Bob Studholme's Blog, page 2

The blurb

It should be a young boy's paradise.  Yes, the Great War is raging, but that can't affect 15-year-old Jack. He's too young and anyway is recovering from scarlet fever. To recuperate, he's been sent by his soldier father to the country house of a friend. When Jack arrives in the West Country to stay in a castle full of lonely women where he is, 'the only thing you'd call a man that isn't long since decrepit in the whole area,' he thinks he looks like something that would cause Dr. Frankenstein  to burst into tears and take up dentistry. The looks he's getting from young Abigail, the maid, however. .. And is the shy Italian artist, Eleonora, interested in him as more than just a model? Bridie the cook, Miss Brampton the governess, 17-year-old Deirdre and even her mother, the horse-riding Lady Charlotte, all perhaps overly concerned that he should recover his strength.  The stuff of a young man's fantasies? Well, yes, but Jack is more than the sickly youth they think him to be. In fact, Jack is more than Jack believes himself to be. He isn't troubled by the ghosts who roam the castle and watch his recovery because he can't see them. That voice in the back of his head, though. Jack isn't entirely sure that it's his. And those things in the woods at night, what the hell are they? Worst, though, is the knife in his bag. It's the kind made only for killing. So how come a fifteen-year-old has a surgeon's knowledge of how to use it? That can worry a boy with a name like his.

This will be the You Write On sample

There is one other piece that I've written and will post up for people to see, but I won't be putting much more of the book up here. Anyone who reads to the end of this section should be able to work out why. I live in UAE and don't want a visit from the police.


The Castle.The moon shone on the river and the castle. The day, June 3rd, 1915, had been unusually hot; the walls of the castle soaking up more sun than even they could easily absorb. Windows gaped wide to let the night's breezes cool the interior. Those asleep inside fell to more settled slumber as the walls breathed out heat and sweat dried from bodies.Outside, the air turning cool and sweet, the moonlight glinted on the river in slow dancing patterns. Owls flew; small animals scuttled; trees moved like graceful, but forgetful women, not sure of where they'd meant to go next.From out the trees, walking slow and unhurried on the gravel path to the castle entrance, came two figures. A watcher, though none did, would note things, odd things, about them. One a man, the other a woman – true, but no, not likely to be first remarked.  Wearing clothes not of their era - more obvious, though not as much as the fact the clothes were the silver white of the moonlight. Subtle, though somehow most certain to be first recognised, was that the moonlight shone not on these two, but through them. At the edge of the gravel courtyard, both paused while the woman looked around at the scene.  The castle sat atop a small hill which rose from the river and gave a view reaching down to the bridge and distant mill. The hill formed a natural Amphitheatre, a grass-covered lap of earth leading away to the line of the woods they'd just left. A few sleeping sheep dotted the slope. The woman nodded, pleased by the prospect. The man stood, arms akimbo, proprietorial pride written on him. He'd been on this hill before the building started, had ordered the design of the castle,  overseen its furnishing, been the force behind it becoming a beautiful stately home, watched as it acquired a patina of age and been well pleased with what he'd wrought. He looked to the woman, made a slight bow and extended his hand in a gesture of formal invitation.  The woman gave him a smile, dropped a playful curtsy and walked on towards the entrance. By force of habit, both entered through the door. A less remarkable feat this, had they opened it first. Our imagined watcher might have enjoyed them passing through solid timbers; ghosts on a tour of their new habitation. Or perhaps not.Inside, they climbed the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms. War had taken the men away and in the house were women and girls, peacefully sleeping, unaware of the spectral forms moving amongst them. At length the two stopped. The woman nodded, pensive still, but content."Perfect."The man smiled. At his gesture, they faded into the air; the thin, thin air.
Jack"Wentbridge, Wentbridge. All passengers for Wentbridge.  Excuse me; young  sir? You're getting off here, aren't you?" Jack heard the voice and felt himself not so much awake as rise from the bottom of a black lake toward it. Exhaustion crushed him like a weight of water.  The surface an impossible distance above his head and him wanting nothing more than to sink back into the darkness, the voice came again, injecting unwanted buoyancy. "Are you alright, sir? You're looking very peaky. You are getting off here, aren't you?" A sudden banging beside his head. Glass. Knuckles on glass. Someone rapping their knuckles against the glass of a window. He'd been asleep with his head resting against the window and now someone was knocking on the glass. He started and his eyes twitched, lids almost parting. "Jacob! Jacob! That one's mine darling. Can you be getting him up for me? I've to drive him to the house."The voice was Irish, a woman's. Muffled by the glass, but still with a bubbling huskiness almost enough to make him open his eyes to see who owned it. "Trying Mrs Maguire, but I've seen slaughtered sheep faster to move than this one. He alright, is he?""Ah, the poor love's been ill with the scarlet fever, so he has. Can you give him a hand up, darling?""For you Mrs Maguire, the very shirt off me back." "A thousand thanks Jacob, but it's the boy I'm after and not your laundry. That one yer mammy can do for ye." Someone chuckled and hands slipped under Jack's armpits from behind. His arm was raised and wrapped around skinny shoulders."Upsidaisy. Up you come now sir, can't be keeping Mrs Maguire waiting now, can we?"Half lifted; he pushed legs like dead meat against the floor to help raise himself. His eyes fluttered open and colours danced for a moment before shapes coalesced. An old, old lady, clothed in something last fashionable when Victoria was single, sat on the seat facing.  She looked at him with concern. "Can someone get this young gentleman a glass of water? He looks faint. I fear the heat has been too much for him."Cut-glass accent. Home Counties? Jacob sounded West Country. Maguire Irish. Where was he? Jack, lost in fog, knew only he was on a train and had to get off. He reached out a free hand and grasped the seat top. Wood, solid, good to lean his weight on. Steadied between the seat and Jacob, he tried to pull his mind to the jobs at hand; standing first, walking next, getting off the train. Luggage? Did he have luggage? He couldn't cope with luggage. "My bags?" His voice croaked with the rasp of a hinge never oiled and not used for far too long. His mouth was dry and he wanted water badly. "Where are my bags, please?""Oh, don't you go worrying yourself over them, sir. They're in the guard's van and Matthew will get them off for you. Now, can you just come this way?"Jacob was Jack's height, but a skinny youth, and Jack's weight caused him to struggle. Jack, ashamed of his weakness, marshalled his will and directed legs to walk. They staggered instead, but, grasping for the support of the seat backs, he and Jacob lurched down the carriage to the door and the brightness of the sun beyond.  He half fell into the arms of Mrs Maguire. Like falling into a warm bed, fresh laundered linen brushed his face and calmed his nerves. The flesh beneath smelled of lemons and sweet, summer sweat. Jacob climbed down from the carriage and helped Mrs Maguire steer Jack to a small, horse-drawn buggy. Has a name, thought Jack, one I know, but it hid in the fog. He tried to pull himself up to the buggy's passenger seat, but had to be wrestled aboard like a sack of onions. He slumped forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, fighting the fog and a wave of nausea. Why so sick? What had happened?Like an actor responding to a cue, a voice came out of the back of his mind. "You're very lucky to be alive and have no complications, young man. Scarlet fever is easier to treat nowadays with Dr. Moser's horse serum, but still drags most sufferers to an early grave. You'll need weeks to recover and somewhere better than this wen, but you'll heal in good time, have no fear." Handlebar moustache; a beard to rival Darwin's; a face from another century. The stethoscope around his neck confirmed the bedside manner. A doctor. His name? Lost in the same fog. Finders? Something like. The face was familiar; known from early childhood perhaps, gruff voice, Lowlands Scot, an aura of competence – someone to trust."His father's message came just this morning, doctor. His friend will put Master Jack up for the summer at his place in Devon while he recovers. You'll stay at the castle and can roam the grounds until you are well.  It'll be an awful adventure for you. They say Wentbridge is a beautiful place. Quiet, but very lovely."The woman, another familiar face, smiled at Jack. Accent's from the Hebrides, he thought, face from an angel's grandmother. Grey hair, tightly bunned, grey eyes, lightly smiling, covering, barely, a worry. Not a woman to fret, said instinct, but holding a concern over him. He'd been, and surely still was, worse than they wanted him to know. "Marvellous Janet, marvellous. Arrangements have been made; I take, for his travel?""Indeed, Doctor Cameron. He'll go by the morning train and be met at the station." "Excellent, excellent. So we'll see you when you get back then Jack."The curtain of memory closed, leaving nothing else but fog until he'd woken on the train. Before? Injections, hospital beds, pain and confusion. Shards of a story he'd rather forget."That's right Mrs Maguire. Eighteen tomorrow."She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Jacob blurted out."An' I'm joining the regiment on the weekend.  They wouldn't take me before. Knew me proper age, see, and told me the railways needed men too. Can't stop me now, though." Jack caught, though Jacob missed, the  pain flashing across Maguire's face. She wiped it off almost before it registered, replacing it with a smile Jack thought looked like the sun rising over a nudist colony.  Odd image to come out of the fog, said the voice in his head. What does it even mean? Must be something he'd heard. "And isn't my Fergus there as well? You must be looking out for him. Both in the same regiment, he'll look after you, sure an' he will. Tell him, when you see him, the odd letter will never be taken as an insult now, won't ye?""Well, I will if I do, but they're saying it won't last much longer now. Probably all..""Over at Christmas, I know. God willing it will."Jacob's flushed face darkened a moment and Jack saw the question he was struggling to form. So did Maguire."Ah, but you'll look the very devil of a handsome young buck in your uniform, an' you will so. Sure an' the girls will all be after ye. Well, never let it be said Bridie Maguire got left at the back of that line. Come here an' give me a kiss now, for yer birthday an' going away an' all." Jacob blushed red to the tips of his ears. He looked around; to note who was watching, Jack wondered, or for a place to run? A skinny, pimply, pasty-faced youth, the weight of rifle and pack would probably topple him. If this wasn't his first kiss, then surely it claimed the best second place Jack had ever seen.Maguire, even through the fog, struck as a woman words like Junoesque, voluptuous and, well, others denoting ' well-built'  with a strong emphasis on the 'well',  had been coined to describe. She knew about fun, he thought, and how to have it. She grabbed Jacob by the shoulders and pulled him to her. He stood like a beast about to be slaughtered, not sure where to put hands and face. Maguire looked him coolly in the eye."Now ye'll need to be taking more of a grip on things than that, me lad. Try like this."She took his hands and slapped them to her generous rump. The boy's eyes widened further than Jack thought humanly possible, but before he'd the chance to say or do anything, Maguire had his face between her hands and had plastered his lips to hers. A kiss, Jack thought, to pour lust into the loins of a bronze statue. If eyes on train or platform missed it, Jacob surely burned every one of the heartbeats it lasted into his memory forever. Jack remembered reading of a Confederate soldier who survived a tremendous battlefield blast to find himself utterly unharmed, though stripped of every scrap of clothing. Jacob looked a successful audition for a theatre performance of the part. Maguire released him with a hesitation, a near reluctance Jack suspected no part of an act. Husband at the war, came the voice from the back of his mind, hasn't in a while, I'll be bound. "Woah, missus! I'll have a one o' them too an' you've got any to spare." "Away wit ye," Maguire shouted to the driver, her grin one the devil'd buy at auction and keep for his Sunday best. "The lad's off to the wars and needs something to keep him warm of a night-time." "Well, I'm off to Coventry tonight and I'm of the same mind. If you've done with him, can I have him back? I've a train to run and we're late already." Jacob regained the train with a curiously crouched shuffle; Maguire the constant north to his compass's needle. She stayed on the platform to wave him off, give him a wink 'lascivious' stretched itself tight to describe and mouth something Jack thought said: 'Come back for more'.A ticker tape of thought crossed and recrossed the youth's face, repeating and repeating the only important idea in his mind. Jack read it as the train pulled out. I did that, me. It was me did that, I did. They'd likely need iced water to get his mind to anything else for the rest of the day. Maguire stayed on the platform, waving, till the train rounded a bend, her radiant smile fading as dark clouds moved across her mind. She walked to the buggy, hitched skirts and swung herself up with an athletic grace. She took the reins, shook the brown horse into movement and sank back into herself. "That was kind." She looked at him. "I'm sorry young master, what was that?" "He was going to ask about the fighting, wasn't he? You took his mind off it. That was kind." She shrugged. "Ah, it's nothing. These boys are all after running off to the war, so they won't look like cowards. Jacob's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he can read. He knows how many are coming back with bits shot off them, or not coming back at all. I pray it's over before he finishes the training and gets shipped off to France." Jack nodded. Dates and figures and names of battlefields hid somewhere in the fog, but his impression of the Western Front was a maw chewing up young men and leaving them to fertilise the ground they battled over. "And Fergus? He's your…?" "Husband." Jack'd heard the word pronounced with strong degrees of condemnation before, but never such as Maguire packed in. She'd slapped the appellation down like a fish full of lead weights on a filleting board."He's at the front?" "Not yet, still at Aldershot going through his basic training." "How long will that take?" "Not sure. He's been gone a month and thinks he's eight weeks more before they'll ship to France, but they say it's a terrible mess and not one of them knows how to find his arse with both hands, ah, excuse my French. God willing they'll never see the trenches." "Volunteered did he?"Bridie laughed. "God bless you no, young sir. The magistrate did the necessary for him. Said if he had such a taste for fighting men in uniform, he'd accommodate him with pleasure. Catch Fergus Maguire volunteering for anything more than another man's whiskey, an' it'd only be 'cos he'd another man's whiskey already inside him." Jack looked sideways at her and his eye caught on the smooth swell of a breast half released by the opening of her blouse's top buttons.Dear lord, came the voice in his head, Moby Dick sighted on the starboard side.Her eyes flicked sideways to his gaze and she smiled a small, but intensely knowing smile. The day Bridie stopped attracting men's attention she'd probably find herself secretly relieved. Until then, though, she'd lots of ways of making use of it. Her eyes flicked back to find him still looking, not sneakily or guiltily as a Jacob might have done, but with something of open appreciation. "Sorry," he said, catching her eye on him, "but isn't a young man supposed to admire the beauty of the hills and dales when he comes to the countryside?" She snorted with a laugh pitched midway between amusement and disparagement. She'd received smoother compliments in her time, but the boy had a cool head on him for one so young. She'd keep an eye on him. There'd been an awful tiredness in his voice, but nothing to suggest he thought himself on forbidden ground. Jack found the movement of the buggy lulling and had no argument with it pulling him back to sleep. His head sank to his chest. He was only dimly aware of the ride to the castle and missed the village entirely. ***"Master Jack? Master Jack? Sorry darling, but we're here now and you're going to have to get down." Jack opened his eyes, got his first view of Wentbridge Castle and liked it. Someone's stately home, of a certainty, but square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house giving injury if receiving insult. Later he'd wonder why such pugilistic architecture lived in Devon, but for now it gave him a solid sense of security. His arrival had clearly been expected, a group of people coming out of the front entrance as he stood, swaying lightly. None of the faces were familiar to him, but he picked out the lady of the house instantly.  A handsome woman with an air of command, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle. "Yes, you'll need time to recover from your journey, surely. The deck chairs are set up, so perhaps you'd like to take a rest in the fresh air until lunch.  You can meet the others properly later." The others took their cue from this and disappeared back into the house. Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked the answer to a prayer. He slumped onto one of them and stammered out a half apology for his state. Bridie promised him a flask of beef tea and he drifted off in the silence when she left. An indeterminate time later voices came back towards him, but he couldn't raise the energy to open eyes and engage in conversation, so didn't. "Ah, sound again. He really is most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says William Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with natives and knives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, but David says he's a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father's in the East. Singapore, he said, training troops, for goodness sake. The boy was at school when he fell sick and the father contacted David to ask for help, so… Oh, just leave the flask. He can have something when he wakes." "Good looking young lad, he is ma'am, bright too from what I saw of him in the shay. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to even stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man not long since decrepit in the whole of the area now. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I met Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and enlisting this weekend." "Damn young fools. I know I shouldn't say it, but since they started using gas, I can't see any good end to this war. It's going to grind on until even fatuous idiots like French get tired. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand." "How old is he ma'am?" "Fifteen, David said. Looks older, but then… " They drifted off, or he did, though his mind attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. Troops? No, he had been, but was with the police now, training the riot squad in self-defence. He tried to put a face to the name and biography, but could come up with nothing but a face in a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Memories of him? All his tired mind could muster were scenes that might as well have been from the cinema. They lacked accompanying music, but equally, lacked any feeling. He couldn't find himself in any of those scenes.Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. A thing forged in Hell and made for only dark things. He had the knife in his luggage. Did it come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a knife for killing and a picture on a bedside dresser? Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, then. Well, never mind, he was used to it. A face, a woman's, pretty and concerned, floated into his mind, but then the fog rolled over him again and he slept.***Look at the cracks in the ceiling; at the patterns on the bathroom tiles; at a splash of water on a concrete path. There will be faces in the dots and lines; patches and splashes. Perhaps also dragons and demons, but always faces. Human minds find them in things human eyes observe. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering and the cracks and crevices faceting, were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's.  "He looks like death!" Jack slept, with nothing in his ears but distant soughing of wind in branches. "As close as he's been, how else would he? He will heal, though. This place, these people, they will do that for him.  Rest assured, he'll get well here. A day, two, you won't recognise him. " She knew it to be true. His opinion of the doctors of their time was low to non-existent. 'Blood-letting leeches treat a patient only to find how many of the next nine they'll kill with the same poison.' Yet he'd trusted the Scot. This place had ways to treat him their own time could not aspire to.  She nodded her head. A tear might have run down her face, but it's hard to tell with cracks in a wall. The faces faded and only cracks and lichen remained. ***Eleonora walked out to the deck chairs and looked at the young man. " Quel povero raggaza." she murmured. The boy was handsome, she thought, but terribly ill. Something of the poet or warrior in the face. Dark hair, an expressive mouth. Young, but lean and shapely, unlike Rudolph. There was a beautiful confluence of line where his neck met his open collar and the swoop of the collar-bone. She wished she had her sketch pad with her to draw it. Her eye traced his shoulders. Wide, proportionate to his frame, probably excellent definition to the muscle there. He would make an beautiful study for a portrait. Perhaps she could draw him sometime. The line of the eyebrows and the lips… She pulled her eyes away. No better; now they caught a young man's flat stomach and slender waist. No, she did not wish to compare with Rudolph. Two months gone and every second of his absence a blessing – she hadn't felt his hands on her for that long.  This boy's hands… the fingers of a pianist, long, sensitive. She imagined them stroking the keys, she imagined them stroking… Why? Why did this happen with almost every man who wasn't her fat pig of a husband? This boy, this sick, sick boy… She reached out a hand towards his face, but stopped herself before she touched him. No. No, not a good idea.  She took a step back, her foot inadvertently scraping the gravel. She flinched, waited to see if he would wake, wanting and not wanting him to.  The head moved, but the eyes didn't open. The lips parted and formed, perhaps, a name. They marked a line across her vision those lips, like charcoal marking paper, the shape of them captivating her. Imagining the pressure of charcoal stalk on paper, the pressure of finger onto skin…   A single bead of sweat stood at his temple and Eleonora's hand moved to wipe it, stopped, started, stopped again. Her hand wanted to touch… she caught herself, turned quickly and walked back to the house.***Jack had no idea how long he’d slept when he woke, throat leather dry. The sun was high now, but he couldn’t remember where it had been, so the knowledge didn’t help. On a small table beside the deck chair was a battered old flask. Something to drink. He opened it to a wonderful, warm, meaty smell. Bovril? Memories of football games in winter. Though no. This had something more to it. Bridie had said she’d made up some beef tea for him. He couldn’t remember ever having that, but knew it was recommended for invalids.  Recent history suggested he qualified, so he poured himself a cup of the still-warm brew and took a long swallow. As it went down his throat, he felt every cell of his body greeting it like a Royal procession, with clapping, cheering and ecstatic flag waving. What on earth had she put in this? Put hairs on your chest and part ‘em down the middle that would, said the voice in his head. He couldn’t argue. He must have been dehydrated and was surely starving. He’d no memory of eating, not even of which day he last had or what he'd eaten. He drained the cup and poured himself another. This one he sipped whilst gazing at cloud galleries. Birds sang, the wind soughed, the clouds changed exhibits. Somewhere in the distance a cow passed a casual complaint to a friend.  A decent time later, after careful reflection, the friend replied. Bees passed over his head and commented on this latest gossip. At length, the cows passed more remarks on the gossiping bees, melodious birds and soughing leaves.  Perhaps this passed for a busy day here.
Somewhere there had to be other people in the world and they had to be doing things; important, noisy, difficult and dangerous things. They weren’t doing any of them here and nor was he. Peace, and beef tea, soaked into Jack like warm rain into dried soil. He felt life return. When had he last felt so relaxed? Who cares, sang the birds. Enjoy it while you can, soughed the leaves. He felt himself in a pool outside the world of clock-ticking time. And it was good. He floated, exulting. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do beyond drink beef tea and relax, so, like a man climbing back into warm water, lowered himself once more into restful sleep. ***He heard the clicking of heels and swishing of skirts coming towards him, opened his eyes and sat up. That was easy. The girl coming towards him was young, dressed in something simple that said maid, casually pretty and, he'd swear on a stack of money, an outrageous flirt. Some things you just know, don't you?"Oh, you'm awake sir. How you feeling now, then? Lady Ambridge said I's to ask you if you're well enough to take a bite for lunch with the family?" Jack wasn't up for fighting dragons yet, but the prospect of lunch and meeting his hosts held no pain. "Well, that case, I laid out a change of clothes in your room. You can wash up a bit 'fore it's time to eat."He followed her into the house and up the stairs. The view from behind was pleasant and, he'd swear, twitching more than even generous nature intended. Farmer's daughter, he thought, knows what the bull is for and what tupping and covering mean. She showed him into a room. Simple, but tastefully decorated with four blue walls, there was a change of clothing on the bed and a basin with a ewer of water on a small dresser near the window. He walked to the dresser and caught sight of himself in the mirror there. The face was a stranger's and a sight to give pause. Those black-ringed, blood-shot, wasted eyes, the sunken cheeks and, God, was there a blood cell left in his body? A line from a poem rattled in his mind, 'A face something, something, ghostly, something, whiter shade of pale.' Where did that come from? If in doubt, said the voice in his head, say Shakespeare. You really should be better read.  Bram Stoker hadn't made Dracula so pallid. "They'm saying you was sick with the scarlet fever, sir. My mum says 'at took two of her sisters when they was young 'uns. Must have been awful. You feeling better now? " She was standing just a touch too close as she asked. Just a touch. Jack had a feeling she'd have been closer still, but for his obvious invalid status. "Well, if Dr. Frankenstein'd found that on his slab," he gestured with a thumb at the mirror, "I think he'd have burst into tears and taken up dentistry, but, yes, I suppose so. The fever is over, so I can only get better now, can't I?" She grinned. "That's the spirit sir. You'll like it here, I'm sure. Um, is there anything else I can get you?" She twirled slightly as she stood, her skirts (petticoats under there?) moving and whispering. It's an excuse to stand there longer, Jack thought. I haven't had enough beef tea yet, Jack thought."Ah, no, thanks, not for now.  Though, sorry, what's your name, please?""Me sir? I'm Abigail, sir. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."She bobbed him a small curtsy, the smile on her face genuinely happy and happily saying, 'knew you'd be interested.' "And I'm Jack. Delighted to meet you."She grinned again, twirled that tiny twirl again and paused for just a second, before bursting into giggles. "Oh, sorry sir, you'm waiting to get changed, amn't you? I'll come back in just a bit and show you the dining room, then?" ***The dining table was Jack’s image of a stately home dining table. If Jesus had fed the five thousand here, they’d have mostly been seated. His hostess, Lady Charlotte, was largely what he thought the lady of the Manor would be: business-like, in control and, since the men were away, in total charge. The sort of woman you'd describe as handsome and elegant, Jack could imagine her fox hunting in the modern age, sharing a chariot with Boadicea in a previous one. He’d expected more servants than Bridie and Abigail, but, with the butler and all the other men gone; he wasn’t surprised the family had found little need (and fewer opportunities) to replace them. He hadn’t expected a governess, because he hadn’t known the family had a daughter, Deidre, absent for reasons he didn’t catch, but expected back at the weekend. Finding one, he wasn't surprised. That too fitted his preconceptions. The governess, Miss Brompton, wore her blonde hair in strict and uncomfortable-looking fastened-up braids, her mouth in a permanent moue of disapproval and, Jack decided after entire seconds of forced conversation, her mind in a strait-jacket of rules and restrictions. What Jack had not expected was the last member of the family. Eleonora Angela Ambridge, the Italian wife of Lord David’s younger brother, Rudolph. If Janet from the doctor’s office was the grandmother, this was surely the angel granddaughter. Every artist of the Renaissance, all of their apprentices, their relatives, their pets and their pet's fleas would have formed a queue to her door to beg, plead, and offer body parts in return for a chance to have her as a model. Strange then, thought Jack, that a woman who could stun most men into adoration by simply looking up at them through her long eyelashes was surely the most timid, shy and twitchy of Heaven’s inhabitants to ever exit the Pearly Gates. Afraid of her own shadow, that one. Perhaps she'd stunned them from too early on, been too nice to talk to for too many, never learned how to deal with men as a result and now found herself scared even of him. And I know I'm nothing to be scared of.Through the meal she avoided eye contact with him whilst always giving the impression she knew where his eyes were and when they were looking at her.  She didn't seem any happier if he was or wasn't looking. Jack gave up on trying or caring until he was stronger and concentrated his conversation on his hostess. After the meal, Charlotte she took him to the library, suggesting he could find something interesting to read, then pointed out walks he could take from the room's windows. Apparently there was a holy well near the river, a pleasant walk to the mill, some places further upstream which were good for swimming from and a trail on the other side of the river which offered good views of the castle. Jack admitted to enjoying sketching and was sorted out with sketch pad and pencils along with a shoulder bag to carry them in. He took a lie down for a while and then returned to the library to pick out a book. The first thing to catch his eye was a copy of Pride and Prejudice. A book he'd heard of, but never read. It saved him the energy he'd spend searching for anything else, so he dropped it in his bag and headed out. The holy well, he decided, was fortunate in being on the way to somewhere else. People wouldn't be as disappointed in it as they'd be if they'd made a special trip. He continued to the bridge, crossed a stile and found himself on the road which lead up the hill to the village and which he must have been driven along earlier. The hill, he thought, he'd keep for another day. He crossed the river, turned back towards the castle and walked on a path that took him by a farm house, chicken houses and trees.  As the track entered the trees it split, one way leading to the river's edge, the other rising up and winding through the trees. Jack took to the higher ground, thinking he might get a better view from there.  The farm, the countryside around, the entire world seemed deserted. Half the population gone to the war and this a sleepy place anyway, so not odd. He doubted he'd meet anyone and so was surprised to catch sight of a woman seated by the side of the lower path. Seated? Or was she lying down? Had she fallen there? She was curled into herself in a posture which struck him as odd. There was a bag and what looked like another sketch pad on the ground beside her. Were her eyes closed? She seemed conscious, though, and her arm was moving slightly. Was that a moan? Unsure as to what was going on, and hesitant to embarrass himself,  Jack moved closer, used a tree to give himself cover and peeked around it. The woman was Eleonora. Reclined against a rock, her skirts hitched up to allow her hand to reach between her legs, she was indeed curled into herself, her hand moving and yes, small moans starting to break from her. Not the only one expecting this place to be private, said his voice. Not a moment to interrupt, thought Jack, and definitely not one to be caught interrupting. Then his eye caught the sketch on the opened page of the pad lying on the ground. A face. Even at this distance, a recognisable face. His. Jack moved back down the track using the utmost care not to step on anything that would crack, not to fall over and generally not to make a sound. Then he walked to the mill and spent the rest of the day sketching there. It gave him a tangible alibi for his whereabouts later.

Does this work?

Lucia walked out to the deck chairs and looked at the young man. " Quel povero raggaza." she murmured. The boy was handsome, she thought, but terribly ill. Something of the poet or warrior in the face. Dark hair, an expressive mouth. Young, but lean and shapely, unlike Rudolph in each and every one of those. There was a beautiful confluence of line where his neck met his open collar and the swoop of the collar-bone. She wished she had her sketch pad with her to draw it. Her eye traced his shoulders. Wide, proportionate to his frame, probably very good definition to the muscle there. He would make an excellent study for a portrait. Perhaps she could draw him sometime. The line of the eyebrows and the lips… She pulled her eyes away. No better. Now they caught a young man's flat stomach and slender waist. No, she did not wish to compare with Rudolph. Two months gone and every second of his absence a blessing – she hadn't felt his hands on her for that long.  This boy's hands… the fingers of a pianist, long, sensitive. She imagined them stroking the keys, she imagined them stroking… Why? Why did this happen with every man who wasn't her fat pig of a husband? This boy, this sick, sick boy… She reached out a hand towards his face, but stopped herself before she touched him. No. No, not a good idea.  She took a step back, her foot inadvertently scraping the gravel. She flinched, waited to see if he would wake, wanting and not wanting him to.  The head moved, but the eyes didn't open. The lips parted and formed, perhaps, a name. They marked a line across her vision those lips, like charcoal marking paper, the shape of them captivating her. Imagining the pressure of charcoal stalk on paper, the pressure of finger onto skin…   A single bead of sweat stood at his temple and Lucia's hand moved to wipe it, stopped, started, stopped again. Her hand wanted to touch… she caught herself, turned quickly and walked back to the house.

Before and after.

This is the first draft:


"Master Jack? Master Jack? Sorry darling, but we're here now and you're going to have to get down." Jack opened his eyes, got his first view of Wentbridge Castle and liked it. The thing was someone's stately home, of a certainty, but had square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house that gave injury if it received insult. Later he'd wonder why such pugilistic architecture lived in Devon, but for now it gave him a solid sense of security. His arrival had clearly been expected, as a group of people came out of the front entrance as he stood, swaying lightly. None of the faces were familiar to him, but he picked out the lady of the house instantly.  A handsome woman with an air of command about her, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle. "You look as if you need some time to recover from your journey. The deck chairs are already set up, so perhaps  you'd like to take a rest until lunch and you can meet the others properly then." Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked like the answer to a prayer. He slumped onto one of them and stammered out a half apology for his state. Bridie promised him a flask of beef tea and he drifted off in the silence of her going away. An indeterminate time later he heard voices coming back towards him, but couldn't raise the energy to open eyes and engage in conversation, so didn't. "Ah, sound again. He really does look most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with knives with natives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, I believe, but David says he a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father is in the East, Singapore, I think he said, training troops, for goodness sake. Apparently, the boy was at school when he fell sick and the father contacted David to ask for help, so… Oh, just leave the flask. He can have something when he wakes." "Good looking young lad, he is mam, bright too from what I saw of him on the ride in. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man that's not decrepit in the whole of the area. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I saw Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and off this weekend." "Damn young fools. I know I shouldn't say it, but since they started using gas, I can't see any good end to this war. It's going to grind on until even fatuous idiots like French get tired of it. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand." They drifted off, or he did, though his mind seemed attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. He tried to put a face to the name and came up with something from a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. Did they come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a picture on a bedside dresser. Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, he felt. Well, never mind, he was used to it. A face, a woman's, pretty and concerned floated into his mind, but then the fog rolled over him again and he slept.Look at the cracks in the ceiling;, at the patterns on the bathroom tiles; at a splash of water on a concrete path. There will be faces in the dots and lines; patches and splashes. Perhaps there will also be dragons and demons, but always there will be faces. Human minds find them in things that human eyes look at. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering it and the cracks and crevices faceting it, were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's.  "He looks like death!""As close to it as he's been, how else would he look? He will heal, though. This place, these people, they will do that for him.  Rest assured, he'll get well here. A day, two, you won't recognise him. "Then the faces faded and all that was left was lichen. 
And this is what I got after a bit of playing with Pro Writing Aid:
"Master Jack? Master Jack? Sorry darling, but we're here now and you're going to have to get down." Jack opened his eyes, got his first view of Wentbridge Castle and liked it. Someone's stately home, of a certainty, but square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house giving injury if receiving insult. Later he'd wonder why such pugilistic architecture lived in Devon, but for now it gave him a solid sense of security. His arrival had clearly been expected, as a group of people came out of the front entrance as he stood, swaying lightly. None of the faces were familiar to him, but he picked out the lady of the house instantly.  A handsome woman with an air of command, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle. "Yes, you'll need time to recover from your journey, surely. The deck chairs are set up, so perhaps you'd like to take a rest until lunch.  You can meet the others properly later." Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked the answer to a prayer. He slumped onto one of them and stammered out a half apology for his state. Bridie promised him a flask of beef tea and he drifted off in the silence when she left. An indeterminate time later voices came back towards him, but couldn't raise the energy to open eyes and engage in conversation, so didn't. "Ah, sound again. He really is most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with knives with natives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, I believe, but David says he a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father is in the East. Singapore, he said, training troops, for goodness sake. The boy was at school when he fell sick and the father contacted David to ask for help, so… Oh, just leave the flask. He can have something when he wakes." "Good looking young lad, he is mam, bright too from what I saw of him on the ride in. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man that's not decrepit in the whole of the area. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I met Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and off this weekend." "Damn young fools. I know I shouldn't say it, but since they started using gas, I can't see any good end to this war. It's going to grind on until even fatuous idiots like French get tired. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand." "How old is he mam?" "Fifteen, David said. Looks older, but then… " They drifted off, or he did, though his mind seemed attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. He tried to put a face to the name and came up with something from a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. He had the knife in his luggage. Did it come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a knife and a picture on a bedside dresser. Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, he felt. Well, never mind, he was used to it. A face, a woman's, pretty and concerned, floated into his mind, but then the fog rolled over him again and he slept.***Look at the cracks in the ceiling; at the patterns on the bathroom tiles; at a splash of water on a concrete path. There will be faces in the dots and lines; patches and splashes. Perhaps also dragons and demons, but always faces. Human minds find them in things human eyes observe. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering and the cracks and crevices faceting were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's.  "He looks like death!" Jack, sleeping, heard nothing but distant soughing of wind in branches. "As close as he's been, how else would he? He will heal, though. This place, these people, they will do that for him.  Rest assured, he'll get well here. A day, two, you won't recognise him. "Then the faces faded and only lichen remained. 

  The difference isn't as dramatic as it has seemed with bits I've done before, but I do think the second draft is an improvement.

I know, I know...

...it's very early to start posting up stuff from a new book, but I'm excited by this. This isn't the end of the first chapter, but I want ot put it up and then go on to finish the chapter off. It gives a good idea of what is to come, introduces the concept nicely along with the protagonist.
There's going to be a lot of sex in this one. There might also be zombies. I knew about the sex, 'cos that was the inspiration (there is a story to that and I will tell it in another post), but it wasn't until today that I realized it couldn't be all beer and skittles. Something bad has got to happen to my character. That's not just 'cos the need for an arc to the story, it is a requirement of this story. That's why it will have to be zombies too - the hero would see it that way because that's a meme he would have grown up with and a way to visualize his problems.
I hope that doesn't make much sense yet, I don't want people to go 'oh, yeah, that's where they fit in', when they arrive.
Anyway, this is it:


Jack"Wentbridge, Wentbridge. All passengers for Wentbridge.  Excuse me; young  sir? You're getting off here, aren't you?" Jack heard the voice and felt himself not so much awake as rise from the bottom of a black lake toward it. Exhaustion crushed him like a weight of water.  The surface an impossible distance above his head and him wanting nothing more than to sink back into the darkness, the voice came again, injecting unwanted buoyancy. "Are you alright, sir? You're looking very peaky. You are getting off here, aren't you?" A sudden banging beside his head. Glass. Knuckles on glass. Someone rapping their knuckles against the glass of a window. He'd been asleep with his head resting against the window and now someone was knocking on the glass. He started and his eyes twitched, lids almost parting. "Jacob! Jacob! That one's mine darling. Can you be getting him up for me? I've to drive him to the house."The voice was Irish, a woman's. Muffled by the glass, but still with a bubbling huskiness almost enough to make him open his eyes to see who owned it. "Trying Mrs. Maguire, but I've seen slaughtered sheep faster to move than this one. He alright, is he?""Ah, the poor love's been ill with the scarlet fever, so he has. Can you give him a hand up, darling?""For you Mrs. Maguire, the very shirt off me back." "A thousand thanks Jacob, but it's the boy I'm after and not your laundry. That one yer mammy can do for ye." Someone chuckled and hands slipped under Jack's armpits from behind. His arm was raised and wrapped around skinny shoulders."Upsdaisy. Up you come now sir, can't be keeping Mrs. Maguire waiting now, can we?"Half lifted; he pushed legs like dead meat against the floor to help raise himself. His eyes fluttered open and colours danced for a moment before shapes coalesced. An old, old lady, clothed in something last fashionable when Victoria was single, sat on the seat facing.  She looked at him with concern. "Can someone get this gentleman a glass of water? He looks faint. I fear the heat has been too much for him."Cut-glass accent. Home counties. Was he there? Jacob sounded west country.  Jack, lost in fog, knew only he was on a train and had to get off. He reached out a free hand and felt the top of the seat. Wood, solid, good to lean his weight on. Steadied between the seat and Jacob, he tried to pull his mind to the jobs at hand; standing first, walking next, getting off the train. Luggage? Did he have luggage? He couldn't cope with luggage. "My bags?" His voice croaked with the rasp of a hinge never oiled and not used for far too long. His mouth was dry and he wanted water badly. "Where are my bags, please?""Oh, don't you go worrying yourself over them. They're in the guard's van and Matthew will get them off for you. Now can you just come this way…"Jacob was a skinny youth and Jack's weight caused him to struggle. Jack, ashamed of his weakness, marshalled his will and directed legs to walk. They staggered instead, but, grasping for the support of the seat backs, he and Jacob lurched down the carriage to the door and the brightness of the sun beyond.  He half fell into the arms of Mrs. Maguire. Like falling into a warm bed, the flesh smelled of lemons and sweet, summer sweat. Fresh laundered linen brushed his face and calmed his nerves. Jacob climbed down from the carriage and helped Mrs. Maguire steer Jack to a small, horse-drawn buggy. Has a name, thought Jack, and I know it, but it was lost in the fog. He tried to pull himself up to the buggy's passenger seat, but had to be wrestled aboard like a sack of onions. He slumped forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, fighting the fog and a wave of nausea. How was he so sick? What had happened?Like an actor responding to a cue, a voice came out of the back of his mind. "You're very lucky to be alive and have no complications, young man. Scarlet fever is easier to treat nowadays with Dr. Moser's horse serum, but still drags most sufferers to an early grave. You'll need weeks to recover and somewhere better than this wen, but you'll heal in good time, have no fear." Handlebar moustache; a beard to rival Darwin's; a face from another century. The stethoscope around his neck confirmed the bedside manner. A doctor. His name? Lost in the same fog. Finders? Something like. The face was familiar; known from early childhood perhaps, gruff voice, Lowlands Scot, an aura of competence – someone to trust."His father's message came just this morning, doctor. His friend will put Master Jack up for the summer at his place in Devon while he recovers. You'll stay at the castle and can roam the grounds until you are well.  It'll be an awful adventure for you. They say Wentbridge is a beautiful place. Quiet, but very lovely."The woman, another familiar face, smiled at Jack. Accent's from the Hebrides, he thought, face from an angel's grandmother. Grey hair, tightly bunned, grey eyes, lightly smiling, covering, barely, a worry. Not a woman to fret, said instinct, but holding a concern over him. He'd been, and surely still was, worse than they wanted him to know. "Marvellous Janet, marvellous. Arrangements have been made; I take, for his travel?""Indeed Doctor Cameron. He'll go by the morning train and be met at the station." "Excellent, excellent. So we'll see you when you get back then Jack."The curtain of memory closed. There was nothing else in the fog until he'd woken on the train. Before? Injections, hospital beds, pain and confusion. Shards of a story he'd rather forget."That's right Mrs. Maguire. Eighteen tomorrow."She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he blurted out."An' I'm joining the regiment on the weekend.  They wouldn't take me before. Knew how old I was, see, and told me the railways needed men too. Can't stop me now, though." Jack caught, though Jacob missed, the flash of pain that crossed Maguire's face. She wiped it off almost before it registered, replacing it with a smile Jack thought looked like the sun rising over a nudist colony.  Odd image to come out of the fog, said the voice in his head. What does it even mean? Must be something he'd heard. "And isn't my Fergus there as well? You must be looking out for him. Both in the same regiment, he'll look after you, sure an' he will. Tell him, when you see him, the odd letter will never be taken as an insult now, won't ye?""Well, I will if I do, but they're saying it won't last much longer now. Probably all..""Over at Christmas, I know. God willing it will."Jacob's flushed face darkened a moment and Jack saw the question he was struggling to form. So did Maguire."Ah, but you'll look the very devil of a handsome young buck in your uniform, an' you will so. Sure an' the girls will all be after ye. Well, never let it be said Bridie Maguire was at the back of that line. Come here an' give me a kiss now, for yer birthday an' going away an' all." Jacob blushed red to the tips of his ears. He looked around; to note who was watching, Jack wondered, or for a place to run? A skinny, pimply, pasty-faced youth, the weight of rifle and pack would probably topple him. If this wasn't his first kiss, it was surely the best second place Jack had ever seen.Maguire, even through the fog, struck as a woman words like Junoesque, voluptuous and, well, others denoting ' well-built'  with a strong emphasis on the 'well',  had been coined to describe. She knew about fun, he thought, and how to have it. She grabbed Jacob by the shoulders and pulled him to her. He stood like a beast about to be slaughtered, not sure where to put hands and face. Maguire looked him coolly in the eye."Now ye'll need to be taking more of a grip on things than that, my lad. Try like this."She took his hands and slapped them to her generous rump. The boy's eyes widened further than Jack thought humanly possible, but before he'd the chance to say or do anything, Maguire had his face between her hands and had plastered his lips to hers. It was a kiss to pour lust into the loins of a bronze statue. If eyes on train or platform missed it, Jacob surely burned every one of the heartbeats it lasted into his memory forever. Jack remembered reading of a Confederate soldier who survived a tremendous battlefield blast to find himself utterly unharmed, though stripped of every scrap of clothing. Jacob looked a successful audition for a theatre performance of the part. Maguire released him with a hesitation, a near reluctance Jack suspected was no part of an act. Husband at the war, came the voice from the back of his mind, hasn't done that in a while, I'll be bound. "Woah, missus! I'll have a one o' them too an' you've got any to spare." "Away wit ye," Maguire shouted to the driver, her grin one the devil'd buy at auction for his Sunday best. "The lad's off to the wars and needs something to keep him warm of a night-time." "Well, I'm off to Coventry tonight and feel the same need. If you've done with him, can I have him back? I've a train to run and we're late already." Jacob regained the train with a curiously crouched shuffle; Maguire the constant north to his compass's needle. She stayed on the platform to wave him off, give him a wink 'lascivious' stretched itself tight to describe and mouth something Jack thought was: 'Come back for more'.A ticker tape of thought crossed and recrossed the youth's face, repeating and repeating the only important idea in his mind. Jack read it as the train pulled out. I did that, me. It was me did that, I did. They'd likely need iced water to get his mind to anything else for the rest of the day. Maguire stayed on the platform, waving, till the train was down the line, her radiant smile fading as dark clouds moved across her mind. She walked to the buggy, hitched skirts and swung herself up with an athletic grace. She took the reins, shook the brown horse into movement and sank back into herself. "That was kind." She looked at him. "I'm sorry young master, what was that?" "He was going to ask about the fighting, wasn't he? You took his mind off it. That was kind."

New, new, new.

My first new idea for a story in ages. I've had lots of ideas for the sequels to Brendan, though they don't all join together as well as I'd like them, so are going down in print very slowly.
This one came to me while watching an Italian film on youtube. I have at least half of a story because of that, but it is still something I'm going to steal, rather than borrow. They always say that's OK, I think because stealing the idea means making it completely your own, which is something I think I can do here. I'm quite excited by the new idea, which might be a more approachable story than Brendan for many people. this is the first part of it. I've used the free version of Pro Writing Aid to help me play with the structure and polish the writing. This might be a bit early to start doing that, but I wanted to play with the programme and I'm very happy with the results. Sadly, I didn't keep a copy of the first draft I produced to compare it with.



The Castle.The moon shone on the river and the castle. The day, June 5th 1915, had been unusually hot and dry; the walls of the castle soaking up more sun than even they could easily absorb. Windows gaped wide to let the night's breezes cool the interior. Those asleep inside fell to more settled slumber as the walls breathed out heat and sweat dried from bodies.Outside, the air turning cool and sweet, the moonlight glinted on the river in slow dancing patterns. Owls flew; small animals scuttled; trees moved like graceful, but forgetful women, not sure of where they'd meant to go next.From out the trees, walking slow and unhurried on the gravel path to the castle entrance, came two figures. A watcher, though there was none, would note things, some of them odd things, about them. One a man, the other a woman – no, not likely to be first remarked.  Wearing clothes not of their era - more obvious, though not as much as the fact the clothes were the silver white of the moonlight. Subtle, though somehow most certain to be first recognised, was that the moonlight was shining not on these two, but through them. At the edge of the gravel courtyard, both paused while the woman looked around at the scene.  The castle sat atop a small hill which rose from the river and gave a view reaching down to the bridge and distant mill. The hill made a natural Amphitheatre, a grass-covered lap of earth leading away to the line of the wood they'd just left. A few sleeping sheep dotted the slope. The woman nodded, pleased by the prospect. The man stood, arms akimbo, proprietorial pride written on him. He'd been on this hill before the building started, had ordered the design of the castle, been the force behind it becoming a beautiful stately home, overseen its furnishing, watched as it acquired its patina of age and been well pleased with what he'd wrought. He looked to the woman, made a slight bow and waved his hand in a gesture of formal invitation.  The woman gave him a smile, dropped a playful curtsy and walked on towards the entrance. By force of habit, both entered through the door. A less remarkable feat had they opened it first. Our imagined watcher might have enjoyed seeing them pass through its solid timbers, ghosts on a tour of their new habitation. Inside, they climbed the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms. The war had taken the men away and in the house were women and girls, peacefully sleeping, unaware of the spectral forms moving amongst them. At length the two stopped. The woman nodded."It's perfect."The man smiled and they faded into nothing.

Skyfall

Last night we went to see the latest Bond film had a meal in a Lebanese restaurant we like then went home to watch So You Think You Can Dance, a reality show that we all really enjoy. A good night all round, but this is about Bond.
One of the first films I ever saw was Thunderball. My half sister Ann took us (I think it was brother, sister and me, but it was a long time ago). I didn't understand it, but was wowwed by the action. I think I've seen every Bond since then. It's one of those things you do if you're British, isn't it? I couldn't tell you the plots of most of them, or even which actor played Bond in most of them.
Should you want to know, I never saw Roger Moore as Bond, he was just Simon Templer with a false passport.Pierce Brosnan was a good Bond and Sean Connery is the standard they all have to come up to, but most don't.
Daniel Craig has benefited from the Bond update and has a much better set of scripts to deal with. I think he's also much closer to what Fleming was writing about when he came up with the Bond character.
Anyway, on to the film. Midori and Aki went too. It was Aki's first Bond film, so she didn't have anything to compare it to. She found it too long, which I think was a thing about it. Not that I found it boring, or exactly agreed with her, but is was long enough that you could forget some of the bits that had gone before. So they were both amazed by the motorbike chase across the Grand Bazzar, they thought the 'changing carriages' scene on the train was amazing, they loved the Komodo dragons bit and Aki was waiting to see Craig do the line about his hobbies that she'd spotted in the trailer and tagged as cool. All of that they liked. By the end of the chase and the long set up for the defense of Skyfall, they'd forgotten most of that though and were ready for it to end.
I liked it all though.Javier Bardem is a brilliant villain - there aren't many who are that good at being bad. Daniel Craig I've admired since he played Geordie in Our Friends in the North years ago, even though I haven't seen all of the episodes. He's the model for Phoebe's dad in my sequel, where, like everything else there, he isn't all that he seems. I dunno about the 'best' Bond, but it was good.

How they look.

For some of my characters, it was important for me to be able to see them as I was writing them. That way I found it easier to know if they were doing it right.
Ferguson, for example, is Liam Neeson.
This is him from Rob Roy. I know that's a long time ago, but the image of a man with a fight on his hands and no technology that would save him fits. Once he was in place, it became easy to hear the voice and work out if I was getting that right too.
Kayley I've always thought of as Thandie Newton.
I think she's got the kind of steel that the Mage character has and she definitely matches what the character Jessica later says of her, that she was the only one in the books who was sexy. We're talking character here, as much as looks.
Malaika has always been a young Aishwarya Rai. That doesn't fit the character description too well, as a few people say that they'd taken Malaika for being picky/haughty. I don't think that is something that maps onto Ash very well.
I've never had a good image of Adam. The closest that I've ever been able to imagine for his Brendan character is the boy who plays Seamus Finnigan in Harry Potter.
His adult self is a bit nondescript, which makes him hard to visualize.
Jock started off as a young Billy Connolly,

but changed into Simon Pegg after I saw him in Star Trek as Scotty. This image


works really well for me.
Jake was written as Jake Thackray, a singer/songwriter from North Yorkshire.
 His songs are mentioned in the book. Adam has never heard any of them, which he really ought to have done. I have to come up with a good explanation of that yet. Jake's dead now, so it would have to be a young version of him in the story. The pic above gets over the intense side of his character that Adam talks about. This: 

says a lot more about the humour of the man.
I do have images in my mind for Megs and for Feri, but they are people that I know from work in different places, so I don't want to post pics of them here.

Looks very interesting

Right, a BBC item about an idea being piloted in Stockton-upon-Tees. The scheme captures carbon and water from the air and puts them through a process that (with lots of electricity) turns them into synthetic fuel. Initially, they are going to make stuff for formula one racing, but the big news is that they can set the device up to make any kind of fuel. So what? The laws of physics say you can't get something for nothing, so it would have to take more energy going in to make the petrol than you would get by burning the petrol produced.
However, if you have something like a wind, solar or wave power generator running and producing energy at times when no one needs it, it would be very  nice to have a way of storing that energy so that you could use it later, when you do need it. This would work.
It also drags carbon dioxide out of the air, so it could easily make carbon neutral petrol. That's more iportant than it might at first look, as we already have ways of transporting petrol around the world and a world that is set up for using it.
There is an argument that it would be more efficient to store that energy in batteries and use them for powering cars. However, the manufacture of those batteries is environmentally damaging and relies on supplies of elements known rare earths that are limited  (why they call 'em rare) and mostly in China. Some argue that using the electricity to manufacture hydrogen would be cleaner. this might be true, but hydrogen is extremely explosive, difficult to transport and would require a new distribution system to be set up anyway - something that would be incredibly expensive. A country like UAE (where I currently live), which has lots of space, lots of sun, lots of money to put into new tech and the Zayed Future Energy Prize for people who have bright ideas about new sources of energy, it might be just the place to start to develop this.
 

On dealing with gravity.

I've posted this bit before, but it's one of those weeks when the boys that I teach start doing their impersonations of gravity (its only job is to get you down). It is OK. I 've been dealing with gravity my whole life. It stops your body from flying, which could be a good thing, but it can't stop your mind doing it. Here's a place where my mind can fly.

There was a large cloak room just before the front door of East Gard’s Hall, the place I’d woken up in. The two long walls had lines of hooks with cloaks on them. I found a hook with Malaika’s name and picked up the cloak.I knew about this bit and was half looking forward to it - half afraid I’d wee myself. I put on the cloak and fastened it with the shiny brass clasp. It slightly hugged my shoulders when wrapped around me, but I could throw it over my back and get it out of the way. Tell the truth, I wanted a mirror, to see how it looked on, ‘cos Malaika looks serious good in a cloak, but there wasn’t one around.I walked out through the door. It was like the DIVs.  There was a gravel driveway going to a gate in the distance, with gardens on either side. I knew people did drive up that gravel, in carriages pulled by draft beasts or riding on runners, but I was going to use it for my runway, just like I’d seen Malaika do. I wondered about flying wearing a sanitary pad. Maybe I should be using tampons? No one tells you that sort of thing, do they?It’s lucky there’s a long bit about this in Book One, where Brendan and the other Apprentices are taught to fly - you don’t see it in the DIV though. I was still quite little when Dad read it to me, and I can remember practising take-offs in my bedroom with a towel over my shoulders.Well, no one was watching, so… I re-slung the cloak and held it out like bat wings. It wrapped neatly around my arms and gripped them, like it was holding them up. It was much longer than my arms, but the end part still stuck out like there was something underneath it. I walked forward to let it billow out behind me and then ran, flapping, just like I did when I was little. You see some of them just sort of leap and take off in the DIVs, but I wasn’t ready for that yet, so I took a long run-up.I was feeling far gone harpic, but suddenly the cloak took over the flapping and I was struggling to run fast enough. I think I might have shrieked when the ground fell away from me, but the cloak just kept on doing the flying, flapping my arms for me. In less than a second, I seemed to be higher than the trees. Two seconds later I knew for surely, ‘cos I was at the end of the driveway and was flying over the trees.It still felt a bit low, so I just thought about going faster and the cloak flapped harder. I angled myself a little steeper and shot up into the sky. It tells you in Book One that East Gard is at the top of a steep-sided valley on the road to the coast. Well, in a few seconds, I was high enough to see that. I was heading north, with the road running west and east below me. The cloak felt to be stuck to my back and down my legs as far as my ankles and was holding all of my body up. I felt like I was lying on some enormous swing fastened tight to the sky, and falling out of the sky was like...like no chance; I was far away secure. I stopped pumping my arms for a minute and did a gliding turn. And there was the city, with its wall and castle. There was the river, with the bridge and boats.I can’t describe the feeling that filled me then. It was like last year when Sara and me went on a roller coaster. We squealed and screamed all the way through the ride; not ‘cos we were scared, but just ‘cos we were so excited. I squealed and screamed again now and pumped myself higher and higher into the air, then swooped down and up again until I looped overhead in a circle. Then I corkscrewed down towards the ground, pulling out into another rising glide.I don’t know how long I flew. I was a bird, I was just pure flight, and I was strong. The cloak was doing all the work. It lifted me up into the sky with just me thinking about moving my arms, but when I pulled hard I felt myself rocket through the air. And when I glided… I could just close my eyes and feel the wind against my hands, knowing the littlest movement of my fingers would send me swooping in a great circle.The world was beneath me and I was above all of it. I could see forever and there was nowhere I couldn’t go. I felt… I felt…there’s no words for what I felt.I got up above a cloud and wanted to just fly all day exploring the top of the clouds. I think I would’ve done too, ‘cept I flew over a gap in the clouds and saw the city again. Black River Bridge! I knew what it looked like from Jack Hughes’ illustrations in the Encyclopaedia of The Land, and I couldn’t wait to walk on its streets for real. And I’d get to meet Senior Ferguson, my favourite character in all of the books, more even than Brendan Earle really. I just had to go there!I swooped down to be well below the clouds, and then started to fly with what Book One called, ‘the slow, steady beat of someone going somewhere distant’. I aimed for the north of the city, following a road to where the meadows were and where the Seekers would be brought for the Initiation. I could land there, check the time and maybe wander a little before the ceremony started. 
Aron the VishThe Mage did not see us. Not too high above, but thoughts elsewhere, I gauged. She did not see the Shedu either, as it flew behind and towards her - her eyes were on the City whence she travelled.We saw the evil beast from afar, and the Duergars called to her in warning, but to no avail. The Duergars depend overly on their Mages, and think for themselves in small matters only. We Vish have always looked to ourselves, in everything.I had my bow strung and an arrow nocked, while they still wrung their hands. A truth I would never tell them is I led the target overly far. My arrow took it in its throat - I had meant for the chest. It fell, silently, horned head flailing, blood-red talons clutching at the arrow, leather wings flapping like torn sails, cloven-hoofed legs kicking as if to run itself back into the sky. Then it crashed to ground nearby.I regained my arrow and we threw the corpse off the road and into a ditch. Big, the thing was, and heavy enough to need all of us. Its skin, so close, was more brown than red, the dart on the end of its tail sharper than the barb on my arrow and its horns shorter than I’d expected. I had not seen one so near before.The Duergars wondered aloud at one so close to the City and so far from Maldon’s lands. They speculated on the identity and importance of the dark-skinned Mage it had pursued, and why a Shedu would come for that Mage.  Mayhap they told someone of this at our next stop, but it was below me to boast of the deed. It is not the Vish way. It was enough to know I had saved the girl’s life. I need no thanks from a Mage, even one coloured as I am.Bugger!