Mind your ‘Thees’ & ‘Thous’

‘Nevermere’ opens with an ‘Ordeal by Water’ witch trial during the English Civil War in 1644.

While the rest of the book is set in the present day, repercussions from this action impact on the modern inhabitants of a small, Gloucestershire village. For the opening scene, I wanted to get a very genuine feel for the setting. The reader only spends one chapter in that timeframe, so it needed to stand apart.

At first, I found myself writing in ‘Thees’ and ‘Thous’ to such an extent that it became an unwieldy caricature. This is a technique used to comic effect in several films. I adore the Disney production of ‘Hocus Pocus’ and watch it every year. There we have three witches from 1693, who – thanks to a spell – come back to life in 1993. To create a definite sense of two timeframes colliding, the witches all speak in (what writers sometimes call) ‘Bygonese.’

It was after re-reading my own first chapter, I knew that wasn’t going to work in a more serious, chilling tale. So, I decided to read up on historical linguistics. It was during this research that I learned nobody was still using ‘Thee’ and ‘Thou’ in everyday speech much after 1600. Studies of diarists of the period – like Samuel Pepys – proved quite enlightening. So too were several articles by academic authorities on old speech.

So it was that I came to re-write the opening with more generic language. I added common terminology and salutations from the era like ‘Goodwife’ or ‘Goody’ and so forth. The result is a chapter that is a lot easier to read. It conveys an atmospheric setting without the language becoming intrusive or lunging into cartoonish parody.

‘Susan Blackwood. You have been found guilty via ordeal by water of the crime of witchcraft. That you did send out your spirit to attack Goodwife Parsons in an act of maleficium has now been irrefutably established.’

I’m sure you get the idea.

marko-blazevic-441379-unsplash

Around Ardenham

Regular readers will be aware that the fictitious town of ‘Ardenham’ from ‘Maria’s Walk’ is actually based on Faversham, my hometown on the Swale Estuary in Kent.

Maria herself was also inspired by a famous, real-life spectre known as ‘Diana.’ The book is dedicated to her. Maria’s character in the story is loosely drawn from a number of local speculations about who Diana may have been (albeit with much invention and embellishment to bring the plot to life).

Here are a few locations that inspired places in the book, with appropriate quotations and the odd note for your enjoyment.

Let’s start with the title image from this post.

Ardenham Marketplace

Faversham_Market_(6110526770)The guildhall stood an elegant, green, rendered structure with high, arched windows. The building rested on thick wooden stilts allowing a market to be held underneath. Once the local court house, it also featured a clock, flagpole and weather vane in the shape of a dragon. All around, wonky timber-framed buildings with high-pitched roofs clustered about the three principal streets that fed into this oft-photographed civic space.

Westbrook Pond

PondOn the other side of Dark Hill sat Westbrook Pond, fed from the Westbrook Stream that eventually flowed into Ardenham Creek in the centre of town. Lavington church reflected down into the mirror-like calm water from a tree-lined ridge above, and proved a popular scene for artists and photographers of all flavours. Jack had many fond memories of feeding the ducks there with his grandparents, whenever they came down to stay at Christmas back in the Seventies.

The Mermaid Inn

(Description based on the inn during the Regency period, as seen in a psychic dream by Gaby. It’s worth mentioning that the actual pub which inspired it – ‘The Anchor’ – is a great place to visit today. You can still sit in the room out back, where Richard Belmont meets with his henchmen in the book).

Pub‘The Mermaid’ was a large, tumbledown, timber-framed old inn squatting at the far end of Abbey Street. The place sat just before the wharf entrance to Ardenham Creek, where sailing vessels loaded and unloaded their cargo. Its reputation as a dirty, over-crowded den of cutthroats and villains of all shapes and sizes was well deserved. If you were a merchant, deckhand or salty sea dog in search of rough grog, a good fight, or pox-infested tumble with a coarse strumpet, you need go no further into town. The more genteel population of Ardenham secretly hoped the inn would never burn down nor shut its doors. While there were certainly other rough drinking establishments, fleshpots and diverse dens of iniquity to be found close by, its proximity to the embarkation/disembarkation point of maritime crews kept some of the rougher elements at arm’s length. Many never went any further than ‘The Mermaid,’ unless they had other business to attend to.

Glyndale Park Manor

(Note that the description doesn’t match the image here, as the building had a facelift during Victorian times. The reason this is an old black and white photo, is due to the fact the manor – Syndale – suffered a dramatic fire and was torn down in the 1960’s. Today there is a motel and gym on the site, which does indeed offer a commanding view of the estuary and town).

ManorTheir cork heels crunched on the gravel path. It led up to the tall pillars that supported a shady front porch fronting Glyndale Park Manor. White rendering shone in the late September morning sun, affording the impressive structure an almost ethereal quality to match its palatial grandeur. Even though the old place had clearly seen better days – particularly when examined up close – it was still an elegant former residence.

Gaby angled her head to look at Ardenham nestling in the shallow, rolling valley behind and just to the right of Abbey Wood. Above the assorted roofs, Lavington church could clearly be seen standing sentinel atop Dark Hill. Beyond, the estuary sparkled like a shimmering blanket of sequins.

Abbey Wood

(There are of course many sinister descriptions of Abbey Wood in the book. The real place – ‘Bysing Wood’ – can be pretty wild and creepy at times. However, since I have a more pleasant photo here of some bluebells in spring, I’ll include a quotation from near the end of the story).

WoodGaby grabbed his arm with a gasp, glancing around. “Jack, do you realise where we are?”

Jack studied his surroundings more closely. “Goodness. I hardly recognised it with all the carpets of bluebells. It’s the dell.”

So there you have it. I hope you enjoyed this little tour around Ardenham.

Lest We Forget

This Sunday we celebrate one hundred years since the end of the First World War.

I will as usual attend the memorial service in my hometown. Both my Grandfathers endured and survived the state-sanctioned mass murder on an industrial scale that was: ‘The war to end all wars.’

My paternal grandfather became a boy seaman at The Battle of Jutland, while my maternal one lied about his age and – despite a chest condition – went through the whole show in the trenches with The Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.

There are of course many beloved literary figures who wrote during that period. By far my favourite of the First World War poets has to be Wilfred Owen. At a time when many were penning verses about the glory of battle, he was one of the first to truly describe its horrors. A bold move.

Wilfred_Owen_plate_from_Poems_(1920)As an English horror novelist, I obviously admire anybody who can convey such stomach churning imagery in so economical a fashion. But we’re not talking about entertainment here. His writing makes me realise that if I were to reach down into the very darkest depths of my fertile imagination, I couldn’t create anything to rival the very real, daily horrors those people witnessed.

The onomatopoeia found in ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ is just one example of his literary brilliance:

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

You can almost hear the single shot rifle bolts being cocked time and again with every fatal discharge.

Wilfred Owen was killed almost a week to the hour before the armistice was declared. Tragically, his mother back home in England received the telegram on the very day the church bells finally rang again, after four years of silence.

As we pause to remember those brave souls, I’ll leave you with ‘Dulce et Decorum Est.’ It’s just one of many poems we memorised at school. But, the piece had a profound effect on the whole class and still moves me deeply to this day.

‘Dulce et Decorum Est ‘

By Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

 

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

 

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

 

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

A Happy Monday

Well, if you’re going to start the week off right, waking up to the book review I found this morning is one good example of how to do it.

When I released my debut horror novel, ‘Maria’s Walk,’ I chose not to solicit reviews from anyone and just let the chips fall where they may. I’m an author in a number of different genres, but decided to let my horror work develop organically and see what sort of responses (if any) it received.

The following succinct review is from a reader in the US on Amazon, who found the tale to have had an emotional impact upon her. Clearly the mix of horror, romance and good old-fashioned storytelling worked like a charm here. It was so nice of this lady to jot down a few kind words, and also very much appreciated.

MW-Review1

So, a big thank you to ‘Jennie’ – whoever she may be – for making my Monday morning such a happy one with this first review of my first horror novel. I’m glad you enjoyed the book. Your encouragement certainly made sitting down to continue work on my second horror novel an effortless task.

Heart of a Heroine (how one cup of coffee changes a woman’s life)

When you read the first couple of chapters from my debut horror novel, ‘Maria’s Walk,’ it becomes clear that Jack Foreman is one of the key protagonists. Here he comes, back home to Ardenham after the sudden death of his parents. An ex-minister, he’s lost his religious faith and has been struggling to make a go of ordinary life in the corporate workplace.

Then during a café breakfast, he has an unexpected encounter with Gabriella Wagstaff. She joins him for coffee and you know the sparks are going to fly – even if the fire is a long, slow burn. It’s a coffee that changes her life (and his, for that matter).

Gabriella Wagstaff“Jack?” the musical, lilting female voice evidenced a hint of surprise and cheekiness.  It stirred the diner from further deep thoughts his fathomless mind had wandered into whilst eating.  “Jack Foreman?” the tone sounded again, as if to reinforce its first word with a reassurance tag provided by his surname.

Jack looked up, a piece of sausage and mushroom squashed together on the back of his fork.

A slender, shapely woman – about five and a half feet tall – had walked past him on the pavement, before glancing back over her shoulder.  Long, wavy, light brown hair cascaded across bare shoulders leading down to a white, strapless top.  Below that a slim waist and tight, rounded buttocks were wrapped in a pair of stonewashed jeans.  Her legs ended in bare ankles and open low-heeled sandals.  Jack moved his focus back north.  It followed an elegant neck to where a pair of aventurine eyes sparkled out from beneath subtly shadowed lids.  Neatly trimmed eyebrows raised slightly as the woman regarded him.  A long, slender nose led down to full, coral lips and pristine white teeth.

The man regarded her a moment longer, before his mind adjusted for the years and the penny dropped who it was.

“Gaby?  Gaby Wagstaff?!”  Jack released the knife and fork with a clatter, rising to his feet as the vision approached wearing a wide smile.  He took her by the hand and planted a reciprocated gentle kiss on the side of her face.

This younger sister of his childhood best friend, was deliberately created to be a perfect mirror character for Jack. In fact, the book is nothing without her. She is – in many ways – a stronger person than the quiet, brooding but sensitive man.

Gaby has been a massive success in the city, but now lost her faith in empty materialism. At the same time, her long-supressed psychic abilities kick-in with a vengeance.

So in Jack we have someone who once focused on the spiritual and ignored the material, but has now lost faith in the spiritual but wrestles with the material. While in Gaby we have someone who once focused on the material and ignored the spiritual, but has now lost faith in the material but wrestles with the spiritual.

Gaby wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s gentle but tenacious and often doubts her abilities. She finds strength in sharing her concerns with Jack. Her love for him and the figures in the unravelling backstory behind how the haunting of ‘Maria’s Walk’ came about, evidence genuine tenderness and empathy.

As the drama relating to the ghost of Maria unfolds, the conflict moves from internal struggles Jack and Gaby are wrestling with, to a full-blown, physical, emotional and spiritual battle that challenges both their worldviews. It takes a real ghost to help lay their personal ghosts to rest.