No meeting on Thurs 27th for the Word watchers!!

Hi all,, especially Tony to whom we send our regards. 


Please note that the meeting originally planned for this Thursday will not now be going ahead.


Can we agree on a date at the end of November when we can hold our wordwatchers meeting over a few festive drinks at Jurnets Bar?


Please come back with some ideas everyone and keep accessing the blog !


Keep writing everyone:-)

Info for Peter from Lynn

Below is the schedule for the script hand-in dates, plus actual workshopping dates. I hope it makes sense. Please email me if you're confused and I will attempt to enlighten further:

 BEN/PETER: Hand in scripts 25th Oct. These will be workshopped on 1st Nov.

JULIE/MARGARET: Hand in scripts 1st Nov. These will be workshopped on 8th Nov.

CAROLINE/HILARY/RICHARD: Hand in scripts 8th Nov. These will be workshopped on 15th Nov.

BEN/PETER:Hand in scripts 15th Nov. These will be workshopped on 22nd Nov.

JULIE/MARGARET: Hand in scripts 22nd Nov. These will be workshopped on 29th Nov.

CAROLINE/HILARY/RICHARD: Hand in scripts 29th Nov. These will be workshopped on 6th Dec.

Scripts should be : 1000 – 2000 WORDS MAX . ALL SCRIPTS TO BE PRINTED ON ONE SIDE OF PAPER ONLY (which makes them easier for photocopying), A4 PAPER, DOUBLE-SPACED, PLUS ADD A CONTEXTUALISING NOTE LETTING YOUR READERS KNOW  WHERE THE EXTRACT APPEARS IN YOUR NOVEL. EG. LET US KNOW IF IT'S THE START OF THE NOVEL, FOUR CHAPTERS IN - THAT KIND OF THING....

Ben and Peter - I think it'd make sense if we looked at your summaries next week so as a group we can get some idea of what your books are about, in preparation for the workshopping of your scripts.

Caroline - I hope you don't mind putting this on the blog for Peter. Cheers.

On our final meet on the 13th Dec we shall have a mini-party come reading-of-our-best-bits!

Until next Tuesday. Have a good weekend.

Lynne

Human Glue - - Hilary Hanbury

Synopsis - 

You can never remove yourself from who you are. You can embrace it, run from it, pretend it never existed but what you can never do is stop it from being a part of you.

A family is the sum total of all its constituent parts like a jigsaw puzzle.  Unlike a proper jigsaw puzzle, they seldom fit together neatly, but are random pieces, touching at the edges and sometimes curving around one another snugly, but the whole picture is never revealed. People try to make them fit by forcing the pieces together, but that can be painful for the doer and the done to.

Other bits are sometimes thrown into the pattern to fill the gaps. This changes the whole thing and occasionally a small corner looks as if it might work. It depends on whether the random piece is captured or gets lost.

When a piece gets lost it affects the rest. The pattern must then cast around for other pieces to try to make it whole, then, all of a sudden the random piece is found and now, there is no room for it.

How does the final pattern arrange itself? What pieces of the puzzle will form part of the whole and which ones will never be found?

This human jigsaw is like the one that Grandmother had on the table for years, trying to find those random pieces and refusing to throw it away because she knew that one day they would turn up. Once they did, the whole thing would be glued together and put on display under a big plate of glass.

Margaret and Tony: Meeting tonight (13th October)

Hello everyone,

Margaret and I have arrived at Wensum and read your blog messages!  I hope you both get better soon, Hilary and Caroline!

We will both keep an eye on the blog ......

Very best wishes,

Margaret and Tony

Oh dear, message to the Word Watchers too...

I am afraid I won't be able to make it either tonight for our little gathering on 13th September. I have  had some kind of tummy bug since  the week –end and it progressively got worse.
 Pity I had done quite a bit of writing and I was so looking forward to sharing it with you all.

The course on Tuesday evening went well (although when we arrived at reception we were told that the course had been moved to Wednesday nights). That did send the four of us, present on Tuesday, in a bit of a panic (Margaret, Ben, Richard and I). Fortunately Lynne Bryan, the tutor wasn't told either, so they eventually found us a room (no room was booked for 11th September) and the course went ahead, thank goodness!!

My feeling and, it is only my feeling, is that the course is quite a big step up from last year's. Ben has already got a whole first draft of his novel and Richard, the other new person has his plot outline and a few scenes written, which is kind of where I am.

Lynne, the tutor will be far more hands-on and will request far more work from us, I think, compared to last year.
She is used to mentoring writers and script writers, who have already done a fair bit of their work. She is very nice and funny but probably might be less gentle with us than lovely Gary was. I must admit that it is what I was after and if, by the end of the course, I could arrive to a first draft of my masterpiece, then I will be a happy customer!!!!

On the night itself, we did a few exercises mainly interviewed each other in pairs then we introduced the person we had interviewed to the group. We also told Lynne what we expected from the course and she told us what she was expecting the course to be about. She is really going to try to work with each other and our ‘masterpieces’, almost on an individual basis, which I think in fantastic.  We also talked about all the things that stop people from writing and Lynne read to us how some famous writers wrote. Some in bed, some using always the same kind of notebooks, some using only fountain pens, etc.

Julie, if you are reading this, I know that you can't make Tuesdays, but I think you would have liked it.

Message for  HILARY and PETER: HOMEWORK  for next Tuesday:

Lynne asked us to put it on the blog for you, as we discussed what experience/what courses we did before. And she knows some of us have done Gary’s course.
Margaret please do feel free to edit this part if you understood the homework a bit differently!

1)      Write the summary of your novel (maximum: 1 side of A4).

A few pointers to help us:

Try to reveal the ‘heart’ of your plot.

Try to convey what kind of genre it is.

Give names of writers who write the same  kind of things as you are writing.

What is your book about?

Maybe condense the plot to its essence.

2)      Write the first sentence of your novel.

I will see some of you next Tuesday at Wensum Lodge and the others on Thursday in 2 weeks time, I guess.

Caroline

Will Anyone Be There?

As Hilary and Peter can't make it, and I have quite a way to come, I just wanted to make sure someone else will be there tonight.  Please reply to this blog, email me (I shall email you all as well) or text me on 07833 998545.  If I don't hear from anyone I may not come, so please get in touch.

Thanks

Julie

wordwatchers - message to everyone from Hilary

Hi all,
Sorry I have the most awful flu type symptoms so would hate to give what ever it is to everyone else. I hope the meeting goes well this evening and hope to see some of you next week at the course on Tues ( Caroline and Margaret, how did it go on Tuesday?) and the week after ( 27th Oct) at Wensum Lodge for our wordwatchers meeting as usual. Should have no probs getting a room as its half term.
Sorry to let you down this week but really do feel awful. I will post my contribution to the blog at some point so you can all give me some feedback.

I'm off back under my duvet folks. Have a great meeting.

Word Watchers - The Next Meeting l3th October

Dear Hilary, Caroline, Julie, Margaret and Tony,


Good to see you all  in the conspiratorial candle light of the Bicycle  Shop.  Unfortunately,  when I got home my wife reminded me that I would be away on the date set for the next meeting on l3th October. Please accept my apologies. I  hope the meeting goes well.i  I will be  available for a future  meeting.

Keeping writing,

All  Good Wishes,

PETER.

Meeting on the 29th

Hello fellow Word-Watchers!

Looking forward to the meeting tonight at the Bike Shed.  Thanks for the offer, Caroline, but I plan to park near ToysRUs as I will have the car anyway.  See you later.

Julie

Meeting at the Bicycle Club on Thursday 29th Sept.

Dear Hilary,

Thank you for organizing the next meeting at the Bicycle Club.   I am looking forward to being there  and shall bring some written work along.  I've got a couple of books  too.  One is by  William Boyd  which might be of interest  because of the different  Time Cycles.  The other is a book mentioned by Gary giving tips, which is beautifully set out  so that you can retrieve information as you are writing yourself.

Did anyone have the chance last  week to listen to some of the BBC's  dramatized  excerpts  from the book  I referred to  'Life and Fate' by Vasily Grossman.

Keep  Writing!

Looking forward to seeing  you all,
PETER 

Hello Word Watchers, just a few thoughts

Thank you very much Hilary (I guess!!!) for all the info about the next meeting place.

For the 29th September, I am quite happy to pick up people from the County Hall or Wensum Lodge area.
My car can easily sit 3 passengers, so please let me know if that could benefit any of you.

Also just a thought I had, but maybe on 29th September we could/should discuss what to do if the 'materclass for novelists' course doesn't run. For those who enrolled, obviously!! I hope, whatever happen with the course, we will still meet maybe every two weeks to help each other out...
Hilary - for the 'masterclass for novelists' course, to you think we should either suggest to Adult Ed advertises it on the NCC marketplace, our even take matters in our own hands and do this ourselves??!!
Finally, does anyone know if Gary's course is running tomorrow (22nd Sept.)? there are also only 5 people booked on it, but the start date hasn't been changed....

See you all on the 29th September.

Caroline

Thursday meeting on 29th Sept.

Hello everyone,
There are no free rooms at Wensum Lodge for the Wordwatchers meeting on 29th. I think, therefore, we should go with Plan B ( unlike the present government!!) and meet at the Bicycle Shop on St Benedicts Street.
In case anyone is not familiar with St Bendicts, it is the road which runs along the bottom of Pottergate and is home to the Norwich Arts Centre at the far end, and Cookes music shop nearer the city.
The Bicycle Shop is close to the city end being a little way up from Divas hair dressers and the Pizza Express. We will be able to use their upstairs room.
You can park on St Benedicts but there are parking meters. The best place I have found at that time is to park on the car park where TK Maxx and Toys R Us is situated which is accesible from Grapes Hill.

Let me know if you need any further information.

Looking forward to seeing as many of you as possible with some written work to read out as we agreed at the last meeting.

Tony, Margaret and Sandra - where are you? Hope to see you on 29th It was a really good meeting last time and we all read and discussed each others work. Really useful.

An Evening With

As you're not going to the Course tomorrow, just to let you know there is a local author - Rachel Hore - appearing at Jarrolds on Tuesday 20th Sept, 6.30 - 8.30pm.  She writes the sort of novels Hilary and I are trying to do - set in two time periods with some sort of link.  I gather she has written around five, I've not read any but will go along and see if I can get some tips.  Tickets cost £5.

Julie

Masterclass course

 When Adult Education called me today to say the materclass course is postponed until 11 October.  I was told 5 people had sign up, the delay will let them advertise more widely.

Word  watchers
I am sorry I did not get there on Monday, I was not feeling well enough.  Please let me know when the next one will be. 

Materclass for novelists - course start date postponed

Dear Word Watchers,

This is mainly for people who have enrolled on the above course.
The masterclass for novelists course which should have started on Tuesday 20th September 7-9pm at Wesum Lodge has been postponed until Tuesday 11th October 7-9pm.
I guess it's due to the lack of interest, but I am not am sure.

The next Word Watchers meeting will be on Thursday 29th September, I believe - lacation to be decided, I am sure Hilary will let us know.

Bye for now.

Caroline

Monday it is then - from Hilary

Hi everyone,
I understand that the next meeting is tomorrow evening. Sorry about the confusion. I must have not been concentrating!
Will meet in the reception area then. See you at 7pm.
Hilary

Word Watchers

Hilary

I definitely have it down for this Monday, the 12th (Thursday is my wedding anniversary, so wouldn't have agreed to meeting then!)  Peter and Margaret both mention Monday 12th Sept on the blog as well.

Julie

Hello Wordwatchers

Just a reminder that we are meeting next Thursday at 7pm in reception as we did last time. I have not yet booked us a room but will do so next Monday. Hopefully, we can have Crawshay again.


I hope we will see Tony at the next meeting as he dropped me an email regarding the last meeting when he was on holiday.


Sandra, If you are still reading this Blog - we miss you too! Do come and meet with us and celebrate our new 'moniker' The Wordwatchers group.


I have to confess to not having even looked at my novel, but I do have an excuse - I only got back from Singapore on Tuesday morning and had not seen a bed since Sunday night!


 I promise that by next Thursday I will definitely have something to read at the meeting.


I checked on the enrolments and only 3 people have enrolled so far! Where are you all?


Am looking forward to catching up with everyone's writing on Thursday and maybe seeing a couple more of the group maybe.......?


Peter and Julie, I haven't yet had an opportunity to read the chapters you have posted, but am writing on Sunday morning and will set aside some time to read then. I so enjoy it that I want to make proper time to take it all in. 


Caroline, thanks so much for asking your Dad about the 'arondissements' this is so useful as I am writing part of the 'Paris events' on Sunday. Please thank him for me, or if her reads the blog, Mercie Carolines Dad!


Keep writing folks - and see you on Thursday.

Chapter 2

Just so Peter doesn't feel so bad about posting on the blog (we love to read it, Peter), here is the follow up to my new start.  Comments gratefully received.  I will bring part three with me, printed out, on Monday.  Hope to see you all then.

June 1956

The village policeman arrived on his bicycle half an hour after Mary had sent the cook’s son off to get him.  Mary felt sick to the pit of her stomach, imagining the reaction of the villagers and, most of all, dreading how she would tell Charles.

PC Morrissey stood in the hallway, holding his police helmet and his bicycle clips in what Mary supposed was intended to be a respectful way.  ‘I hear there’s been an incident, Mrs Fletcher.’

Mary nodded.  ‘You’d better come upstairs.’

She led the way up the sweeping staircase, past the familiar portraits of Rupert’s ancestors, to the first floor landing and the entrance to Rupert’s bedroom.  She had shut the door earlier and, as she hesitated outside, she half-wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake.  Could it be that her husband was not really dead, but that she had been the victim of some awful hallucination?  Reluctant to find out the truth, Mary stood, her eyes shut tight, willing for Rupert to be sitting at his writing desk by the window when she opened the door.

PC Morrissey cleared his throat noisily and shuffled his feet on the wooden floor.  Mary opened her eyes, slightly annoyed at the interruption, and turned to look at him. 

‘Shall we, Mrs Fletcher,’ he asked, indicating the closed door.  She bit her lip and turned the handle.

A quick glance indicated that Rupert was lying exactly as she had left him.  She waited by the door while PC Morrissey took out his notebook and pencil.  ‘So you found him like this?’ 

‘Yes,’ Mary replied quietly.  PC Morrissey strode up to the bed and peered intently at the occupant.  With a thoughtful ‘hmmm’ he walked around the other side.  He prodded Rupert in the ribs with the end of his pencil and then tapped it on the stock of the shotgun.  ‘Is this your husband’s gun?’

Mary nodded, trying to avoid looking at the bed.

PC Morrissey licked the other end of the pencil and wrote something in his notebook. ‘Did he leave a note?’ he asked, staring pointedly at Rupert’s writing desk.

‘He was hardly up here long enough,’ Mary replied, but she went over to check.  The only items on the desk were a sheet of blotting paper, a large bottle of ink, and a selection of pens.

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘No.  He came straight upstairs.  He’d just got back from London.’

PC Morrissey made another note in his book, then he looked up, as a sudden question seemed to strike him.  ‘Were you surprised he didn’t speak to you?’

Mary shrugged.  She hadn’t considered it odd at the time.  ‘He probably didn’t know where I was.’

‘I will have to speak to other members of the household.  Could you give me their names, please.’

‘Well, there’s our son Charles, and there’s Rupert’s sister Annabelle and her husband Peter Welch, they live in the East wing.’

PC Morrissey frowned and looked up from his writing.  ‘East wing?’

‘This is the West wing.  They live the other end, over there.’ Mary indicated the general direction with her arm.

‘I see.  Who else?’

‘No-one else lives in the house.  Rupert’s father passed away some time ago.’

‘What about the staff?’

‘Is this really necessary, Herbert?’ Mary asked.  PC Morrissey had lived in Hayton almost as long as she had and he knew perfectly well who lived and worked at the Hall.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fletcher, but I must take a note of everything.’

She sighed.  ‘There’s Mrs Parsons, the cook, and her husband, who manages the estate.  They live in a cottage in the grounds with their four children.  Or is it five?  Other than that, there’s just David Mitchell, the stable boy.’

PC Morrissey stopped writing and raised his eyebrows.  ‘Boy?’

‘Well, the position is called stable boy, but he’s nineteen, the same age as Charles.’

‘And where is master Charles now?’ 

Mary sighed again.  ‘He is travelling back from University today, for the summer break.’  She felt tears pricking and took her handkerchief out of her sleeve, dabbing her eyes.  ‘He should be home soon.’

Right on cue, she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  A voice, which she thought was probably David’s, called up ‘No, Charles, wait!’ then there was the sound of a second set of footsteps running upstairs.

Mary turned towards the doorway as first Charles appeared, then David, looking over his shoulder.  Both young men took in the scene before them with horrified expressions. 

Charles broke the silence with an anguished question.  ‘Oh my God, Mother, what have you done?’

Julie

Another message to the Word Watchers

I will be enrolling on the Tuesday night masterclass.  I have just tried on line and have forgotten the password, so I will do it by phone this week.

Peter,  Don't worry about putting things on  the blog, that's what it is there for.  I am waiting eagerly for the next instalment. 

Looking forward to seeing you all again on the 12th.

Margaret 

PETER: MESSAGE TO THE WORD WATCHERS

Hello  Word  Watchrs,

Hope you are all  well  and  still  pouring out those words.  I've enrolled for the Master  Class  on Tuesday evenings at  Wensum.    I  shall  miss  the first class on the 20th September  as we are entertaining very good friends from  the USA but  I  am looking forward  to seeing you at the gathering on  the l2th Sept at the same venue.

I've  written the third chapter of  'The Incredible Voyage of the Silver Darling'.  Can  I put it on the website  for critical comment?  I find it so helpful  to  have your views  and I feel  I'm not just writing  for myself.  I'm  hesitating  because I seem to be hogging  the site at the moment.  Love to see  extracts  from other  Word  Watchers'  work.   Let's  be bold and  come out  from under!

All  Good  Wishes,  PETER      

Peter--Chapter 2

Lights flashing and flickering, the alarm burst into life.  With a muffled cry, Stanley frantically struggled to switch it off and then sat, yawning and stretching and staring blankly at the bed sheets.  Suddenly he remembered!  Wasn’t he about to embark on the greatest adventure of his life?  This was the day he had been working for all his life.  How could he have possibly forgotten?

“Funny how in sleep” he thought, “you can forget the most momentous promises you make to yourself".  Stumbling out of bed, his feet blindly found the comfort of his slippers.  Out of his bedroom he went groping into the greyness and silence of the deserted house.   Automatically, he washed, dressed, gobbled down some breakfast and then secured the house.  In the kitchen he put on his red pressure suit and checked that he had all he needed in the bulky pockets.

He stood on the garden doorstep, turning the key in the back door.  He paused.  A pinch of anxiety in the pit of his stomach told him he had forgotten something. His face looked pained.  He couldn’t remember.  He stroked his chin.   The word ‘apples’ leapt into his mind. “Yes that’s it”, he thought. 

 “Don’t forget the apples, Stanley.  Don’t forget the apples.” Claus’s words began echoing in his mind.  He’d always taken his old friend’s advice but this stuff about apples was a lot of nonsense.  “I won’t bother”, he thought, checking that the kitchen door was securely locked.  

He cast a glance upwards.  The night sky still lay strewn with stars, but on the horizon there was just a streak of grey dawn light. A chill in the air made him shudder as he hurried along the garden path, only stopping for a moment to look at the old apple tree that stood bare and alone in the centre of the frosted lawn.   On some mad impulse he crossed the grass and gave it an affectionate hug.  There was a sense of peace as he rested his head for a moment against the rough bark.

“Farewell, my friend” he said, and then continued along the garden path.

The old RAF Nissen hut lay at the far end, a long, tall building built of concrete with a rusty, curved zinc roof – a leftover from the old RAF base that lay deserted and empty along the lengthy of the back gardens.  His father had bought it years ago and had run his business from there.   To the neighbours it was considered an eyesore and should have been pulled down years ago; for Stanley it was his second home.  He’d taken early retirement to devote himself to his project there.  Now he felt a surge of pride and excitement as he opened wide the big doors. 

His activities did not go unobserved.   After a sleepless night, his neighbour Martha Ibbotson was watching him closely from her upstairs bedroom window.  In the background her husband Bert lay sleeping, his snores reverberating around the room. Bending forward in the dark, Martha leaned on the windowsill and squinted through the lace curtains.  The garden was enveloped in shadow but she caught sight of a figure, dressed like an astronaut, walking down to the hated Nissen hut.

“Bert, Bert!  Wake up!  Come and see this!” she cried.

 “HUH!” Her husband gave an involuntary cry, followed by a salvo of snores.

“BERT!”  Martha called insistently.  He rolled over, eyes slowly opening, to look at the bedside clock that showed 6 a.m.     “For God’s sake Martha, it’s Sunday morning!  What is it?” 

“It’s Secret Stanley.  He’s dressed in strange clothes and opening the big doors in the Nissen hut.  I think he’s gone mad.   Come and see.  Quick!”

Bert struggled up.  His face had a resentful expression.  He fished around for his slippers and staggered over to the window.  Sniffing and pushing back his hair, he pressed his head against the window pane.

“Well I’ll be.......!”  he said slowly, as though he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Get those binoculars down, Bert.  Quick!” ordered Mary. “I really can’t believe this is happening.  At last we’re going to see what he’s been up to all these years inside that horrible den of his.  Hurry up, Bert,”   she ordered.

Bert pulled up his pyjama bottoms, climbed onto a chair, fumbled amongst the dusty boxes on the wardrobe and eventually found the binoculars and placed them in his wife’s impatient hands.

Dawn was breaking, the darkness of night turning to a grey-blue, the rising sun in the east now appearing and sending streaks of yellow across the horizon and giving Martha Ibbotson a clearer view.  Something was slowly emerging from the Nissan hut.  To her eyes it looked like a large seagull on wheels.   First a beak and then the short body with four porthole windows on each side.    With two short wings it had a tall tail that stood up and the whole thing was on three long legs with shiny wheels.  

Martha and Bert’s mouths fell open, speechless.  “He’s been building a plane!” cried Bert.  “Well I never!”

“Now we know why he cut down his hedge the other week and cleared the rubbish off that old runway”, said Martha.

 As it turned and bumped through the open hedge and onto the runway of the abandoned RAF aerodrome, the silver body of the shuttle flashed in the rising sun.

 “It looks pregnant!” said Bert pointing to the strange ball shape beneath the undercarriage.  “That’ll never fly in a month of Sundays!” he added contemptuously.

On its cone-shaped nose, Martha picked out the name of the ship in bright red letters “The....Silver....Darling” and caught a glimpse of Stanley’s head in the cockpit window.

By the derelict control tower about a mile away, Stanley brought the ‘Silver Darling’ to a halt.  He donned his helmet, secured his straps and studied his computer and the small control panel with the navigation instruments which, with a click, went from ‘Rest’ position to ‘Active’.   Stanley’s face was pale with tension.  To be truthful, he was not entirely sure that Bert was wrong.  A lifetime’s work was about to be put to the test.

“This is it!” he thought, almost holding his breath as he slowly released the throttle. .... Nothing happened.  Not a sound.  Not even a murmur.  Stanley swallowed hard and tried again.  No response.   He stared up at the panel of dials and began a thorough systems check. 

The delay did not go unnoticed. “See, I told you,” said Bert gleefully.  “He should have taken off by now. It’s a white elephant that thing.  Nothing but a big Airfix model. He’ll have to tow that back.  Bloody idiot.”

“When I report this to the council on Monday, we’ll get him out at last!  He won’t get away this time.  After all the banging and drilling we’ve had to put up with down the years”   Martha said vengefully.

Disturbed by the sound of taxiing and the appearance of a plane in the old aerodrome, other neighbours’ heads had appeared at open windows.

“It’s an absolute disgrace,” called Martha to Mrs Doulton two doors down, who nodded her head in agreement.

“Come on, Bert.  Get your dressing gown on, we’re going into the garden to sort out all this nonsense” said Martha.

What a strange sight.  Sunday morning and a motley group of neighbours in an odd assortment of dressing gowns, scarves and woolly hats, gathering in their gardens, talking angrily.

   

Halfway through his procedures, Stanley cast a glance back through the cockpit window.  What he saw gave his checklist activity a new sense of urgency.  A mile away, on the edge of the aerodrome, a posse of angry neighbours was mustering.  He ran his eye over the computer screen as, with each click, he ran a test over each function of the ‘Silver Darling.’  A note began to flash in front of him.  FUEL INSTRUCTION NEGATIVE. 

“Strange,” he thought.  “I checked the fuel gauge yesterday.”

He cast another anxious glance backwards.  A group of neighbours and their kids had clambered over the fence and, armed with brooms and sticks, were beginning to advance along the edge of the aerodrome.

 

 “Nothing for it.  Better use the reserve supply.”

Focussing on the computer, he began calmly tapping in new instructions and adjusting switches on the panel.   After a few seconds there was a hiss of steam and to his joy the ‘Silver Darling’ burst into life, vibrating and cranking its engines. Bert Ibbotson, Reg Doulton and several others who were leading the ‘sheriff’s posse’ were now on the start of the runway.

 “He should have been locked up years ago!” one of them, Sam Dickerson, cried angrily. “We could get him sectioned for this”, said another, a thin, mean-looking man called Cedric.

Suddenly they stopped in their tracks.   With a loud WHOOOSH, the craft jumped horizontally into the air.   Mouths fell open as she rose high above the control tower.   For a moment she hovered like a sparrowhawk, the long legs contracting and tucking themselves under the wings.  Then, without losing height, the ‘Silver Darling’ slowly moved from the horizontal to the vertical.  The wings retracted.   There was a roar and a boom that made the ground shake and then, on a triangle of dazzling fire, the ship went soaring skywards amidst a cloud of orange and purple smoke that entirely engulfed the control tower.  

Terrified, the posse tumbled to the ground.  In her kitchen, a tray of mugs of tea shook in Mary Ibbotson’s hands.  In the bedroom above his shop, Claus Carlson was awoken by the shaking shelves of lamps that sang out in chorus.  He jumped out of bed and ran to the window, pulling back the curtain just in time to see a craft like a silver pencil vanishing high into the sky.

“Good God!  He’s done it!  Stanley’s done it!” he exclaimed, collapsed into a chair in utter astonishment. 

Hilary - Meeting room for Thursday evening

Hi everyone. That means:
Caroline, Julie, Margaret, Peter, Tony and Sandra at present. I hope I haven't forgotten anyone!!
That's six including me who might be signing up on Thursday for the Tuesday evening group in September. Brilliant. I'm sure there will still be places.


We will be in Crawshay room on Thursday. It's been booked under my name. If you don't know where it is, just go into reception, through the far door on the left and turn directly left again. Crawshay is the room next to the ladies toilets.


I am also happy to bring something to drink. Peter has very kindly offered a bottle of wine, but I will bring a flask of coffee and some biscuits. I'll bring some plastic cups as well.


Are we going to use the room for an hour and a half like we used to with Gary?


Looking forward to meeting you all again and getting down to some real work!


See you Thursday


Hilary

PETER - THURSDAY NOVELISTS - WENSUM LODGE

Looking forward to seeing  you all  on Thursday  l8th  at  7 pm.  Thank you for your kind comments  on my first chapter.  They are each like a welcome  draught of  air  to keep  the ember of  my self-confidence alive. Hilary I'll  bring  a  bottle of wine  for those  who feel  they can partake.  Julie  I've  written my  second chapter and I'll print off  part  of  it for  general review..  I haven't made any move yet on the enrolment  until  I've  met the other Famous Five  or will it be  the Sensational  Six  or  Seven.

All Good  Wishes,
PETER. 

I'm Here!

Hi Hilary

I went on yesterday and posted comments on both yours and Peter's work - it isn't always easy to see when someone has commented on something rather than posted a new item.  I'm looking forward to meeting you all again on Thursday and I think it would be a good idea to print out and bring along what we have done so far.  We could bring ourselves a drink but I'm driving, so unfortunately it won't be wine!

Julie

Where are you all???

Hope you are all ok to meet at WL at 7pm on Thursday still. There has been very little traffic on here in the past few days. No doubt you are all beavering away at your first chapter/ precis of your novel. ' Looking forward to reading some of them. Shall we all print out what we have done and bring on Thursday?

I'll try and get the first chapter of my own done by then, but if I don't get time, I would really like your opinion on my posting so far.

Looking forward to seeing everyone. What about a drink? Shall we bring something e.g. Flask of tea/coffee/ wine!
Best wishes
Hilary

My efforts so far.... Hilary

Human Glue  - By Hilary Hanbury

This is the outline of the novel as far as I have managed to plan it. It may well change as it has already done a couple of times, but I would be interested in any comments. Thanks

Ellen started life without many advantages and with precious little in the way of family support. Her determination to succeed , borne of witnessing the slow disintegration of her own mother through mental health problems, eventually projects her into a moneyed world, where what you own, is more important than who you are.

She has three daughters, the youngest of whom, Carrie, rejects what she considers to be her mother’s poor judgements and philosophy of life and does her level best to destroy it and try to jog her mother back to value what Carrie considers to be the more important things in life.

Carrie has an affair with her mother’s lover but the situation becomes intolerable and she tries to find a way out by fleeing to Paris.

While there, she meets Josh, a Canadian student with whom she forms an attachment, mainly due to the fact that she is completely alone and also lonely.

The life she has known in the UK pales into insignificance as she is thrust into a world where the gangs rule, where peoples’ lives are as insignificant as gnats and where she has to struggle to survive.

   ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This is it, so far. Now the hard work begins to pull it all together.

 I will certainly look forward to your help and support folks!  - Hilary

Margaret

Caroline,  Thank you for finding out about the Tuesday course.  I have not signed up yet but intend to do so.

Hilary, Thank you for the work you have done in  sorting out the various meetings.

I will be there on Thursay 18th and I am look forward to seeing you all.

PETER

Caroline  thank you for the added information about the new course on  Tuesday evenings.  I want to join  but before enrolling I  will see what the others  are going to do  when we meet on Thursday the l8th at Wensum.

May I add my thaniks to Hilary for all the spadework in organizing  another  meeting place and helping to create the new course.  Thank you  also  for  the  encouraging comments  on the first  chapter of the  'Incredible Journey of the Silver Darling'.

Glad  to hear  Sandra and Tony  are back on track.

Looking forward  to see you all  on  Thursday.

pe

Hello again! from Hilary

Welcome back Sandra. We missed you! Yes, please come on 18th. We will have a room but will meet in reception if wet and cold, and on the seats if dry and sunny.
I haven't written my 'skeleton' yet, so I feel a bit of a fraud at the moment, however i am hoping to get some time this week. Look forward to seeing you - and Tony too!

Caroline, I haven't signed up yet for the Tuesday class but i would like, so if everyone wants to then confirm on this blog and we can all do it so we don't miss out on a place. What do you think?

Room for one more??

Sorry could not make the July meeting. If you have room for one more I would love to join you in August.  I am also going to sign up for the new course.
Have not done much writing - has been on the back burner I am afraid. I have enjoyed reading the blog and your new work.
Look forward to seeing you all again.
Sandra x

Hi All, from Caroline

I just wanted to say a BIG THANK YOU to Hilary for finding out/sorting out, about what we discussed last week! Thank you Hilary!!
And I am glad to see that Tony is also on-board. Tony, I hope to see you on 18^th August, if you can make it!

I just also wanted to know, if some of you have already registered for the 'Masterclass for Novelists' course Hilary mentioned in her message. The one on Tuesday evenings starting in September. Or, is everyone waiting until we meet on 18^th August?
 I might be wrong but, all creative courses seem to have 16 spaces to start with, and the ‘Masterclass for Novelists’ has only 10 spaces left.
If some of you have already booked themselves on it, I will do the same, as don’t want to miss out!
I am also glad that it is set up be a year long course, although divided into 3 trimesters.

I will try to post something on the blog before the 18^th, however I am ashamed to say, I am nowhere as advanced as you all seem to be with my novel. I am desperately trying to write down its skeleton and I have too many possibilities and can’t make my mind up. I might needs tips from you guys, on 18^th, if it’s ok...
However I do work daily on my masterpiece!!!! and I leave you with a bombshell...after doing the ‘character writing a letter to the writer’ exercise with my main characters.....one of the main ones, has changed his/her name....Imagine the shock....!!

Good news for our August meeting

Hi all,
The good news is that we can use a room for free for our August meeting. The other good news is that we have been listened to in Adult Education, so much so that the Creative Arts team have now added a Masterclass for Novelists on Tuesday evenings to their Autumn schedule.  This is good news for us.

I have also had a communication from Tony ( Hi again Tony!) Who was sorry to have missed our get together in July.
So we can meet  in Wensum Lodge reception ( or outside if its a nice evening) on Thursday August 18th for our next Thursday Noevelists get together.

Well done to Julie and Peter for posting their pieces to the blog already! I will try to do mine this evening, meanwhile good writing everyone and see you all on 18th August - at Wensum Lodge. Shall I bring a bottle?

Peter--The Incredible Journey of The Silver Darling

Chapter I (APPLES   FROM   EDEN)

A creeping mist hung over Dentry Hill and the crooked Tudor houses huddling there looked like ghosts from the past.  A hooded man bearing something awkward in his arms hastened along the deserted, cobbled street.   He paused in front of a tall shop window containing lamps of all shapes and sizes.  Casting a furtive glance from left to right, he pushed open  the narrow side door and made his way up the rickety, wooden staircase to a broad landing.

A dusty white lamp in the middle of the ceiling, cast a sour yellow light on piles of cardboard boxes, forcing him to weave his way through the maze to reach a battered desk, where he lay his burden down and pushed back his hood.  The face revealed was wrinkled; blue eyes restless and observant, the mouth thin and determined.  In his mid-sixties, tall and wiry, with determined shoulders.  Shaking the brass bell on the desk urgently, there was no response.  Impatiently, he tried again – the ringing sounds echoing around the empty shop.  Shifting boxes and slow, ascending steps were now heard: 

“All right, I’m coming, I’m coming” a sleepy voice called. A balding, bespectacled man wearing a grey dustcoat appeared. “Surprise, surprise!  Good evening, Stanley” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.  “So you have come out of your lair.  Must be something important”  he added teasingly, giving a searching glance at his visitor as he made his way behind the desk.

“I’ve come to say goodbye, Claus.”  “GOODBYE!” exclaimed the elderly Dane.  “You don’t mean to say you’ve actually finished your project – after all these years?”    “Aye, it’s done”  Stanley sighed.  “I canna hardly believe it myself.  I shall be leaving early tomorrow morning.  I’m not sure when I’ll be back.... if I get back” he added fatefully, “ but I wanna give you a present for all the help you gave me with ma project. I could'na hae completed it without your help and yon removal van of yours – not at all.” 

Claus studied his friend closely for a moment.   ‘The project’ as Stanley called it was an impractical venture, a pipe dream that had gone on for years.  Claus never thought it would ever see the light of day and he was a little alarmed at the announcement that ‘it was finished’.   Perhaps Stanley was really ‘losing it’ but Claus decided to humour him this evening, as he had done for many  years.  

His eyes fell on the mysterious object on the table wrapped in brown paper and, lifting up his glasses, began peeling the paper away.  Little by little something dark began to emerge, something curved, about a metre in length and half a metre high.

“A coffer, a mediaeval coffer.  Is this really for me Stanley?”  he said in delight, running his hand appreciatively over the round-topped, wooden box, reinforced by metal clasps. “Aye, it’s for you.  As the village’s archaeologist, I thought you’d like it.  I found it when I was digging a trench.”  Claus Ericsson’s eyes beamed with satisfaction.  He switched on the table lamp, put on white gloves and moved closer to the coffer.  “ Made in Germany.  Merchants used them to transport valuables.  Very interesting, very interesting.   Found in your garden you say?”

“Aye, near that old apple tree.  The one I gave you apples from last year to make your wine.  You haven’t opened it  Stanley,” he  said with surprise, fingering the lock on the coffer.

“It wasn’t for lack of trying.  But I couldn’t, and I did’na want to force it.”

“Could be something valuable inside, Stanley.  You might regret this!” said Claus with a laugh.

“I dinna think so, I did give it a good shake, I must admit, did’na hear a thing move.”

“Let’s see.  At least we have the initials of the owner – FOP”  he said almost to himself, pointing to the capital letters placed one above another on the main metal clasp.  He turned the coffer on its side and ran his hand over the base, tapping at it with his knuckles. “Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed with a note of triumph.   Taking a small  hammer from the drawer, he gave a short but decisive tap to a corner.  A  small rectangular piece automatically slid back, revealing a hidden mechanism.  Claus fiddled with its levers.  Suddenly the clasps on the coffer sprung open and he opened the lid.  Both men peered inside.  The interior was dark, damp  and smelt musty.

“I told you it was empty” said Stanley.  “Not quite,” said Claus, who took out a thin wooden tube that had been wedged at the bottom of the coffer, so dark-stained that it was not immediately obvious to the eye.  He opened the top and, holding it upside-down, shook it.  A roll of parchment, tied with a faded ribbon, slipped out onto the table. With great care, he began to unroll it; smoothing it with the palm of his hand, he brought  the lamp closer.  In the glow of the light before them, a score of lines in black Latin script, in places blurred by dampness.

“Ah, now we have the name of the owner” said Claus, bending forward with a magnifying glass and pointing to the signature at the end. “Brother Francis Octavius Peridictus.”

 “Do you speak Latin, Stanley?”  “No.....only my school Latin, I’m afraid”, he laughed and then, earnestly studying the faded parchment, his gaze became intense as he began to translate, slowly picking over the words.  “HEARKEN YE  WHO  READ  HEREIN,  FOR  I  DO   BEQUEATH  A  MANIFESTATION,  MADE  KNOWN  TO  US  BY  THE   GRACE  OF  GOD  IN  THE  INFIRMARY  CLOISTER  GARTH  OF  BIRCHILL  HOUSE.”

“Excuse me, Claus, but what is a cloister garth?” “An open space, Stanley, where the monks could relax.   Sometimes they were found adjacent to the infirmary.  Fruit trees and medicinal herbs were grown there to help the sick.”

Claus read on –  “BE  IT  KNOWN  THAT  IN  EACH  DECADE  SMALL  CLUSTERS OF  RARE  APPLES  APPEARETH  AT THE TOPMOST  BOUGHS OF  THE  TREES KNOWN AS ‘EDENS’.   BEWARE,  THESE   FRUITS  HAVE  STRANGE  POWERS.   PARTAKE OF  THE  BRIGHT  RED   APPLE IN  AN  ANTIQUE  PLACE  AND YE  WILL  MANIFESTLY  ADOPTETH…”

Claus hesitated.  “…THE  MIEN AND  MANNER OF THOSE TIMES.   BUT EAT OF THE  GOLDEN  APPLES  AND YE  RETURNETH   TO  THINE OWN DAYS.   OTHERWISE,  EAT     THESE   FRUITS  IN   CONTEMPORANEOUS  CIRCUMSTANCE  AND  NAUGHT WILL OCCUR.

 FRANCIS  OCTAVIUS  PERIDICTUS.  BIRCHILL HOUSE  1537.”

“How strange.   Like the famous apple in the Garden of Eden!”  exclaimed Claus.  “Did you know about these apples Stanley?”  Stanley, more perplexed than  astonished, didn’t answer at first.  “Well, aye and nae”.  “What do you mean?  Did you or didn’t you?” Claus asked impatiently.  “Aye.  Hold on. Well......  The old tree’s been in the garden for years and there have been  times when we did get clusters of brighter ones right at the top – it’s true. They tasted delicious.  Better than the others   But we did’na know about these strange effects.  Never affected us in any way.  Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, to be honest, Claus.  Some kind of hoax.  You sure that box is as old as you think?”  

“Definitely” replied Claus, a little hurt that his judgement had been called into question.  “Do you have any of these apples  at the moment?”   “Strangely enough, I do”  said Stanley. “Aye, there were half a dozen – three of both colours – in the autumn  crop. I’ve kept them for my sister.   They’re the first I’ve had for, let me see....”  He stopped and thought and looked  up at the ceiling –  “That’s right.  It was the year Auntie Edna passed away.  Now, that must have been....”   He stopped.   Looked astonished.  “By God, it must hae been about ten years ago!”

“There you are, Stanley!  My advice is to take them with you”, Claus said emphatically, putting his hand on Stanley’s shoulder.  “ Who knows, my friend, if you get into trouble on your journey, you may find them useful.”

“But Claus, they’re only apples.  Don’t get carried away, man”  Stanley rejoined sarcastically. Claus was thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so, Stanley. This document is the real thing.”   He reached up for an empty box on the shelf and, taking a red marker pen from the drawer, wrote on it “VERY  IMPORTANT:  APPLES –  DO   NOT  FORGET” and handed it to Stanley.  “Now don’t say I’m not concerned for you, Stanley.   First thing you do when you go home tonight, take those apples from the fridge, put them in the box and put them somewhere you won’t forget them tomorrow morning.  Now promise me….” 

Stanley put the box under his arm.  “All right Claus.  Just for you” he said with a wry smile. “Good” said Claus – although he did wonder later what it was that had possessed him to urge his friend to take those apples with him.

New Start for my Novel - Julie

Any feedback on this gratefully received!

CHAPTER ONE

June 1956

‘You will come to my funeral, won’t you?’

Rupert Fletcher locked the driver’s door of his Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire limousine and addressed himself to the stable boy.  David Mitchell looked up from grooming the chestnut mare, somewhat taken aback by the question.  Without waiting for an answer, Rupert strode off though the courtyard towards the family home, Hayton Hall.  David studied Rupert’s retreating figure thoughtfully and wondered what his employer had meant.

Mary Fletcher was sitting in the drawing room relaxing after her canter, sipping her afternoon gin and tonic.  She heard her husband come in through the side door into the hallway and the unmistakable creak of the fifth step as he climbed the stairs.  She could hear him moving around in his bedroom which was directly overhead.  She reached across to the coffee table and picked up her packet of Embassy cigarettes.  She lit one and inhaled deeply, waiting for him to come down and greet her. There was a squeak, which she guessed was the wardrobe door, followed by indeterminate rattling, a click, then the sound of him getting in, or on, his bed.  There followed a short period of silence, during which Mary wondered whether Rupert had fallen asleep - he had just driven all the way from London, after all.  Then she heard what she would later describe as a soft boom.  She knew at the time that it was Rupert’s four-ten shotgun.  The sound made the hairs on her neck stand on end, and her stomach flipped.  Stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, she set off towards Rupert’s bedroom.

Rupert was lying on his back on the double bed which they had never shared.  From the doorway, where Mary stood, he looked as though he could have been asleep, but as she walked closer, she could see that his eyes were wide open, pointing unseeing at the ceiling.  She skirted around the foot of the bed to the other side and gasped.  Blood was pouring from Rupert’s mouth and ear.  The shotgun lay by his side, the end of the barrel inches away from his throat, the stock held loosely in his lifeless hand.

Waves of nausea flooded through her and she returned to the other side of the bed where there was wooden chair, which she pulled up and sat on heavily.  The bed was high and, from a sitting position, she could see only Rupert’s left-hand side, still complete and unmarked.  Mary contemplated his profile, taking in the fine, straight nose, the slightly too-thin lips and the greying hair, which had been such a vivid orange, the first time they had met, twenty years earlier.

She had been sitting in the churchyard, reading, when the awkward young man came and stood in front of her.  He lifted his trilby politely, revealing a shock of orange hair, and offered her his hand.  ‘Rupert Fletcher,’ he stammered, blushing furiously.

Mary briefly took his limp, clammy hand in her own and smiled, ‘Mary Simmons, pleased to meet you.’

‘Do you mind?’ Rupert enquired, indicating the space beside Mary on the bench.

‘No, of course not.’  He sat down and Mary waited uncertainly.

‘How do you like the village?’ Rupert began.

‘It’s fine.  I just wanted to get away from Yorkshire for a while, so my Aunt and Uncle invited me to stay.’

‘Yes, yes I know.  I saw you with Mrs Simmons last week in Church.’

Mary wondered what else this awkward young man had heard about her.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

Rupert cleared his throat in an embarrassed sort of way and stammered, ‘At the Hall.’

Of course he did.  The Fletchers owned virtually everything in Hayton: the cottage her Aunt lived in, all the houses around the green, the green itself, even the pub.

‘Oh,’ seemed to be the only answer she could think of and, although it appeared unsuitable, Mary gave it anyway for want of something better to say.

There was a pause which threatened to become as long as the whole conversation so far, when Rupert cleared his throat again and blurted out, ‘Would you like to come for dinner this evening?’

If Mary had been standing up, she would have fallen over.  She gripped the arm of the bench and looked straight ahead, wondering whether she had heard him correctly. 

‘I, err,’ he paused, then continued in a rush, ‘I would like to welcome you properly to Hayton and perhaps get to know you better.’

Mary raised her eyebrows – she’d heard that one before, but when she turned to look at him, Rupert’s face was so open and so earnest, and he was blushing so brightly, that she believed he did, truly, just want to get to know her.  She nodded her acquiescence and Rupert leapt to his feet with relief.  His freckly face was beaming and he raised his hat again.  ‘That’s settled then.  Dinner is served at eight.’

***

The grandfather clock downstairs in the hallway chimed.  Mary’s faraway gaze returned to Rupert’s lifeless profile, then she stood up slowly and approached the bed.  With a shaking hand she reached over and closed his eyes with her thumb and forefinger, being careful not to touch the blood which was starting to congeal on the right side of Rupert’s head.  The red stain had spread across the counterpane almost to the farthest edge of the bed.  She planted a kiss on his faintly lined forehead and wiped away a stray tear which fell onto his once-freckly cheek.

‘Poor Rupert,’ she whispered.  ‘I’m so very sorry.’

***