A Beginning and an End

I have the opening and the concluding paragraphs of a story, but have yet to work out the middle!

Beginning:-

Until I inherited my parents' house and its contents, I had no idea that I had had a great-aunt Mildred. I wondered why her name had never been mentioned, and if it was her face that had been so savagely mutilated in the family photograph albums.
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Conclusion:-

Some careful research in the local parish records enabled us to locate Mildred's grave,in a remote corner of the churchyard. It was marked by a plain slab that had become covered in ivy. When we cleared this away, we discovered a huge frog lurking underneath. I was relieved that it wasn't a toad.  

Blogs

They followed each other's blogs and social media entries, though they had never met and did not even correspond directly. Their works were completely different: he wrote little stories; fantasies for the most part, whereas she wrote about the small incidents of her daily life, in a wry and amusing fashion. He deduced from these that she was a university graduate, young and unmarried, who worked in a college library where there were plenty of old books. She had no idea who he might be, or how old he was. 
   Because of this lack of contact, they built up imaginary pictures of each other. She saw him as a would-be warrior against the forces of darkness; he saw her engaged in a quiet but unsuccessful search for love. And both were right.
   They might have appeared to be opposites, but in the sight of God they were no more than opposite sides of the same coin: they complemented each other, and together formed a unity; for in their different ways they were searching for the same thing: the Absolute; the ultimate single Whole that is truth and love and everything.

Happy Christmas everyone!

The Duel: an episode from my historical novel

(This is another chapter from my historical novel of the mid-18th century. Wilkes, Churchill and Sackville are genuine historical characters; the others are imaginary)

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One day when I entered Child’s club I discovered Lord Staines in a state of great excitement. He brandished a paper at me, and asked me whether I had read it. I saw it was a magazine called the “North Briton”, which everyone knew to be written by John Wilkes, Member of Parliament for Aylesbury. I had often read it with amusement, and considered that it was a true friend of English liberty, though I had not yet seen the most recent issue. Staines told me, with such fury that his hands shook, that it contained a libellous attack upon him. When I took it from him to read it, I saw that it suggested that he was the catamite of Lord George Sackville, for whose sake, I recalled, he had resigned his commission in the army. The names were spelt thus: Lord S*****s and Lord G****e S******e, but anyone who was acquainted with public affairs would instantly know who was meant.   I told him that such low degraded stuff was beneath his attention, and best ignored; and that I was sure that his father would have given the same advice; but he said he had already written to Mr Wilkes, the supposed author, demanding an apology; but having received none, he was determined on a duel; so he had issued a challenge, and wished me to be his second.

   Accordingly, a few days later, immediately after sunrise, we took a coach out to Putney Heath. It was a bright morning, but cold. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and glittered on cobwebs on the bushes. There was no-one in sight except our opponent and his second, and another man I did not know, but was told he was one Doctor Blake, who was there in the event of any serious injury.

   It was my first sight of the celebrated Mr Wilkes. He was well dressed and slender of build, but his face was disfigured by the most violent squint, which caused his eyes to point in clean opposite directions. He talked merrily, and appeared entirely unperturbed by the peril of his situation. His second was a large, burly fellow; and I was astonished to discover that under his cloak he wore a clergyman’s gown. I was informed that this was the Reverend Charles Churchill, the popular poet who was said to be Mr Wilkes’s assistant at the “North Briton”.

   Doctor Blake then asked whether the two gentlemen were determined to proceed with the duel. Lord Staines replied, with no little heat, that his honour had been most grossly traduced, and that nothing but the most profuse and abject apology would satisfy him. Mr Wilkes appeared to make light of the whole matter. He said that Lord Staines could produce no evidence that he, Wilkes, was the author of the offending article, but having read it, his opinion was that it contained more than a grain of truth; and, furthermore, since Lord Staines had seen fit publicly to dub him a liar and a scoundrel, he was the one entitled to an apology. These words angered Lord Staines even more, which was undoubtedly Wilkes’s intention.  

   A case was produced and opened, containing a brace of very fine silver-mounted pistols. Churchill and I checked that they were properly loaded. I attempted to hold my hands steady, lest I revealed my fear by allowing them to shake: it was the first time I had ever witnessed a duel.

   Lord Staines and Mr Wilkes walked twelve paces apart, then turned and presented their pistols. Lord Staines fired first, and grazed his opponent’s coat, but did no further harm. 

Mr Wilkes did not seemin the least perturbed by this narrow miss. He then levelled his pistol at Lord Staines's beast, and held it there for what appeared an age,with a glint in his eye. Staines, I was impressed to see, did not flinch, but stood motionless, regarding his opponent with a cold stare. At last Wilkes, with a laugh, deliberately fired at the ground, so that his bullet skipped across the earth by Lord Staines’s feet. He then laughed and walked forward with his hand outstretched, congratulating Staines on his fine courage. Staines did not take the proffered hand, instead intending to reload and fire again; but Mr Churchill announced that, in his decided opinion, sufficient satisfaction had been given and that the business had been ended with perfect honour to both parties. He proposed that we should all adjourn to a nearby tavern and drink some wine. I agreed with this, and so did Doctor Blake; but Lord Staines said this was no kind of apology, and, again refusing Wilkes’s hand, departed forthwith, not even giving me a glance.

   Doctor Blake did not stay long, but I remained at the tavern with Wilkes and Churchill for the remainder of the morning. I discovered Mr Wilkes to be the most engaging of companions. It was not, I found, his first duel; for he had been challenged by Lord Talbot over a previous article in the same magazine, and that too had passed without blood being shed.

I saw much of him over the next few months, and read the “North Briton” with great enjoyment..
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Louisa in London: a scene from my historical novel

(This is a scene from the historical novel I am in the process of writing; set in the mid-18th century, as mentioned in an earlier post. Here Louisa describes what happened when she ranaway to London)

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It was only when I alighted from the coach, at the sign of the White Horse, that I became fully aware of how extremely foolish I had been, to travel without clear purpose, and with no-one to receive me, to a city of which I knew nothing. Such a hustle and bustle as I never saw, with goods and produce piled up everywhere, and people of all degrees hurrying to and fro about their business! One rough fellow rudely pushed me aside, without so much as a by-your-leave. Deep puddles of dirty water caused me to step warily. The sky overhead was dark with a pall of smoke. I had intended to ask the way to Lord Staines’s home, but now, alone and friendless, I found myself too timid to ask directions from a stranger. On the steps of the inn, an elderly man in an old wig and coat ogled me and laughed; but although his clothes showed him to be a gentleman, he made no attempt to assist me in my plight.

   Only one person marked me and approached as I stood there afraid and unprotected. This was a woman. She wore a vast skirt, red in colour and none too clean, with a dark shawl over a white mob-cap. I could not tell her age, for the paint lay heavy on her cheeks. I felt an immediate dislike of her; but she smiled and her manner was most obliging.

   “Hello, dearie!” she said, “Are you lost? May I assist you?”

   “Thank you!” I replied, “Pray can you direct me to Lord Staines’s home? I have travelled to London to see him”.

  “Lord, my dear: his honour’s house is but a short step from where I live! Let me conduct you there. You have a travelling box? My boy Jacky will carry it. Now; what’s your name and where have you come from?”

   “I am called Louisa, and I am the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Brackenridge Hall”.

   “Oh, Louisa: such a pretty name, and face as pretty as a picture too! And from Brackenridge? Why, my dear, I know that town well! My uncle used to live there! He was bailiff and churchwarden, Robin Clewlow was his name, did you hear of him? No? Ah well, it was years ago, before you were born! Anyway, it’s almost as if we were related!  My name is Margaret. Now I shall with pleasure conduct you to his lordship, but first you must permit this poor old woman to provide you with some sustenance, for you must be most hungry and tired after such a long journey!” She prattled on, scarce pausing for breath, and without putting up resistance I allowed her to take my arm. A coachman made a very coarse remark as she led me from the inn-yard and out into the street, but both of us ignored him.

   We walked on through many twists and turnings until I was wholly lost. We passed old buildings crowded together, and noisome alleys between, where the sun did not penetrate and dirty children played amongst piles of rubbish. The streets were crowded, and passers-by jostled us. In this confusion I was glad that my rescuer had my arm, for otherwise I would have been swept clean away in the throng. Eventually we reached her house, which I thought a rather mean establishment. The front room had no carpet or rug on the bare boards of the floor. Three or four women sat around on benches, and there were pictures on the walls, but before I do more than glance around I was ushered through to a back parlour.

   “Now, my dear, let us have a dish of tea”, said my hostess, and clapped her hands, at which a slatternly maid appeared and was given her orders. Jacky, the boy who carried my box, was despatched to run to Lord Staines’s house to announce my arrival. Whilst we had our tea and cake, she questioned me closely. Was I indeed Sir James Willington’s daughter? Yes, I replied; his only child. Did I know Lord Staines well, and did he know I was coming to London to see him? Not well as yet, I said: I believed our respective parents were thinking of a marriage, though his lordship had not yet made a proposal. His lordship had told me I would greatly enjoy the sights of London, but he did not know I was coming. And amidst all this, she kept complimenting me on my complexion and my figure.

   At this point, young Jacky returned, to announce that Lord Staines was not at home, nor any of his family, and nobody would be received that day. 

   “Well, my dear, here’s a to-do!” said my hostess (who, as I now recall, had never told me her surname), “Is there anyone else you know in the town? No? Then you’d best spend the night with me!”

   She led me up the stairs to a small room. I was now so tired that I scarcely noticed that the room was dirty, with the corners thickly cobwebbed and the bed poorly furnished. I laid down on it and was quickly asleep. It was only when I awoke that I discovered the door was locked. And there I was to remain for many days, with nothing to divert me and no-one to help me; for the small window looked out only on a squalid yard; and though I might bang on the door and call out, no-one came except the maidservant, who brought me food but refused to speak to me. I came to lose all hope of rescue.

A sketch for an historical novel

Time: England in the early 1760s, with the end of the Seven Years' War and the accession of King George III.
Structure: the central character, Charles Huntingdon, is telling the story in the first person a few years later, recalling his adventures. Charles is a somewhat neutral character; Candide-like; he observes and reports, but does not often take any decisive actions: it is necessary for the story that everyone likes him and reveals their thoughts and secrets to him. All the other characters are imaginary, apart from small "walk-on" parts for Wilkes, Churchill, Fox and a few others

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Charles,  an orphan in his early twenties, destined for the Church, is in London to see lawyers, who have informed him that he has unexpectedly inherited considerable wealth from a remote cousin. By chance he meets Lord Staines, eldest son of the Earl of Teesdale, whom he knew slightly at Cambridge University. Staines had been serving in the army in Germany, but has resigned his commission and returned home; in disgust, he says,at the cashiering of his friend,the English commander Lord George Sackville. (The real reasons behind this are left unexplained, as a mystery to be developed later).
     Staines is pleased to learn of Charles's good fortune, and guides him to buy fashionable clothes, rent a house in a good part of the town, and mix with a set of raffish young aristocrats.

  A General Election is due in 1761. Charles's newly-inherited property is near Brackenridge (somewhere in the area of north Staffordshire - north Shropshire - Cheshire), where Teesdale also has land; and Staines suggests that Charles ought to stand for election to Parliament for the constituency, where he has heard there will be a vacancy. (Brackenridge being a typically tiny 18th century "rotten borough",with very few voters, but returning two M.P.s)
     Charles decides to go there to visit his new home and to meet the sitting M.P., Sir James Willington, who lives nearby. He accordingly takes a stage-coach to the nearest market town (Newcastle-under-Lyme? Shrewsbury? Whitchurch?) He is met by his local family attorney, Martin Clifford, to take him to his new home.. On the way, Clifford tells him about Willington: he is a widower who seldom attends Parliament, but lives alone with his only child, a young teenage daughter, Louisa, and a few aged servants. Earlier, he had been a notorious Jacobite, but as Bonnie Prince Charlie's highlanders approached in December 1745 he contrived to be away in London, having left his wife behind at home when the rebels passed through his land. Next year, his wife died in childbirth. Sir James was greatly mocked and derided by both sides as a hypocrite and coward for his behaviour in this crisis.
 
   At his new property Charles meets the family housekeeper, Mrs Timmis, a great gossip, and her brother, a prosperous tenant farmer.  Clifford, agrees to act as his agent at the coming election, and describes what he will need to do as a successful candidate. Charles then meets Sir James Willington, in the hope of winning his support. He finds him extremely old-fashioned, but Louisa is charming and attractive despite her youth (14 years)

In 1761 the election comes. Description of campaign.Charles and Sir James are duly returned unopposed for Brackenridge. Staines indicates that his father would wish him to marry Louisa, in order to inherit the property. Willington has yet to make up his mind, and Staines hardly seems enthusiastic. Charles feels jealous, especially when Willington makes it clear that he does not consider him to be in any way a fit match for Louisa. He starts to modernise his house and estate, but finds it very costly. Mrs Timmis supplies him with local scandal about Willington: how it is rumoured that he is not really the father of Louisa; her true father being one of the Highland rebels who occupied the house in 1745,while he was away. 

1761-2: The war comes to an end, amidst political confusion and acrimony

Lord Staines has been insulted in the troublemaking monthly journal "The North Briton", and challenges the author, John Wilkes, to a duel (Wilkes has accused Staines of a homosexual relationship with Lord George Sackville, the disgraced army commander) Staines asks Charles to act as his second: Wilkes's second is Charles Churchill, the popular poet. The duel is bloodless. Wilkes and Churchill take a liking to Charles.

1762: the great Parliamentary debate on the peace treaty. Charles is offered a government sinecure by Henry Fox, the new political fixer, in return for his support, and being now short of money reluctantly decides to accept it. Willington is bitterly critical.

Crisis: Louisa has disappeared! Willington suspects Charles of having abducted her, and savagely confronts him; but Timmis learns from local people that she has taken the coach to London. Willington, in deep despair, hints to Charles his suspicions about her parentage. Charles promises to find Louisa.

 Charles enlists the help of Wilkes and Churchill. They discover that Louisa had been met off the coach by Mrs Rawlings, who pretends to be a relative, but is actually a notorious procurer of young country girls for her brothels. They raid the brothel and manage to free her.

Lord Staines and his father decide that,under these circumstances, he cannot possible marry Louisa, but Charles has no such qualms. Not long afterwards, the two are married, with Willingham's reluctant blessing. Not long afterwards, Willingham dies; and Charles concludes his narrative of events at this point

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(Questions left unanswered:-
   Was Staines actually gay? Is this why he befriends Charles, his social inferior, and why he was not interested in Louisa? Is it why he was forced out of the army?
   Was Louisa really the daughter of Bonnie Prince Charlie? or did Willington suspect that she was? Does this explain his strange attitude towards her?)

Writing a Story

I joined Izzy and Marie at the table in the cafe. They were nice girls, and we enjoyed chatting, though I'd never managed to get anywhere with either of them. I think they both had long-term boyfriends elsewhere. Izzy was tall, with long blonde hair; Marie was short and lively.
  At a nearby table was a man on his own. He had a book open in front of him, but was gazing intently at something on the far side of the room.
   "That's Professor Quentin", said Marie.
   Now that I'd seen him in the flesh, I immediately recognised the great T.V. pundit. His jaw looked bluer than on the screen; I supposed it had been lightened with makeup. I commented that he looked rather sinister. The girls giggled: I guessed they were in awe of him.
   "You should write a story about him", said Izzy. "Okay", I replied. One of my few distinctions was that I'd actually had a couple of stories published. I began to ponder the possibilities. He would, of course, have to appear under a pseudonym, but still be recognisable....
  Professor Quentin arose and passed our table on his way out. He stopped to exchange a few pleasantries with Izzy and Marie, but acknowledged me only with a nod. The word on the grapevine was that he was inclined to be impatient with students who were less clever than him (i.e. about 95% of us), but always had a weakness for pretty girls. I wondered if this could form the basis of a story. Should he be involved in something criminal, perhaps? No; too melodramatic. What then?
  We all left the cafe. Izzy had a heavy bagful of books, and with old-world chivalry I offered to carry them for her. But really my mind was occupied with how to write a story about Professor Quentin.