creative inspiration

New Shoots: a quite long short story

/ Caron Allan / 6 Comments

June 1889

In the little garden behind his father’s cottage, the spiraea shoots had rooted. Walter could see the little green buds, emerging here and there up the length of the canes that stood in a row before him like soldiers on parade. In some cases, the buds were a little larger than the rest, and were just beginning to unfurl. Walter turned to survey the bench with its dozens of pots of soil and the new life contained within them. Strawberry plantlets growing stronger day by day; pansy, geranium and snapdragon seedlings showing their first ‘true’ leaves, dahlia shoots just beginning to push their tips above the surface of the soil, and beside the bench, in the border, the tall sweet peas had already reached the first wire.

He smiled and felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders. These small beginnings would change his life. He would be his own man someday, with his own thriving business, no longer at the beck and call of His Lordship. He could ask Hetty Miller to be his wife. They could be married by Christmas.

It was as if his every dream was on the point of coming true.

September 1896

Walter Jenkins stood in the dock of the court. He gave the clerk his name, date of birth and his abode. His voice quavered a little and he cleared his throat to continue. He had never been in a court before. He’d never been accused of anything before.

The clerk of the court told him to remain standing as everyone else took their seats. He felt clumsy, naked, as all eyes turned on him. His cheeks burned with shame as the clerk read out the charge.

“The plaintiff, His Lordship the Lord Branchley, accuses you of building an independent and thriving concern as a market gardener upon the theft of plants from His Lordship’s grounds, where you worked as an under-gardener until five years ago when you began working on your own account. How do you plead?”

Walter licked his lips. He fidgeted with his jacket hem as he stammered his response. Then he had to repeat himself in order that everyone could hear him.

“Not—not guilty, Your Worship—um—your—um, sir.”

“Hmm.” The judge peered over his glasses at Walter and fixed him with a hard look. “So noted.” He made a mark on the paper in front of him with his fountain pen.

And so it began. Walter was permitted to take his seat and he sank down in relief, clutching at the wooden rail in front of him, his head swimming. He was a bag full of nerves.

At erudite length, the prosecution set forth their case: that the accused had stolen plants and seeds from the grounds of eminent philanthropist Lord Branchley, and had thus been able to set himself up as a market-gardener, with considerable success. Furthermore, it was stated that the accused had traded on knowledge he had gained during his employment by His Lordship and turned it to his advantage. There was more but these were the key points upon which their case hinged. His Lordship himself was in court and sat with his team of the finest attorneys at the front of the court. It was His Lordship’s desire to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.

For three hours, the prosecution set forth their case. Walter couldn’t take in what was happening. The legal jargon washed over him, leaching away his confidence, his pride, everything he knew. All he could think was, would he hang/ or be transported? Or…? Punishments too harsh to be considered with a calm mind. All he wanted was to be home again with his family.

When at last the judge declared a two-hour break for lunch, Walter was already wondering if it was too late to change his plea. Perhaps that might bring him some leniency from the court.

As soon as he reached the cool solitude of his cell, relief filled him. Out in the world beyond the court, the attorneys were enjoying a lavish four-course lunch, served on fine china. For Walter, lunch was a pot of small beer and some bread and cheese. But Walter didn’t feel much like eating. He took a little of the cheese, and perhaps half of the beer. He thought about his case.

If he changed his plea to guilty, he wouldn’t just go to prison, he would lose everything—his business, his little home and most importantly, his family. Hetty had married him, against her parents’ advice, on the understanding that he was able to support a family. Walter felt completely without hope. Lord Branchley’s case was too strong against him, his attorneys were too learned and powerful.

But what would happen if that was no longer the case? Even if he didn’t go to prison, he would have to pay damages. What if he lost everything and had to return to his old room at Mrs Clark’s? Hetty would not go with him, he was certain of that, and why should she bring the two babes to live in such a crowd? No, she would go home to her mother, and if that happened, he would never see her again. With His Lordship bound to win the action, Walter knew his life was finished even if he, by some marvel, escaped a prison sentence. Walter cleared his throat a couple of times and dashed away a tear.

At that moment, his defence attorney arrived. Although lacking the flair and aura of success of his opponents, he was all Walter had been able to afford. In fact, Walter suspected he couldn’t really afford this man either, but the attorney had agreed to represent him, and Walter would simply pay what he could when he could manage it. The man had said it was an interesting case. Right now, he was beaming as if there wasn’t a worry in the world. Walter repressed an urge to punch him on the nose.

“Well, Jenkins, I feel it’s going very well. Very well indeed, young sir. We’ll soon have you out of here, don’t you worry about that.” He paused, clearly expecting Walter to thank him. His remarks met with silence and the attorney continued with a slight frown. “Now, now, young fellow, chin up. No cause to be down in the dumps, you know.”

“They seem to have all the right with them,” Walter said. “I thought there would be a jury?”

“No indeed, it isn’t that kind of trial. It will be His Honour who will make the judgment based on the evidence.”

“Just that one judge? We may as well give up now. I have no chance of success.”

“It may seem so now, but we will not give in! No, no, we must cling to our beliefs and hope for the best. Now, once we resume after luncheon, I will have the opportunity to put your side of the story, and then we shall see, eh? What do you think to that?”

Walter said, “I think I shall go to prison. Or be transported to the Antipodes. I shall never see my wife or my children again.”

The attorney frowned at him again. He slapped him on the shoulder.

“Come, come, man, there’s no need for such talk. We have an excellent case. We’ll have you back with your family in no time. Right! Now, I’m just off for a spot of lunch and I will see you in court later on.”

The cell seemed emptier after the attorney left, but all the same Walter was glad he was gone.

*

After lunch the prosecution began by calling the first of their two witnesses, Lord Branchley’s head gardener. He gave a sworn statement that he had seen the defendant remove plant material from the compost heap for unknown purposes on no fewer than three occasions. That seemed to satisfy the prosecutor, who resumed his seat with a grave look and pursed lips.

Walter’s defence attorney stood. “Have you ever seen the defendant removing plants or any other items from anywhere other than the compost heap?”

The head-gardener, an aged gentleman with weak eyes, stood turning his hat round and round in his hand and avoiding Walter’s eye, and finally he admitted he had not.

“And can you elucidate for the officers of this court, the function of this compost heap?”

“Er, beg pardon?” the head-gardener leaned forward, looking puzzled.

“Yes, of course,” said the defence attorney with a broad smile round the court. Leaning on the rail of the witness box, he turned back to the witness with a matey grin. “Er, just tell us, old chap, what’s it for?”

“The compost heap? Well, it’s a kind of rubbish tip for all the unwanted bits and bobs from the grounds and it rots down to make a rich soil you can put back on the garden. Very good stuff it makes. Very good for roses, fruit and vegetables of course, and…” he was counting them off on grimy fingers.

“That is sufficient information, thank you, Mr Duffy,” said the judge.

“Sir, sorry sir,” said Duffy and he seemed surprised by the laughter that filled the court. The judge rapped his gavel and the amusement was silenced.

“And was it His Lordship who asked you to create this compost heap?”

“Well no, not as such. His Lordship leaves the day-to-day running of the grounds to me, and I always has at least one compost heap on the go. You see, it makes very good…”

“Er, yes, quite so,” said the defence attorney hastily. “So the creation of a compost heap is part of your normal gardening practice, which experience has taught you is beneficial to your work?”

“Er, yes, it has, it is, I mean. Er—yes.”

Again a ripple of laughter was heard but quickly died away under the judge’s frowning looks. The defence attorney gathered his papers. He directed a nod to the judge.

“No more questions, your honour.”

The prosecution attorney immediately leapt to his feet and asked to put a further question. The judge inclined his head, and the prosecutor stepped forward.

“I believe it’s true to say the accused has learned all his skills from the employment His Lordship has so generously granted?”

The head-gardener struggled to fathom the sentence, his old forehead even more crinkled than usual with the effort. The prosecution attorney attempted to clarify his meaning in simpler terms.

“The job of under-gardener gives many opportunities to learn new skills and to gain experience, I imagine?”

The head-gardener wavered. “Well it does and it doesn’t.”

The prosecution attorney tried to hide his annoyance. His chance to prove the case based on this testimony would dwindle if he couldn’t get the old fool to say the right things.

“I see. But I imagine that when Mr Jenkins left His Lordship’s employ, he knew a lot more than he did when he first started?”

“It’s possible,” conceded the old man. “Young Wally had such an enquiring nature. He was always bringing in books and such and telling me all his high-falutin’ ideas about this and that. Never one to be content with doing things the way them’d always been done. Always wanting to try summat new. He fair drove me wild at times.”

Seeing that continuing with the witness was likely to actually harm his case, the prosecutor decided to take his seat with a crisp bow. “No further questions, your honour.”

The prosecution then called the second witness, Matthew Styles, under-gardener.

Matthew Styles took the stand, saying his oath loudly and looking around smiling. He appeared to be relishing the experience, and even waved to a young lady seated near the front. After posing a few general questions as to the age and occupation of the witness, the prosecution attorney then asked, “Have you ever seen anyone removing items from the compost heap or anywhere else?”

“Including me?” Styles asked, eagerly.

The prosecutor, a little surprised, nodded. “Er, yes, Mr Styles, including yourself.”

“We all ‘ave.”

“All?”

“Oh yes, indeed. And even His Lordship’s butler, he’s very fond of sweet peas, you know, so even he, when they’re there, he comes down and cops ‘em off Mr Duffy. Then there’s cook, she likes a bit of lavender or rosemary…”

“Thank you, Mr Styles, no further questions.” The prosecutor withdrew, frowning. The defence attorney leapt to his feet.

“Excuse me, Mr Styles. Am I correct in thinking that other servants than those who work in the gardens also avail themselves…?”

“Oh yes. The butler, Mr Stephens the butler, he likes his sweet peas, so at the end of the season, when they is dug out from the side border and chucked on the heap, he comes down for the pods to get the seeds. Then he can grow sweet peas in his own garden. Won a prize, he did, last year at the village show. I think the first prize was a guinea, and if I remember aright, the second prize was a leg of mutton. Very good he is with sweet peas, Mr Stephens. And then there’s Mavis. She works in the kitchen. She takes the flowers from the summer pruning for her mother’s grave. They’re not actually dead. The flowers I mean,” Styles explained to the tittering audience, provoking a further outburst as he added, “Her mother’s dead right enough, God rest her, but the flowers is just a bit past their best, though still quite nice looking, rather like Mavis herself.”

The judge banged his gavel six times and stunned everyone to silence. “I think we’ve heard enough to consider the question answered.”

The defence attorney inclined himself in a courtly bow. “As you wish, your honour.” He turned back to the witness. “And so, it seems acceptable and indeed commonplace for employees to remove items from the compost heap, as it is clear that anything placed thereupon is unwanted, that is the case, is it not?”

“It is.” Styles agreed. The defence attorney resumed his seat. The prosecution attorney stood and said,

“It appears as though there is wholesale theft going on within His Lordship’s premises. It almost sounds as though every servant is cheating His Lordship. Disgraceful.” He bowed to the bench. “No further questions for this witness, your honour.”

Styles was dismissed. The prosecution rested, his expression one of dissatisfaction. The defence attorney called the accused to the stand. Walter Jenkins took his oath on the Bible, his voice low.

“Mr Jenkins, how long had you been employed by His Lordship as an undergardener before you left to pursue your own business?”

“A little over six months, sir. I think it was about eight months altogether.”

“Really?” the defence attorney infused his voice with surprise. “From the testimony we have heard today, I had thought it had been a much longer period than that.”

“Oh no sir. I worked for my father from the age of fourteen until he passed away when I was twenty-five.”

“And then you went to work for Lord Branchley?”

“Yes sir.”

“What line of work was your father in?”

“He was a market-gardener, sir.”

“Indeed. How interesting. But one imagines that you had far greater opportunity to learn your trade in your employment at Lord Branchley’s?”

“I learned a great deal about digging, sir. And about cutting grass. Those were my main duties as an under-gardener.”

“I see. And I have no doubt these skills were useful to you when you set up your own market garden?”

The judge silenced the few sniggers around the courtroom with a single look.

Walter Jenkins hesitated then said, “Well sir, I don’t cut grass in my market garden, seeing as I don’t have a lot of room for grass. But it’s true I do occasionally dig.”

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins. And after your father passed away, what was the reason you did not continue in your father’s market garden but instead came to take a position with Lord Branchley?”

Walter bowed his head. Those in the court could see him biting his lip.

The judge spoke. “Mr Jenkins, I must urge you to answer the question.”

Walter’s head came up. “Yes sir, Your—um. It was just—I hadn’t wanted to say, but it was because of the business being sold to pay off my brother’s debts. There was no money left and so I was forced to find myself a position with the old business gone.”

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins, I do appreciate that this is not easy for you. And is your brother still in debt?”

“No sir.” Walter said. He looked down at the floor. Only the few people at the front of the court heard him as he said, barely above a whisper, “My brother was hanged last year on account of killing a man in a brawl.”

The judge tsked and shook his head. He scratched another note on his paper. Walter felt a wave of despair wash over him but on glancing up, met what appeared to be sympathy in the judge’s eyes.

The defence attorney continued. “I am very sorry to hear of your troubles. We will turn away from all that. Perhaps I could ask you to explain just how you came to provide yourself with the means to set up your business?”

This was easier ground for Walter after the previous question. He relaxed a little and his voice was clear.

“Well sir, I took a few things from the compost heap, as you know. There was a few canes from His Lordship’s spiraea in the shrubbery. It’s a good big patch of it at the back, and you has to prune it back hard every year. I was in charge of the shrubbery as Mr Duffy didn’t care for shrubs. Now, my father used to grow spiraea and the trick is to cut it right down after flowering, it makes it come back all the stronger in the next year, and it makes a nice rosy-coloured background to the other plants. The cuttings, like long canes they are, they root really easy. So I took a dozen of them and I rooted them. When His Lordship was in the grounds, sir, taking a look around with Mr Duffy, I approached him and said to him, would he like to have more of the spiraea in the shrubbery as it was dead easy to root and it would make a nice display of pinky-red flowers when it came out, and I knew as Her Ladyship was much taken with the colour.”

“And what did Lord Branchley say?”

“He said, begging your pardon for the cursing, sir, he said, ‘Who is this damned oik, Duffy?’ And Mr Duffy, he looked daggers at me and said to His Lordship as I was one of the under-gardeners. ‘Not any more’, said His Lordship, ‘give him a week’s notice and get rid of the upstart. I’ll not be addressed so rudely in my own gardens’. ”

“He sacked you?”

“He sacked me, sir, yes, there and then.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then His Lordship, he turned to Mr Duffy, and asked him what I was on about. So Mr Duffy showed him the spiraea and said as I was suggesting having more of them.”

“And did His Lordship comment at all on this?”

“He said, ‘I hate the bloody things,’ begging your pardon Your Worship, but that is the very words what His Lordship used. Then he says, ‘Rip them all out. Can’t stand them. Get rid of them all.’ That’s what he said, sir.”

“So now, you found yourself out of work and you had the spiraea canes. What happened next?”

“Well sir, I had me week’s notice to work. And there was a lot of nice bits on the compost heap. Strawberry creepers, seeds, cuttings, dahlia tubers from where we’d been dividing the clumps due to them growing out onto the south lawn. I came away with no reference but with a tidy pile of little plants and cuttings and seeds which I put into a sack what I brought from home. And just then, I was walking out with Hetty Miller, as was a maid from the Dower House. But I couldn’t marry as I didn’t have no job. But Hetty says to me, you can sell them when they’re rooted up. She said I could earn enough to rent a nice little cottage, that way I could start my own market garden up gradual-like. So that’s what I done. And then me and Hetty got married, and now there’s the two babes.” At this point Walter turned to the judge, “Sir, begging your pardon, but if I gets transported or goes to prison I will never see Hetty nor my children again as her mother took against me on account of me being sacked. My Hetty means everything to me, sir. If I’d have known how His Lordship felt, I’d have willingly paid for the stuff I took, but I thought it would be all right because all of us was doing it and in any case His Lordship said to get rid of them.”

There was a half-hearted protest from the prosecution, but the judge waved it away with a weary hand.

“Mr Jenkins, what would you say the original items you took were worth? If one had to purchase them from a market garden such as yours, for example.”

“You don’t buy things like that, sir, Your Worshipfulness, they are just…”

“Just rubbish to be thrown away on a compost heap? I see. Very well, thank you, you may stand down.”

The judge made some more notes. He announced a recess of one hour and the court was cleared.

*

An hour later, in his cell, Walter was trembling from head to foot. He could hear the warder approaching, the keys jangling on his belt. The door opened, and the warder gestured to Walter. “C’mon then, lad, let’s be having you.”

Walter stumbled along the chilly corridor and soon was back in the dock, clutching the rail for support.

Everyone rose to their feet as the judge entered. He strode to his bench, his lips pressed tightly together, his expression grim. Walter felt ill; he began to pray silently and fervently in a way he had not prayed since Sunday school. Up in the balcony, Hetty’s face was a white anxious oval, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth, her little hat hiding her lovely curls. The judge took his seat, then everyone else sat. The judge arranged his papers into a neat stack before him and he took up his gavel. He addressed the court, his firm voice resonating around the room.

“I have made my decision. The defendant will rise.”

Walter rose, trembling, to hear the words that would decide his future. He hoped he wouldn’t be sick or faint away when the sentence was pronounced.

“Having weighed the evidence in this case and after consideration of all the facts, I find in favour of the plaintiff.” The Judge banged his gavel and a murmur arose all around him.

“Jolly good show!” Lord Branchley immediately leapt to his feet, his face wreathed in smiles as he received the congratulations of his attorneys and they shook hands.

In the dock, Walter was barely able to take in what had been said. He heard a wail from behind him and turned to see Hetty on her feet, eyes wide with shock. The judge was compelled to pound his gavel on the bench a number of times before order was restored. Silence fell once more. The judge continued:

“I order that the defendant shall pay damages in the amount of one penny for the—er—spiraea canes—and the same amount for the strawberry plantlets. Also, I award a farthing for the costs of the plaintiff.”

For a moment Walter couldn’t understand what was happening. The prosecution attorney, his assistants and his client Lord Branchley all halted in their premature celebrations, mouths gaping open. Then, outraged, they began to demand that His Honour should review the evidence. The defence attorney charged across the courtroom and pumped Walter’s arm up and down.

“A triumph, my boy, a triumph!”

The judge, ignoring the commotion, addressed Walter directly. “Let the record show that the court commends you, Mr Jenkins, for your ingenuity, hard work and your skilful grasp of your chosen trade. The court commiserates with you over the difficulties that have beset you in the past and hopes that your market garden will continue to thrive. And if you will kindly leave your particulars with my clerk, I believe my good lady will be interested to know what you have in the line of dahlias, as she is contemplating some improvements to our own grounds at home. Court is adjourned.”

The judge stood and left the court, his gown billowing.

Lord Branchley, red-faced with fury, was pushing aside his attorneys to leave the court, uttering oaths as he went.

As the warder stepped forward to release Walter and remove his handcuffs, Walter turned to look across the courtroom. Hetty was making her way towards him, dashing away tears and smiling.

“We won!” he said. He still couldn’t believe it. She laughed as he swept her into his arms.

“Silly! Of course we did!”

“You will come home again now, won’t you? You and the kids?”

“Yes, Walter Jenkins, we will come home. I’ll never doubt you again, I swear.”

 

The End

***

All rights reserved. Copyright 2018 © Caron Allan

So… how did we get here? A few ideas about being a writer.

/ Caron Allan / 5 Comments

Now also available in a German language edition

This week, I thought I’d burble on a bit about some of the milestones of my writing life.

Writing courses, conferences and videos/newsletters: There are so many out there, and I’ve tried quite a few.

spoiler alert:

*sigh* they’re not as much fun as you’d think, sometimes. And sometimes they’re not too helpful, either.

As part of my degree in literature and history, I did a writing module – just a bit of extra fun for me, to pat myself on the back for all the hard work, and to finish off my credits and collect the ‘with honours’ portion of the diploma. One of the first things the tutor told us, and this was around only around 2010, was that we would need to resign ourselves to being hobby-writers only. She said, as if it was good news, that we had a greater chance of being part of the next team to travel into space than to be picked up by a publishing company. I know, from talking to some of the other students, that I was not the only one to go home from that session feeling like I wanted to throw myself off a cliff. I was in my fifties, so going into space was the unlikeliest thing I could imagine… I had hoped that getting a book published would be a little easier.

But actually, not long after that, I began to hear about this thing called self-publishing, and the more I looked into it, the more I liked what I saw. So, at the end of 2012, with  sideways smirk at my diploma, I uploaded my first novel onto Mr Zon, and the rest, as they say is… well not history, but cozy mysteries that sort of sell. (Thank you, you lovely reading people.)

My mother said, ‘That’s not real publishing, it’s not a real book.’ Nothing could shift her from that, and of course, that was what all the newspapers and the books and nay-sayers were saying at the time. They still do. But all I can say is, I’ve read plenty of rubbish trad-pubbed books, and many wonderful self-pubbed.

Years earlier, when we lived in Brisbane, Australia, I attended some workshops for crime writers who were starting out. Sadly, I don’t remember anything the tutor taught us, other than this advice: If we wanted write crime fiction and bring authenticity into our work, she suggested we practice following people. Yes, actually FOLLOWING total strangers we did not know. Pick them up at the mall, trail them, see where they go, what they do, who they meet, she said. It would bring realism to our writing, she said, and help us to understand the criminal mind and all about the complexities of being a private investigator etc. All I could think was, I will definitely get run over, punched in the face or kidnapped, maybe all three. This sounded like a terrible idea, and again, I was pleased to discover I was not the only one who thought so. I didn’t go back. Nor did I take her advice. But I would dearly love to know if any of the class thought, ‘you know what, that sounds like a really good idea’. I hope the library of the prison they are likely to be incarcerated in have a better range of ideas in their ‘How to Write’ books section.

So what did help me to get started on the long and winding road to your bookshelves? 

A very old book by Dorothea Brande: Becoming A Writer. It showed me myself and taught me that writers are created not born, to a certain extent. It showed me how to get started and how to teach myself to write.

Stephen King’s On Writing. For similar reasons to Dorothea’s book from the 1930s, plus the voice of experience and not to mention, success.

And I talked to lots of writers, beginners and well-established. I still do.

And I read, and read, and read. Not just to learn, but for the sheer love of it. I read all sorts, not just within the genre I write.

And on top of that I wrote. And when I had finished writing a book, I set it aside and wrote another. Because in the end, the only way to learn how to do something, is to actually make yourself do it. At first you’re terrible. You can’t play the piano when you are five and have never touched a key before. Writing is the same. It’s a process that requires dedication and above all else, perseverance.

My first book, using the back of a Weetabix packet for the covers, written when I was around 10.

***

Poison in the Pen by Patricia Wentworth

/ Caron Allan

I always love to reread old favourites. Poison in the Pen by Patricia Wentworth is just that: everything I love in one volume.

  • elderly amateur detective – check
  • hint of romance – check – though not as much as usual for Wentworth
  • cosy mystery – yup
  • clues – oh yes
  • red herrings – check
  • a host of daft characters – check
  • poison pen letters – what’d not to love? Though I was sad the letters weren’t quoted – too offensive, maybe?
  • increasingly exasperated professional detective – I love a stroppy copper who just wants to get home
  • the killer speaks

Now obviously I can’t tell you whodunit, or there will be no point in you reading it. So with the help of mime I mean, carefully edited text, I can comment. So take a look at this:

As you can tell from the title, this is a poison pen letter mystery. It’s set in an English village in the mid-1950s, so quite late as Wentworth books go, she’d been a published author since 1910, and sadly passed away at the beginning of 1961.

(Note to self, If I’d started earlier, I might have got 50 years of writing under my belt too… So envious.)

The village setting means we can guess at many of the situations and some of the characters here.

There’s a retired military man in a big house, he may have been a brilliant army Colonel but he is rubbish at relationships. he really wanted a dolly-bird half his age to look good on his arm and to make sure the house was tidy. Sadly, his chosen love is mainly interested in having a good time, and is fed up with her elderly husband, who is clearly BORING. (If he’s so smart, why did he choose her? Conveniently we can nod to one another sagely and say, as they do in the book, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’)

But – the fish-out-of-water over-dressed, colourful wife effortlessly puts everyone against her, not doing herself any favours by refusing to make herself pleasant or conventional. Wentworth describes her wearing of bright colours, making her literally the scarlet woman, giving her loads of make-up,  and making her determined to not give a damn. Here she is being interviewed by the police about her secrets.

But has she acted on these secrets, or the urge to get rid of her annoying husband and grabbing the money, to slope off into the bright lights with her boyfriend, who incidentally was about to be married to someone else… We need more information…

Almost the entirety of the rest of the cast are single ladies – widows and spinsters all – and all a bit bored with life in a village with insufficient scandal/bingo/internet facilities to keep them busy.

They knit. They sew. They garden. They care for children. They cook. They clean. And they are – let’s be honest – a bit too fond of a good gossip.

Cue the poison pen letters.

For me, the disappointing part of this story was that everyone was far too polite to let us know precisely what was written int hem. There are suggestions of infidelity, and immorality, and secret yearnings and guilty secrets, but no juicy details. Oh well, you can’t have it all, I guess. It’s enough for us to know that one poor girl has killed herself because of the letters, and two more deaths follow in quick succession, leading us to question the ‘suicide’ verdict of the first death.

Miss Silver, Wentworth’s elderly lady detective, comes to stay in the village under the guise of being a dotty but not very well off old woman in need of a change of scene. She knits her way through scenes and observes the inhabitants acutely. She dispenses kindness to those who need it, and has no truck with those who get a bit above themselves, especially overbearing men.

Miss Silver is a tricky character. She’s clearly not ‘elderly’ in our modern sense, I’d say she could be in her 60s in this book. She’s not frail, and her mind is a steel trap. She’s deeply religious, compassionate, and fierce about getting justice for those who can’t get it for themselves. She was in early life a governess, and she can kill an attitude with a single look. She has a couple of irritating quirks, but I think this is just the difference between early 20th century attitudes and now. I find her far warmer and more loving than Miss Marple, for example, and she is surrounded by people, many of them very much younger, who admire and love her. And with her understanding of human nature, she sees everything.

As I said before, I love a poison pen letter. Forgive me for plugging my own, here. In A Meeting With Murder, my character Dee Gascoigne is staying in a village where poison pen letters are doing the rounds. Dee doesn’t really see what the issue is with these letters. Her friend Cissie explains:

Dee still shook her head. ‘I just don’t see why people get upset. I mean, why can’t they just put the letters in the dustbin or on the fire and forget about them?’

Cissie smiled. ‘Think about it like this,’ she said. ‘Imagine you lived in a tiny little place like this, where you knew everyone. Then imagine one day you opened a letter, you didn’t know who it was from, for they never sign these poison pen letters. And when you looked at it, it said something like, ‘I know you killed your mother to get all her money’. Think how you’d feel, to get something like that. And you’d know that somewhere in the village was a person who really thought it was true, but you didn’t know who it was and you didn’t know how many others they’d tell. And suppose you were frightened everyone would believe them, and that they were all looking at you too. Suppose your friends began to hear rumours and believed them. Suppose they stopped speaking to you and began to avoid you…’

Dee stared at Cissie and her delicate colour faded from her face so quickly Cissie was afraid she had gone too far to make her point. She felt cruel. She reached out a hand to pat Dee’s arm. ‘There, there, dear, don’t let it upset you. I was just trying to explain…’

In a soft, distressed voice, Dee said, ‘But that’s horrible, I’ve never thought of it like that before.’

‘Exactly, dearie. But that’s the kind of wickedness these letters contain. Now imagine getting three like that in a fortnight. And everyone you know, everyone you meet, you’d look at them and think, was it you what sent me that? You’d feel like you was being watched, my dear, and you wouldn’t know where to turn or who to go to, nor would you be able to sleep for fear of what the next day would bring, and you’d wonder if people knew and if they thought it was true. Even I’ve had one. Accused me of stealing money out of the birthday cards that were put in the post. And I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.’ Cissie pulled her shoulders back and lifted her head, the very model of moral rectitude.

For me, it’s the psychological aspect of the poison pen mystery that is most intriguing. I LOVE the ‘why’? In Wentworth’s book, we reach the final unmasking of the killer who is, of course, the writer of the letters. In a near-perfect summation of the ‘otherness’ of a murderer, Wentworth manages it beautifully: (Anon is because I didn’t want to say who it was – no spoilers here!)

So go on, read an old-school favourite this Christmas, and lose yourself in your most-loved tropes, busybodies, and village settings!

Happy Christmas!

***

Fairy tales: Not for the faint-hearted!

/ Caron Allan

I remember as a kid I was a voracious reader. By the time I was 6 or 7 I was reading from a big book of fairy tales.

I remember standing in the kitchen of our flat in Tunbridge Wells and reading to the man who had come to repair our gas boiler. I can’t remember his face, but I remember the blue overalls – not a ‘uniform’ I had been aware of up to that point in my life. I adored this guy, he was friendly and patient and kind, and he told me about his dog. He dated my mum for a long while and I hoped they’d get married so we could be a family and live happily ever after. Sadly that didn’t happen and we moved away, which broke my baby-heart.

But he always used to say how much he enjoyed me reading the stories to him. Sometimes he had to stop his work to help me with the tricky words that were extra long or that I hadn’t seen before.

A while ago, I thought, let’s have a read of those old stories. I was in for a bit of a shock.

They are gruesome, aren’t they? And brutal! I can’t believe anyone ever thought they were suitable for a small child to read. (Not mentioning any names, but I’m looking at you over there in the corner, Brothers Grimm!) Were they cautionary tales to frighten children into good behaviour or what? yes, I know kids go through that gore-is-good phase but honestly!

People got chucked into barrels which were nailed shut and they were thrown into the sea. They got fed to wolves either deliberately or accidentally. Dropped into cauldrons of boiling water. Thrown down wells. Made to climb ridiculously high beanstalks. People’s bones were ground to make someone’s bread. Or people were locked into cages by witches and made to stick a finger through the bars so she could decide if they were fat enough to eat. Turned into swans. Turned into frogs. Turned into pretty much anything as a matter of fact.

But the characters of the stories try to do what they think is good: they turn sick people around in their beds to trick the devil, they try to get good fortune from fish, but still they get turned into roses and chandeliers, or have to run for their lives. And there are the musical animals or tiny people who can make shoes… but even so…

I mean, that’s dark, isn’t it?  Mwah ha ha!

***

Oh-so-social-media!

/ Caron Allan

Guess what? I’ve been doing stuff on social media!

I know as an Indie author, I’m supposed to do stuff on social media, but I’m not one to do what I’m supposed to do, so this will come as a surprise to many of you. Besides which, there’s my age to factor in – two weeks to go to my 63rd birthday – and as we all know, us oldies are still getting used to The Face Book.

But I’ve been trying to improve and so here’s a few things I’ve done this week, mainly on mastodon social (I’m there as @caronallan – pop in and say Hi!)

I’ve discovered the pleasure of online writing groups. On mastodon, there are two I enjoy – writerscoffeeclub and wordweavers. In addition to those, a lovely author lady (@elizabethguilt ) suggested a daily 100 word flash fiction, she calls it a drabble – this is new to me, though I used to regularly write 500 word flash fictions and also haiku – 17 syllable poems in a 5-7-5 format.

These groups plan a daily task or question for those who want to play along, and there are some interesting things on the list that came out at the start of the month. For example, Oct 3 for the Word Weavers was ‘How do you convey a character’s emotion in your work’.

This was my reply (there’s a word limit, much bigger than Twitter’s but still, it confines you.)

10/3
Conveying characters’ emotions.

Because I write 1930s cozy mysteries, I sometimes like to keep things a little understated. I think less is more in terms of emotional impact sometimes.

Though this is true of my ‘contemporary’ murder Friendship Can Be Murder series, which are written as 1st POV diary entries (yes, I now know no one likes that, but 11-12 years ago, I didn’t realise) So Criss Cross, when her hubs is murdered, MC simply records:
‘Thomas is dead. And I am alone.’

And because I wanted to share more about my Dottie books, as part of my reply, I added this image, which is an extract taken from The Mantle of God: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 2.

Coming back to the Drabble – the task was to share a 100-word limit story. I found this quite tricky, because I tend to think in terms of long fiction, so I’m not sure I’ve really followed the spirit of the idea. On Oct 1st, I uploaded this:

And then on Oct 2nd, I couldn’t stop myself from continuing on from there instead of writing a whole new 100 word story…

But I have to say, it was highly enjoyable and I feel really proud of myself to have written two new (teeny) pieces of work this week, made some new friends and talked about my books a little.

Mabel would be so proud.

***

 

 

 

Researching a historical mystery novel

/ Caron Allan

Because more than half of my books are set in the 1930s, I constantly find myself – even eight books in – looking stuff up. It might be easy to find stuff like ‘good poisons to kill someone with’ (My search history would def land me in a lot of trouble if anything ever happened to my nearest and dearest), but sometimes it’s deeper, more complicated stuff (ie questions such as ‘when did the UK first get direct dialling telephone systems?’ or ‘how much did a postcard and a stamp cost in 1934?’) I need answers to.

Quite often what I need to know are small obscure things that Mr Google or Mr Wikipedia can help with but if it’s a recurring issue, I need to have the answer closer to hand. And it’s important to me that the settings I create for my books are fairly accurate, because I want my readers to become immersed in the story, so I have acquired a number of books over the last few years to help me develop an authentic 1930s-feeling world for Dottie Manderson.

Plus, I just love all the pictures… (not the gory ones in the forensic books, but the pretty dresses etc)

Here are a few of the books I use regularly which have now become indispensable. I did take a few interior pics then realise – duh, idiot, copyright issues! So sadly I’m just showing you the covers. I’m taking it as read that you’d know I have a dictionary and a thesaurus by my side at all times so I didn’t bother to take photos of them.

As I write crime fiction, albeit a gentle, 1930s or 1960s brand, I need to know a bit about the icky side of a crime. so the two books below are my go-to for that sort of stuff. Though I have to bear in mind that for the 1930s – and even the 1960s – some of this stuff wouldn’t be relevant as it’s very much only ‘coming soon’ (1980s/90s and later).

I love the image of the fly on the pages in this book, btw!

This is one of my favourite books – it even tells you symptoms, reaction times, all sorts! Please note the sticky page markers!

I also need to know a bit about houses, social conventions, mod cons and everyday life in the past, so I have loved these books too:

I also find it helpful sometimes to read true crime and related non-fiction:

This was a brilliant birthday present from one of my children. A fascinating read.

Slightly more modern, a bit more gritty and just as fascinating

But if you know me, or have visited this blog before, you’ll know my real love is costume, and also social history. Here are a few of my absolute favourite books:

This book is a wonderful overview of general phases of costume change and development. John Peacock’s books are wonderful!

These books in John Peacocks other series have so much more detail and information – I highly recommend them for authors. and for a wonderful half hour’s reading over a cuppa any time you want to relax.

This is another wonderful series of book with mainly images relating to a specific era, to give an insight into British popular culture of the time. I love them.

And lastly – but most fabulous of all, and not really my era, but such beautiful photos, I wish I could put them on here to wow you:

So now you know what I do when I’m gathering ideas, checking facts and maundering over a first draft idea. Or just – you know – reading for fun.

***

 

And now it’s over to you…

/ Caron Allan / 2 Comments

As you know, I write genre fiction – that is to say it fits neatlyish into a specific genre type of book – I write mysteries. My books are not, by any stretch of the imagination, literary, nor are they ‘general’ what ever that is. Some writers are quite apologetic and embarrassed that they don’t write something high-brow. Not me. I believe that genre fiction has huge benefits and there’s no need to feel that I ‘only’ write mysteries: ‘Oh it’s only a mystery’ or ‘I really only like romances, I’m afraid.’

You see, I believe that books are lifesavers. Books are companionship for the lonely, entertainment for those who are bored. It doesn’t matter if you can’t hear, or if you can’t walk, if you’re old or young, you can enjoy a book. And if you can’t see, you can listen to audiobooks. Books can be a comfort and a much-needed means of escape from what is sometimes an anxious, or difficult world. We all need a break – and a book is perfect for that.

I had cancer a few years back, and whilst I had tests, surgery, appointments, sat in busy, soulless waiting rooms, and anxiously waited for a prognosis, I read books. It was a relief to get out of myself and my thoughts and into a world where the only bad things that happened would be solved by a detective and the villain locked up. Bliss! A few hours free of my own troubles was just what the doctor ordered. I realised as never before just how wonderful it was to get lost in a good book. I was so grateful to the authors who offered me that respite.

I was lucky, and I am now free of cancer and healthy, but my love and respect for books and their authors will never die.

So a little while ago, I asked my mailing list subscribers some questions about what they love. Here are a few of the most popular responses I had:

Q1. I asked, What is the best thing about finding a new book you love?

You said:

  • Finding a new book can be tough, and it’s important to find relatable characters, an engrossing plot and a style that appeals.
  • Many people said they were drawn by the cover – which is exactly what they are designed to do – to lure you in!
  • For some, finding a new book or series is like meeting a new friend.
  • When readers find a new book or series, they love to tell their friends and family about it!
  • Readers like the idea that the book will be theirs to read again and again, and to refer to, a book that adds to their knowledge or understanding (mainly reference books)
  • People love the sense of starting out on a journey, of ‘meeting’ new people and having adventures along the way. A kind of vicarious holiday.

Q2. Do you always read the same genre, or do you like a lot of different types of book?

You were largely split over this, with many people saying they read anything and everything, and others stating that they only ever read the same kind of books. I’m largely that way myself. I do enjoy the odd history book and classics, and poetry, but almost always I turn to crime, figuratively, of course!

Q3. When do you read?

Again, responses were quite split between those who read during the day, usually with lunch or a coffee or cup of tea, and those who read almost entirely at night before going to sleep. Some people read during commuter journeys on trains and buses. Now that I’m at home during the day, I tend to read with coffee or lunch. When I was working in the big wide world, I used to read on the bus or when I had a lunch break. It’s so nice not to have to sit on a bus for hours on end anymore.

Q4. Actual book or eReader?

The odds were almost overwhelmingly stacked in favour of ‘actual’ paper, hold-in-your-hand-and-sniff-the-pages books. Most people who read on eReaders said they did so mainly for the convenience. I must admit I’m the same. My trusty eReader goes with me when I travel or am away from home, but when I’m at home and reading in comfort, it’s always a ‘real’ book. The great thing about eReaders of course, is your nearest and dearest have no idea just how many eBooks you’ve bought – that little secret is between you and your gadget. One person pointed out that the advantage of reading at night on an eReader is that you don’t need to have a light on in the room, so you don’t disturb your partner. A great point!

Q5. What are your other favourite past-times?

Wow we have a lot of pastimes! Here are just a few:

Writing! Reading, obviously. Walking the dog, taking pics of your cats, gardening, flower-arranging, cooking, various arts and crafts including model-making, embroidery, card-making, painting in oils, painting in acrylics, crochet, knitting, drawing, sewing, photography. Then we had the DIYers, the mad exercise buffs, the tennis-players, the golfers, the swimmers, the dancers, the joggers, the cyclists. You like playing board games and card games, going to the pub, spending time with family and friends, eating out, sport, sport and more sport. You love travel. You love learning new things at evening classes. Some of you like to help others in the community, or volunteer in charity shops or care homes. You play musical instruments, you babysit your grandkids, and all kinds of other amazing stuff. You guys are seriously impressive! No wonder you sometimes need to sit down with a book and just chill.

And lastly…

Q6. What are your favourite TV shows, if you watch TV?

Again, a huge range of results here: people gave general responses such as drama, crime, reality shows, documentaries, comedy etc. but we also got some very specific shows mentioned: Peaky Blinders, Line of Duty, Gogglebox, Brooklyn 99, Poirot, Family Guy, Outlander, Once Upon A Time, Bridgerton (I know why you like that!), The Bay, QI, Mock The Week (RIP – and yes I did sign the petition…), Would I Lie To You, I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, The Great British Bake Off, Strictly Come Dancing, Made In Chelsea, Any Star Trek, Star Wars, or Marvel thing, Famalam (not for those who don’t like very, VERY naughty words… but truly hilarious), Unforgotten, any football, all cricket and rugby, True Crime documentaries, and so many more…

I hope you find this as fascinating as I did. Some of the responses were so similar to my own, I feel we could easily be best buds.

***

And I think we all know why Jane Austen adaptations are so popular these days…

Sneak peek from Midnight, the Stars, and You: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 8

/ Caron Allan / 1 Comment

Book 8 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries: hitting virtual shelves near you in December 2023

This week, I thought I’d share another sneaky scene from the new Dottie book that I am currently working on. I’ve already posted one scene on here a couple of months back, and so to prove that I am actually working, I thought I’d share another. ;D

So here it is…

Sir Nigel always ensured that Lady Matilda Cosgrove – one of his oldest and dearest friends – had the Ormulu Room whenever she came to stay. In fact, he rather counted on it, because otherwise he’d have to invite fewer guests or get them to share their rooms. Very few of the other guests would feel comfortable surrounded by so much ornate, gilded wood coupled with a rather dark marble. Lady Matilda liked the room. As far as Sir Nigel could tell, she was the only person in existence who did like the room.

It was a quarter to seven on a Saturday evening in June when Lady Matilda sat at the vast gold and dark brown dressing-table and allowed her maid to dress her hair in what they both deemed to be the most becoming fashion for a lady in her late sixties. They were deep in conversation about which gown Lady Matilda had worn to a certain affair in the Spring of 1881, when there came a tap on the door.

Salt, Lady Matilda’s maid, set down her comb and perfume bottle and turned to the door to state, ‘Come,’ with as much dignity as her ladyship herself.

The door opened. A timid little red-headed maid stood on the threshold looking extremely nervous.

‘Well?’ demanded Salt. She was a fierce protector of her ladyship’s privacy.

‘Begging your pardon, my lady,’ the young woman began, ‘but Sir Nigel’s compliments and would it suit your ladyship to place your jewellery into Sir Nigel’s safe for the evening? There’s been two break-ins on this square in the last week, and Sir Nigel doesn’t want to run any risks with your ladyship’s valuables. In fact, I’m to go to all the ladies – and the gentlemen – and take their valuables down to his lordship’s safe.’

She accompanied this information with a kind of bobbing curtsey, all the while nervously wringing her hands. Lady Matilda thought she was rather a sweet little thing.

‘And what is your name, my dear?’ demanded her ladyship.

‘Eliza, ma’am. Eliza Smallwood. I’m new in this establishment.’

‘Well, Eliza Smallwood, I should be most obliged if you would take my jewellery case to Sir Nigel at once and thank him for his good sense and kind thoughts. Salt, give the child the case. But make sure ot keep out what I need for this evening, obviously, won’t you.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Salt extracted several glittering items of great value. Once Lady Matilda had nodded her approval, the case was locked up again, the tiny black key slipped into Salt’s pocket, and the case was handed to the young maid.

She gave another little bob and clutching the jewellery case to her as if her life depended on keeping it safe, she said, ‘Thank you, your ladyship. I’ll take these to Sir Nigel directly. Good evening.’

The door closed behind her, and Salt and Lady Matilda resumed their discussion relating to the precise colour and fabric of the gown worn on the evening of the Royal Gala over forty years earlier.

It was not long before the bell rang for dinner, and Lady Matilda descended the grand staircase to meet the other guests for a pre-dinner aperitif.

Sir Nigel greeted her with a beaming smile, taking both her hands in his and kissing first her left cheek then her right in his usual warm manner that Lady Matilda found delightfully Continental.

She lost no time in thanking him again for his invitation to stay for the weekend whilst George was overseas on his usual ambassadorial duties. As always, she offered her compliments on the charming Ormulu Bedroom, which had, she said, a rich glamour that one didn’t see everywhere. She asked after his health, heard with patience of his sciatica and stiff knees – she was herself a martyr to her knees, and promised to let him have Salt’s remedy for the relief of the discomfort – then she remarked,

‘It was so thoughtful of you to send up that sweet little girl to fetch my jewellery. I shall feel so much happier knowing my grandmother’s diamonds are safely locked away. These robberies are such a worry.’

He stared at her for a second or two too long, and she immediately divined that something was amiss. But before she could quiz him about it, the door was flung open and Salt ran in, tears streaming down her face, causing everyone to turn and stare, drinks halted halfway to their mouths.

She wailed, ‘Oh my dear lady, I’ve just found out. There isn’t any such maid as that Eliza girl in the house. And she’s gone off with all your valuables!’

And indeed she had. She had practically run down the back stairs with the jewellery case in her arms, knowing she had only a minute or two to make her escape. The side door was still ajar, and unseen by anyone, she slipped outside, pulling off her cap and apron and throwing them onto the grass, then she hopped into the waiting car at the end of the drive.

It sped off before anyone in the house had even realised there had been a robbery.

***

Reflecting on my protagonists

/ Caron Allan / 1 Comment

My characters mean so much to me, they definitely feel real…

Very often in a cosy mystery, you meet a large collection of characters (and FYI it’s a nightmare and a half trying to think of names for them all, I have a spreadsheet and everything…) so there’s not always space in the story to give everyone their own life without totally confusing the reader. I always seem to have a ton of characters, and I tried putting in a character list at the start, I thought it would be helpful but I got complaints about that. So in the end it was just easier to leave it out. Sorry about that. Maybe you could create your own spreadsheet?

In my Dottie Manderson mysteries, I have two detectives who are the ‘main’ protagonists, Dottie herself of course, and Inspector William Hardy, with a supporting cast of around a dozen other ‘regulars’. Then each story has its own characters on top of that. My protagonists are not isolated individuals brooding alone with their ghosts or their issues. No, mine both have families who pop in and out, often the source of useful information or connections, or they can act as a sounding board for ideas and theories, or just provide encouragement in low moments.

About to press ‘upload’ on The Spy Within a couple of years ago

But making characters really stand out can be a challenge. There are reasons for this. Obviously the first reason is me. I have only a limited experience of life, and limited skill as a writer.

I think that’s the same for most of us. We always bring our own life experiences, attitudes, beliefs, our flaws and strengths with us when we create anything. It’s been said that authors put something of themselves into what they create. How can they not? So I try to compensate for this by doing research, and by trying to create people who are not much like me. I’m not sure how well I succeed with that. However, I’m not young, I’m not elegant or fashion-conscious and so I like to think Dottie is not too much like me. Though I am incredibly nosy.

I don’t like to read books where the detective is perfect. I’m sure I’m not alone in saying I’m bored by protagonists who are perfect, who always behave the right way, say the right thing, do the right thing, who think clearly at all times and never make mistakes or get confused, puzzled or just plain upset. My characters are all too flawed, and as readers will know, they sometimes make disastrous decisions. And, like us, then have to live with the consequences.

I’d like to think they grow. I sometimes stop reading a series if I feel the protagonist continually makes the same mistakes, or acts in an implausible or unprofessional manner despite twenty years as a police inspector etc. Because in real life we do learn, most of the time, don’t we? Or we try to. And if we don’t, sooner or later we get called into the office and the boss tells us we are going to be unemployed.

The gorgeous Gary Cooper – in my head this is a bit what William looks like.

Does William grow? I think he grows a little. He becomes more accepting of himself and his situation as a working copper, and doesn’t spend too much time agonising over the past. He makes some stupid mistakes, but Dottie does too, so we have to forgive him, don’t we?

Does Dottie grow? I think she does. When we meet her in book 1, Night and Day, she is very young (19) and is mainly interested in having fun and dancing with attractive young men. After two years of stumbling over corpses, she has become more confident, more caring towards others, she is more mature, and is growing a career and trying to understand the world around her, losing her childish idealisation of people. But I like to think she stays true to herself: she passionately believes in working hard, doing the right thing, and in trying to help people. She is terminally nosy and always wants to understand what’s going on in people’s lives. And of course, to help if she can. But she still loves to dance. (With a certain someone…)

Which of course will bring her into conflict with people who manipulate and hurt others, people who do terrible things and try to get away with it, and in the course of her ‘helping’ she will definitely get in the way of a certain police officer trying to solve a case.

A Meeting with Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1 of my spin-off series set in the 1960s came out last October.

As the relationship between herself and William progresses, (spoiler alert) I’m not sure quite how Dottie will manage to solve murders and juggle her commitments. Will we see her pushing a perambulator with a couple of kids along to interview suspects? I just don’t know. Maybe I will leave her to raise her family and we can come back to Dottie in the 1950s when she is a mature woman with more or less independent children? Who knows. Maybe she will be a kind of Miss Marple detective as she gets older. I didn’t want her to be one of those detectives who remains the same age throughout all the books. Yet as I immerse myself in this pretend world I have created for Dottie, as time passes I am all too aware of the even greater threat looming on her horizon: World War II. How can I leave out something so important and far-reaching in its consequences and still keep this series ‘cosy’? I’m not sure I can.

American actress Loretta Young – my inspiration for Dottie.

This could well be one of the reasons why about four years ago I began to think about a new series with a new character. So I came up with Diana ‘Dee’ Gascoigne, adopted daughter of Dottie’s sister Flora and her husband George, confidently stepping out into the 1960s, wearing high heels and a brightly-coloured mini-dress, long hair back-combed and flicking up at the ends, ready to take on the modern world. The detective is the son (spoiler again!) of Dottie and William, known as Bill. (I’ve given away quite a bit now…) He has followed his father into the police. Having seen at close quarters his mother ‘meddling’ in police affairs, he tries to warn Dee off, but of course, she doesn’t listen. As he says, ‘She comes from a long line of nosy women.’

Keeping it in the family: this has led me to think about the successive generations. Will there be a Dottie-spin-off set in the 1990s? The 2020s? They seem so real to me, I find it hard to believe that they won’t go on and on, one generation giving way to the next, just as we do in the real world. Maybe there will be a Dottie and a William in the 22nd century, nailing criminals with technology we can only dream of. I hope so.

***

(and sorry for the really long post this week…)

Me at work on another draft of book 8…

eReaders – this is what I use mine for…

/ Caron Allan / 8 Comments

I got my first eReader around 12 years ago. It only lasted a couple of years and then needed replacing. But the one I have now, I’ve had since then, almost ten years. The poor thing should be in a retirement home for bewildered gadgets by now.

What do I use it for?

I play games: An eReader is great for playing games on but still looking busy. You’re playing truant really but everyone leaves you alone in case you’re doing something important. What games do I play? Nothing modern – no ‘call of’ anything or ‘squid’ something… I keep it simple.

Woodblock game – it’s similar to Tetris. The thing I really like is being able to change the background, so I can have a wintery scene with snowflakes coming gently down, or a very therapeutic green leafy scene with raindrops trickling down my screen. Love it! Great for hypnotizing me into another world where sudden ideas come out of the blue.

Spider solitaire – I think my win rate is something like 6% – I mean I’m absolutely terrible at it. But it’s great for killing time waiting for something or someone.

all these books on one eReader? Yes – but for me it’s not the same reading experience

I don’t stream anything, I don’t listen to podcasts or even music on my eReader, don’t even have social media or my emails on there. But I could…

My favourite thing about my eReader is Evernote. It’s a note-making app. I very, very rarely go out and about without at least one notebook with me. Though that is a good way to acquire new notebooks – I’m out in the big wide world (at least twice a year, just to keep my hand in) and realise I ‘need’ to buy one because I haven’t brought one with me. It’s not an option or an extravagance…honest! I sometimes need to make a note of something that has either just caught my attention or something I’ve just thought of – so on it goes to Evernote, which syncs with my computer once I return to base. Here is an eclectic array of notes I have on Evernote:

  • Rose Petals and White Lace (next Dottie book) – William gets demoted and chastised for his ‘mishandling’ of the Parfitt case which resulted in Gervase Parfitt ***************** (spoiler alert! Sorry, you’re not allowed to read that in case you haven’t read the others!)
  • Story Idea – A woman who works in a big house as a companion or governess, comes out of an upstairs room at night and bumps into a man in a mask and a cape. He smiles and bows and puts a finger to his lips, saying, ‘Shh! I’m a secret agent on a mission!’ She laughs, assumes he is a guest at the party downstairs that evening. She says something like, ‘Why sir, your secret is safe with me, I shall never betray you.’ He could then laugh and present her with a rose, ‘A token of my deep appreciation,’ or maybe (even better!) he could say ‘perhaps this rose will buy your silence.’ Anyway, he compliments her eyes or something. And after these sexy pleasantries are over, he goes back downstairs and she returns to her room. And in the morning discovers there has been a jewel robbery!!!! Or a murder????
  • Haiku – from Feb 2019 (as I said, I’ve had my eReader almost ten years btw, some of these notes go back a long way) February’s here/Green shoots promise the/end of winter’s icy hold
  • My daughter, talking in her sleep when we were on holiday, ‘That comment sounds pretty cool!’ I thought it was an odd thing to say. I asked her about it in the morning, she had no idea what it related to.
  • Exclamations of the 1930s (gleaned from Agatha Christie and Patricia Wentworth’s books of that era): ‘Oh my hat!’ ‘What the devil…?’ ‘So-and-so can go hang as far as I’m concerned’, ‘Oh my word!’ ‘That’s frightful!’ ‘Blast it!’ etc. I try to use one or two of these from time to time – they are so ‘of their era’ that I think they lend a bit of local colour.
  • Philamot: According to my Patricia Wentworth book, The Rolling Stone, a fashionable colour either late 1800s or early 1900s was Philamot (lovely word) from the French feuille morte meaning dead leaves. (a kind of beigey fawn)
  • Minette Walters’ The Ice House: I noted, “watching this again after many years, I’m struck by the similarity between the ice house in this and the Neolithic tombs of Skara Brae and other Orkney sites. What if a landed family discover their ice house is not as usual 300 or 400 years old, but three or four thousand years old…?”
  • Fab quote from TV series Endeavour: ‘Don’t let him worry you, ‘cos his sort’s nowt a pound and sh*t’s tuppence, as my old gran used to say. Northerner.’ (that was Fred Thursday talking to Morse… Love that quote, it made me spit my coffee all over myself.)
  • Standard issue firearm for British army for both world wars was the Webley mark IV revolver, taking a .38 calibre bullet. It remained in service until 1963.
  • And this one from 2014: if a person is standing when they are shot dead from the front, they always fall and land with one leg crossed over the other at the ankle – this is known as ‘dead man’s fall’. (I think I used this in Scotch Mist…)

Oh yes – I also have books on my eReader!  You were probably beginning to wonder. To date I have purchased around 700 eBooks, though my preference is for paperbacks. With eBooks I very often forget I have them on the reader. I only find out when I go to buy them, and Amazon smiles, shakes its head, and says’ You’ve already got that one, you eejit!’

Usually, if an author is new to me, I ‘try’ the eBook as a kind of taster. If I like it I will then – obviously – buy more of their books, but if I really love it, I will swap to paperbacks. I get a lot more out of a paperback, I seem to find it easier to immerse myself in the story whereas reading an eBook can sometimes (for me) feel like it all happens on the surface and I don’t truly ‘lose myself’ in the plot.

What about you? Do you read eBooks? Do you have a dedicated eReader or read books on your phone, tablet or desktop computer? Or are you strictly ‘real’ book all the way? Do please let me know!

I work on several different gadgets, but my own computer in my own office is my favourite!

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