Happy Thanksgiving – and a little snippet from my upcoming book…
After a week in which most of my attention has been firmly focused on my new release and King Richard and the so-called ‘Princes in the Tower’ – following the startling new evidence presented by Philippa Langley and her team – as Monty Python used to say, ‘And now for something completely different.’
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you in the USA – or anywhere else in the world celebrating this holiday today.
It’s a celebration that figures pretty heavily in my current work-in-progress (working title ‘Coultry Tower’), despite the book being set in Scotland. But the scenes are based on experiences of my own when living in Scotland some years ago – and working alongside an American in ‘exile’ from her homeland.
Mary Ann is based on that colleague only in being in similar circumstances – married to a British man and unable to meet up with her geographically-distant family for this major holiday because of work commitments. Oh, and in being an archaeologist whose workmates decide they should prepare a Thanksgiving dinner for her to partly make up for it.
In recognition of the day, I thought I’d share with you a snippet from the book – still in its first draft (so it may well change before publication). It may give you a flavour of what to expect – something rather different from my other books perhaps!
Alloa Tower, which inspired ‘Coultry Tower’Drew and Mairi are young schoolfriends who have been befriended by the archaeologists working to discover the remains of an ancient mansion (who hail from several different countries). They’ve been invited to join the Thanksgiving party along with their families and Uncle Stu and Donnie, owners of the site, including its still-standing stable block where the party is held and where Drew lives with his family. While I generally describe the book as a ‘contemporary ghost story’, I’m afraid this excerpt ends just a little before any ghostly happenings get going. (Maybe I’ll save a snippet from them to post at the classic ghost-story-telling time of Christmas Eve…)
The stable block where the party is held…“Coultry Tower”
“Everything was ready in good time for the party, of course. And Ryan, Mary Ann’s husband, had managed to keep it secret from her. Watching the emotions chasing across her face as she entered the carriage house – seeing confusion and bewilderment dissolve into shock, then delight – was one of the highlights of the evening.
‘What on earth – how – who –?’
Words tumbled from her mouth as her gaze ranged around the small crowd waiting about the shadowy room, took in strings of fairy lights and lanterns casting their glow over stars and stripes banners and bunting and tables piled high with plates of party food, bottles, cans, glasses. And as cheers and clapping erupted all about her, her speech died away entirely, bubbling over into laughter.
She swung round to Ryan and pummelled his chest with both fists, beaming and stuttering, ‘You – you – you –’
Mairi and I stood together looking on, though Mairi’s attention was mostly drawn to the laden table next to us.
‘This all looks tasty,’ she said, one hand stealing out to help herself from a bowl of tortilla chips. I tapped her hand as Mum used to with us when we were younger.
‘Wait until everyone else is eating,’ I hissed. ‘Mum said the turkey’ll be ready soon. She and Sinéad have been cooking it in our kitchen, along with lots of other stuff. It all smelt fantastic.’
As though his sharp ears had caught my words, Donnie detached himself from the cluster of people and announced,
‘Help yourself to nibbles and drinks, everyone. The main event won’t be long.’
And he went off to switch on some music and help at the drinks table, while Mum disappeared back to our house with Uncle Stu and Sinéad in tow.
The main event arrived in just a few minutes – the glossy brown turkey borne by Uncle Stu on our huge holly-wreathed Christmas platter, followed by the others carrying trays with overflowing dishes of nut roast, roasties, mashed potato, sweet potato, cranberry sauce, sprouts, and many other foods I couldn’t even guess at. Maybe some were the Ghanaian, Polish and Irish delicacies Sinéad had hinted at the day before.
‘Americans really know how to eat,’ Mairi whispered. ‘I’m going to try a bit of everything.’
Soon our plates were laden with as much food as could be crammed on them. And for a few minutes after that, little more than the scraping of cutlery and the clinking of glasses vied with the music that Donnie had set playing earlier. Gradually, though, as people started to get up to help themselves to pumpkin pie or another drink, the chatter of voices increased. I’d just sat down at the table again and was prodding with a spoon the beige slab in pastry that was my portion of pumpkin pie, when Mairi nudged me.
‘I think Dad’s getting on his high horse again,’ she said in an undertone.
My ears tuned in to what was being said on the next table while I dug out a spoonful of the smooth-textured pie filling. As I’d manoeuvred my way back through the chairs after fetching dessert for Mairi and me, I’d overheard Mary Ann telling André the story of the first American Thanksgiving – when local Native Americans who helped the Pilgrim Fathers to survive when they first landed in New England then shared the incomers’ meal to give thanks for their first successful harvest.
‘That’s why we always serve turkey and pumpkins and sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving – foods that the locals taught the Pilgrim Fathers to grow,’ she’d told him.
I vaguely remembered the story from primary school history lessons, but maybe it didn’t figure on the curriculum in Ghana. Now, as I slipped the cloying, sweetly-nutmeggy morsel into my mouth, I heard Greg say, darkly,
‘I’m not sure the Native Americans celebrate it that much these days.’
‘Maybe not.’ A tiny grimace flitted across Mary Ann’s face. ‘But at the time, of course, they were all friends.’
‘Until the immigrants started infecting the locals with European diseases,’ put in Uncle Stu with a grin, ‘and stealing huge swathes of their hunting grounds. Relations soured a bit after that.’
‘But I’m sure Mary Ann celebrates the day in the original spirit,’ said Mum hurriedly. Did I catch sight of a movement under the table and a sudden grimace this time on Uncle Stu’s face? It wouldn’t be the first time Mum had surreptitiously kicked him for stirring things. No one else seemed to notice.
Greg said, with a smile, ‘So should we all, I guess.’ He raised his glass of beer to first Mary Ann, then Mum. ‘It’s a great excuse for a party, anyway.’”
‘Coultry Tower’ (or whatever it’s finally titled) will be published in 2024 and you’ll be able to find out more about Drew, Mairi and the ghostly mystery they get caught up in.
Alex Marchant is author of two books telling the story of the real King Richard III for children aged 10+, The Order of the White Boar and The King’s Man, and a third in the sequence, King in Waiting, which continues the adventures of the young members of the Order in the following years. A fourth book, Sons of York, was published in June 2022 and offers a ‘plausible theory’ for the fate of the ‘Princes in the Tower’.
Alex is also editor of Grant Me the Carving of My Name and Right Trusty and Well Beloved…, two anthologies of short fiction inspired by King Richard, sold in support of Scoliosis Association UK (SAUK).
Alex has also published a standalone timeslip novel for readers aged 10+, Time out of Time, relating the adventures of Allie Turner through a doorway into history found under layers of old wallpaper at ancient Priory Farm.
Alex’s books can be found on Amazon at: author.to/AlexMarchant
My Twitter handle and Matthew Wansford’s
Instagram: AlexMarchantAuthor
GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17175168.Alex_Marchant
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/alexmarchantauthor
