Mistaken Identity

A case of mistaken identity. That was our prompt at the Weymouth Writing Matters group and I was wondering what sort of a tale I might make of it as I strolled across the Ferry Bridge and along the harbour edge on my way to visit the café on the beach. Mistaken identities, of course, happen all the time in life, and as I walked I saw a pebble on the strand line suddenly sprout little orange legs and run off. As I watched, a dozen more pebbles sprouted identical legs and trotted after it. Not pebbles, of course – turnstones.

There was a whole flock of these little wading birds minding their own business feeding along the beach, turning pebbles as the name suggests. Nature does love to deceive the eye, of course. But it did set me thinking.

How much do we miss when we look at things? How often do we see what we expect to see, rather than what is actually there? How many of the things we look at are in fact mistaken identities? This line of thought gave me a cracking idea, and by the time I reached the café, I had solved a critical problem in the plot of my new book. A mistaken identity, where people see just what they expect to see, but not what is actually there, is just what I needed. I arrived at the café and began to sketch out the amended plot straight away. The turnstones had given me another idea, too – but I’ll keep that to myself for the time being.

Even such a simple thing as a pebble on a beach is not necessarily what it seems. Especially when it gets up on little legs and runs away.

 

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Another Fish in the Wall

They rebuilt the Chesil Beach Centre – home of my café – back in 2012. I went along with the Island Voices choir to take part in the opening celebration, just before the Olympic sailing events of that year took place around Weymouth and Portland.

The conditions in this area are perfect for sailing, of course, but less so for buildings, and any sort of construction in this exposed place needs to be thoroughly weighted to the ground. So, as part of the re-building process, they put in some beautiful Portland stone walls. These are decorated, here and there, with exquisite little carvings of the local wildlife, and this was where I first made the acquaintance of the fish in the wall.

I’d barely muttered this phrase to myself before the obvious idea followed. The Fish in the Wall. What a title for a story – or perhaps a chapter heading. It’s the kind of mysterious, odd idea that sends me rushing to find a pen.

It’s part of the writer’s business to pay attention to passing thoughts and curious phrases, I suppose, and to see the story possibilities in the events and objects you encounter. Beware! Anything you say may be taken down and used in a story…

So that little stone fish, swimming in its stone rockpool, in a niche in a beautiful wall has been squirrelled away in my imagination for future use when I’m in need of inspiration. If it crops up, you’ll know just where this one came from!

 

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Safe Harbour?

Looking out over the tranquil expanse of Portland Harbour on a pleasant early autumn day, it’s difficult to picture it as the busy naval port it once was. These days you’re as likely to see a cruise ship – or a windsurfer – as a naval vessel, although they still have a presence. There are many reminders of this interesting history, particularly from the two world wars – indeed, my own house stands on the site of a former torpedo factory.

With these thoughts in mind, I wrote the following wartime story – pure fiction, I hasten to add. It made the long list of the Exeter Flash competition, and, being a seagoing tale, I’d like to share it on this blog:

Waiting for Ferret

When the calm fell, they became fearful. As the wind slowed, faltered and ceased they became ever more aware of the sounds they made – the sounds that announced their presence and progress. They could hear each other, properly, for the first time. It was unnerving, and people began to whisper and pad about in silence. They wondered who was listening.

Message from Tantalus: Majestic – reduce speed; Ethel J, Oceania, London Pride and Ringstead – hold your position; Ferret – do keep up.

“She’s doing her best,” whispered her engineer, shaking his head, sadly. “Poor old girl.”

But in the calm of the night they lost her – left far behind, toiling in the wake of her companions and her guardian.

Message from Tantalus: best speed, all. Do not wait for Ferret.

When the submarine struck, HMS Tantalus was sunk by the first torpedo, and the convoy, scattering in panic, were left unprotected and thus picked off one by one in a leisurely way. Out of sight, over the horizon, the little freighter Ferret escaped the attack. But she heard the explosions, felt the terrible vibrations through the very water.

“More haste, less speed,” whispered her engineer, shaking his head sadly. “Let’s hope we can pick some o’ them poor beggars up.”

And the Ferret, the old, slow Ferret, steamed on in her steady way, all alone, to see what she could do to help. To the men waiting in the water, she was the most welcome sight in all the world.

 

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Water under the Bridge

“Water,” said my friend, Peter. “If it concerns water, you’ll write about it.”

The subject at the Off the Cuff writing group that day was ‘flooded fields’, and I had jumped straight in, so to speak. Peter’s quite right, of course; water, be it sea, river, stream or spring, features heavily in my books and in much of my shorter fiction, too. I could rhapsodise about a puddle.

This is probably because I was brought up by the sea and spent many happy hours messing about in boats on the river. And after many years high and dry inland, I found my way back to the sea; it’s my daily companion, soul-mate and confidante. It’s no surprise to me that I feel so compelled to write about it. It’s also no surprise that one of the characters in my work-in-progress is a river. Although the setting is largely fictional, when I write about my river I have a real one in mind. I find it’s both the easiest and the hardest subject to write about: my standards become very high indeed when I write about water.

And so it’s particularly fitting that my regular walk to the café-on-the-beach takes me over a bridge. The Ferry Bridge spans the outlet of the Fleet Lagoon as it meets Portland Harbour. The water, flowing up or down with the tide is fast-moving, turbulent and capable of being all shades from pale aquamarine to dark steel blue. I love it, and pause half-way across the bridge to look down into its depths in all but the worst weather. Just watching the water for a few moments will help to order my thoughts and decide what to write next. It’s calming, therapeutic and inspirational; it knows just where it’s going. And when I walk on, so do I.

 

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The Multi-tasking Writer

I deserted my beach café this week, having a highly-important appointment at the hair salon to attend. It didn’t reduce my productivity, however, as I dashed off a thousand-word contribution for my new book while I was there. It didn’t prevent me from writing on the beach, either, since the salon is located in an old stone cottage on Portland – built into the back of the Chesil at its eastern end. In this area, called Chiswell (not Chesil!), the houses nestle among fishermen’s stores, beached fishing boats and piles of lobster pots. It has an air of timelessness about it, even from the modern interior of the salon. Charles Dickens would have loved it here, and I do, too. I used to live close by, and in the early days would lie awake listening, as I thought, to the sounds of traffic swooping down the hill. It was a while before I realised it was the sounds of the waves washing onto the shingle of Chesil Cove I could hear. That was a key moment, indeed.

And I was working on a key scene for my book as I waited, draped in towels. Pretty good multi-tasking, don’t you think? Not a moment wasted. Soon I became engrossed, the chatter of the salon faded, and I was transported to a riverbank far away. I think for a little while I was truly there.

Let’s be clear – the chapters of a book are not always written in the same order you read them. Probably they are mostly written ‘out of order’. It’s helpful, sometimes, to settle a climactic scene fairly early in the writing process. It can clarify what needs to happen early in the story, so in a sense you begin at the end and fill in the vital precursors afterwards – with hindsight, you might say. It is, at least, nice to know where the tale is heading. It works for me, anyway; and as for writing in the hair salon, I enjoy the relaxing music and I’m provided with as much coffee as I can drink. One thousand words committed to paper and coiffed and manicured, too. Work and leisure happily combined. True multi-tasking, too, I think.

Isle of Larus myBook.to/MyAmazonLinks, Sea of Clouds myBook.to/MyAmazonBooks and All the Wild Weather  http://amzn.to/29QyIqJ