It’s not often that we, as readers, get to see an earlier version of a writer’s work. There’s the ubiquitous galley proof of novels but, hey, who has the time to go through 400 odd pages to spot the difference?
Way back in 2010 I read Kate Mosse’s lyrical The Winter Ghosts. I noticed then the clean and precise prose, as my review on Goodreads says. The novel is set in 1928 and is a small volume with beautiful black and white photos. I hoped that there were other novels by Mosse set in the same timeframe but the rest of her work is medieval in setting and, as most of you know, I’m firmly rooted in the first half of the last century.
Enter The Cave which I picked up about a month ago. The setting and storyline were very familiar. “It is March, 1928. The Great War has been over for ten years but Freddie still hasn’t recovered from the loss of his brother. Even now, on holiday in south-west France, he cannot escape his grief.”
I quickly realised that The Cave was an earlier version of The Winter Ghosts. The map at the front of both books are the same except in The Winter Ghosts the setting is Nulle and the main character from 1328 is called Fabrissa. In The Cave the setting is Larzat. Marie of Larzat has a believable ring to it that Fabrissa, for me, just doesn’t.
I am going against most of the reviewers on Goodreads when I say that I believe The Cave is the better version - the true, atmospheric ghost story. By expanding the novel to create The Winter Ghosts Mosse has brought in a lot of scenes that actually, for me anyway, distill the magic of the town and its inhabitants and the lost day that Freddie experiences.
For one thing the main meetings with Fabrissa in the Winter Ghosts are split over several locations and I found this weakened the energy of the plot line too. Perhaps also the switch from third person in The Cave to first in The Winter Ghosts. Suddenly in the latter novel, Freddie meets Fabrissa in a place called the Ostal and I remember having trouble believing in this unlikely gathering where as when he descends into Larzat after the car accident, the place is almost ethereal.
“Freddie walked fast across the wet ground towards a small stone bridge in the far corner of the field. As he crossed over, Freddie glanced down to the stream below. The water was racing, lapping against the underside of the bridge and splashing up over the banks.
Then, in the distance, Freddie heard the thin tolling of a church bell. The mournful single note was carried on the wind to where he stood listening. He counted the chimes.
He raised his eyebrows. Four o’clock. The last he remembered, the clock on the dashboard of the car was at two. Freddie listened until the last echo of the bell had died away then carried on across a second field covered with tiny blue and pink mountain flowers, like confetti scattered in a churchyard after a wedding. Around the edge of the field, poppies grew tall and bright red, like splashes of blood.
At last, Freddie reached the outskirts of the village. A white mist hung like a veil over everything, skimming the tops of the houses and buildings. The grass under his feet gave way to a track wide enough for a cart to pass along. The surface was muddy after the rain, the colour of gingerbread.
He came to a small wooden sign set at the side of the road.
He read the name of the village out loud.
‘Larzat.’”
This novella is a little gem.