher Joe onto the platform first. ‘Why they do this? My father has sent them…’

Dalston stepped down next, leaving Mr Andrej mumbling behind, and as soon as the Ukrainian set foot on the stone, the two footmen snapped their heels together as suddenly as they jerked their heads down and up. Expressionless, one raised his arm to direct the party to the station exit, and the situation became even more strange when onlookers stood aside to let them pass. One footman, as Dalston assumed they were, walked ahead with the three of them in the middle and the other uniformed man behind, and it reminded him of being marched to the cells in Newgate prison.

‘We are shit at being secret,’ Joe signed as they walked, and his hand movements caused people to stare, worsening the spectacle.

‘Just follow, and keep your head down,’ Dalston signed. ‘At least no-one’s going to attack us when we have an escort.’

‘For Mr Andrej?’

‘Must be.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s the son of a baron, and his father’s high up in the court. Weren’t you listening?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Oh shit. Is worse.’ It was Mr Andrej who said that, and when he was led from the station and into the sunlight, Dalston saw why.

The footman led them to a carriage, but one unlike any Dalston had seen. Bowl-shaped, the body sat high above four wheels, the back one larger than the front, and its top was adorned with fancy gold leaves pointing skywards. It had gold trim around its windows, large, ornate lanterns, and a crest on the door. Even the wheel spokes were trimmed with gold, and the two horses wore plumes, with their manes braided. They were held by another liveried man, this one wearing a cloak and tall hat, and holding a whip. He also bowed sharply when Mr Andrej approached, and one of the footmen opened the door, inviting the men inside. It was only then that Dalston realised they’d not collected their luggage.

‘Our bags?’ he said, but Mr Andrej wasn’t listening, he was trying to ask the footman something, but the man made no reply.

‘Not speak English,’ Joe signed.

‘Our bags?’

‘There.’

Porters arrived with their belongings and began loading them onto the back of the carriage where one of the footmen secured them.

‘We go,’ Mr Andrej said, and bent to climb aboard.

With no other option, Dalston followed, and took a place on velvet-lined seats, where furs had been provided against the cold air.

‘We go where?’ Joe signed, and Mr Andrej told them they were in an imperial carriage, so they were being taken to a place called Hofburg.

‘Is that a town?’

‘Nyet. Is where my father works and lives. Why he send this?’

Dalston’s guess was as good as anyone else’s. ‘To surprise you?’ he suggested.

‘Is big surprise, da.’ Mr Andrej smiled. ‘I write to tell him when we come, and I have two friends. Maybe he want to meet you.’

‘Maybe they’ll drop us at the hotel,’ Dalston said as the carriage set off.

It glided over the cobbles as though someone had put down carpet, and, as it took its leisurely pace through wide streets, he was able to admire the buildings. They passed a large park on one side, and four-storey houses on the other which became grander the further they rode. Well-dressed pedestrians stopped to stare in, as if they were expecting to see royalty, while others ignored the carriage and went about their business of parading beneath parasols, or wrapping shawls tighter as they sat outside street cafes sipping from delicate cups.

They had just passed a square with a statue in the centre, when Joe signed he wanted to ask Mr Andrej something.

‘Da, what?’

‘He wants to know why you don’t live here,’ Dalston interpreted. ‘Why, if your father is a baron in the Royal Austrian court, do you work as a groom in England? Sorry if he is being a bit personal.’

‘Nyet, Vohon.’ Mr Andrej was still smiling, and it broadened when he used his nickname for Dalston which, he’d said, translated as Fire. ‘I will tell him. I am not groom, I am Master of the Larkspur Horse, and I live where I live because I love Geroy, and I love my Lucy. I have my friends at home, so why I want to come and be here? You see how they treat me. Is embarrassment.’

‘But your father is here.’

‘Da. But this I not know until nearly two years ago.’

Dalston explained to Joe, who had been reading Mr Andrej’s lips, but he still wasn’t satisfied.

‘Joe asks a lot of questions, sorry,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t understand how you ended up working for Lord Clearwater when you came from abroad, and why you don’t now live in a palace with your father.’

If Mr Andrej was annoyed by the intrusion, he didn’t show it. He placed one of the furs over his knees, and rested back into the plush.

‘Is long story, Mr Joe,’ he said. ‘I leave my homeland when I was younger, I think fourteen, maybe not. My father… The man I thought was my father was dead. So was my mother, and my sisters and brothers, maybe. I not know. Our neighbour, Yakiv Blumkin, he tries to take me away from Russians who are killing our people, but I say, no. I go my own way. I come to England on ship with Captain Kent, who is now with Geroy on sea. I meet Banyak… Mr Hawkins. We meet Geroy, he gives us job. Then, January last year, I go with Pianino long way to Rasnov. Is in Transylvania, and we stop in Vienna where Mr Blumkin is, but he is not Mr Blumkin the neighbour, he is Baron Kubinsky of Judenburg, and he is in high position in court because his title puts him there. He tells me… He shows me he is my real father. But, I stay with Geroy, and I have Miss Lucy, and I have friends, like you have Joe, and I am happy where I am. Now, that is enough, questions, Mr Joe.’ He glanced from the window. ‘We are there in minute.’

Dalston had kept up with the translation as best he could, but it wasn’t easy when Joe interrupted him asking who Pianino was and what was Transylvania, which Dalston didn’t know how to spell. Pianino was Jasper Blackwood, he explained, the pianist, and he couldn’t say why they had made the trip, but all he and Joe needed to know was they were probably being taken to meet an important man, and Joe had to behave himself.

‘Me?’ Joe gaped. ‘Fuck off.’

Dalston grinned. ‘We never know, someone there might speak our language.’

‘Not likely. How long we stay?’

‘Two days.’

‘Why? We have lots of time. Maybe we stay longer?’

‘No. We have a schedule.’

‘But look…’ Joe pointed from the window. ‘All this. You draw. Look there, museum… and there, big church. No hurry to get to boat. We have ten days.’

‘What he saying?’

‘Joe wants us to stay in Vienna longer than we should. He thinks we have plenty of days before we need to be in Italy.’

‘Da, Mr Joe is right, but we must do what we are told. Jimmy knows best. I see my father today, tomorrow, and after, we start again on journey. We stay in one place too long, the svolochi find us easy. Safer is, we go in two days. Da?’

Dalston wasn’t going to argue with him, but Joe wanted to. However, their entry into a large, open courtyard put paid to more questions, because there was nothing else to do but stare in awe at their surroundings. After passing through a columned gatehouse, the carriage took a graceful curve, following a line of arches supporting columns that in turn supported a balustrade four floors up, beneath which were tall windows in a classically fronted, semi-circular building of immense size.

‘Fancy house,’ Joe signed as if he was bored, when his wide eyes betrayed what he really thought.

The carriage pulled up beneath another arch, where the weakening sunlight was supplemented by flaming torches, and Dalston waited for Mr Andrej to move first. The horse master himself waited until one of the footmen had opened the door, and Dalston assumed that was the form. Once the step was lowered, Mr Andrej ducked out, and they were met by another man wearing a military uniform who greeted them with the customary snap of head and heels.

‘Herr Blumkin, welcome,’ he said in English, but offered no hand to shake. ‘I trust you had a good journey.’

‘Was long,’ Mr Andrej replied.

‘Of course. I am Herr Gruber, assistant to Von Kubinsky. Your father waits for you in his chambers. You will stay at the palace, Sir, and I will show you up, but perhaps you would like your companions taken to the hotel. I can arrange it.’

‘Nyet. Why am I here?’

The man, no older than thirty, Dalston thought, but assured and upright, twitched at the bluntness.

‘Your father’s request, Sir. I will explain on the way.’

‘Nyet. Now.’

The man faltered. ‘Perhaps it would be best if your friends returned…’

‘Nyet. They stay with me.’

That time, Herr Gruber both faltered and twitched, his confidence waning. ‘As you wish, Sir,’ he managed. ‘They might wait outside the baron’s rooms.’

‘What is wrong?’

‘Sir?’

Mr Andrej growled in his throat. ‘You not tell me why we come here. You want rid of my friends. What is wrong?’

‘It really would be best if we were alone…’

‘Gruber, you say?’

‘Yes, Sir. Assistant to…’

‘Gruber. I not go anywhere without these two. They are under my protection. They stay with me. That is that. Now, why my father call me here straight from stinking train? We are hungry, we are tired, and we want rest. Find them rooms with me, but first, tell me. What is wrong?’

Gruber had paled, but waved a gloved hand and said something to the footmen who unloaded the bags and passed them to two more servants who had appeared from inside.

‘Please, come with me,’ Gruber said, and showed the party into a hallway.

It was not like any hallway Dalston had encountered. Their shoes squeaked on a marble floor as they entered something as large as the refectory at the Hackney workhouse. A massive stone staircase climbed to a gallery and split either side, with chandeliers hanging low from a ridiculously high ceiling. White and gold painted doors led to who knew where, and the walls were covered with paintings of uniformed officials, and women in glittering gowns. For all its grandeur, however, the entrance was cold, and Dalston chilled further when it dawned on him that Mr Andrej had demanded they stay the night in a royal palace.

Joe nudged him, and signed, ‘Fuck’ with his jaw dropped, but remained still when Dalston glared.

‘Before we go up, there is something I must tell you,’ Gruber said, one eye on the servants disappearing with cases. ‘Your father called for you because he is not well. He was keen to…’

‘What you mean, not well?’

‘I mean he is ill, Sir. Gravely ill.’

Gruber dragged out his words to give them weight, and Mr Andrej’s pallor soon resembled that of the official.

‘I must be honest with you, Sir. Your father, although sound of mind, is very week of body. The physicians have suggested your visit is timely. A few days later, and you may have been too late.’

Mr Andrej said nothing, but marched past Grubber to the stairs, and began to climb. Gruber, protesting, followed, leaving Dalston and Joe with no choice but to do the same. There was no time to explain to Joe what was happening, but Gruber had spoken slowly, and his English was good. Joe had probably read his lips, because he, too, looked grave as they took the stairs, following Mr Andrej’s ever-quickening pace.

‘My father is in his rooms?’

‘Yes, Sir, but please, we must ask the nurse if…’

‘We ask nothing. Why he not tell me this before?’

‘He was reluctant to inform you at all, Sir, for fear of upset. It was me who insisted you be called.’

‘You were right.’

‘I am glad you agree, Sir. To the left here.’

‘I know where my father lives,’ Mr Andrej yapped, and led them into a wide, heavily decorated corridor where windows overlooked a manicured garden.

‘Of course, Sir. Please…’ Grubber managed to slow the tall Ukrainian by placing a hand on his arm. ‘Quietly and slowly. We must ask the nurse if it is a suitable time to visit.’

Having passed through one set of double doors, Mr Andrej came to a halt outside another, his urgency evaporated, and his shoulders slumped.

‘Will you wait here, Herr Blumkin?’

‘Da,’ was all Mr Andrej said, and he turned away from the doors as if not wanting to see what lay beyond when Gruber slipped into the room.

‘Can we help?’ Dalston said.

Mr Andrej shook his head. ‘Sickness, I am used to,’ he said. ‘But this, I was not expecting. Why? Every time, why?’

Dalston could only shrug when Joe asked him what that meant, and seeing Mr Andrej’s distress, knew it wasn’t the time to enquire.

The servants appeared with the cases, but kept their heads down as they passed, and entered a room further along the passage in silence.

Dalston and Joe were under Mr Andrej’s protection, but at that moment, it felt as if the situation had been reversed. Mr Andrej, usually so assured and dignified, was trembling, and his eyes had moistened.

‘Would you like us to come in with you?’ Dalston whispered.

The big man turned to him, glanced at Joe, and beckoned them close. ‘Vohon,’ he said, and grabbed Dalston’s hand. ‘I not want you to come in with me. I need you come in with me. Please?’

Work In Progress: 6.04

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The news this week is that work in progress isn’t progressing. Instead, I have moved on to go back, and am re-editing ‘The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge’, as I mentioned on Saturday. Although I’m not in a very creative place, I thought I should be doing something, so, I have returned to Barrenmoor to give it a rewrite. Not substantially; the story remains the same, as do the characters, it’s the language I am tidying up.

It’s odd to do this, because I rarely reread what I have already published, but it’s part of the learning process to do so. I’m amazed, and a little embarrassed at how many sentences start with ‘He’, or worse, ‘He saw’ or ‘He heard…’ This, to me now, is lazy writing. Often, there’s no need to say He and no need to say ‘He saw/heard,’ and certainly not, ‘He felt…’ When you change such things, you force yourself into the character’s shoes. We know whose point of view the scene is from, so we can assume everything is coming from within, and overusing ‘He’ leads to me, the writer, telling the reader what’s going on, and not showing them what’s going on, which is the better way of telling a story because it brings the reader closer to the character.

That’s just one example of how I am reworking Barrenmoor, one of my more popular books, and there are others I’ll return to at another time. For now, I’ll continue to edit, rework, improve, and tidy up, using the X number of years’ worth of experience since I wrote it to guide me. After that, I should be in a place where I can return to the creation of a new series and ‘471 Kingsland Road’, which is currently waiting for me at around the 35,000-word mark.

Return to Barrenmoor Ridge

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Today, I want to say that it’s fine to improve your own work no matter when it was written or published.

‘The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge’ is my age-gap, MM romance-thriller set on the side of a Derbyshire fell in bad weather and was released in January 2018.

In terms of Kindle sales, this is my 4th best-selling title. In terms of page reads through Kindle Unlimited, it’s the 7th, and in terms of income, it’s the 6th. Above it are the first four Clearwater novels and ‘Guardians of the Poor.’

The ‘Barrenmoor Ridge’ blurb begins thus: 

Following the death of his lover, mountaineer John Hamilton lives an isolated existence high on wild Fellborough peak. When he rescues 19-year-old Gary Taylor from the mountain, John can't accept that the boy may be the answer to his heartache. Gary is seventeen years his junior, confused, and being pursued by criminals.

A while ago, my PA suggested I did some tidying up on ‘The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge,’ particularly the first few chapters. This was one of my first novels, and I was then, as I am now, still learning the craft.

The other day, I thought I’d drop into it, improve what I can, and eventually, have a second edition which is the same, but more polished.

I had actually started this task some time ago but got no further than the first half a page, because the Larkspur Mysteries series came along.

This morning, I took a look at what I’d done to ‘Barrenmoor’ then, and compared it to the original. Yes, well, ah-hem… there’s certainly some confusion in the opening scene; confusion around whose point of view we are experiencing the story from. It was meant to be John, the main character, but some of the time, it’s as if his friend, Sally, is the lead so that needed addressing. I think, when I was writing it, I wrote one version from her point of view and one from his and ended up mixing the two. It’s fine to use more than one point of view as long as you write in blocks (i.e. don’t change POV every other line) or put in a line break, or use some other technique that makes the switching obvious. I hadn’t done this; I’d bounced back and forth.

Here’s an example; the first 141 words of the original, which starts from John’s point of view, but swiftly changes to someone else (in italics): 

John Hamilton was refusing a job at Everest base camp when he caught sight of the youth who was about to change his life. He was also ripping a piece of toast in half with his teeth while reaching for his pint mug of tea. The woman sitting opposite him in the Pot Hole, the climbers' café in Inglestone, was none too impressed that he had left their conversation hanging but assumed that John was considering her offer. After she had watched his confused expression for long enough, she leant across and pushed the piece of toast into his open mouth. 'It's an easy answer, John,' she said, smiling at his reaction. 'And you've got baked beans in your moustache.' John finally returned his gaze to her. 'What?' he said, his body at the table, his mind still across the room.

Looking closer, I also have a problem with the second sentence, because

  1. it starts with ‘He’, and I now try and avoid doing that as it sounds weak, and
  2. because it’s weak, it’s vague, and we might be talking about the younger man across the room. Who is eating toast and drinking tea? Both of them?

My changes come next, and although they are not yet perfect, they are an improvement. Here are what are now the first 144 words.

John Hamilton was refusing a job at Everest base camp when he caught sight of the younger man who would change his life. Their eyes met, and although John was ripping apart a piece of toast and reaching for his pint mug of tea, both actions stopped in a heartbeat. The clatter and chatter around him in the climbers’ café faded, and he would have remained staring in silent awe had his companion not kicked him under the table. Sally appeared none too pleased he’d left their conversation hanging, because she leant across, pushed the piece of toast into his mouth, and said, ‘It’s an easy answer, and you’ve got baked beans in your moustache.’ John stared through her for a second before blinking. ‘What?’ His body was at the table, but his mind remained with who he had just seen.

That, to me, is better because, a) it stays as John’s point of view, therefore, b) it flows better, and c) it’s a little more intriguing. Does John know this younger man? (His mind remained with who he had just seen.) There is also the added attraction of naming his companion, Sally, rather than calling her ‘the woman’ as if he didn’t know who she was. I’ve also cut the detail about the café name and location, because that’s not vital and we’ll come to learn that information later. You’ll note I have left the opening line more or less intact. I rather like the way it mixes Everest Base Camp, refusing a job there, a younger man, a moment between two main characters, and ‘who would change his life,’ setting up what’s to come. I changed ‘youth’ to ‘younger man’ because it sounds less patronising.

The point of this is to highlight that it’s fine to return to an older work and improve it. We learn as we go, and because you can change your Amazon-uploaded files at any time, yet still keep the ISBN number and details, you can improve your work whenever you want. (As long as you don’t substantially change the story or title; in that case, you would need a new ISBN and would have to publish it as if it were a new book.) Revising those 141 words took me about half an hour, and I’m still not 100% happy, but I’ll continue when I can, and improve my ‘number five’ best seller bit by bit when I have time.

(Note from PA, “I love this opening, far more readable and the intrigue seed is planted leaving me wanting more. Bravo.”)

Work in Progress: 6.03

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471 Kingsland Road.

That may not end up being the title, but it’s an idea. It’s also a place where I once lived, but that’s by the by.

There’s not much to report today because we currently have guests, so I am not writing as much as usual. What I am doing, though, is rereading what I have already written, improving it, and saying to myself, ‘Where is this going, and is it any good?’

Yesterday, I was looking around for some advice, and putting in search strings such as, ‘How to start on a new series,’ and ‘Ending one series and starting another.’ I was doing this because I can’t help feeling I am writing another Clearwater or Larkspur, only with different characters. I’m not. What’s coming out now has a completely different feel, yet I can’t help feeling I am doing the same as I did before. So, I was hoping to find some advice from experienced writers of series that said, ‘Take a month off,’ or, ‘Write in a different time or genre,’ or, ‘If you can’t let the last series go, then maybe you should go back to it.’

I didn’t find anything of use, only lots of very similar articles on how to start and finish a chapter. What was nice about that was that they were all saying you should try to do this, this and that, and I already do this, this and that. But it wasn’t what I was looking for.

What I decided, in the end, was that I’d carry on writing ‘471’ when I could, see what I have at the end of it, and go from there. If nothing else, I would have created a character or two, hopefully more, and put them into a story I could then improve. As I won’t be able to do much concentrated work for a couple of weeks, it will take some time, but during those weeks, I will be able to distance myself from what I have written, and then, who knows how ‘471’ will progress? Meanwhile, I am still learning a lot about hansom cabs and the way of Victorian cabmen.

More chat on Saturday…

Imagination is more important than Knowledge: Discuss.

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“Imagination is more important than Knowledge.”

So said Albert Einstein, thus inspiring today’s blog, a continuation from last week’s blog, which was about researching the taxi driver’s ‘knowledge.’

In that case, ‘knowledge’ was the thing London cabbies need before they can start transporting passengers around the metropolis. In Einstein’s case,

‘knowledge’ meant learning, what facts we have accumulated and, literally, what we know.

So, what he’s saying is pretty clear:

it’s more important to imagine than it is to know.

Thinking that, reminded me of the old adage, ‘Write about what you know.’ How many times have I heard that? I remember being told it at school when we had to write essays and short stories for English classes. However, I also remember when I was first inspired to write creatively, and here’s a little story that, unless I lose my train of thought, will point up the idea of creativity and imagination being more important than knowledge.

Soon to be Twelve, Never Been to Egypt

Picture it…

I am sitting in the library of an independent school in Folkestone, Kent. The wall opposite is filled with books, my best friend is sharing the table with me, and there’s a man with a beard facing us and the rest of the small class of uniformed pupils. It’s March 1975, and I am a few days away from being twelve years old. A few days ago, the television news carried the appalling story of a tube strain disaster at Moorgate station in London, where 43 people died because the train failed to stop and drove into a wall at speed. Not exactly the subject for a discussion during an English lesson with Mr Whitney, housemaster, historian and all-round inspirer of pupils. After a discussion about the train crash, our homework was to write a short story inspired by the event, which you might think was a little unusual or bad taste, but that’s the British public school system for you.

So, off I went after school, walking up the road to the bus stop with John (the best friend), discussing not English homework, but Hammer Horror films, because he collected the magazines, and we both liked the films, and having said goodbye, I continued to the bus stop and went home to write my short story.

Flashback: 1972, I am nine years old and in a long queue, eventually entering a huge building, walking through echoing halls and into dark chambers to wonder at the gold funeral mask of a pharaoh, Tutankhamun, and other treasures. Flash forward a couple of years, and I am watching one of the Universal ‘Mummy’ films, Boris Karloff or Lon Chaney Jr., it doesn’t matter which, I am fascinated by pyramids, Egyptian tombs and things buried underground.

Flash back to the story, and I am sitting down to write my homework based on the tube disaster. Of course, I didn’t know what it was like to be involved, I’m not even sure I’d been on a tube train by then, so all I had to go on were the images I’d seen on TV and my imagination. Oh, and my interest in Egyptology, such as it was at 11 years old.

My story, presented at the next English lesson, concerned a team of archaeologists investigating a pyramid, when that pyramid collapsed. All I remember of it were limbs sticking out from beneath rocks, dust, darkness, screams and other horror elements, and the ending; a man in a hospital bed where instead of flowers in the vase, there were the same dead arms and legs. I also remember the praise I received after its presentation in class. Mr Whitney singled it out because it had a beginning, a middle and an end, and told the whole class he’d chosen it for singular praise because I ‘Didn’t once mention a blessed train, like the rest of you. Imagination! It is far more useful than knowledge.’ Or something very similar. He then, rather annoyingly for an 11-year-old, told me it needed improvement, and I was to write it out again in my best handwriting, but not to copy it. What he did was tell me to write a second draft, thus teaching me the pain and value of editing.

The point of that story was simply to highlight the title of this piece, that you don’t always need knowledge to write creatively, and to be truly creative, imagination is more important than knowledge.

Now hang on a minute… We can take the opposite view with no hassle whatsoever and be perfectly pedantic by saying: You need to know how to write. Ah ha! See, that’s knowledge. Yes, and quite right. Except, as far as we know, Homer never wrote a word, he spoke his stories, as that was the only way to pass them down back then. He didn’t need to know how to write, he needed to know how to tell a story, but storytelling is in all of us, whether it comes out in the written word or spoken, in art, journalism, comic books or gossip; we all have the ability to tell a story.

Yes, but… I know what you’re going to say. How can you write about something you know nothing about? How can you write a story set somewhere you have never been, or about something you have never experienced, or have no knowledge of?

Yeah, yeah, blah-di-blah… Tell me, dear sceptic, how many times did Shakespeare visit Italy to research his Merchant of Venice or any of the other 13 plays he set in the country? Did Bernard Cornwell OBE fight against Napoleon, or live among the Anglo Saxons of the Dark Ages? I think not. Yes, writers research, and some who write historical novels are learned historians, but they’ve still never been back in time, and let’s not mention Azimov or Arthur C Clarke, and others who write science fiction, fantasy or steampunk. Come to that, Bram Stoker never went to Transylvania or, as far as anyone knows, got bitten by a vampire or had his head chopped off.

Write about what you know, and if you don’t know about it, research. That would be a better maxim, in my book.

Ideas are the Seed of all Achievement

I found that delicious quote, from journalist, Anastasia Haralabidou, in an article titled ‘Great Ideas: Is imagination more important than knowledge?’ (2015, you can find it here.)  In her article, she points out how imagination has inspired knowledge. Example: an apple falling from a tree and narrowly missing Isaac Newton… Why did it do that? How come it fell and didn’t float away? And there we have gravity.

It’s a case of saying ‘What if?’ and then following the what if to a conclusion, and to do that, you need to use imagination, not knowledge. If you don’t have the knowledge, you can gain it, if you don’t have the imagination, well, frankly, you’re scuppered. As Haralabidou also says in her article,

“Imagination is the highest freedom of all and the one that no one can deprive us of.”

How good is that? We all have an imagination, it is as inherent as storytelling, and you don’t need knowledge to release it, you only need to know that you can, and we all can. Some with more success than others, I grant you, but it is within us all to tell stories, and if those stories are set in a time or place about which we know nothing, then, like a soon to be 12-year-old transposing what he’d seen on the news to the pyramids of Giza, we research what we must, and imagine the rest.

This all reminds me of another saying I heard once many years ago which has always stuck with me. Prevention is better than knowing who did it. That, I fancy, might be the title of a future blog.

Work in Progress: 6.02

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The Unnamed

‘The Unnamed’ sounds like the original title of ‘Dracula,’ The Undead. My new story is definitely ‘undead’ because it’s very much alive and kicking. I am up to 24,000 words and the end of act one. The main characters have their initial setup, time and place have been established, and now, there is a quest for the main character, a dilemma, a fair amount of pressure and a big decision to be made. I think Jack Merrit is to be something of a reluctant hero, because he doesn’t want to do what he has to do, and there is both an external reason for that and an internal one.

By external, I mean an action-driven reason for him to react, and by internal, I mean he has a personal dilemma to deal with, and it’s a big one.

What I haven’t yet convinced myself of is the action spine; the events that will drive the physical action through to the end. Initially, what I had in mind sounded interesting and is based on an actual event. However, it strikes me it might be flimsy when transformed into a novel because it is basically a search for a location, and we can’t have 50,000 words of a man driving up and down London streets looking for a particular place. Well, we can, but other things will have to happen along the way, otherwise the reader will soon be asking, ‘Are we there yet?’

Once I’ve finished other work this morning, I will continue with chapter eight and see where that leads me. We have visitors arriving on Sunday for two and three weeks, and I’m not sure how much I will be able to get done during that time, but I will carry on carrying on, and I’ll let you know how it all goes in my regular blog posts.

From ‘Street Life in London’, 1877, by John Thompson and Adolphe Smith (Wikimedia Commons)

Learning the Knowledge for a New Series

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If you read my Wednesday work-in-progress blog, you will know I have embarked on a new series, currently titled ‘New Series’ in one folder, and ‘Victorian Series’ in another. So far, I have written four chapters in draft one, a rough outline, some character notes, and some research notes.

Part of my research has been around cab drivers because one of the two main characters is a young cabman, and that led me to a couple of books, a few websites, and a coincidence.

The Knowledge

When London cabbies train for the job, they spend on average two years learning ‘the knowledge.’ That’s the layout of all 25,000 or more London streets in a six-mile radius from central London, roughly.

If you’ve ever taken a black cab, as we call them nowadays (though they are not always black), you’ll feel assured that once you step in and say, ‘471 Kingsland Road,’ the driver will say, ‘Righty-o, Guv,’ and off you go. You can give as obscure an address as you fancy and, the chances are, your driver will know where it is because he’s got ‘the knowledge.’

When this term came into use, I am not sure, but then, I’ve not completed my research yet.

My ordered book has arrived, ‘The History of the London Horse Cab’, and I’ve read the introduction, but there’s a long way to go yet, so my knowledge of cab work and ‘the knowledge’ currently equates to knowing only about five streets out of the 25,000 or more.

I’ve also been looking at various collections of writings from Victorian times that I’ve found on websites, including my favourite, The Dictionary of Victorian London, compiled by Lee Jackson.

A Coincidence

While looking around for various resources, I came across a Facebook page dedicated to a book, ‘Carter the Cabman.’ After a little investigation, I discovered that this book was available on Kindle, so I downloaded a copy and set to reading, out of interest.

It turns out to be a novel, presenting in a nicely clever way, a collection of papers discovered in an antique shop in 1988, and those papers were written by a cabman called Carter in 1888, at the time of Jack the Ripper. That’s as far as I have got with my reading as I only bought it yesterday, but already, I feel a weird sense of coincidence. My Clearwater Mysteries series begins in 1888 at the time of the Ripper (though it’s not Jack), and my new series is not only about a cab driver, but is also set in 1888, though the Ripper murders are not part of the plot this time. I’m looking forward to reading the rest of ‘Carter’ and perhaps asking the author if he’d like to appear here in a guest post. (Though I’m not sure how to tell him that the word ‘weekend’ didn’t come into usage until after 1912, so his cabman author of 1888 would not have used it… but that’s me being pedantic.)

More About ‘New Victorian Series’

My notes are vague in places, and detailed in others. I have in mind a set of investigations that my two main characters will undertake, but unlike the Clearwater and Larkspur mysteries, these will involve a different investigative style. Clearwater and Larkspur use a lot of unlikely but not impossible scenarios, and inventions of the time or just before the time, such as vanishing and reappearing ink, telegraph printers, and glow-in-the-dark paint. The new series will, if all goes according to plan, focus on real issues of the time and how my two MCs put things right. A little like ‘Guardians of the Poor’, where our heroes uncover corruption at the Hackney workhouse. I have in my list of ideas notes such as:

  • Slum landlords Vs paupers,
  • The Thames Murders (cold case),
  • Mediums,
  • Quacks,
  • Lunatic asylum, and
  • ‘gay’ cases.

The latter one is also a hark back to Larkspur, where the initial idea was to base characters and stories on actual events, which I did all the way through: Dalston Blaze and the workhouse scandal, for example, or Edward Hyde’s incident on the train and the court case with that nasty Tory MP. But don’t think this new series is going to be all special investigation and doing the right thing, and don’t think it will be a repeat of issues and events from the other two series.

So far, I know that it is going to involve the following:

  • Clues
  • villains
  • adventure
  • A slow-burn romance over a couple of books
  • A character with an undefined ‘problem’ who will turn out to be a genius (at something)
  • Brotherly love
  • Bromance and MM romance (of course)
  • Falling in love, falling out of love, blah-di-blah
  • Humour
  • Real places and events

That’s where I am with ‘New Victorian Series’ right now, researching and learning more knowledge about life in Victorian Britain, especially London, around the end of the 19th century. It all starts with a journalist discovering a handsome young cabman in tears late at night on August 17th 1888. Why is he crying? That’s what you will one day find out.

Work In Progress: 6.01

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Untitled

These past few days, I have started on a new novel which I intend to be the start of a new series. So far, the folder is titled: Victorian Series, and I have in it chapters one, two and three, plus a file called ‘New story ideas,’ and one called ‘The cabmen from James Greenwood.’ Let me explain…

Who was James Greenwood?


James Greenwood (1832–1927) was an English social explorer, journalist and writer, who published a series of articles which drew attention to the plight of London’s working poor. He was one of the first journalists to cover stories incognito, and is regarded as one of the pioneers of investigative journalism.

[Wikipeadia.]

What’s he got to do with anything?

When I was writing ‘Banyak & Fecks’ and investigating what it was like to spend a night in a casual ward of a London workhouse, I came across an article Greenwood had written following his experiences of spending a night in such a place. I returned to him for background reading for this new series, and in particular, the book, ‘Tales from Victorian London’ by James Greenwood and Henry Mayhew. There is a chapter in it where Greenwood recounts an interview with a hansom cab driver who tells him a tale of catching burglars, and that was the inspiration for my ‘New Victorian Series.’

Since reading the article and others, I have ordered a book about the history of the hansom cab, and have read other articles and stories from the time (mid-1800s, though my story is set slightly later). I have also been trying to find a street map of London from 1887 with street names, though that’s proving a little more difficult. What I need is an original A to Z, although that invaluable street atlas was not printed until the 1930s, so I am left with online maps, many of which don’t name the streets.

Why the need for street names and maps?


The simple answer is because, my main character is a cabman, a driver of a hansom cab, or a cabbie, as they were and are also known. So far in the story, the MC has decided he needs to earn more money, and so, steps in to take his grandfather’s old job driving a hansom cab.

Not an easy task. It takes the average London cabbie two years to learn ‘the knowledge’, the layout of every street, the names, places, locations, short cuts etc., of the city. There are, and were in 1887, thousands of streets, and new ones being built all the time. Having a map will make it easier for me to be accurate, because unlike the Greychurch and Limedock of ‘The Clearwater Mysteries’, the new series is to be set in Whitechapel, Limehouse and other places where I will use the real place names, events and possibly, people.

Who is our new main character?

There are to be two.

Meet Jack Merrit…

a 24-year-old carter and labourer at the East India Docks who has an estranged father working in the music hall, an absent mother, a younger brother who has ‘an undiagnosed problem’, and who lives with his grandparents, Reggie and Ida Merritt in a two-roomed dwelling in Limehouse.

My visual inspiration for Jack came from a photo of a prisoner taken sometimes during the late 1800s. This chap had such a bewildered look of ‘I’m innocent’ about him, it stirred my heart and made me think, ‘Poor young man, his only crime was to fall in love—with another man.’

My second main character, the one who, after a first-person introduction tells the story in the third person, is

Larkin Chase,

a well-to-do ‘journalist’, investigative reporter as we’d call him now, a solver of mysteries and a champion for the rights of the put-upon. Larkin is 30, and meets Jack in August 1888 much in the way James Greenwood met his cabbie, late at night in South London.

And there I shall leave this update so I can get on with chapter three. Before I do, I will let you see a snippet of chapter two, which only gives away two plot points, that Samson Merrit, Jack’s father has died, and his grandfather, Reggie, has suffered a stroke.

The only way his parents or children heard of [Samson Merrit] was from the variety newspapers and bill posters, and, when Jack was twenty-four, via a messenger from Shoreditch who brought news of a tragedy.
Samson Merrit suffered an untimely but entertaining death on the stage of the Shoreditch Music Hall early in eighty-seven. He left behind his two sons, a shocked audience, and an even more shocked Marie Lloyd, with whom he had been performing a duet version of ‘The Boy I Love is up in the Gallery.’ The coroner said it was heart failure and had nothing to do with his fellow performer. Ida Merrit said he’d had it coming and good riddance, but on hearing the news, Reggie suffered apoplexy that brought an end to his cabbing career the moment he staggered backwards into his chair and collapsed.

More updates to come next week, and on my Saturday blog.

And Back to the Desk

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Hello, and Happy Easter from here in Greece, which is celebrating Orthodox Easter a week after Western Easter. I have had both. Last weekend I was in Prague, where it was Easter, and now, I am back at the desk and ready to pick up where I left off.

Prague and New Experiences

I’ve put up a few photos of my recent trip, not the best, but my old camera/phone is getting on a bit. I went, via Rhodes and Athens, to Prague with my godson, Harry, the perfect travelling companion and my music student.

Among our experiences were:

Harry’s first time out of the country and his longest flight to date, using a different currency, the museum at Athens Airport (yes, they have one, it shows you what was there before the airport was built), the usual Prague tourist sights like the astronomical clock and the Old Town square, the castle, St Vitus cathedral, the Lobkowicz Palace for a lunchtime concert, lots of eating, seeing two Canaletto paintings and other treasures such as Beethoven’s original parts for two of his symphonies, a piano that one belonged to Franz Liszt, and a wild Nutria (coypu) that we thought was a beaver (and boy did we laugh about that; sorry, but boys will be boys, and so will some middle-aged men). Also, some underground cellars from medieval Prague and a tour with alchemy and a torture chamber thrown in, another cathedral, a funicular railway, the top of the Petrin Tower at 64 meters — and I don’t do heights anymore, but I managed — the observatory, the Museum of Music, the Lego Museum, and a night at the opera to see ‘The Magic Flute,’ Harry’s first opera and theatre experience.

On the next day… sightseeing and shopping around the Old Town, the Agricultural Museum and the Technology Museum for the science, cars and, for me, locomotives, more walking and shopping (averaging around 7 miles per day on foot, 10 on one day), rode trams, sat on a police motorbike (H might want to be a policeman one day), visited various street markets, ate lots, and in the evening, went on a river cruise with a dinner and live jazz music included. Then, on the way home, stopping for a night in Athens/Piraeus, we visited the warship, the Averoff, before catching our overnight ferry home.

The Next Book

Before we set off, I’d written the first chapter of a new book, which I hope will spark a new series. On my first day back, having had virtually no sleep because I don’t sleep well on moving objects, even with a cabin, I returned to the chapter, read it, edited it and continued. Yesterday, I laid down the start of the story proper and began writing some backstories which may or may not stay in, but which will be useful in some form. What is this book?

Good question. I have recently read a true account of a journalist meeting a London cabman, and the story the cabman told him sparked an idea. All I can tell you right now is that it is set in London in 1888, starting on the night of the (possibly) first Ripper murder, Martha Tabram, but has nothing to do with the Ripper. If the story gathers momentum and it turns out as I want it to, it will be taking place at the same time as the Clearwater Mysteries books one to four, and onwards. Who knows, some of the Clearwater and Larkspur characters may even turn up in this… whatever it is to be. It will involve mystery, a slow-burn romance, bromance, friendship, hardship and fun, like my other historical novels, but it’s going to take some time to put together.

On which note, now I am back into typing, I may go and take a look at what I wrote for chapter two. I’ll give you more info on Wednesday’s Work in Progress blog, so, see you there.