Rags and Tatters

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers

Inspired by Malva sylvestris var. mauritiana

Just what was it about Mr Mauritius that made him seem so dapper? It was difficult to pin it down. His clothes were worn. Very worn. His shirt showed through the thinning elbows of his jacket, the ends of his trousers badly frayed – enough to make any gent look unkempt. And yet he did not.

The suit fitted him perfectly. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed into a fashionable style. His battered boots polished. He made an effort, people said, when others would simply have given up. See him there – a jaunty mauve mallow-flower in his buttonhole, picked from the roadside on his way to the market, and contrasting elegantly with his dark grey attire. He was simply a naturally stylish person. And at no time would you catch him looking sorry for himself. Sprightly was the word for Mr Mauritius, ragged clothing or no.

He was scrupulously polite, too, raising his hat and wishing a good day to everyone he met, of whatever station in life, and being particularly careful to pay the most dashing compliments to all the ladies.

The aggregated result of this appearance and behaviour was that everybody felt at ease with him. Everyone agreed he was ‘one of us’; he was ragged, yet he was a gent; he was a friendly fella, yet he had an elegant turn of phrase. Mr Mauritius fitted in with everyone, changing like a chameleon to suit the company.

And for that reason everyone seemed to have forgotten that he had only been in the district for a few weeks. In that short span of time he had become part of the town’s furniture.

So it came as something of a shock when he disappeared. Overnight, without a word. Good grief, people said, he owes me money! It appeared Mr Mauritius had run up debts, small debts, all over the town. Debts of the ‘I will gladly repay you on Tuesday’ variety. And now, on Wednesday, he was gone.

But when they looked into it, compared notes, they found that all the borrowed money had gone back into the town. He had used small loans to buy people a drink at the inn; or to buy food for the town’s beggars; modest bunches of flowers had been thoughtfully given to spinster ladies, and little gifts to children. Almost every penny was thus accounted for, and almost everyone in the town had benefited in a small way. He had arrived with nothing, and had left with nothing more.

“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, not a man known for his generosity of spirit, “I suppose, all round, the fellow did no real harm. The money is still in the town – just redistributed a little. I shall miss him. He made life happier for us all while he was here.”

In such strange guises, in rags and tatters, are angels sometimes sent to earth.

 

This story was first published in my short fiction collection Mr Muggington’s Discovery and Other Stories. Paperback copies are available from Amazon at £4.95, but the e-book is free. If you’d like one, leave me a message on the Contact page of this site and I’ll email a copy to you.

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My Writing Journey – Linda MacDonald

Tags

authors, psychology, writing

My guest this week, Linda MacDonald, tells us the remarkable true-life story behind her book Meeting Lydia.

When Lucy found Lydia

Fifty years ago, on the evening of 25th March 1968, a significant event took place at a Cumbrian prep school for boys. It was a performance of Sheridan’s The Rivals, undertaken by a small group of eleven to thirteen year olds. Of the four female characters, only one, Lucy, was played by a girl. Me! Lucy was the scheming maid to a beautiful young heiress, Lydia Languish, and the two of them shared the opening scene.

In the normal day to day life of the school, and despite being in the same class, I rarely spoke to the boy who was Lydia. It wasn’t the done thing. But I always admired his intellect and was grateful that he was never horrible to me. In my younger years, and as one of very few girls in the school, my life had been blighted by bullying. The play was one of the best things I had ever done and a great boost to my confidence.

In summer, Lydia left the school and it was unlikely we would ever meet again. However, thirty-three years later in 2001, Friends Reunited appeared as the first major networking site where people searched for others from the past.  Nowadays, we take it for granted but at that time, it was exciting. By chance I spotted Lydia when I was looking for someone else who had gone to the same school. Curious to discover what had happened to the boy with the amazing mind, I sent a message. There began an exchange of emails and memories that was to lay to rest the ghosts from my past and to be the inspiration for my first novel, Meeting Lydia.

I thought if I spiced up the reality and created a schoolgirl crush situation, then finding the object of that crush in later life would give much scope for fiction. I had always wanted to write a novel with school bullying in the background and at last I had a plot. I also wanted to explore the psychology of internet relationships as these were often making headlines for breaking up marriages. The two ideas worked perfectly together.

While the childhood situation and the meeting via the internet were inspired by real life events, I created largely fictional adults leading fictional lives. It was only ever supposed to be one book, but by the time I arrived at the end, I was already planning the sequel. There were unanswered questions that I knew readers would want resolved and A Meeting of a Different Kind came into being.

Since then, yet two more books have continued the series, each with different perspectives and themes but all rooted in relationship psychology with a focus on midlife issues. The characters don’t yet want to say goodbye and already I’m planning number five.

The real Lydia and I are still in touch but I’ve always shied away from revealing his true identity. Of course, there are others who know; there was always the potential it might get out, but I said it wouldn’t be from me. However, much time has passed since the beginning. I’ve retired from teaching and ‘Lydia’ is in a different place of work. He’s told me he doesn’t mind being exposed and with the release of a new second edition Meeting Lydia in May, it could be that soon the time may come for a revelation.

Here is the Link to Linda MacDonald’s Amazon author page

L is for Lily

Inspired by the beautiful (but dusty – you can see the scattered pollen) Lilium regale

Lost Lily

It was a very fine piece of artwork indeed, everyone agreed. Well, everyone except Mrs Martagon. And it was gone, too. Everyone agreed about that, Mrs Martagon included.

The entire household was in uproar. The squire himself was running up and down the hall wearing nothing but his underwear, wringing his hands in distress.

“I know it’s early morning, but he might have got himself dressed,” observed the housekeeper, sniffily.

“Not for us to say, Mrs Martagon,” said the butler. “But there’s no denying it’s unseemly.”

As to the missing painting, there was no trace of it beyond a grubby rectangular mark on the wall above the fireplace.

“Just how,” said the butler, “could anybody get a thing that size out of the house? It’d take several felons, and a set of ladders just to get it off the wall. And however did they get in downstairs?”

He peered out of the window, half expecting to see a painting-sized dent in the lawn outside. The lawn remained pristine, as always.

Mrs Martagon shrugged. “Who knows? It’s valuable, they say. Hideous great lump of a thing, in my opinion. Glad to see the back of it, myself. Fiddly to dust, that frame.”

The constable, when he arrived, made a great show of looking at the vacant space on the wall, and asking whether anything else had been taken. Mrs Martagon merely agreed with the butler that the painting had been in place the previous night and that all doors had been secured.

“And can you please describe the missing item, sir?”

“It is portrait of my wife’s great aunt Lily, in a most elegant gold frame,” said the squire. “My wife insists it be cleaned daily.”

Mrs Martagon nodded grimly, and glared at the housemaids when they tittered.

When the constable had given his assurances that everything would be done to recover the painting, and departed, the butler lined up the staff once again, and stood with them. “May I say, sir,” he said to the squire, “on behalf of us all, how very much we regret this loss?”

Mrs Martagon exchanged a brief, conspiratorial and otherwise unnoticed glance with the maids. The truth was, of course, that the detested painting, and its even more detested undustable frame had been painstakingly chopped into tiny fragments overnight and was at this very moment powering the furnace in the cellar. She was unable to resist a smirk of satisfaction.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

Homework for Would-be Authors

Tags

advice, authors, publishing, writing

After my recent blog posts on my reversion to the status of amateur writer, you might very reasonably ask what I learned from my sojourn in the more-or-less professional writing world. I have tried to be truthful about my experience – but, yes, I did learn quite a lot, and I’d like to pass some of that on to other would-be authors dreaming of landing a publishing deal.

It was never my intention to put anyone off seeking a publisher, but for the uninitiated here are my thoughts:

Early Days. Start thinking of your book as a product as early as possible in the writing process. I know it goes against the grain for many of us – I hated it – but if you want to be published you’ll be doing yourself a favour. You might not want to think about how your book will fit on the genre list and who is going to buy it, but it will be a publisher’s first thought. Bear in mind, too, that what you actually enjoy writing might not be saleable. You need to think of this as a professional undertaking.

Finding the right publisher. Take the time to research possible publishers properly before you apply to them. Make sure they deal in your genre, or you are wasting your time. Understand that an e-publisher, or a publisher that uses Print on Demand (POD), is unlikely to get your book into bookshops for you. If that’s what you dream of, you need to read the small print with care. Investigate publishers’ websites and check out their books’ rankings on Amazon to see how well they’re selling.

Promotion. If you do find a publisher willing to take on your book, don’t fall over yourself to sign the contract without asking some questions. The most important (I think) is what arrangements the publisher has for promoting your book. Ask if they have a staff member dedicated to promotional work, what sort of marketing plan they have for your book, and whether there is a budget allocated to advertising it. If the response is an echoing silence they probably have none of these things, and once the book is published you’ll be attending to them yourself. If you have marketing experience, are willing to learn (big undertaking!) or already have a substantial social media following, then that’s fine. But do please make sure you understand what’s expected of you and how much time, and perhaps money, you will need to invest to make it work. If you’re wondering what you would need to spend money on, ask the publisher if they provide promotional materials such as bookmarks and leaflets, whether they pay for blog tours or social media ads, and whether they cover the expenses for book launches. Some do, many don’t, so do ask.

You might have guessed from this rather cagey list that I neglected, in both carelessness and ignorance, to do any of the above. I was hopelessly unprepared. Some people certainly do succeed, even from such an unpropitious start – but it usually takes a great deal of time, energy and dedication to do so. As I said at the beginning of this post, I wouldn’t want to put people off their dream of being published – but you do need to be realistic about what you are letting yourself in for when you step into the commercial world.

I only wish someone had told me all this when I was starting out. Would I have done things differently? It’s hard to say. But I would at least have been a little more clued-up, a little less naïve, and a little more prepared for the demands of the cut-throat, fast-changing world of modern publishing than I was. I might even have decided commercial publishing wasn’t right for me.

Careful forethought, as they say, prevents anxious afterthought – so please do your homework before you plunge in. It might just prevent your publishing dream becoming a nightmare.

 

My other blog is a dream come true. If you like gardens do join me on The Garden Visitor https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com/

My Writing Journey: Judi Moore

My guest this week is the talented Judi Moore, who tells us about life as a professional writer:

When my brother and I were clearing out my parents’ effects in the Nineties, I came across a short story I had written at primary school. It was about getting a grey cocker spaniel for my birthday. A couple of things immediately became clear to me. I got myself a dog (I’m now on my third canine) and started writing in earnest. I’ve been a professional writer since 1997. I find now that my life is completely suffused with writing, thinking about writing, thinking about the writing of others, and reading. I am lucky. Although, I do take credit for being single-minded enough to make the choices which got me here.

So, I’ve been living on bowls of steam for more than 20 years! And I’ve enjoyed every day of it. The most important room in my home is my office. It is black and red, lined with research books, has a fine bay window through which I watch the weather, a monstrous Monstera deliciosa and other greenery, cupboards containing boxes of interesting bits and pieces and ideas for this and that (I used to be afraid that I would never have another creative idea and I still horde them all like Smaug), the unavoidable computer, a radio, and some of my most treasured pictures. (It is also home to various tottering piles of filing which have been hissing ‘put me away or I will make your life a misery’ since the Christmas holiday. Sigh.) I have nothing but sympathy for people who have to write on the kitchen table, in the interstices of life. That would drive me homicidal with frustration.

I write long fiction, short fiction and poetry. (I also write reviews.) With everything except the reviews I get some kind of bee in my bonnet and then assign it to a length: a single bee = a poem; half a dozen bees or so = a short story; lots of bees buzzing = a novel. For example, the first bee of my first novel started to buzz when I watched a documentary about a celebrity on the telly in the Nineties. Her life was a train wreck. There was a moment in the programme when she looked at herself in a mirror. In her face was such weariness, such woe, that I wondered how she could possibly face another day. At once

I wanted to explore how someone might get to such a place in their life and what being there felt like. What was the family of such a protagonist like? Was being immensely wealthy a help or a

hindrance? What was the way back from such a precipice? And the bees started to swarm, picking up stuff about the demise of petrol-based transport, climate change and sea level rise (which meant I needed to set the book in the future); multidrug resistant TB got in there, so did an old shop shingle in the form of a wooden leg I saw once down in Edinburgh’s Cowgate; I used my cousin’s quirky garden flat in North London and contrasted it with a futuristic sort of flat in Milton Keynes, where I was living at that time. And so on and so on. I finally self-published it in 2009 as Is death really necessary?.

Since then I’ve completed and self-published three other books: Little Mouse is a novella about an earlier generation of the same family – the Goldsteins – as take centre stage in Is death really necessary?; Ice Cold Passion is a collection of my short fiction; and new out at the end of last year is my novel Wonders will never cease. It is set in 1985 in a fictional university like the one in which I used to work, making it an historical novel about Thatcher’s Britain. I believe it works rather well.

My next big project is a ‘history and mystery’ searching for the lost burial place of Genghis Khan. It has never been found and I genuinely think I have a good idea why, and where it is.

That book had to be put on hold last year while I wrote a long poem about Milton Keynes (where I lived between 1980 and 2016) commissioned by The Open University Choir (with whom I used to sing) as lyrics for a piece of choral music. The commission was to celebrate MK50 (the first plans for Milton Keynes were drawn up in 1967). Liz Lane (https://www.lizlane.co.uk/), a composer also with strong links to the Open University, wrote the music. It was premiered in November last year in Milton Keynes. It was a lovely day, full of song and celebration.

My academic expertise is in history and literature. Thus I lean towards creating historical fiction, although no single period enthrals me. I also like to write science fiction, (Is death really necessary? is set in 2038 for example) for which a good grounding in history is helpful. If it interests me, I write about it. And the world is stuffed full of interesting things: like those boxes of mine – so many ideas, so little time.

I go regularly to a couple of local writing workshops (in Dorset) – Off The Cuff and Writing Matters –  where we generate work from prompts we wouldn’t have chosen ourselves, so as to keep the mind plotting and the output fresh.

 

You can find out more about Judi’s books on her Amazon author page here

My other blog is for plant lovers – check out my latest posts on the Garden Visitor here

G is for Gladiolus

The seventh in my A to Z of plant-inspired quirky tales:

Racing Certainty

Inspired by the gorgeous wild Gladiolus communis  subs byzantinus

“He can’t possibly do that. He’ll be a laughing stock!”

There had been much talk of this kind since Reggie, dozy article that he was, had come into a bit of money. A bit – well, quite a lot, if truth be told, though he was vague about the exact amount. Typical of Reggie, people said – comes into a fortune and doesn’t even know how much. The consensus of opinion, though, was that there was enough to set him up for life, properly invested. And what does the fool do? He buys himself a racehorse.

“So what have you named this nag, Reggie old boy?”

“He’s called Pink Gladiolus.”

“Ye gods! You can’t call it that!”

“It’s Latin,” said Reggie, disappointed with this reception. “Gladiolus means a little sword. I thought it sounded positive. Thrusting. And I have heard you chaps speak of the Pink Gladiolus, whatever it is, in terms of great approval.”

Too much education and not enough sense was Reggie’s trouble, people said. The Pink Gladiolus, in point of fact, was a club of rather questionable reputation known to all the young gentlemen, although not frequented by Reggie himself.

Reggie looked hurt – wounded, even – but at heart he was smiling. The racehorse was, for him, a mere distraction. He had known people would laugh at that name. It was all part of the plan. Placed it firmly in their minds. He had bought the Pink Gladiolus Club very secretly. And he planned to take a great deal of money from all his laughing friends in the gambling den he proposed to set up there.

Acting like an idiot could be very profitable, and he had played the part a long while – which was how he had come into the ‘bit of money’ in the first place.

Reggie kept up the pretence. “You’ll change your tune when Pink Gladiolus wins the Derby,” he said, sulkily. How they laughed. But however the horse fared, Reggie knew he’d be winning the jackpot shortly.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens.  https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com/

F is for Foxglove

Foxglove Pink

Inspired by the foxglove (Digitalis purpurea)

Florence thought it was a terrible colour, and very unflattering for a person of her complexion, too. But Eugenia insisted upon it, and that was that. Foxglove pink. Horrid. Poisonous, even.

They had bought a bolt of this evil pink silk, for the gowns. Maids of honour at the wedding. Florence had held it up against her face and gazed into the mirror. “It makes me look jaundiced!” she wailed. “Eugenia has done it on purpose. She never wanted me at her wedding.”

She was still sulking about it when the stuff had been cut and worked upon by the seamstress. At the first fitting she peered at her reflection and scowled. The gown was elegant in style – but that colour! Florence simply couldn’t smile in it.

Florence’s mother told her in no uncertain terms that petulance suited her even less than foxglove pink – and that it wasn’t foxglove pink at all, it was pale rose, and that she should put a little discreet rouge upon her cheeks and make the best of it.

“Ill temper and sulking make your face look pinched, child. What will the gentlemen think? No-one will notice the colour of your gown if you smile. So smile. Your second cousin Clarence will be there and he will be looking for a wife.”

“I couldn’t give a fig for second cousin Clarence,” said Florence, still piqued.

But, oh dear me, when second cousin Clarence hove into view at the reception it was a very different matter. When she had last seen him he had been a lanky schoolboy – but now, he was a most agreeable young man. How she smiled. How she flirted.

“What a very becoming colour your gown is, my dear Florence,” he said.

And Florence began to think foxglove pink might have its merits after all. Indeed, she might well choose to wear it for her own wedding.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com/

My Writing Journey: Robert Brown

Please welcome my guest this week, Dorset writer Robert Brown

Ten years ago, if you had said to me that in 2017 I would be having my first book published, I would have thought that you were perhaps just pandering to my incessant daydreaming. However, going back as far as my mid-thirties, (and, I’m now just turning 50) I was already nurturing the idea of this story in my head. I had in my youth played in various bands in the Thames Valley area and writing songs was my favourite part of that. Playing live, I could take or leave, and I was certainly too introverted to be in the limelight. I took from that period of my life a legacy, the songs that I had written, I had kept on a cassette. They were hidden in a box in the loft of the house that I shared with my then wife.

It was the early part of the new millennium, before the financial crash, and a time when mortgage companies were throwing loans around like confetti. We had bought ourselves a magnificent house, but with lots of work needing to be done, it was beyond our means.

Just by chance, on a routine trip up into the loft one day, I found the box containing the cassettes. There was one song, as I remember that I thought was particularly commercial, and naively, I thought I would be able to sell the song and make some money out of it. When I listened to the tape however, I was not entirely impressed, and I soon abandoned any delusions of grandeur. It was at this point though, that the story began to form in my head. A man struggling to make ends meet, persuades a forgotten, eighties pop icon to record his song and turn it into a worldwide hit. That was my brief, and it went in and out of my thoughts over the next decade, and life moved on.

It wasn’t until summer 2015 that I told a friend the idea of the book that was forming, on and off, in my mind. She told me that it was good, and that I should buckle down and write it, but truthfully, I didn’t have the remotest clue where to start. Eventually, after another reminder by the same friend, I wrote chapter one, creating the first character in the process. Having written about 2500 words, I started to research exactly how long a novel needed to be, and I concluded that I needed to write about 80,000 words at least. I decided that I liked the format of 2500 words per chapter approximately, and planned ahead 3 chapters at a time, plotting exactly what was going to happen in advance. To my amazement, characters seemed to invent themselves, and appeared in the story very naturally. This may sound strange, but it was almost as if the book wrote itself. In short, I had stumbled, albeit purely by chance, on a method and structure of writing, that worked for me. As long as I had the framework for the plot, the rest of the process was filling in the blanks. You could say that it was rather like painting by numbers. I finished writing the novel in May 2016, and haven’t stopped writing since, completing novel 2 last year. I’m currently half way writing a third as we speak.

The book is available now, in paperback and e-book format, in the following places.

https://olympiapublishers.com/authors/robert-brown/

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Song-Silence-Robert-Brown-ebook/dp/B077ZCJGWH/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1517600520&sr=8-1&keywords=a+song+for+the+silence+robert+brown

https://www.waterstones.com/book/a-song-for-the-silence/robert-brown/9781848979451

I have a Facebook page  https://www.facebook.com/RobertBrown30.11.17/

And I can be found on Twitter @ASFTSRB

E is for Eyebright

Inspired by the herb Eyebright (Euphrasia nemorosa)

Mistaken Identity

Miss Euphrasia Higginbottom had just walked into the doorpost for the third time that week.

“Don’t you, think, Phrasie, dear,” said her companion Mrs Ainsworth, “that it’s time you equipped yourself with some spectacles?”

But Miss Euphrasia would have none of it. “I have my eyebright remedy,” she said, “I swear by it.”

Mrs Ainsworth was privately inclined to swear at it rather than by it, and said this was just so much eye-wash. “Perhaps a discreet lorgnette…?”

This suggestion was met with a disdainful snort. “I have perfect eyesight,” said Miss Euphrasia, and walked into the doorpost again as she swept out of the room.

The eyebright drops were administered to each eye, just as the herbalist had recommended. Refreshing for the kidneys, too, thought Miss Euphrasia, as she took a swig for good measure. An invigorating concoction, indeed. And it was not alone. A positive pharmacopeia of remedies had accumulated in the past year. Mrs Ainsworth had warned her to have a care, to put her trust in the good Doctor Badbury rather than that herbalist fellow. But no, all advice was ignored, and Miss Euphrasia asserted that they all Did Her Good.

On the day of the Great Misfortune, as Mrs Ainsworth liked to think of it, there had been another incident with the doorpost, and Miss Euphrasia had withdrawn to her room to find the eye-drops. Well, such a commotion! Wailing and howling, she was. And very ill indeed. Doctor Badbury was summoned this time, and gave a great speech on the folly of self-administered cures. Miss Euphrasia cursed him in a most unladylike fashion, in between dabbing her streaming eyes and having recourse to the sick-bowl.

It remained unclear which of the many remedies she had so trustingly dropped into her eyes and swallowed, too. Suffice it say her imperfect eyesight had led her to mistake the label. The remedies were removed from the premises, and a pair of spectacles  acquired.

Mrs Ainsworth showed great forbearance in omitting to say I Told You So. But she couldn’t resist a distinctly smug smile.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve launched a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

D is for Daffodil

Tags

Daffodils

The fourth in my A to Z of plant-inspired quirky tales:

 The Yacht Narcissus

The yacht Narcissus chugged serenely up and down the river in an irregular sort of way. This was on account of her considerable age, and that of her owner, too. She was a steam yacht – or, at least, that was what he liked to call her, in much the same way he called himself a commander. Nobody knew if he really was, or had been, any such thing, but he looked the part with his grey beard, pop-eye pipe and just the right sort of peaked cap.

She wasn’t very big, the Narcissus, but the funnel gave her the look of something far more grand, as did the pair of stripes painted along her old white hull, stem to stern. Stripes of black and daffodil yellow, the latter the only obvious connection with her name.

Then one day the news floated down that the old commander had been found stone cold dead in the cockpit, hat formally in place, pipe in hand and unfinished measure of gin by his side. Just the way he would have wanted to go, people said. But it meant the Narcissus was no longer the elegant steam yacht of her master’s imagination. She was an unwanted, weather-beaten old relic, and up for sale, too.

When she finally reappeared at new moorings she was sadly changed. The daffodil yellow stripe had been painted out, and so had her name. She had been rechristened the Cindy-Lou. This was a terrible affront to the dignity of a vessel that had been so much a man’s boat, everyone agreed. And so did the Narcissus. Her ancient planks cracked and sprang apart in protest, and she sank at her moorings, as if to say – no more.  Not worth repairing, really, they said, and she was broken up. And that was the end of it.

Or should have been.

Sometimes, just sometimes, people swear they have heard the steady chug and chuff of her steam engine far out on the marshes, still happily carrying the commander upriver, a ghostly steam yacht with her daffodil yellow stripes.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com