The Last Resident of Netherby

In my post of 25 June, Me and My Ghosts, I wrote of my experiences of working in two supposedly haunted Army buildings. This week - the tale of "Albert" - the last resident of Netherby.

Netherby House c1999 The orderly room was to the right of the front door, officers mess to the left

 "Netherby" House, in Queens Road, Melbourne is one of the few remaining Victorian mansions that once lined that street. Today it has been beautifully restored and forms part of a hotel.


The building has a chequered history having been variously a private residence, a maternity hospital, ASIO headquarters and since the 1960s had been the home of the Australian Army's Headquarters 3rd Training Group.  When I was a young pay clerk (Army Reserve) at Headquarters 3rd Training Group in the early 1980s (don't you love the uniform?) there were stories of boarded up cellars and secret rooms, reputedly a legacy of its use by ASIO.  

Alison in her days as pay clerk  at Netherby - HQ 3 Trg Gp - 1981

In my early researches about "Albert", staff posted to Netherby during those years complained of cold rooms and unexplained trips on the smooth linoleum floor.  I was just one of a group of youngsters and while we may have wasted time looking for the boarded up cellar and wondered why there was a room  (used as the Officers Mess wine cellar), secured with a safe locking mechanism that any bank would have been proud of, we never saw or experienced anything vaguely paranormal. 


In the mid 1980s a couple of members of the regular army staff, attending a late dinner in another part of the city, returned to retrieve a car one of them had left parked at the back of the building. To their surprise the hallway light was on and as they neared the building they saw a figure sitting near the window in the orderly room. The man wore what looked like a red checked shirt. Concerned about the security, the staff members unlocked the front door and, entering the orderly room, saw the PABX light on the phone in glowing red, as if the Commander was on the phone – unlikely as it was 1.30 in the morning. Thinking it had been left off the hook in his office, they went upstairs and found the phone in place on the hook. Back in the orderly room they noted the light still glowed red so they went back upstairs and this time found the phone off the hook. They replaced it, switched off the lights, locked the door and fled!


I left Netherby in 1982 to do officer training (that's another whole story - no ghosts!). In the early 1990s I returned as a student on a promotion course.  It had not changed at all, still the same linoleum floors and cold, dusty offices I remembered.  The chief clerk at the time was a mild mannered regular army Sergeant who in the latter part of his posting was quite often the only person in the building for days on end.  This is his story.

Alison, seated front row middle, outside Netherby 1992

The sergeant lived quite a distance from Queens Road so he began the practice of sleeping overnight after the Wednesday night parade.  The first night he did this, he chose a small, quiet room at the rear of the building.  About 3.00 am he was woken with a start.  The room was icy cold, despite a heater that was still on.  Struggling to focus, he had the distinct impression of a figure at the foot of the bed staring down at him.  He leapt out of bed, switched on the light and with his heart in his mouth did a tour of the house.  The room and the building were deserted.  He never slept in that particular room again but chose instead another room affectionately called "Netherby Hilton Suite 69".  


3 Training Group was in the throes of moving and this meant that during the day only one or two of the regular staff were present. One of the officers worked with him in the orderly room for company in the large empty building.  On one occasion the Major brought his dog to work.  The dog dozed contentedly in front of the heater.  Suddenly and without warning the dog leapt up, heckles raised and began barking and growling at one of the pillars which extended from the front verandah into the orderly room.  This continued for about 5 minutes before the dog returned to its slumbers in front of the heater.  Both men jokingly began referring to the third resident of Netherby as "Albert".

The massive front door to Netherby

Once the Major moved to the new headquarters building,  the sergeant was on his own during the day for the next twelve months and perhaps thinking the sergeant was lonely and in need of company, "Albert" began his haunting in earnest.  One fine spring morning while working in the orderly room (which was adjacent to the front door), the front door suddenly opened and slammed shut.  Footsteps were heard stomping up the rear service staircase to the area which would have been the old servants quarters.  Upstairs doors could be heard slamming shut and the footsteps descended the stairs again.  The front door, which I recall as being a large, heavy door (see picture), opened and slammed shut again.


Frozen to his desk during this visitation and wondering if he was suffering from an over active imagination, the sergeant went to investigate.  Upstairs he found three office doors which had been left open were now closed.  The front door, which was kept locked to deter salesmen, was still firmly locked and could not be opened without turning the handle.


One Saturday evening after a mess dinner at "Grosvenor" (55 Queens Road), the sergeant and his wife retired to Netherby to save the long drive home to Frankston.  Alone in the empty building, they made a cup of coffee and sat on the bottom step of the back staircase drinking their coffee and talking.  His wife removed her high heels and left them with the coffee cups on the staircase as they both retired to the "Netherby Hilton" for the night.


During the night they were awoken by the sound of a door slamming, but dismissing it as just the noise of an old house, they went back to sleep.  When they awoke the next morning, they found the high heeled shoes neatly placed at the foot of the wife's bed and the dirty coffee cups back beside the urn in the Officers Mess.  


Shortly after this incident "Albert" began to show himself.  The sergeant described him as a grey shadow with a lot of detail.  He appeared to be Caucasian and although his facial features were not easily distinguishable, he was about 175 -180 cm tall and wore a long coat of the style of the 50s and 60s.  I recall the sergeant speculating that he may have been a Romanian "diplomat" who died while being "questioned" by ASIO.  "Albert" was also seen by the sergeant’s young son who was visiting during the holidays.  Both sightings were at the foot of the service staircase, over the sealed trap door that led to the cellars.


"Albert" was not without a sense of humour and would occasionally play tricks.  One Tuesday evening the sergeant and another army reserve member were moving a filing cabinet.  The sergeant recalls that the office they were moving it from was icy cold on this particular evening.  The two men picked the empty cabinet up and as they carried it towards the door, the other man stumbled and fell.  When he recovered himself, he grumbled that it had felt like someone had tripped him.  When the sergeant looked out into the corridor, he had a fleeting glimpse of "Albert".


The telephone system in Netherby was a "PABX Commander" system.  At about 4.00 a.m one morning after a parade night, when the sergeant was quite alone in the building, the phone in his bedroom rang.  Blearily he picked it up.  The voice on the line was more of a grunt than anything else, so dismissing it as a crank call, he hung up.  As he closed his eyes, he realised that the call was an internal call made from another extension in the building.  He shot out of bed, turned on all the lights and did a thorough search of the building.  It was just as he had left it, locked up and secure and quite deserted.


Convinced by now that "Albert" had singled him out for special attention, the sergeant began to acknowledge his existence, greeting him cheerily in the morning and bidding him good night in the evening.  He even invited Albert to accompany him when he had to go out during the day, although whether he ever did is a question for speculation.  I rather like the idea of the spectral "Albert" occupying the passenger seat of an Army vehicle on little excursions.  


Once Albert's existence had been acknowledged the sergeant found that the hauntings ceased and the building became noticeably warmer.  Not long afterwards, the last elements of 3 Training Group moved out.  Netherby was locked up and left empty for many years before being bought by the hotel next door. 

Netherby today

Interestingly, the story of Albert reached the staff at the hotel and some years later, the sergeant and I were invited by the manager of the hotel to lunch and to view the restoration of the lovely old house. Albert, it seemed, had not taken kindly to the disturbance to his home. The builders complained about their tools being moved and unexplained cold spots in the house. One member of staff was on crutches having broken an ankle after being, in his words “tripped”. 


Many years have now passed but I still think of Albert when I pass by Netherby and wonder how he has taken to living in a hotel.


Next week I shall be in Los Angeles attending the Romance Writers of America National Conference. . I am so looking forward to a week with my writerly friends and I hope to bring some interesting information home with me. Just got to get the internet working and I hope I manage to find time to write my Tuesday blog.

Paws for Reflection - The "Mouslies" go on holiday...

Once upon a summer holiday (when my boys were still young) I rented a holiday house at Inverloch on the south east coast of Victoria for a week. It would just my sons H and J, and their (girl) cousin T and of course ...me. My DH was probably travelling overseas with work at the time (to be honest I don't remember!).

 Prospects of long summer days and swimming at the calm beach filled my imagination.

We encountered our first problem before we had even left home. My youngest son, J,  kept mice (I'll save the story of the Church Picnic Day Mouse Massacre for another post). The present residents were two female mice...Hunca Munca the mouse with Post Traumatic Stress (survivor of the aforemention CPDMM) and her companion the fat and slothful Chestnut. The cats could be sent off to the cattery but no one was around to look after the mice so we decided we had no choice-- the mice had to come on holiday with us. The kids thought this was a fantastic idea.  Cousin T (who is exactly between my boys in age and a kind of sister-they-never-had) flew in  from interstate, we packed the mice in their travelling cage and headed off to Inverloch.

Victorian weather is notoriously fickle and after two glorious warm, sunny days the inevitable mid-January cool change blew in. The beach was out so we amused ourselves with playing board games, rockpooling,  visiting the dinosaur beach,  and going for long walks. On one of these walks we invented a story of two mice who went on holidays to the beach...The Mouslies. 

Chestnut  and Max leave for their holiday

The story evolved over the next few days. They weren't exactly OUR mice...after all one was called Max and appeared to be male but they looked a  little bit like Hunca Munca and Chestnut. The Mouslies visited the Dinosaur Beach, went surfing and even went snorkelling (in fact had more fun than us!). T and J (with some help from me) did the illustrations and at the end of the holiday we had a marvellous little story complete with mentions of the movie Titanic (which was big that year). I love the fact Chestnut was drawn as being slightly rotund.

Chestnut goes rockpooling

When we got home, I wrote the story up and in the days before self publishing, printed and bound several copies for the family. I was only reminded of it the other day when T (now a gorgeous young woman) mentioned it in conversation with the added suggestion we should dig it out and publish it. 

I don't think so... but it did bring back memories of a happy week with three gorgeous kids and two mice. 

Alison

J, T and H with Hunca Munca and Chestnut on holiday in Inverloch

On Titles and Covers

Last Tuesday I received the news that all writers love to hear the most...a new contract.

My 40K word, time travel novella has been bought by Lyrical Press and will, tentatively be out around April next year.

The book is currently without a title. Unlike my other books, this little story has never had a proper title. It's a bit like not having a name for your baby...doesn't feel quite real.  Every animal that has ever set paw in our house, from mice and fish to the cats, have had names. Once you give something a name you have an emotional investment in it and I think the same applies to books. 

Its working title was "Slip in Time" but this conjured up images of ballroom dancing or petticoats.  My problem is that every "Time" title I come up with has already been taken and quite often graces the cover of several books - A Timeless Love, Love Through Time, A Time to Love etc....So I'm stumped, my editor's stumped and my writing group has taken to suggesting titles like "Love Among the Geraniums" (you'd have to read the story to get that one!). I'm on to cavaliers now...with a long list of titles like "Loving the Cavalier, The Cavalier and the Cardiologist" and the trouble is until it has a title I can't get on with all the other important stuff that needs doing when you first sign up for a book contract. 

This has got me thinking about the titles and how they influence reader attraction to a book.  I came across this  article that appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald. In it, writer Julian Barnes confesses to not reading one particular book for years because he thought it was about baseball - the book "Catcher in the Rye". 


There are plenty of blogs on this subject but one of the best I've come across is from Rachelle Gardiner, literary Agent. Rachelle writes "...Your title sets the tone, hints at the genre or style of book, and draws the reader in. It’s your very first opportunity to “market” your book and make someone want to read it...".  Thanks...no pressure, Rachelle!

In another post, Rachelle gives an important lesson in how to brainstorm a title your book and I'm working through that at the moment.  I guess I am lucky that I have a publishing house that allows the author input into titles. My friends who write for HMB, have little or no say in their titles (so don't blame the author for the "Millionaire Sheiks Secret Love Child"). Those I have spoken to have stopped even giving their books working titles so their work in progress tend be known just as "Sheik 5" or "Secret Baby 9".


This has got me thinking about not only the importance of titles but also covers and the more I thought about it, the more I realised we are a predominantly visual species and much as we may preach sanctimoniously that we "never judge a book by a cover". Yes we do. I have heard Stephanie Laurens say that for her books to sell, the cover has to be one that can be seen across a crowded Walmart.  We are drawn to bright and shiny and I am completely guilty of buying books by their covers. Jo Beverley's Three Heroes is a case in point.  I bought it like a shot...because I'm shallow and I judge books by their covers. - it was also, I hasten to add, a very good read!

The need for a cover to catch the eye and yet give an indication of genre and story was brought home to me when I was working with my publisher on the cover for Gather the Bones. I had imagined something World War Oneish but no, this is primarily a story about relationships and the cover needed to show that. It has poppies (World War One) but anyone picking up the book can see it is about a relationship between a man and a woman. - probably more man and woman than would generally be my taste but I have grown to love them. I learned it's about understanding the audience to whom you are pitching your book. Duh! I write books with a strong romantic theme. Yes, they are strong on the historical aspect but my audience is far more likely to be a reader interested in a relationship and a HEA than a reader of military history. Call a spade a spade. If I write romance then my cover needs to appeal to buyers of romantic fiction. It needs to look...well...romantic!

With this learning in mind I went back to my own books and reconsidered the covers. Take THE KING'S MAN. When it was first published in 2007 by an independent epress, the cover chosen was a computer graphic (Because that was how it was done back then!) and  at the time I was quite pleased with it - spies, inns, mysterious men. When I re-released the book myself in 2010 I chose a clever image of a man with a noose around his neck. I felt it captured the essence of the book but looking at it now, it's too subtle and muddy in colour. I just didn't understand what a cover has to convey! Back to basics...this is a book about a relationship - a love story and, frankly, you wouldn't get that from either of its first two covers, would you? Yes it's about spies and hanging but primarily it's about Kit and Thamsine. I finally understood! Glory be, now in 2012, enterprising people out there have caught on to the juggernaut of  the self publishing industry and you can buy off the shelf book covers. Wonderful covers (thank you Jimmie Thomas)! The King's Man finally has a cover that captures the essence of the book perfectly. Honestly which one would you buy...?

The King's Man original Cover

The King's Man:  Muddy cover

The King's Man: new cover

So there we are, I have a lovely bright new shiny contract for a story with no name, but if you like time travel stories, a wonderful seventeenth century cavalier and a thoroughly modern, no nonsense doctor are coming your way early next year. And I'm really looking forward to working with my publisher on an eye catching cover - once we have found the perfect title!


Alison

PS...this week I am over at Hoydens and Firebrands blogging about the tragic life of one of the noblest of the cavaliers...Lucius Cary, 2nd Viscount Falkland, killed at the age of 33 at the first Battle of Newbury in 1643. Was it a case of suicide by battle...? 

Me and my ghosts...Ms. Stuart is at home

I’ve always had a fascination with ghost stories which I suspect began with my mother’s tale of a ghostly encounter in a Youth Hostel in Wales. My mother is an extremely sensible woman and not one given to histrionics or flights of fancy. The story, as she tells it, is that she and a friend on a cycling tour of Wales in the early 1950s stayed the night in a converted castle that was now used as a Youth Hostel. She woke during the night to the sensation of a woman’s fingers brushing her cheek. She could clearly see a woman bending over her and as she watched the figure dissolved into the wall.


My own paranormal experiences have been far less impressive and really take the form of an emotional response to a place rather than ghostly figures. The most powerful occurred when I visited Warwick Castle in my early 20s and like all tourists went down to the "dungeon" below the castle. The feeling of misery was so overwhelming I felt as if I would suffocate. On subsequent visits to the castle nothing and nobody has been able to induce me to go down to those cells again.

Ms. Stuart and friend at Warwick Castle in 2005

I have, to my knowledge, worked in at least two haunted buildings. Both of them were former nineteenth century mansions and both had been used by the Australian Army for many, many years. The first, “Netherby” in Melbourne was the Headquarters of the 3rd Training Group during my time but had been, reputedly, used by ASIO (Australian Security and Intelligency Organisation) or its equivalent in the 1950s. There were stories of soundproofed cellars and secret tunnels but no evidence has ever been found of either, even during Netherby’s more recent conversion to a wing of a modern hotel. Nothing untoward happened to me in all the years I worked at Netherby but I did start to pick up the stories of “Albert” reputedly the lonely ghost of a Rumanian spy. After collecting quite a few eye witness reports of Albert's activities, it started me on a quest to track down more ghost stories from Army establishments. I figured soldiers made fairly reliable witnesses. 


The other haunted mansion is Grosvenor (close to Netherby) which served as Headquarters 4th Brigade when I first went there. Like Netherby it has long since been sold and is now a rather depressed facade to some particularly ghastly apartments. Grosvenor was far grander than Netherby and was reputedly haunted by “Esmerelda”, a young maid servant who had been found drowned in the swamp that is now Albert Park Lake. Esmerelda and I did have some firsthand contact and like Albert she is well chronicled.


I will save the stories of “Albert” and “Esmerelda” for later posts.


One of the more unnerving experiences occurred on a visit to Housesteads Roman fort on Hadrians Wall. No one has ever been able to give me a reasonable explanation of the mark ('the blur") that appears on this digital photograph. It's not present on the photographs taken just minutes before or after... so its not a smudge on the lens. The weather was fine so its not rain.  Frustratingly I can't even say I felt anything...like cold chills.  

The "blur" at Housesteads Roman Fort

Over the years, wherever an opportunity has presented, I have gone on ghost tours some hokey and some downright spooky. You will have found me trailing lantern bearing guides in York, New Orleans, Edinburgh, Port Arthur in Tasmania (now there is a spooky place!) and Sydney Quarantine Station to name a few. Books about ghosts abound on my bookshelves because behind every good ghost there is a potential fodder for a writer and in my September release...GATHER THE BONES, I pulled together a few of these stories and created my ghostly characters. 

Hunting for ghosts - Underground Vaults, Edinburgh

I have written at least two ghostly short stories and one these...THE PROMISE is freely available on my website. Both stories are in TOWER OF TALES. 













Next month in "At Home with Ms. Stuart":  I will share the sad tale of Albert, the ghost of Netherby. Watch this space.

The Orange Cat...Paws for Reflection by M.J. Scott

This week I am delighted to welcome guest writer, M.J. SCOTT to my monthly column on the animals in our lives.  Writers lead essentially solitary lives and animals, great and small, play an enormous role in all aspects of our lives. Alison

Over to M.J.....

I've had cats on and off all my life. When I went off to university and did the rounds of the usual share housing/moving around/no pets allowed, I was without a feline for a few years.  But then, I started work and decided it was time for another cat.  Two cats in fact. So off to the shelter we went and a tiny grey fluffy kitten and an equally tiny black and white kitten came home with us.  All was good for a few months.  Then the tiny black and white kitten got sick. Feline Leukaemia, which older cats could often live with for a few years, but tiny kittens, not so much.  Which left us with just the grey cat (and a worrying few months while we waiting to see if she had also caught the disease).  

Putting our heads together, we decided that this time, we'd try a purebred (using the logic that they should be healthier). So with gay abandon, we decided on a burmese (I blame too many Doreen Tovey books as a child which left me with a fascination for oriental cats) and acquired a teeny red (okay, pale orange) boy to go with the grey girl.

Teeny he might have been but his voice wasn't.  Nor was his personality. The orange cat was firmly convinced that he ruled the roost and that the humans should just play along. And when he didn't get what he wanted, he complained about it.  Loudly. Just as well he was very sweet and loving in all other ways, otherwise he may not have made it out of kittenhood.  Chatty cats during the day are one thing but loud burmese wailing at 4am is not so cute. Sadly, that was a habit he never grew out of (nor would he sleep nicely with the humans). We tried various methods but never could find something that would convince him to be quiet.

When he wasn't yowling, he was off having adventures (or sucking up to the two nice old ladies next door so that they would feed him and give him his proper doses of adoration when we were out).  Unfortunately, despite being beautiful and vocally adept, he wasn't the smartest cat in the world.  So his adventures often ended in drama.  He managed to dislocate his tail (twice), get into the odd fight (due to thinking he was far tougher than he was) and to top it all off, managed to sustain major ligament damage to both back legs in separate incidents (most likely, according to the vet, falling off things). I shall not go into how much ACL surgery for cats costs or the joys of six weeks post operative confinement.  He broke a tooth, regularly lost claws and delighted in pouncing on the grey cat when she didn't want to be pounced on.  She was too much of a lady to ever give him the swatting he deserved. He went missing one night and I eventually tracked him to a neighbour's garage when he eventually worked out yelling for help might be a good idea. Still, he was the most loving cat I've had, wanting most of all to be with me, sitting on my shoulder or my lap and purring away loudly while I patted him. Burmese fur feels like silk over rock hard muscle.  Very soothing. Probably another survival adaptation.

Sixteen years he purred for me and loved me and entertained me. And I loved him. The house felt way too quiet the day he finally succumbed to kidney disease. It still feels too quiet sometimes, even though two new cats are purring for me and competing for lap time.  The orange cat was an original and I hope he's waiting for me, over there wherever it may be. And that the over there version comes with volume control.

Thanks for being my guest, M.J. I have lived with a Burmese (in my days of share houses) and they are great characters. You must miss him! Alison

M.J. SCOTT's second book in her half-light city series, BLOOD KIN, has just been released. 

Imagine a city divided. A city where human and Fae magic rests uneasily next to the vampire Blood and the shapeshifting Beasts. A city where a fragile peace is brokered by a treaty that set the laws for all four races…a treaty that is faltering day by day.

 

I didn’t plan on becoming a thief and a spy. But options are limited for the half-breed daughter of a Fae lord. My father abandoned me but at least I inherited some of his magic, and my skills with charms and glamours mean that few are as good at uncovering secrets others wish to hide. Right now the city has many secrets. And those who seek them pay so well…

 

I never expected to stumble across a Templar Knight in my part of the city. Guy DuCaine is sworn to duty and honor and loyalty—all the things I’m not. I may have aroused more than his suspicion but he belongs to the Order and the human world. So when treachery and violence spill threaten both our worlds, learning to trust each other might be the only thing that saves us.

 

But even if a spy and a holy knight can work together, finding the key to peace is never going to be easy…

Writers Corner - The Mind's Eye

The "Mind's Eye" is a phrase that refers  "to the human ability for visualization, i.e. for the experiencing of visual mental imagery; in other words, one's ability to "see" things with the mind." (thank you, Wikipedia!).


Good writing relies on the writers and readers imagination, on that big muscle between the ears. I was recently asked at a book talk who I had used as a model for the hero in THE KING'S MAN. The answer was no-one. When I write, I will give the characters height, build, eye colour, shape of face, hair colour and cut but anything more than that is up to the reader.  If you read the descriptions I have written of Kit Lovell, he could fit the profile of "any man". What I deliberately chose to do was leave the visualisation to the reader. If the reader wanted him to look like Hugh Jackman or Alex O'Louglin, they were free to do so and when we went around the room, every person had a different model in their "mind's eye" as they read the book.


As an aside:  Eye colour plays an important part in books but in reality I don't think we really notice the colour of people's eyes, unless they are striking in some way. At a recent writers retreat, as an exercise we had to write a description of the person sitting next to us. Despite the fact we were sitting just about on top of each other, I found myself squinting at my neighbour's eyes, having no idea what colour they were even though I have known her for years. How many descriptions do you read of the hero noticing the heroine's blue eyes from across the crowded drawing room or in one recent example I read - from the bottom of the garden? 


The phrase "lose yourself in a book" captures the work of a good writer if the reader can drop themselves into a world that is really their own imagination, fuelled only by written cues from the writer. 


Even illustrations don't really capture characters as the mind's eye visualises them. Many years ago, a two part excerpt of BY THE SWORD was published in a national magazine. You can imagine my excitement when an artist was commissioned to illustrate the story. I was going to see Jonathan and Kate brought to life!  This was the result. Yes, it is worth a giggle or two. Obviously the artist hadn't actually read the book. I ended up with a blonde hero and brunette heroine both dressed in clothes from the wrong period. They looked nothing at all like I had imagined them!

Illustration for BY THE SWORD...New Idea

Translation to film can be a bit dodgy too...ABC Arts Nation filmed a couple of scenes from THE KING'S MAN - on a very tight budget! If you would like another smile you can see the video on my website. Click Here (although just a warning for copyright reasons it may not work in all countries). 


There is a difference between the way men and women think and respond to the written word. I was recently reading an article about the rise of the erotica novel for the female audience (don't look at me...I can't write it!). The writer made the interesting point that women are reading erotica (or romotica) because the interest for them is in their own imaginations. Men on the other hand, prefer the visual stimulation of the image.


How many times have you gone to the movies to see a film translation of a favourite book and come out bitterly disappointed because the characters looked nothing like the characters in the book? 


Speaking from my own "mind's eye" I think the Harry Potter films and the Lord of the Rings trilogy captured the books and, most importantly, how I, the reader visualised the characters. A recent example where the film missed the book completely was Eagle of the Ninth, which I have adored since childhood. Channing Tatum as Marcus? Noooooo!


Alison

She walked to London to visit the Queen...

In 1897,  Queen Victoria celebrated her Diamond Jubilee. Sixty Glorious Years.  June 22 was declared Jubilee Day and a grand procession through the streets of London was planned. The prime ministers of all the self-governing dominions were invited, and  troops from every part of the empire were to be included in the parade.

In the small industrial town of of Rawtenstall about 14 miles north of Manchester in Lancashire, a young girl, probably no more than 16 or 17, decided to walk to London to see Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee procession.  I don't know her name, but for the sake of the story, I will call her May. 

Rawtenstall in the early years of the 20th century

It is hard from the distance of over a hundred years to imagine the excitement that pervaded England in 1897, although perhaps we've seen a little of it in the past few days as England celebrates Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee. It was the height of the British Empire and presiding over it was the seventy eight year old monarch. Never had any monarch, male or female reigned for so long. Victoria was adored by her subjects which now stretched across every continent.

  

In the little kitchen of May’s two up, two down home in Rawtenstall, built by the industrialists who owned the mills that dominated the town, May and and a friend  counted their pennies and their hearts must have fallen when they saw they  barely had enough for a fare to Manchester, let alone all the way to London. With true Lancastrian grit, these two young girls decided to walk the 177 miles from Rawtenstall to London.

I know nothing about how long it took them, where they spent the nights on the road or where they lodged in London.  We do know over 4 million people flowed into London for the celebrations so we can assume that the roads of England were filled with loyal subjects all making the same pilgrimage through what was unusually  appalling summer weather. Spirits would have been high. This was a moment of high history and they were going to be a part of it. 

The day of the procession dawned bright and clear. Accompanied by the colonial troops and the great leaders of the Empire, the tiny monarch, dressed in black, and now crippled with arthiritis rode in her open carriage rom Buckingham Palace, via Mansion House, past Parliament and then across Westminster Bridge before recrossing the Thames for a service at St Paul's Cathedral (which was conducted on the steps of the Cathedral as the Queen was too crippled to climb the steps into the Cathedral). Lining the route were hundreds of thousands of spectators, huddled beneath bunting and banners - one of which declared Victoria "Queen of earthly Queens". 

 

In the poor streets of London (and the major cities), the streets were hung with bunting and free feasts for the poor were laid on by wealthy philanthropists. The tea magnate Thomas Lipton laid on one such party with free ale and pipe tobacco. A chain of beacons were lit across Britain and there were fireworks and a son et lumiere was played out on St. Paul’s Cathedral.

In her journal the Queen wrote: "No one ever, I believe, has met with such an ovation as was given to me, passing through those 6 miles of streets . . . The cheering was quite deafening & every face seemed to be filled with real joy. I was much moved and gratified." 

The Procession Route

For two young girls from Rawtenstall, it must have been magical.  With the last of her money May bought a souvenir of this wondrous occasion,  a delicate tea cup decorated with roses and royal banners, proudly declaring “For Union and for Queen”. She wrapped it carefully and carried it back to Rawtenstall along with the stories of all that she had seen.

In 1956, as a woman in her late seventies, May became embroiled in a family drama and she was placed in the position of having to formally adopt her grandson, a boy in his early teens.  The young social worker assigned to the case became close to the old woman and when she announced that she would be leaving England to take up a new role in Kenya, the old lady rose to her feet and crossed to her cupboard. From it she took a delicate tea cup and saucer, now cracked but still bearing its clear pattern of roses and imperial flags.  “I would like you to have this,” she said to the young woman, “as a momento.” May then told the young woman about how she had walked to London to see the Queen...

How do I know this story? The young woman was my mother. The little teacup and saucer has travelled with her over many moves and countries and now professionally mended, has pride of place in her home (along with her own more recent souvenir of the present Jubilee). Across the span of time, she no longer remembers the name of the woman who gave it to her, but she remembers the story she was told.


The following video is actual footage of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee Procession. Perhaps if you look closely perhaps you can see May's shining face in the crowd...

Hint of History - To Kill a King

Thank you to everyone who called past and downloaded THE KING'S MAN. I hope you enjoy the read and I hope you will find the time to leave a rating and/or review on KINDLE and/or GOODREADS .

So often truth is stranger than fiction, coincidence happens every day in real life but put it in fiction and it looks contrived and sometimes as a writer you come across real events and people that you couldn't have dreamed up in your wildest imagination.

Oliver Cromwell

This was the case when I was writing THE KING'S MAN. What began as a single paragraph in Antonia Fraser's excellent biography of Cromwell, became the basis for a whole story. In February 1654 Oliver Cromwell, on his way to dine with the Lord Mayor of London, in much state (and wearing a "musk" coloured suit) had his grand parade halted when a brick bat was thrown at his coach by a "Miss Granville". I never discovered who the real Miss Granville was or why she hurled a brick bat at Oliver Cromwell's coach but I had fun writing a story about her.


As I started to read more about the events of 1654, I uncovered a nest of plots against the life of Oliver Cromwell. 


In February, the same month as Miss Granville was hurling brickbats at the Lord Protector, a small group of disaffected royalists were meeting in the Ship Tavern in the Old Bailey, hatching a plot to seize Whitehall, St. James and the Tower and the guards about the city. Captain Dutton was dispatched to garner support from known Royalists in the country and it was decided Colonel Whiteley should go to France to get the support of the King in exile. An argument about payment of his expenses ensued with none of his co-conspirators willing to pay a farthing. One of their number (I won't say who) betrayed the plot to Thurloe and the conspirators were arrested at the Ship Inn. None of those concerned were ever brought to trial.


However during the course of examining the conspirators the existence of a more serious organisation, apparently holding the King's Commission, was revealed. Known as "The Sealed Knot", it had been formed some time in 1653. This was the only group of plotters who were to be any real threat to the Protectorate and when they eventually rose in 1655, were swiftly subdued. Charles II himself appeared to be ambivalent to much of the plotting. He did not believe that the assassination of Cromwell would necessarily result in his return to the throne and in that he was probably correct. At that time Cromwell was at the height of his power and he had able Lieutenants who would have stepped into his place. 


In May of 1654 another plot headed by John Gerard was hatched. The plan was to seize Cromwell as he travelled between Whitehall and Hampton Court. Fortunately for Cromwell, his ever efficient Secretary of State, John Thurloe (see my blog on John Thurloe on Hoydens and Firebrands) through his efficient penetration of such enterprises foiled the plot. The conspirators were tried, three were transported and two executed.


Implicated in "Gerard's Plot" (as it came to be known) was an absurd character, a French emissary sent by Cardinal Mazarin to aid the French Ambassador, Bordeaux, in diplomatic negotiations with the English. De Baas was a Gascon whose brother Charles adopted his mother's name D'Artagnan and was  the protoype of Dumas' hero (yes really!). De Baas was brash and overconfident and with little understanding of the English decided that Cromwell's regime was of no importance and could easily be overthrown.  His arrogance was manifest in his refusal to uncover his head in the presence of the Lord Protector and his assertion that the soldiers who supported the regime were "feeble and dissipated". His grounds for this assertion? The sentinels on duty wore "nightcaps under their hats". On the discovery of the plot the arrogant Frenchman was given three days to leave the country.


With such a bizarre cast of characters, THE KING'S MAN practically wrote itself. 

John Thurloe

One of my favourite characters remains John Thurloe. I own a rather fine print of him that hangs on my staircase. Someone recently asked me if I felt I was being true to John Thurloe in my books. I think the key to the man is in the famous words of Richard Cromwell who once  famously remarked “Thurloe has the ability to find the key to unlock wicked mens’ hearts”.  While the tactics my fictional Thurloe may employ are entirely figments of my own imagination, I think they are consistent with his modus operandi. He had the ability to exploit a man's weakness which he tries and fails with Jonathan Thornton in BY THE SWORD and succeeds with Kit Lovell in THE KING'S MAN.

Paws for Reflection...Introduction

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened.  Anatole France

I cannot imagine a life lived without animals. 

Suzi, the faithful corgi who guarded my pram

Ever since I was a baby there has always been an animal's beating heart in our household. As a child in Kenya, Suzi the corgi dog guarded my pram. After her untimely death (snake bite, my parents said) she was followed by the terminally stupid "guard dog", Corrie, who only barked at white police men (it was colonial days) and had her blanket stolen from underneath her, a miniature dachshund (who thought he was a rottweiler) called Tinker and overseeing them all was the supercilious Siamese cat, Peta, who loathed my mother and adored my father.

Peta, the supercilious Siamese

When I was ten the family moved to Australia and our first Christmas my well meaning aunt, who had not read the terms of our flat lease, presented my brother and I with a small grey and white kitten, who was given the Swahili name Simba (meaning lion). Simba survived a terrible car accident that had him holed up in the living room of our tiny flat with a broken leg for months. Despite a limp and a stiff left leg "Simmie" lived to a great old age. My parents one attempt to bring a dog back into their lives, the little corgi puppy called Rufus ended in his early death due to a hereditary problem. Heartbroken they never tried with a dog again.

Simba, with his stiff left leg

Marriage brought a succession of cats beginning with Shasta the black rescue cat who was a wedding present and unfortunately disliked small children and could no longer stay with us after babies came along. Lizzie, the strange little cat who lived in our back yard and had a terror of interiors, Ginger Meggs, the big bad tom who moved in on Lizzie's food bowl and into our hearts, Winston, another rescue, the laid back ginger cat who never learned to cross roads.

Sarah, the neurotic tortoiseshell, and Wingco, the found Russian Blue, were the resident felines when we moved to Singapore. They relocated to my parents, who were at that time mourning the violent death of their dear little cat in a dog attack. They never moved back.

Max, the cat with attitude, none of it good

In Singapore we rescued Max, the tailless black and white drain kitten with attitude (none of it good). At vast expense Max moved back to Melbourne with us but his attitude did not improve. The arrival of the Kat brothers, Oliver and Toby, was too much for Max who packed his bags and left home.

The Kat brothers now rule our lives.

The Kat brothers - Toby and Oliver as kittens

The dear man I have been married to for 28 years does not like dogs...not at all. If you were to meet him you would think "Now there's a dog man", but (my darling husband...DH) DH is a cat man through and through. I have threatened to replace him with a dog on many occasions but despite a family propensity for cat allergies, he adores his cats.

Of course I had two sons and in among the cats, there were fish and mice. Give an animal a name and it binds the animal to you. I have wept buckets over mice!

Family tradition continues and my youngest son and his partner now have a dear little rescue cat who is affectionately referred to (at least by me) as the "grandkitten".

Each animal brought their own personality and their own brand of affection into our lives (even Max...the cat with attitude...had his moments) and over the next few months I would like to share some of their stories with you and I also hope to bring stories from guest bloggers about the animals in their lives in a regular monthly column called "Paws for Reflection"...Please feel free to share your thoughts about significant animals in your lives.