David Dunham's Blog
February 6, 2017
A few answers to a few questions
Hi there.
Angie of quitterstrip.wordpress.com put a few questions to me. I thought I'd share them with you. Thanks for reading.
1. What inspired you to write "The Silent Land"?
The original book was called The Catesby Committee and was set in 1939 England around the relationship between two young men, James and Sebastian, and how one became compromised in his patriotism. I began to write the novel, but after a chapter or two I suddenly became more interested in their mother and what her story was so I took the story back many years to when she was a young woman. The chronology of her life couldn’t ignore the First World War, hence my involvement of a relatively unknown battle in the narrative; a battle I had once researched as a reporter.
The story ends in 1919, leaving James and Sebastian awaiting their turn (in my head) for their tale to be told.
2. Does your book contain personal experiences?
It contains universal experiences, many of which I have had in my life. Grief, love, uncertain, joy, and a dash of (mild) hysteria of the mind. It’s fair to say, however, I’m glad I haven’t experienced what the heroine did (I’ll avoid going into depth here for fear of revealing the narrative).
3. Out of all the characters in the book, who can you relate to the most?
I’m a supporter of Rebecca’s quiet intensity, and Edward’s boldness, though it is Rupert I would align myself with in a perfect world. That said, I enjoyed writing scenes with Aunt Emily the most. There was great freedom in her personality in regards to writing dialogue.
4. My most BURNING question: How are you able to write women so well?!
There were moments early on when it occurred to me that a male living in New Zealand writing his debut novel using third person limited point of view, from the perspective of a young, middle-class woman living in early 20th Century England, and one who speaks in an ever so slightly diluted form of Edwardian English, was being a little ambitious. But then that doubt soon passed and I, and this may sound strange, talked to Rebecca as much as I could in my head. Whenever I felt I was losing her, I would go for a walk and ask her what she would do or say, or how she would act. And then I wrote the second sentence and so on. Hopefully Rebecca won’t mind I’ve moved on.
5. Could you tell readers about any upcoming projects?
I’m currently engaged in two projects. The first is a second novel. It is as distant in narrative and genre to The Silent Land as I think I am capable of writing presently. The book is called The Legend of Caradoc and is a fantasy tale for young teenagers and adults who like to take an adventure once in a while. It is based in Cornwall, England in present day and follows a 16-year-old boy called Jack Caradoc and two friends on a path to defeating a foe. It is super fun to write and I am hoping it will be completed in early 2018. I’m always on the search for volunteer readers (zero benefits, I'm afraid, just words to read), to give me feedback as I progress so please get in touch via Goodreads or Twitter (@ddunhamauthor) if you would like to be considered as a helper.
The second project is creating a website where I’ll be publishing short essays from writers as well as myself. I’ve got the ball rolling on my website: daviddunham.co.uk/essays and aim to get the project off the ground late this year.
6. Which author(s) have been most influential to you? And why?
As a child, it was Roald Dahl. And then as an adult it is a tie between D.H Lawrence, George Orwell, with plenty of time for Colm Toibin, Philip Roth and many others.
7. What is your best advice for budding authors?
Don’t begin unless you know you can finish. Writing a book is a very long road and you need to be content with being alone for long periods of time. You should also seek people who are not afraid to give you blunt feedback and accept that your work will not be everyone’s cup of tea.
8. What are your top book recommendations?
Any of Orwell’s work, and a little dash of Philip Roth if something more present day is required. This may sound peculiar, but I don’t have a list of books that I cherish above all others. There are books I’ve enjoyed reading, but none I’ve read half a dozen times or more.
9. What is/are your most anticipated read of 2017?
It is finishing a book by a New Zealand author. His name is Tim Wilson and his latest book is called The Straight Banana. It is exceptional writing, but regrettably I am struggling to find the time to finish it.
Angie of quitterstrip.wordpress.com put a few questions to me. I thought I'd share them with you. Thanks for reading.
1. What inspired you to write "The Silent Land"?
The original book was called The Catesby Committee and was set in 1939 England around the relationship between two young men, James and Sebastian, and how one became compromised in his patriotism. I began to write the novel, but after a chapter or two I suddenly became more interested in their mother and what her story was so I took the story back many years to when she was a young woman. The chronology of her life couldn’t ignore the First World War, hence my involvement of a relatively unknown battle in the narrative; a battle I had once researched as a reporter.
The story ends in 1919, leaving James and Sebastian awaiting their turn (in my head) for their tale to be told.
2. Does your book contain personal experiences?
It contains universal experiences, many of which I have had in my life. Grief, love, uncertain, joy, and a dash of (mild) hysteria of the mind. It’s fair to say, however, I’m glad I haven’t experienced what the heroine did (I’ll avoid going into depth here for fear of revealing the narrative).
3. Out of all the characters in the book, who can you relate to the most?
I’m a supporter of Rebecca’s quiet intensity, and Edward’s boldness, though it is Rupert I would align myself with in a perfect world. That said, I enjoyed writing scenes with Aunt Emily the most. There was great freedom in her personality in regards to writing dialogue.
4. My most BURNING question: How are you able to write women so well?!
There were moments early on when it occurred to me that a male living in New Zealand writing his debut novel using third person limited point of view, from the perspective of a young, middle-class woman living in early 20th Century England, and one who speaks in an ever so slightly diluted form of Edwardian English, was being a little ambitious. But then that doubt soon passed and I, and this may sound strange, talked to Rebecca as much as I could in my head. Whenever I felt I was losing her, I would go for a walk and ask her what she would do or say, or how she would act. And then I wrote the second sentence and so on. Hopefully Rebecca won’t mind I’ve moved on.
5. Could you tell readers about any upcoming projects?
I’m currently engaged in two projects. The first is a second novel. It is as distant in narrative and genre to The Silent Land as I think I am capable of writing presently. The book is called The Legend of Caradoc and is a fantasy tale for young teenagers and adults who like to take an adventure once in a while. It is based in Cornwall, England in present day and follows a 16-year-old boy called Jack Caradoc and two friends on a path to defeating a foe. It is super fun to write and I am hoping it will be completed in early 2018. I’m always on the search for volunteer readers (zero benefits, I'm afraid, just words to read), to give me feedback as I progress so please get in touch via Goodreads or Twitter (@ddunhamauthor) if you would like to be considered as a helper.
The second project is creating a website where I’ll be publishing short essays from writers as well as myself. I’ve got the ball rolling on my website: daviddunham.co.uk/essays and aim to get the project off the ground late this year.
6. Which author(s) have been most influential to you? And why?
As a child, it was Roald Dahl. And then as an adult it is a tie between D.H Lawrence, George Orwell, with plenty of time for Colm Toibin, Philip Roth and many others.
7. What is your best advice for budding authors?
Don’t begin unless you know you can finish. Writing a book is a very long road and you need to be content with being alone for long periods of time. You should also seek people who are not afraid to give you blunt feedback and accept that your work will not be everyone’s cup of tea.
8. What are your top book recommendations?
Any of Orwell’s work, and a little dash of Philip Roth if something more present day is required. This may sound peculiar, but I don’t have a list of books that I cherish above all others. There are books I’ve enjoyed reading, but none I’ve read half a dozen times or more.
9. What is/are your most anticipated read of 2017?
It is finishing a book by a New Zealand author. His name is Tim Wilson and his latest book is called The Straight Banana. It is exceptional writing, but regrettably I am struggling to find the time to finish it.
Published on February 06, 2017 11:52
February 3, 2017
The Crave Essay: Please respect your dessert
Three young men, hunched, polished and silent, glance at the waiter and return to what they were doing.
The waiter does his job. A dish for each of the customers. One has meringue, another chocolate mousse and another trifle. I know this because I'm watching them. It's rude of me, I know, but they're not going to notice. Everyone in the restaurant could watch them and they wouldn't notice.
So I keep watching. This is important. This matters.
One by one, the men reach for their spoons. They do it ever so well, not even needing to see where the spoon is on the table. Down the spoons go, sweeping through the desserts, coming back up and entering the three mouths, re-emerging clean.
The men swallow. They really are terribly skilled. The not looking at the spoon move was impressive, but the not looking at the dessert and avoiding spillage is extraordinary.
Perhaps their silence enhances their concentration. A silence borne of a falling out, maybe. After all, they didn't speak when they sat down and not a word was said during the main course.
They don't appear to be annoyed with one another though. I'm not sensing tension, and even if there was any the dessert would help ease it. Dessert can do that, particularly chocolate mousse and meringue, and dare I say, trifle too.
Evidently, the trifle eater agrees with me as his glass is nearly empty. His friends are keeping pace. Disciplined with it too, for not one has been tempted yet by the aesthetics of their dessert, or acknowledging the craft of the person beyond the kitchen door.
They've yet to be tempted either by the view of the harbour and the volcano in the distance, or the sun that is coming down. Boring old sun. Boring old harbour.
They've yet to be tempted by anything other than the thing they each have in front of them.
Identical in size and portrait, this thing has come first since it was escorted in and placed down on the table. Not far away, mind. Not on the other side of the table or a pocket. It must be close, within one's space, within one's reach, in sight at all times for if not, tragedy will fall; the tragedy of missing out.
Missing out on the hit of being someone that matters. Not to the person at one's side, but to someone out there.
Someone out there sitting in another restaurant, at a table with other people, not looking at their spoon or their dessert, just at their thing, waiting... waiting... waiting...
The waiter does his job. A dish for each of the customers. One has meringue, another chocolate mousse and another trifle. I know this because I'm watching them. It's rude of me, I know, but they're not going to notice. Everyone in the restaurant could watch them and they wouldn't notice.
So I keep watching. This is important. This matters.
One by one, the men reach for their spoons. They do it ever so well, not even needing to see where the spoon is on the table. Down the spoons go, sweeping through the desserts, coming back up and entering the three mouths, re-emerging clean.
The men swallow. They really are terribly skilled. The not looking at the spoon move was impressive, but the not looking at the dessert and avoiding spillage is extraordinary.
Perhaps their silence enhances their concentration. A silence borne of a falling out, maybe. After all, they didn't speak when they sat down and not a word was said during the main course.
They don't appear to be annoyed with one another though. I'm not sensing tension, and even if there was any the dessert would help ease it. Dessert can do that, particularly chocolate mousse and meringue, and dare I say, trifle too.
Evidently, the trifle eater agrees with me as his glass is nearly empty. His friends are keeping pace. Disciplined with it too, for not one has been tempted yet by the aesthetics of their dessert, or acknowledging the craft of the person beyond the kitchen door.
They've yet to be tempted either by the view of the harbour and the volcano in the distance, or the sun that is coming down. Boring old sun. Boring old harbour.
They've yet to be tempted by anything other than the thing they each have in front of them.
Identical in size and portrait, this thing has come first since it was escorted in and placed down on the table. Not far away, mind. Not on the other side of the table or a pocket. It must be close, within one's space, within one's reach, in sight at all times for if not, tragedy will fall; the tragedy of missing out.
Missing out on the hit of being someone that matters. Not to the person at one's side, but to someone out there.
Someone out there sitting in another restaurant, at a table with other people, not looking at their spoon or their dessert, just at their thing, waiting... waiting... waiting...
Published on February 03, 2017 15:13
January 29, 2017
The Crave Essay: The breakdown
I ignored the light at first, putting it down to the hill I’d just climbed.
But then I came to a flat stretch of road and the light on the dashboard lingered and so I change tactics, entrusting that the light was faulty and everything was tickety-boo under the hood.
On I went, skipping song after song, distracting myself from the red light, the broken, don’t need to worry about temperature warning light.
Wait a moment. The light has company. It’s orange and is in the shape of an engine.
Two faulty lights on a dashboard. What rotten luck. Oh well, they’ll come right. I’ll get to where I’m going, rest my head and allow the magic of the night to fix the problem. The night can do that. It’s magic, don’t you know.
Skippity skip with the music I press. Air con on and an open road ahead. Soon it’ll be time for lunch and after lunch can come episodes of that show everyone keeps telling me I must watch because if I don’t watch I won’t be part of everyone, I’ll be no one.
Judder…
What’s the problem, dear car, do you have hiccups? Hold your nose and swallow at the same time and they’ll go away. You’ll be fine.
Judder…
The nose holding didn’t work, did it?
Judder...
You haven’t got hiccups, have you?
J..u…
You’re about to die on me, aren’t you?
d…d…e…r
The car stops without me telling it to, though the lights stay on, mockingly so.
‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you,’ they say. ‘You should have listened. You should have acted before you…’
Broke down. That’s right. I should have acted before I broke down. Only I didn’t. And so I’m here, writing these words by the roadside, anticipating that whoever reads them picks up on the message that is not about a car, but about them or someone they know.
A message about warning lights and why not to ignore them.
But then I came to a flat stretch of road and the light on the dashboard lingered and so I change tactics, entrusting that the light was faulty and everything was tickety-boo under the hood.
On I went, skipping song after song, distracting myself from the red light, the broken, don’t need to worry about temperature warning light.
Wait a moment. The light has company. It’s orange and is in the shape of an engine.
Two faulty lights on a dashboard. What rotten luck. Oh well, they’ll come right. I’ll get to where I’m going, rest my head and allow the magic of the night to fix the problem. The night can do that. It’s magic, don’t you know.
Skippity skip with the music I press. Air con on and an open road ahead. Soon it’ll be time for lunch and after lunch can come episodes of that show everyone keeps telling me I must watch because if I don’t watch I won’t be part of everyone, I’ll be no one.
Judder…
What’s the problem, dear car, do you have hiccups? Hold your nose and swallow at the same time and they’ll go away. You’ll be fine.
Judder…
The nose holding didn’t work, did it?
Judder...
You haven’t got hiccups, have you?
J..u…
You’re about to die on me, aren’t you?
d…d…e…r
The car stops without me telling it to, though the lights stay on, mockingly so.
‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you,’ they say. ‘You should have listened. You should have acted before you…’
Broke down. That’s right. I should have acted before I broke down. Only I didn’t. And so I’m here, writing these words by the roadside, anticipating that whoever reads them picks up on the message that is not about a car, but about them or someone they know.
A message about warning lights and why not to ignore them.
Published on January 29, 2017 13:00
January 21, 2017
The Crave Essay: You'll never have a today if you're thinking about tomorrow
Welcome to Crave. Straighten your back for essay three. I won't keep you long.
Today's essay thought comes courtesy of the rolling digital sign above a gym that I saw on the way here (if you need a reminder, here is a cafe called Crave).
You've probably seen it before, perhaps over your gym, or a version of it.
The sign told me this: You'll never have a tomorrow if you're thinking about yesterday.
How kind of the sign to steer me away from yesterday and point me towards tomorrow.
Screw you, yesterday, it's all about tomorrow. Yay for tomorrow. Three cheers for tomorrow. All rise for tomorrow. Take ownership of tomorrow.
Mmm... you're not quite sold on this, are you? I can sense it.
I daresay it's because this essay's title referred to today, not yesterday. So let's ditch yesterday and while we're at it, let's ditch tomorrow too.
Tomorrow ain't going to happen. It isn't coming. You're not going to have one. There is no tomorrow. End of.
Tomorrow will never come for you because you'll delay and delay, and procrastinate, and hide, but never seek.
You'll never seek what you need, what you really, really need, and that can only be found today.
It's that thing you want to do, that person you should speak to, that conversation that needs to be had. You know what it is. So why not try it?
It might just make tomorrow a little better.
Today's essay thought comes courtesy of the rolling digital sign above a gym that I saw on the way here (if you need a reminder, here is a cafe called Crave).
You've probably seen it before, perhaps over your gym, or a version of it.
The sign told me this: You'll never have a tomorrow if you're thinking about yesterday.
How kind of the sign to steer me away from yesterday and point me towards tomorrow.
Screw you, yesterday, it's all about tomorrow. Yay for tomorrow. Three cheers for tomorrow. All rise for tomorrow. Take ownership of tomorrow.
Mmm... you're not quite sold on this, are you? I can sense it.
I daresay it's because this essay's title referred to today, not yesterday. So let's ditch yesterday and while we're at it, let's ditch tomorrow too.
Tomorrow ain't going to happen. It isn't coming. You're not going to have one. There is no tomorrow. End of.
Tomorrow will never come for you because you'll delay and delay, and procrastinate, and hide, but never seek.
You'll never seek what you need, what you really, really need, and that can only be found today.
It's that thing you want to do, that person you should speak to, that conversation that needs to be had. You know what it is. So why not try it?
It might just make tomorrow a little better.
Published on January 21, 2017 09:33
January 20, 2017
The Crave Essays: You're here for a reason
There’s no big sales pitch here.
You won’t get a prompt to input your email address for more, and there won’t be any hyperlinks taking you to a book store, and I won’t even name the book store, and I won’t tell you what podcast to listen to, or retreat to go on, or course to take, or country to travel to, or any of that noise. You just get me.
And if you’ve read this far, then for some reason you want to know more. I’ll leave that reason with you. You don’t need to tell me. It’s ok. I respect that. I’m here for a reason too.
By the way, here is a café. It’s called Crave and this is my first visit. Thirty minutes ago I was at home with no intention of being here.
And then I decided I should be and that I should begin something. I’m going to call that something The Crave Essays.
That’s what this is; an essay, an article, some sentences in a document, a distraction, a way of tranquilizing that thing you were thinking about before the internet brought you here.
It’s an introductory offering, which can only mean I intend to produce others. Here’s where you come in.
I’m inviting you tell me the subject matter you want me to write about. If you don’t, and that’s all good, I’ll come up with one and you can take it or leave it.
But if you do, then we might just learn a little bit about each other; you know, me and you, and the people around us. I’ll just sit here and allow my fingers to type and once I’ve had too much coffee I’ll share my digits’ work with you.
You can tell me where to go, or make a polite comment on why you think I’m wrong or right, or send me a message, or stew internally and unfriend me.
And then the next subject will come along and perhaps we’ll patch up our relationship, or smile together, or connect in some way that makes the present time just a little bit more meaningful.
So, what do you reckon? Is that a yes? A gentle nod? Good, I’m glad. Until next time.
P.S This really is a genuine invitation. Let me know what you want me to write about.
It’ll go something like this: Joel has challenged me this week to argue why worrying is futile, or, Emily has requested I share my view on renting vs home ownership, or Jo wants me to explain why writing a book is both life-giving and madness. You get the gist.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes, David.
You won’t get a prompt to input your email address for more, and there won’t be any hyperlinks taking you to a book store, and I won’t even name the book store, and I won’t tell you what podcast to listen to, or retreat to go on, or course to take, or country to travel to, or any of that noise. You just get me.
And if you’ve read this far, then for some reason you want to know more. I’ll leave that reason with you. You don’t need to tell me. It’s ok. I respect that. I’m here for a reason too.
By the way, here is a café. It’s called Crave and this is my first visit. Thirty minutes ago I was at home with no intention of being here.
And then I decided I should be and that I should begin something. I’m going to call that something The Crave Essays.
That’s what this is; an essay, an article, some sentences in a document, a distraction, a way of tranquilizing that thing you were thinking about before the internet brought you here.
It’s an introductory offering, which can only mean I intend to produce others. Here’s where you come in.
I’m inviting you tell me the subject matter you want me to write about. If you don’t, and that’s all good, I’ll come up with one and you can take it or leave it.
But if you do, then we might just learn a little bit about each other; you know, me and you, and the people around us. I’ll just sit here and allow my fingers to type and once I’ve had too much coffee I’ll share my digits’ work with you.
You can tell me where to go, or make a polite comment on why you think I’m wrong or right, or send me a message, or stew internally and unfriend me.
And then the next subject will come along and perhaps we’ll patch up our relationship, or smile together, or connect in some way that makes the present time just a little bit more meaningful.
So, what do you reckon? Is that a yes? A gentle nod? Good, I’m glad. Until next time.
P.S This really is a genuine invitation. Let me know what you want me to write about.
It’ll go something like this: Joel has challenged me this week to argue why worrying is futile, or, Emily has requested I share my view on renting vs home ownership, or Jo wants me to explain why writing a book is both life-giving and madness. You get the gist.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes, David.
Published on January 20, 2017 08:06
•
Tags:
writing
November 26, 2016
Jimmy Potts and the giant Cornish Pasty
Hi folks! This weekend's writing task is that of constructing a bedtime children's story set in England. I thought I would share the first half with you. Second half to come!!
.................................................................................................
Little Jimmy Potts was on the first day of his first family holiday at the seaside.
Every other holiday during his eight years in life had been spent at his grandparents’ home in the middle of England where the sea was a long, long way away and so was the nearest ice-cream shop, which was a problem for Jimmy as he loved ice-cream, and when I say he loved ice-cream, what I mean is that he really, really, really loved ice-cream.
In fact, he loved ice-cream so much he sometimes had it for breakfast, not on its own of course as that would be silly, but on his cereal.
There was no better breakfast in the world in Jimmy’s mind than putting a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on his cornflakes and then sending the bowl round the microwave so that the ice-cream melted right through the cornflakes, soaking them, turning them soggy, and then once all eaten there would be a pool of milk at the bottom of the bowl which could be drunk like a vanilla ice-cream milkshake, and often some of the milk would spill down his chin and onto his pyjamas and his mum would ask if he’d been eating ice-cream again for breakfast.
‘No mum,’ he’d say. ‘It’s just milk.’
‘Are you sure, Jimmy? Because it looks like ice-cream.’
‘It’s not, mum, I promise; it’s just milk. I don’t even like ice-cream.’
Jimmy’s mum never believed him, but let him get away with it because she knew just how much he loved ice-cream and had told him that where they were going to on holiday had the best ice-cream in the country.
‘Cornwall?’ said Jimmy before they went away. ‘Where is it?’
‘By the sea,’ said Jimmy’s mum. ‘We’re staying in a village.’
‘Do they sell Cornettos there?’
‘Of course, love. Cornettos are sold everywhere.’
Cornettos were Jimmy’s favourite afternoon ice-cream.
For Jimmy, going into a shop and looking at the Cornettos wrapped in their shiny foil and lined up in racks in the freezer was like looking at presents under the Christmas tree, only instead of having many presents to open, only one Cornetto could be chosen.
Jimmy always took his time in deciding which Cornetto to pick, because it could be a long time, a very long time, perhaps even a week, before he was allowed another one, so he had to get it right.
He normally ignored the vanilla flavour because he’d had it for breakfast, and he ignored the mint ones as he didn’t like mint, leaving him with the terrible choice to make between classic chocolate and strawberry chocolate.
With classic chocolate he had lots of chocolate, which was brilliant, but if he went for strawberry chocolate he’d have less chocolate, but make up for it with strawberry flavour, which was his favourite flavour after chocolate and so he’d get a bit of both.
‘Hurry up son,’ his dad would say. ‘Make your pick.’
Eventually, Jimmy would make his pick. But there was a rule. It wasn’t his rule, it was his parents’ rule.
The rule was that he could only have a Cornetto if he’d eaten his lunch, and his lunch couldn’t be ice-cream.
This was a problem for Jimmy as he walked with his family from their holiday cottage into the fishing village in Cornwall.
He hadn’t eaten lunch because he’d felt car sick on the journey, but he wasn’t in the car now and lunch had long passed, and so had his sickness and all he wanted in the world was a Cornetto.
He daren’t ask for one, because he knew he’d be told he couldn’t have one.
What he needed was his big sister Maggie to ask for one and then he could ask for one too, but she annoyingly hadn’t said a word yet about wanting one.
All Maggie wanted to do was sit on the harbour wall and stare at the boats.
There were plenty of boats to stare at and other things too; such as the fishermen cleaning their boats, or the fishermen bringing in their boats, or the holidaymakers wandering around wondering what to do, with some peering through the little tearoom’s window, and others going in and out of one of the three pubs, each of which had names Jimmy thought a pirate would appreciate.
There was the Hobgoblin at the far end of the village, the Shipwreck Inn in the middle part and the Drunken Dragon right behind where Jimmy was sitting on the harbour wall not looking at the boats, but at the shop in the distance.
‘I fancy an ice-cream,’ said Jimmy’s dad. ‘Do you want one, love?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ said Jimmy’s mum. ‘We’re on holiday, after all.’
‘What about you Maggie?’
Maggie shook her head.
‘Just me and you love, then,’ said Jimmy’s dad.
Jimmy pulled a face.
‘Sorry, son, you know the rules.’
‘I’ll eat lunch!’ said Jimmy pleadingly. ‘I will! I will!’
‘Too late for getting lunch now, son.’
Jimmy looked around the harbour, squinting, searching for somewhere. ‘What about that place?’ he said.
Jimmy’s dad looked at where Jimmy was pointing. ‘Oh yeah, good spot, son. We’ll find you something in the bakery.’
‘And then I can have a Cornetto?’
‘Once you eat what I get you, yes.’
‘Don’t get him a cake,’ said Jimmy’s mum. ‘He needs something savoury.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Jimmy’s dad. ‘I know just the thing.’
Jimmy went with his dad to the bakery, walking past the village shop, outside of which was a sign that read: Cornettos sold here.
Not long to go now, Jimmy thought. Not long till I get my Cornetto.
There was a queue in the bakery. It stretched to the doorway, irritating Jimmy as all he wanted to do was to go in the shop.
Eventually, they got to the front of the queue. Jimmy stared at the cabinet, trying to decide which sandwich he could eat the fastest.
There was an egg sandwich, but it had cress in it and cress tasted like grass, and there was also a ham sandwich, but it had tomato in it and tomato tasted yucky unless it was sauce.
The chicken looked okay to Jimmy, only it was on brown bread with bits and he didn’t like bits in his bread. There was cheese though.
Just cheese on its own and with white bread.
‘Yes, sir?’ said the woman behind the counter.
‘A Cornish pasty, please,’ said Jimmy’s dad.
A Cornish what? Jack thought.
‘Hot or cold?’ said the woman.
‘Hot, please,’ said Jimmy’s dad.
The woman opened an oven and used tongs to remove a Cornish pasty. She slid it into a paper bag and passed it over the counter.
‘There you go, son,’ said Jimmy’s dad, passing down the bag.
Jimmy held the bag by the corner and left the shop with his head down, sulking as best he could.
‘Cheer up, son,’ said his dad. ‘You’re on holiday!’
Jimmy sat down on a bench outside the bakery and opened the bag. He looked at the size of the pasty and his heart sank.
The pasty’s shape was like a rugby ball cut in half and it was huge; so huge that Jimmy knew he wouldn’t be able to finish it and if didn’t finish it he wouldn’t get his ice-cream.
‘How do I eat it?’ he asked his dad.
‘Start at the end and work your way through it.’
The pasty’s exterior was thick pastry. Some of it was smooth, but the edge resembled a rough piece of rope and appeared to Jimmy to be impossible to bite through it was so thick.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said.
‘You haven’t even tried it,’ said his dad.
‘Can’t I have it later?’
‘Not if you want an ice-cream.’
Jimmy looked to his side. Boys and girls were stepping away from the shop and they were each carrying a Cornetto.
Soon, Jimmy feared, there would be none left to buy. He pulled the paper bag down a little lower and raised the pasty to his mouth.
‘What’s in it?’ he asked.
‘Delicious things,’ his dad said. ‘Trust me.’
Jimmy remained worried. His dad thought sprouts were delicious, and anyone who’s eaten one knows, they are not. They are yucky.
Please don’t have sprouts in, Jimmy thought as he raised the pasty to his mouth. Anything but sprouts!
He took a little bite of the pastry and began to chew nervously.
Mmm, he thought. I like this pastry. It tastes nice.
Still, it was only the pastry; only the edge. Jimmy had yet to take on the heart of the
of the Cornish pasty.
He swallowed and took another little bite, and then another, nibbling his way down the side of the pasty until there was no side left.
‘The best bit is still to come,’ said his dad. ‘Just you wait.’
Jimmy looked at the inside of the pasty, trying to work out what he was looking at.
There was some brown meat, which he guessed was beef, and around the beef were small chunks of what appeared to be potato. It’s just like a funny shaped meat and potato pie, Jimmy thought. I can eat this.
He took a good-sized bite and began to chew.
The beef didn’t taste like normal beef, it tasted better, much better, and so did the potatoes, they were the tastiest potatoes Jimmy had tasted.
He swallowed and immediately took another bite, this time a big, big bite, cramming as much as the pasty into his mouth.
As he chewed, he realised there were other ingredients in his mouth.
He looked at the opened-up pasty. There were onions, which he loved, particularly on a hot dog on bonfire night, and something else; chunks of another vegetable, the same size as the potato chunks, only the colour was pale yellow.
‘That’s swede,’ said his dad.
Jimmy’s mouth was full so he couldn’t talk.
He’d never heard of swede, but he’d heard of Sweden and wondered if that was where the vegetable was grown.
He continued to chew and swallow, and chew and swallow, until soon all the pasty was in his tummy and all he was holding was the paper bag.
‘You liked it then?’ asked his dad.
Jimmy nodded.
‘Good lad. You can have your ice-cream now.’
But Jimmy wasn’t thinking about ice-cream. He was thinking about another Cornish pasty.
‘Can I get a second one, dad?’ he asked.
‘Aren’t you full, son?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’ve still got room.’
‘How about we share one, eh?’
Jimmy waited on the bench as his dad bought a second pasty.
He got another hot one, and he also bought a little sachet of tomato sauce which he bit open with his teeth and squeezed the contents on to the two halves of the pasty.
Wow! Jimmy thought as he turned the pasty and the sauce around his mouth. This is yummy!
Jimmy finished his half of the pasty in no time and got his Cornetto.
But even as he reached his favourite part, which was the solid chocolate at the bottom of the cone, all he was thinking about was when he could have another Cornish pasty.
.................................................................................................
Little Jimmy Potts was on the first day of his first family holiday at the seaside.
Every other holiday during his eight years in life had been spent at his grandparents’ home in the middle of England where the sea was a long, long way away and so was the nearest ice-cream shop, which was a problem for Jimmy as he loved ice-cream, and when I say he loved ice-cream, what I mean is that he really, really, really loved ice-cream.
In fact, he loved ice-cream so much he sometimes had it for breakfast, not on its own of course as that would be silly, but on his cereal.
There was no better breakfast in the world in Jimmy’s mind than putting a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on his cornflakes and then sending the bowl round the microwave so that the ice-cream melted right through the cornflakes, soaking them, turning them soggy, and then once all eaten there would be a pool of milk at the bottom of the bowl which could be drunk like a vanilla ice-cream milkshake, and often some of the milk would spill down his chin and onto his pyjamas and his mum would ask if he’d been eating ice-cream again for breakfast.
‘No mum,’ he’d say. ‘It’s just milk.’
‘Are you sure, Jimmy? Because it looks like ice-cream.’
‘It’s not, mum, I promise; it’s just milk. I don’t even like ice-cream.’
Jimmy’s mum never believed him, but let him get away with it because she knew just how much he loved ice-cream and had told him that where they were going to on holiday had the best ice-cream in the country.
‘Cornwall?’ said Jimmy before they went away. ‘Where is it?’
‘By the sea,’ said Jimmy’s mum. ‘We’re staying in a village.’
‘Do they sell Cornettos there?’
‘Of course, love. Cornettos are sold everywhere.’
Cornettos were Jimmy’s favourite afternoon ice-cream.
For Jimmy, going into a shop and looking at the Cornettos wrapped in their shiny foil and lined up in racks in the freezer was like looking at presents under the Christmas tree, only instead of having many presents to open, only one Cornetto could be chosen.
Jimmy always took his time in deciding which Cornetto to pick, because it could be a long time, a very long time, perhaps even a week, before he was allowed another one, so he had to get it right.
He normally ignored the vanilla flavour because he’d had it for breakfast, and he ignored the mint ones as he didn’t like mint, leaving him with the terrible choice to make between classic chocolate and strawberry chocolate.
With classic chocolate he had lots of chocolate, which was brilliant, but if he went for strawberry chocolate he’d have less chocolate, but make up for it with strawberry flavour, which was his favourite flavour after chocolate and so he’d get a bit of both.
‘Hurry up son,’ his dad would say. ‘Make your pick.’
Eventually, Jimmy would make his pick. But there was a rule. It wasn’t his rule, it was his parents’ rule.
The rule was that he could only have a Cornetto if he’d eaten his lunch, and his lunch couldn’t be ice-cream.
This was a problem for Jimmy as he walked with his family from their holiday cottage into the fishing village in Cornwall.
He hadn’t eaten lunch because he’d felt car sick on the journey, but he wasn’t in the car now and lunch had long passed, and so had his sickness and all he wanted in the world was a Cornetto.
He daren’t ask for one, because he knew he’d be told he couldn’t have one.
What he needed was his big sister Maggie to ask for one and then he could ask for one too, but she annoyingly hadn’t said a word yet about wanting one.
All Maggie wanted to do was sit on the harbour wall and stare at the boats.
There were plenty of boats to stare at and other things too; such as the fishermen cleaning their boats, or the fishermen bringing in their boats, or the holidaymakers wandering around wondering what to do, with some peering through the little tearoom’s window, and others going in and out of one of the three pubs, each of which had names Jimmy thought a pirate would appreciate.
There was the Hobgoblin at the far end of the village, the Shipwreck Inn in the middle part and the Drunken Dragon right behind where Jimmy was sitting on the harbour wall not looking at the boats, but at the shop in the distance.
‘I fancy an ice-cream,’ said Jimmy’s dad. ‘Do you want one, love?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ said Jimmy’s mum. ‘We’re on holiday, after all.’
‘What about you Maggie?’
Maggie shook her head.
‘Just me and you love, then,’ said Jimmy’s dad.
Jimmy pulled a face.
‘Sorry, son, you know the rules.’
‘I’ll eat lunch!’ said Jimmy pleadingly. ‘I will! I will!’
‘Too late for getting lunch now, son.’
Jimmy looked around the harbour, squinting, searching for somewhere. ‘What about that place?’ he said.
Jimmy’s dad looked at where Jimmy was pointing. ‘Oh yeah, good spot, son. We’ll find you something in the bakery.’
‘And then I can have a Cornetto?’
‘Once you eat what I get you, yes.’
‘Don’t get him a cake,’ said Jimmy’s mum. ‘He needs something savoury.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Jimmy’s dad. ‘I know just the thing.’
Jimmy went with his dad to the bakery, walking past the village shop, outside of which was a sign that read: Cornettos sold here.
Not long to go now, Jimmy thought. Not long till I get my Cornetto.
There was a queue in the bakery. It stretched to the doorway, irritating Jimmy as all he wanted to do was to go in the shop.
Eventually, they got to the front of the queue. Jimmy stared at the cabinet, trying to decide which sandwich he could eat the fastest.
There was an egg sandwich, but it had cress in it and cress tasted like grass, and there was also a ham sandwich, but it had tomato in it and tomato tasted yucky unless it was sauce.
The chicken looked okay to Jimmy, only it was on brown bread with bits and he didn’t like bits in his bread. There was cheese though.
Just cheese on its own and with white bread.
‘Yes, sir?’ said the woman behind the counter.
‘A Cornish pasty, please,’ said Jimmy’s dad.
A Cornish what? Jack thought.
‘Hot or cold?’ said the woman.
‘Hot, please,’ said Jimmy’s dad.
The woman opened an oven and used tongs to remove a Cornish pasty. She slid it into a paper bag and passed it over the counter.
‘There you go, son,’ said Jimmy’s dad, passing down the bag.
Jimmy held the bag by the corner and left the shop with his head down, sulking as best he could.
‘Cheer up, son,’ said his dad. ‘You’re on holiday!’
Jimmy sat down on a bench outside the bakery and opened the bag. He looked at the size of the pasty and his heart sank.
The pasty’s shape was like a rugby ball cut in half and it was huge; so huge that Jimmy knew he wouldn’t be able to finish it and if didn’t finish it he wouldn’t get his ice-cream.
‘How do I eat it?’ he asked his dad.
‘Start at the end and work your way through it.’
The pasty’s exterior was thick pastry. Some of it was smooth, but the edge resembled a rough piece of rope and appeared to Jimmy to be impossible to bite through it was so thick.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said.
‘You haven’t even tried it,’ said his dad.
‘Can’t I have it later?’
‘Not if you want an ice-cream.’
Jimmy looked to his side. Boys and girls were stepping away from the shop and they were each carrying a Cornetto.
Soon, Jimmy feared, there would be none left to buy. He pulled the paper bag down a little lower and raised the pasty to his mouth.
‘What’s in it?’ he asked.
‘Delicious things,’ his dad said. ‘Trust me.’
Jimmy remained worried. His dad thought sprouts were delicious, and anyone who’s eaten one knows, they are not. They are yucky.
Please don’t have sprouts in, Jimmy thought as he raised the pasty to his mouth. Anything but sprouts!
He took a little bite of the pastry and began to chew nervously.
Mmm, he thought. I like this pastry. It tastes nice.
Still, it was only the pastry; only the edge. Jimmy had yet to take on the heart of the
of the Cornish pasty.
He swallowed and took another little bite, and then another, nibbling his way down the side of the pasty until there was no side left.
‘The best bit is still to come,’ said his dad. ‘Just you wait.’
Jimmy looked at the inside of the pasty, trying to work out what he was looking at.
There was some brown meat, which he guessed was beef, and around the beef were small chunks of what appeared to be potato. It’s just like a funny shaped meat and potato pie, Jimmy thought. I can eat this.
He took a good-sized bite and began to chew.
The beef didn’t taste like normal beef, it tasted better, much better, and so did the potatoes, they were the tastiest potatoes Jimmy had tasted.
He swallowed and immediately took another bite, this time a big, big bite, cramming as much as the pasty into his mouth.
As he chewed, he realised there were other ingredients in his mouth.
He looked at the opened-up pasty. There were onions, which he loved, particularly on a hot dog on bonfire night, and something else; chunks of another vegetable, the same size as the potato chunks, only the colour was pale yellow.
‘That’s swede,’ said his dad.
Jimmy’s mouth was full so he couldn’t talk.
He’d never heard of swede, but he’d heard of Sweden and wondered if that was where the vegetable was grown.
He continued to chew and swallow, and chew and swallow, until soon all the pasty was in his tummy and all he was holding was the paper bag.
‘You liked it then?’ asked his dad.
Jimmy nodded.
‘Good lad. You can have your ice-cream now.’
But Jimmy wasn’t thinking about ice-cream. He was thinking about another Cornish pasty.
‘Can I get a second one, dad?’ he asked.
‘Aren’t you full, son?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’ve still got room.’
‘How about we share one, eh?’
Jimmy waited on the bench as his dad bought a second pasty.
He got another hot one, and he also bought a little sachet of tomato sauce which he bit open with his teeth and squeezed the contents on to the two halves of the pasty.
Wow! Jimmy thought as he turned the pasty and the sauce around his mouth. This is yummy!
Jimmy finished his half of the pasty in no time and got his Cornetto.
But even as he reached his favourite part, which was the solid chocolate at the bottom of the cone, all he was thinking about was when he could have another Cornish pasty.
Published on November 26, 2016 09:47
•
Tags:
children-s-story
November 5, 2016
The Legend of Caradoc - Chapter One
The following is the first chapter of my new book, The Legend of Caradoc. It is for teenagers and adults who like to take an adventure from time to time. I hope you enjoy it.
..........................................................................
There’s a legend about Jack Caradoc. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Chapter One
Cornwall, England
Present Day
‘You must concentrate, Jack. One second lost and you’re gone; you’re dead!’
Jack rolled his eyes. He’d heard it all before. ‘It’s not real sword fighting, Dad.’
‘That’s not the point. You don’t ever get hit. Agreed?’
Jack wanted to argue, but not as much as he wanted to see Lucy Peters. The sooner he lost meant the sooner he could get to Prussia Cove before she left; before he missed out on being noticed.
‘Jack! Answer me.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t ever want to get hit.’
‘Good. Now loosen your grip; it’s too tight. And your stance is all wrong. I could pierce your heart in the blink of an eye.’
Pierce my heart? Jack thought. With a wooden sword?
‘You’re too far away. Don’t be intimidated.’
Jack shuffled along the fallen oak tree which had been balanced on two flat rocks for the past year so that a family tradition could be played out.
Time to get this over for another week, Jack thought. Time to go and see Lucy. She might even smile at me.
‘En garde!’
Jack raised his sword to meet his father’s.
‘And … FIGHT!’
Jack lunged, but his father swatted the attack away and exploded forward, wielding his sword furiously. Slashing side to side, high to low, he forced Jack back, leaving him teetering on the log’s bare edge. And then with lightning speed, he went for the finishing blow. The move should have caught Jack out, but before he’d even realised it he’d blocked the shot to his chest. It was as if someone else was guiding his sword. Someone who didn’t want to lose.
Faster! Faster! Jack told himself, suddenly on fire with a desire to fight. Can’t stop!
Wood smacked against wood as Jack went on the attack.
Crack!
Crack!
CRACK!
Each clash of swords was louder than the one before. Jack felt every nerve in his body come alive and he loved it. He saw his own sword angling inwards to block his father’s, and in one fluid motion it went to strike back hard.
‘Got you!’ said his father, seizing the chance to hit an exposed chest.
Jack touched his t-shirt, as if he was bleeding. ‘I thought I had you.’
‘But you didn’t. You weren’t quick enough and I won.’
‘I’m nearly sixteen, Dad. I should have beaten you at least once by now.’
‘Maybe … maybe not.’
Jack noticed something strange in his father’s tone; almost relief. Or perhaps he was just gloating that even after a twelve hour day on the farm he could still win a duel.
‘Don’t be discouraged, Jack. I had to wait until I was eighteen before I beat my father.’
‘As you keep reminding me,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get lucky one day, you’ll see.’
‘You won’t win anything in life through luck. You need to work hard and be smart. That’s why you’re learning this, remember?’
Jack jumped off the tree trunk and made for the stable. His father came after him, pulling him around to face him.
‘Generations of Caradocs have learnt this skill, Jack. You should take it seriously out of respect for them.’
‘I’m trying to, Dad.’
‘Sometimes you make me think otherwise. If you put as much commitment into practising as you do surfing, you would have beaten me ages ago.’
Jack shrugged off his father’s hand. ‘Dad, I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this, but want I really want to do is surf, ride Calo and help you out. That’s what makes me happy, not learning how to sword fight because every other Caradoc has.’
‘Your mum wanted you to go to university. For you to have choices.’
‘That’s real nice, Dad, but I’m going to be taking over the farm when you get old, aren’t I?’
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t go away and study, and then come back.’
Jack sighed and resumed walking. ‘Unless it’s in Cornwall, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘What if you made the British surf team? You’d have to go somewhere then.’
Jack kept walking. ‘I blew my chance, Dad. Accept it.’
‘At least consider university before it’s too late. One day you might want to live somewhere else for a while.’
Under his breath, Jack said, ‘Not if I can help it.’
Jack collected a bridle, numnah, saddle, comb and brush from the stable and headed for the back paddock. Resting the tack on a gate, he whistled once, loud and sharp. Calo looked up and immediately began to trot towards him.
‘Good boy,’ said Jack, grabbing the last apple from a bucket on the ground. ‘There you are.’
Calo clamped his huge mouth around the apple and took it away from Jack’s hand, leaving a trail of saliva in its place.
‘You want to go for a ride?’ asked Jack.
Calo continued to crunch the apple apart.
‘Towards the sea?’
Calo swallowed and leaned forward, allowing Jack to rub his face against his massive head.
‘Let’s go to the cove,’ said Jack. ‘There’s someone who needs to see you.’
Jack opened the gate and began to comb Calo, moving the comb in circles around the body. Calo stood perfectly still, even though he wasn’t tied to the paddock fence.
‘Nearly there,’ said Jack, switching to the brush, sweeping side to side, removing loosened dirt and hair.
Calo made a low rumbling sound in his throat; his way of telling Jack he was excited.
‘I know, I know,’ said Jack. ‘Me too.’
Jack prepared Calo to ride, taking care to be gentle as he looped the bridle over Calo’s ears.
‘All done,’ said Jack, putting his foot in the stirrup.
They left the paddock, went down the side of the stable and started to cross the gravel in front of the house. The front door flung open.
‘Your phone’s just been ringing,’ said Jack’s father, still in his milking overalls and almost filling the doorway even though he was barefoot. ‘Someone called Millie.’
Jack felt his cheeks warm and once again regretted going on a date with Millie Burns. ‘She wants surf lessons,’ he said, using the first lie that came to mind. ‘You didn’t answer, did you?’
‘Wouldn’t dare.’
‘I’ll call her back,’ said Jack. ‘Can you keep my phone charging?’
‘Sure, but don’t be out there too long. The storm isn’t far off. And I’m doing toad-in-the hole for tea.’
‘With mash and gravy?’
‘Guaranteed. It’s the rules.’
Jack’s stomach rumbled. No one could make gravy like his dad. It was dark brown and laced with Worcestershire Sauce, and thick, but never lumpy, it would slide across the crust of the Yorkshire pudding and over the sides to soak into the butter heavy mash.
‘You need to tie your hair back, Jack. Or better still, get it cut.’
‘Sorry, Dad, I can’t hear you,’ said Jack, smiling. ‘Gotta go!’
Jack struck out towards the grey clouds. Ahead of him was a stone wall, a metre high and covered in lichen. It marked the boundary of the farm. The very sight of it sent a tremor of excitement through Jack.
‘You want to jump it, Calo?’ he said. ‘I think you do.’ He nudged Calo into a canter and lifted himself slightly out of the saddle, leaning forward as Calo pushed off the ground, raising his front legs, soaring over the wall with ease.
‘YES!’ roared Jack as adrenalin pumped through him. ‘Nice one, Calo!’
Jack straightened up as the high wore off. He wished the fields would go on forever so he could ride and ride, and never have to pull at Calo’s reins. But he knew he would, and not because of the storm.
‘Slow now,’ he said, bringing Calo down to a walk as they reached the coastal path.
Jack looked around him and began to think about what he’d earlier told his dad. The view of the winding path, the fishermen’s cottages on the hills, the steep cliffs and the coastline stretching for miles, is what also made him happy. This was home. This was where the wind whipped fresh off the sea, blowing his hair wildly behind him; where no one could tell him he needed a haircut, or that he should spend less time surfing, and more time studying. This was where he belonged. He had no interest in ever being in a city, far from the ocean, on a university course he cared nothing for. He had no interest in being separated from Cornwall, and he knew he could never be separated from Calo.
The path began to descend as Prussia Cove came into view. It was almost high tide. Only a thin strip of the secluded golden beach remained. Jack scanned the water, questioning what he’d overheard Lucy tell a friend at the party the night before.
She definitely said she’d be swimming here at this time, he thought. Maybe she’s left already. Probably got a boyfriend anyway. Someone who’s already left school and can drive.
Calo’s ears pricked up.
‘What’s up, mate? Can you hear her?’
Jack listened hard, desperate to catch the sound of Lucy’s soft voice. The only voice he could hear was the loud one in his head telling him he was a fool. Nevertheless, he wanted to have one last check he hadn’t missed Lucy swimming. He looked at the sea and then the coastline path and squinted. His eyes definitely weren’t playing a trick on him. Walking into the distance, alone and carrying a towel, was Lucy.
I could catch her up! Jack thought. Say something about … err … something.
Calo twitched his neck towards the path that led down to the cove. Tied to a gate was a horse as pure white as he was pure grey, and it was trying to break free. Jack glanced down again at the cove and realised why the horse was so distressed. On a high ledge at the far end of a stretch of rocks sticking out from the beach was a girl. She had her back turned and was resting on her knees on a red mat, with her head bowed and her hands clutching the soles of her feet.
‘HEY!’ shouted Jack.
The girl remained rooted to the spot.
‘MOVE!’
Still, the girl didn’t flinch.
Jack looked towards Lucy, now almost out of sight, and then back to the girl.
Calo twisted his neck again.
‘All right, all right,’ said Jack. ‘I get the message.’
Jack stayed on Calo’s back as he took the path down to the cove. The white horse continued to tug at the gate.
‘She’ll be back soon,’ said Jack as he passed by. ‘Just need to break her trance.’
Calo stepped onto the beach, sinking ever so slightly into the sand.
‘HELLO!’ boomed Jack.
The girl looked one way, then the other.
‘Behind you!’
At last, the girl glanced over her shoulder. ‘What do you want?’ she said gruffly.
Jack’s heart rose. The girl was stunning.
‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’ she said.
‘I wanted to warn you,’ said Jack.
‘About what?’
‘About that!’ Jack pointed to the sea rushing over the rocks, cutting off the girl’s access to the beach.
The girl looked casually at the water, as if she had all the time in the world. But as soon as reality dawned on her, she cried, ‘I’m stuck!’
‘You can wade through it,’ said Jack.
‘All the gaps between the rocks are hidden. I’ll break my neck!’
‘Then jump off the ledge and swim back.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Course you can,’ said Jack. ‘It’s easily deep enough.’
‘No, I can’t swim!’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No, I’m not! You’re going to have to rescue me!’
‘How?’
‘Ride out here and I’ll get on your horse.’
‘Can’t I just swim out and get you?’ said Jack, wanting to do anything to avoid endangering Calo.
‘Are you a lifeguard?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then that’s a stupid idea.’
‘She can’t be for real,’ Jack said to himself.
‘Are you going to help me or not?’
‘Okay, okay!’ said Jack, nudging Calo. ‘I’m coming!’
‘Good. And hurry up.’
I can’t believe this, Jack thought. This is crazy.
With each step forward on the seabed, the water crept higher up Calo’s legs. He flared his nostrils and snorted loudly.
‘I’m here,’ said Jack. ‘You’re going to be all right … nothing to worry about.’
The girl shuffled as far along the ledge as she could. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘I’m coming to help you,’ said Jack. ‘Just try and be calm, will you?’
The girl frowned. Jack glanced down. The water went over Calo’s knees. ‘You can do it, mate. You can …’
Suddenly, Calo’s front legs buckled as the seabed dropped and he squealed in fear.
‘Woah!’ said Jack, grabbing the edge of the saddle to keep his balance. ‘Easy now, easy.’
‘You’re dawdling!’ said the girl.
‘And you’re pissing me off!’ said Jack. ‘You’ll have to jump.’
‘I’ll drown!’
‘You can jump, or stay there and hope you’re not washed away. Which is it?’
The girl huffed at Jack, but didn’t answer the question.
Jack shivered as the water reached his waist. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind, and then I’m turning back.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Try me.’
‘You’d seriously abandon me?’
‘Ten … nine … eight …’
‘You would, wouldn’t you? You, you …’
‘Seven … six ...’
‘I won’t forget this!’
‘Five … four …’
The girl groaned in anger. She picked up her mat.
‘Leave it!’ said Jack.
The girl let the mat go. She bent her knees.
‘Three …’
She closed her eyes.
‘Two …’
Bit her lip.
‘ONE!’
The girl opened her eyes and jumped, but she misjudged her leap and hit the water well away from Calo.
‘SHIT!’ said Jack.
A current took the girl further away. She flapped her arms up and down, getting nowhere.
Jack ripped off one riding boot and then the other. ‘Hold on!’ he yelled, launching himself off a stirrup towards the girl.
The girl’s head dropped under the surface. Jack reached her, swinging her nearest arm
round his neck. The girl brought her other arm out of the water, locking her hands, forcing Jack down. He came back up and kicked harder to keep them afloat.
‘Keep your grip!’ spluttered Jack.
The girl dug her sharp fingernails into Jack’s skin. He brought his arm round her waist and grabbed her t-shirt, accidentally breaking the girl’s hold, sending her backwards, under the surface again. Jack scrambled for her, but he found only water. He came up for a breath and went back down again.
Where is she? he thought, now seriously panicking. WHERE IS SHE?
Then he felt a tug on the back of his hoodie. Something was pulling him up.
..........................................................................
There’s a legend about Jack Caradoc. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Chapter One
Cornwall, England
Present Day
‘You must concentrate, Jack. One second lost and you’re gone; you’re dead!’
Jack rolled his eyes. He’d heard it all before. ‘It’s not real sword fighting, Dad.’
‘That’s not the point. You don’t ever get hit. Agreed?’
Jack wanted to argue, but not as much as he wanted to see Lucy Peters. The sooner he lost meant the sooner he could get to Prussia Cove before she left; before he missed out on being noticed.
‘Jack! Answer me.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t ever want to get hit.’
‘Good. Now loosen your grip; it’s too tight. And your stance is all wrong. I could pierce your heart in the blink of an eye.’
Pierce my heart? Jack thought. With a wooden sword?
‘You’re too far away. Don’t be intimidated.’
Jack shuffled along the fallen oak tree which had been balanced on two flat rocks for the past year so that a family tradition could be played out.
Time to get this over for another week, Jack thought. Time to go and see Lucy. She might even smile at me.
‘En garde!’
Jack raised his sword to meet his father’s.
‘And … FIGHT!’
Jack lunged, but his father swatted the attack away and exploded forward, wielding his sword furiously. Slashing side to side, high to low, he forced Jack back, leaving him teetering on the log’s bare edge. And then with lightning speed, he went for the finishing blow. The move should have caught Jack out, but before he’d even realised it he’d blocked the shot to his chest. It was as if someone else was guiding his sword. Someone who didn’t want to lose.
Faster! Faster! Jack told himself, suddenly on fire with a desire to fight. Can’t stop!
Wood smacked against wood as Jack went on the attack.
Crack!
Crack!
CRACK!
Each clash of swords was louder than the one before. Jack felt every nerve in his body come alive and he loved it. He saw his own sword angling inwards to block his father’s, and in one fluid motion it went to strike back hard.
‘Got you!’ said his father, seizing the chance to hit an exposed chest.
Jack touched his t-shirt, as if he was bleeding. ‘I thought I had you.’
‘But you didn’t. You weren’t quick enough and I won.’
‘I’m nearly sixteen, Dad. I should have beaten you at least once by now.’
‘Maybe … maybe not.’
Jack noticed something strange in his father’s tone; almost relief. Or perhaps he was just gloating that even after a twelve hour day on the farm he could still win a duel.
‘Don’t be discouraged, Jack. I had to wait until I was eighteen before I beat my father.’
‘As you keep reminding me,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll get lucky one day, you’ll see.’
‘You won’t win anything in life through luck. You need to work hard and be smart. That’s why you’re learning this, remember?’
Jack jumped off the tree trunk and made for the stable. His father came after him, pulling him around to face him.
‘Generations of Caradocs have learnt this skill, Jack. You should take it seriously out of respect for them.’
‘I’m trying to, Dad.’
‘Sometimes you make me think otherwise. If you put as much commitment into practising as you do surfing, you would have beaten me ages ago.’
Jack shrugged off his father’s hand. ‘Dad, I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this, but want I really want to do is surf, ride Calo and help you out. That’s what makes me happy, not learning how to sword fight because every other Caradoc has.’
‘Your mum wanted you to go to university. For you to have choices.’
‘That’s real nice, Dad, but I’m going to be taking over the farm when you get old, aren’t I?’
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t go away and study, and then come back.’
Jack sighed and resumed walking. ‘Unless it’s in Cornwall, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘What if you made the British surf team? You’d have to go somewhere then.’
Jack kept walking. ‘I blew my chance, Dad. Accept it.’
‘At least consider university before it’s too late. One day you might want to live somewhere else for a while.’
Under his breath, Jack said, ‘Not if I can help it.’
Jack collected a bridle, numnah, saddle, comb and brush from the stable and headed for the back paddock. Resting the tack on a gate, he whistled once, loud and sharp. Calo looked up and immediately began to trot towards him.
‘Good boy,’ said Jack, grabbing the last apple from a bucket on the ground. ‘There you are.’
Calo clamped his huge mouth around the apple and took it away from Jack’s hand, leaving a trail of saliva in its place.
‘You want to go for a ride?’ asked Jack.
Calo continued to crunch the apple apart.
‘Towards the sea?’
Calo swallowed and leaned forward, allowing Jack to rub his face against his massive head.
‘Let’s go to the cove,’ said Jack. ‘There’s someone who needs to see you.’
Jack opened the gate and began to comb Calo, moving the comb in circles around the body. Calo stood perfectly still, even though he wasn’t tied to the paddock fence.
‘Nearly there,’ said Jack, switching to the brush, sweeping side to side, removing loosened dirt and hair.
Calo made a low rumbling sound in his throat; his way of telling Jack he was excited.
‘I know, I know,’ said Jack. ‘Me too.’
Jack prepared Calo to ride, taking care to be gentle as he looped the bridle over Calo’s ears.
‘All done,’ said Jack, putting his foot in the stirrup.
They left the paddock, went down the side of the stable and started to cross the gravel in front of the house. The front door flung open.
‘Your phone’s just been ringing,’ said Jack’s father, still in his milking overalls and almost filling the doorway even though he was barefoot. ‘Someone called Millie.’
Jack felt his cheeks warm and once again regretted going on a date with Millie Burns. ‘She wants surf lessons,’ he said, using the first lie that came to mind. ‘You didn’t answer, did you?’
‘Wouldn’t dare.’
‘I’ll call her back,’ said Jack. ‘Can you keep my phone charging?’
‘Sure, but don’t be out there too long. The storm isn’t far off. And I’m doing toad-in-the hole for tea.’
‘With mash and gravy?’
‘Guaranteed. It’s the rules.’
Jack’s stomach rumbled. No one could make gravy like his dad. It was dark brown and laced with Worcestershire Sauce, and thick, but never lumpy, it would slide across the crust of the Yorkshire pudding and over the sides to soak into the butter heavy mash.
‘You need to tie your hair back, Jack. Or better still, get it cut.’
‘Sorry, Dad, I can’t hear you,’ said Jack, smiling. ‘Gotta go!’
Jack struck out towards the grey clouds. Ahead of him was a stone wall, a metre high and covered in lichen. It marked the boundary of the farm. The very sight of it sent a tremor of excitement through Jack.
‘You want to jump it, Calo?’ he said. ‘I think you do.’ He nudged Calo into a canter and lifted himself slightly out of the saddle, leaning forward as Calo pushed off the ground, raising his front legs, soaring over the wall with ease.
‘YES!’ roared Jack as adrenalin pumped through him. ‘Nice one, Calo!’
Jack straightened up as the high wore off. He wished the fields would go on forever so he could ride and ride, and never have to pull at Calo’s reins. But he knew he would, and not because of the storm.
‘Slow now,’ he said, bringing Calo down to a walk as they reached the coastal path.
Jack looked around him and began to think about what he’d earlier told his dad. The view of the winding path, the fishermen’s cottages on the hills, the steep cliffs and the coastline stretching for miles, is what also made him happy. This was home. This was where the wind whipped fresh off the sea, blowing his hair wildly behind him; where no one could tell him he needed a haircut, or that he should spend less time surfing, and more time studying. This was where he belonged. He had no interest in ever being in a city, far from the ocean, on a university course he cared nothing for. He had no interest in being separated from Cornwall, and he knew he could never be separated from Calo.
The path began to descend as Prussia Cove came into view. It was almost high tide. Only a thin strip of the secluded golden beach remained. Jack scanned the water, questioning what he’d overheard Lucy tell a friend at the party the night before.
She definitely said she’d be swimming here at this time, he thought. Maybe she’s left already. Probably got a boyfriend anyway. Someone who’s already left school and can drive.
Calo’s ears pricked up.
‘What’s up, mate? Can you hear her?’
Jack listened hard, desperate to catch the sound of Lucy’s soft voice. The only voice he could hear was the loud one in his head telling him he was a fool. Nevertheless, he wanted to have one last check he hadn’t missed Lucy swimming. He looked at the sea and then the coastline path and squinted. His eyes definitely weren’t playing a trick on him. Walking into the distance, alone and carrying a towel, was Lucy.
I could catch her up! Jack thought. Say something about … err … something.
Calo twitched his neck towards the path that led down to the cove. Tied to a gate was a horse as pure white as he was pure grey, and it was trying to break free. Jack glanced down again at the cove and realised why the horse was so distressed. On a high ledge at the far end of a stretch of rocks sticking out from the beach was a girl. She had her back turned and was resting on her knees on a red mat, with her head bowed and her hands clutching the soles of her feet.
‘HEY!’ shouted Jack.
The girl remained rooted to the spot.
‘MOVE!’
Still, the girl didn’t flinch.
Jack looked towards Lucy, now almost out of sight, and then back to the girl.
Calo twisted his neck again.
‘All right, all right,’ said Jack. ‘I get the message.’
Jack stayed on Calo’s back as he took the path down to the cove. The white horse continued to tug at the gate.
‘She’ll be back soon,’ said Jack as he passed by. ‘Just need to break her trance.’
Calo stepped onto the beach, sinking ever so slightly into the sand.
‘HELLO!’ boomed Jack.
The girl looked one way, then the other.
‘Behind you!’
At last, the girl glanced over her shoulder. ‘What do you want?’ she said gruffly.
Jack’s heart rose. The girl was stunning.
‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’ she said.
‘I wanted to warn you,’ said Jack.
‘About what?’
‘About that!’ Jack pointed to the sea rushing over the rocks, cutting off the girl’s access to the beach.
The girl looked casually at the water, as if she had all the time in the world. But as soon as reality dawned on her, she cried, ‘I’m stuck!’
‘You can wade through it,’ said Jack.
‘All the gaps between the rocks are hidden. I’ll break my neck!’
‘Then jump off the ledge and swim back.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Course you can,’ said Jack. ‘It’s easily deep enough.’
‘No, I can’t swim!’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No, I’m not! You’re going to have to rescue me!’
‘How?’
‘Ride out here and I’ll get on your horse.’
‘Can’t I just swim out and get you?’ said Jack, wanting to do anything to avoid endangering Calo.
‘Are you a lifeguard?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then that’s a stupid idea.’
‘She can’t be for real,’ Jack said to himself.
‘Are you going to help me or not?’
‘Okay, okay!’ said Jack, nudging Calo. ‘I’m coming!’
‘Good. And hurry up.’
I can’t believe this, Jack thought. This is crazy.
With each step forward on the seabed, the water crept higher up Calo’s legs. He flared his nostrils and snorted loudly.
‘I’m here,’ said Jack. ‘You’re going to be all right … nothing to worry about.’
The girl shuffled as far along the ledge as she could. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
‘I’m coming to help you,’ said Jack. ‘Just try and be calm, will you?’
The girl frowned. Jack glanced down. The water went over Calo’s knees. ‘You can do it, mate. You can …’
Suddenly, Calo’s front legs buckled as the seabed dropped and he squealed in fear.
‘Woah!’ said Jack, grabbing the edge of the saddle to keep his balance. ‘Easy now, easy.’
‘You’re dawdling!’ said the girl.
‘And you’re pissing me off!’ said Jack. ‘You’ll have to jump.’
‘I’ll drown!’
‘You can jump, or stay there and hope you’re not washed away. Which is it?’
The girl huffed at Jack, but didn’t answer the question.
Jack shivered as the water reached his waist. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind, and then I’m turning back.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Try me.’
‘You’d seriously abandon me?’
‘Ten … nine … eight …’
‘You would, wouldn’t you? You, you …’
‘Seven … six ...’
‘I won’t forget this!’
‘Five … four …’
The girl groaned in anger. She picked up her mat.
‘Leave it!’ said Jack.
The girl let the mat go. She bent her knees.
‘Three …’
She closed her eyes.
‘Two …’
Bit her lip.
‘ONE!’
The girl opened her eyes and jumped, but she misjudged her leap and hit the water well away from Calo.
‘SHIT!’ said Jack.
A current took the girl further away. She flapped her arms up and down, getting nowhere.
Jack ripped off one riding boot and then the other. ‘Hold on!’ he yelled, launching himself off a stirrup towards the girl.
The girl’s head dropped under the surface. Jack reached her, swinging her nearest arm
round his neck. The girl brought her other arm out of the water, locking her hands, forcing Jack down. He came back up and kicked harder to keep them afloat.
‘Keep your grip!’ spluttered Jack.
The girl dug her sharp fingernails into Jack’s skin. He brought his arm round her waist and grabbed her t-shirt, accidentally breaking the girl’s hold, sending her backwards, under the surface again. Jack scrambled for her, but he found only water. He came up for a breath and went back down again.
Where is she? he thought, now seriously panicking. WHERE IS SHE?
Then he felt a tug on the back of his hoodie. Something was pulling him up.
Published on November 05, 2016 21:47
•
Tags:
fantasy-fiction
October 14, 2016
The ironing board desk and my favourite pen
I admit, I’ve done it. In the early days, that is: the searching for novelists’ daily word counts.
I felt dirty doing it, ashamed even, ashamed that I was comparing myself to others and matching my own average to that of the masters.
And then I stopped, not through sudden disinterest, but because it was futile. My environment for writing The Silent Land was different to others.
At times, it was ideal in that it was quiet, I had an antique desk and there was a kettle close by.
At other times, not so, in that my office was the laundry room at the back of the house where the noise from the building site was not as violent as at the front, and my desk was an ironing board, and there was no kettle, just an iron.
And then there was the method. The Silent Land is set in the early 20th century and so I was to write as if I was in the early 20th century myself - with paper and pen.
A good pen, mind you, not a Biro or one of those in the stationery aisle of the supermarket, a proper pen, one that had a nib with a crest, a sleek barrel and required cartridges (I prefer long, not short) that when changing deposits ink on your fingertip and gives you a little buzz as you push it down and you feel the subtle click. Me and my fountain pen. Best of friends, workmates, allies, and my means to an end: a handwritten first draft of my debut novel, all written on the finest of paper.
In my head, I pompously called it parchment for a while. Champagne in colour with a linen finish and summoning images of dripping candles and quills, it was the finest paper in all town and I live in a big town.
It is also expensive and would have left me penniless had I not snapped out of my Dickensian romance. To the regular A4 pad I charged and released my fountain pen upon it.
There were moments when I watched that nib stroking letters onto the lines (I’m a thin lines kinda guy and the pad has to be punched and 64 pages or more) and wondered who was doing the work: me or the pen.
The word count was low. Very low. Ostensibly because of my method. I would write one sentence and then another, and possibly a third, and then stare at them, cross them out, huff and puff, and write them again.
And I would do this for page after page until eventually a chapter would be finished and the moment arrived that I had dreaded since breakfast: the removal of the computer from the cupboard.
The computer always started with a protest, jilted as it was by my preference for the pen. Slowly, painfully so, it opened a document and begrudgingly allowed me to type my day’s work.
And then once done I put it away back where it belonged. And so on and so forth this was the rhythm until one day, one happy, open a bottle of wine day, The Silent Land was completed.
The files are on memory sticks and a hard drive and other things that have drives and clouds, but the real copy, even more important than the copy with a spine on the bookshelf, is the one in a box under the stairs, being kept company by other boxes filled with lines of crossed out sentences and scribblings, and ringed numbers; the daily word count numbers. This is the copy I cherish.
Perhaps I’ll do it again. Perhaps, I shan’t. But perhaps you should. Just get a good pen and put the computer in the cupboard.
I felt dirty doing it, ashamed even, ashamed that I was comparing myself to others and matching my own average to that of the masters.
And then I stopped, not through sudden disinterest, but because it was futile. My environment for writing The Silent Land was different to others.
At times, it was ideal in that it was quiet, I had an antique desk and there was a kettle close by.
At other times, not so, in that my office was the laundry room at the back of the house where the noise from the building site was not as violent as at the front, and my desk was an ironing board, and there was no kettle, just an iron.
And then there was the method. The Silent Land is set in the early 20th century and so I was to write as if I was in the early 20th century myself - with paper and pen.
A good pen, mind you, not a Biro or one of those in the stationery aisle of the supermarket, a proper pen, one that had a nib with a crest, a sleek barrel and required cartridges (I prefer long, not short) that when changing deposits ink on your fingertip and gives you a little buzz as you push it down and you feel the subtle click. Me and my fountain pen. Best of friends, workmates, allies, and my means to an end: a handwritten first draft of my debut novel, all written on the finest of paper.
In my head, I pompously called it parchment for a while. Champagne in colour with a linen finish and summoning images of dripping candles and quills, it was the finest paper in all town and I live in a big town.
It is also expensive and would have left me penniless had I not snapped out of my Dickensian romance. To the regular A4 pad I charged and released my fountain pen upon it.
There were moments when I watched that nib stroking letters onto the lines (I’m a thin lines kinda guy and the pad has to be punched and 64 pages or more) and wondered who was doing the work: me or the pen.
The word count was low. Very low. Ostensibly because of my method. I would write one sentence and then another, and possibly a third, and then stare at them, cross them out, huff and puff, and write them again.
And I would do this for page after page until eventually a chapter would be finished and the moment arrived that I had dreaded since breakfast: the removal of the computer from the cupboard.
The computer always started with a protest, jilted as it was by my preference for the pen. Slowly, painfully so, it opened a document and begrudgingly allowed me to type my day’s work.
And then once done I put it away back where it belonged. And so on and so forth this was the rhythm until one day, one happy, open a bottle of wine day, The Silent Land was completed.
The files are on memory sticks and a hard drive and other things that have drives and clouds, but the real copy, even more important than the copy with a spine on the bookshelf, is the one in a box under the stairs, being kept company by other boxes filled with lines of crossed out sentences and scribblings, and ringed numbers; the daily word count numbers. This is the copy I cherish.
Perhaps I’ll do it again. Perhaps, I shan’t. But perhaps you should. Just get a good pen and put the computer in the cupboard.