Delia has also sold her engagement ring, which she said she’d been dying to do, but the silly girls went to Harrods and blew most of the money, leaving only peanuts for Green Place. I was beside myself when I saw them coming home from Knightsbridge loaded with green and gold bags. Aunt Coral bought herself a new handbag costing £295 because she said it was her birthday in a few months’ time. (Controversially, she has just
had
a birthday!) Her spending seems to go up as a direct result of her feeling down, and she is feeling down about her debts. It is a vicious circle. Spending has been her friend when she was lonely, but I’m determined that she won’t be any more.
It’s struck me that in an age where romance is declining, a product we might sell is chivalry, and I have been wondering whether the Admirals might host chivalry workshops, inviting all the Egham romantics. They are real gents and certainly know how to treat the ladies. I have never once had to close a car door, or put my own napkin on my knee if one of the Admirals is around to do it for me. During dinner, they help us in and out of our chairs, stand up if one of us leaves the table to go to the toilet and are experts in the art of complementing.
With only a small outlay, (such as the £295 from the refund of Aunt Coral’s handbag), we could host catered weekend events employing the resources of Mrs Bunion, the grounds, and the Admirals. There are a hundred ways to make money if you have the space and good ideas.
Brackencliffe
By Sue Bowl
But Brackencliffe life tweren’t no picnic, with twenty-five below stairs to be fed. If Cara was late to the fireside a-nights it meant she would have to sleep cold. Lest we forget, it was the seventeenth century and the only central heating was roaring log fires.
At the third night on the trot of sleeping too far from the hearth, Cara became sick and had to go up to the San, (the hospital wing for staff). There she recovered under care of Spinster Nurse Chopin, with Keeper in watch at her side. But while Cara lay sleeping a-bedde, Pretafer stole in to peep, and in a sudden girlish frenzy seized a locket from about Cara’s swan neck. But Keeper darted from under the bed to his mistress’s aid, shaking his prey till she dropped the locket, and plucking it in his jaws took flight.
‘Find him,’ whispered Cara to Fiona, who rushed to her bedside table.
‘Silence!’ said Pretafer as she turned away, ignoring the shredded garments adorning her tiny calfs.
Egham Hirsute Group
On Cliff-hangers
At Group this evening our efforts tied in nicely with our fiscal endeavours because there is the chance of prize money for the short story competition. I had just read out my latest instalment (above) and now Aunt Coral asked the Admiral to read out a taster of his. But he was gazing out at the empty swimming pool sewn with magnolia petals. He offered his little extract slowly, with a tired little voice.
The Socialites
By Ad miral Avery Little
She awoke, the blue bikini peeping from its box. Yawning, she put it on, before checking herself in the mirror. The arms of a gazelle, two legs, a cascade of fragrant curls, and a sheen on her skin that would rival the freshest cherry. If this pretty socialite wasn’t next year’s model, there was no justice under heaven.
Society photographer, Danny De Zooter was set to shoot her at dusk, but till then she needed to swim, gliding through the water in dreams.
‘Excellent Avery, really excellent, well done,’ said Aunt Coral, forcing herself not to show any information about how his extract made her feel, underplaying the way she said ‘Avery’, as if it were just the name of some idiot student and not the man she loved.
‘Joe?’
‘I haven’t done much yet,’ said Joe, but he stood up.
Roger Mead
By Josef Fry
She awoke, and Hawley knew she was not thinking of him. Perhaps it was because he had seen the way she looked at Roger Mead. But there was still time. If he waited, it would happen. She didn’t know the truth about Roger yet, and when it came out, as sure as the sun rose, Hawley would catch her.
‘Excellent Joe, really excellent, well done, I’m dying to know what happens next,’ said Aunt Coral.
Joe looked everywhere but at me, and I wasn’t going to show any information on my face about the fact that I’d noticed him not looking at me. I pretended to make pencil notes as he was reading, so I’d have a reason to look elsewhere. The atmosphere was loaded. Aunt Coral was trying not to look at the Admiral, the Admiral was trying not to look at Aunt Coral, Joe was trying not to look at me, and I was trying not to look at Joe. The only person with someone not to look at was Delia and I’m sure she felt the lack.
‘Delia?’ said Aunt Coral.
Delia arose and held her handbag for support.
Don’t Wait
By Delia Shoot
She awoke and wished she hadn’t, wished she’d never been born. Never been born to such pain and regret. Another day to repeat the efforts of the day before, and the day before that, falling behind her, lost to possibility. But today might be different.
She bathed and dressed, the fat woman in the mirror. Today she would do something about it. But by lunchtime the cold Pouilly-Fuissé had proven such a comfort from the lonely long day that she thought, ‘Well there’s always tomorrow.’
‘Excellent Delia, really excellent, well done,’ said Aunt Coral.
Delia took a hanky from her handbag and blew her nose, sitting down again with careful control of herself.
‘Writing’s a very emotional business, very emotional indeed,’ Aunt Coral went on. ‘But that emotional business is vital to engage the reader. Now, thank you for sharing your extracts, let’s move on to a four-point plan: 1, the use of cliff-hangers, 2, the art of foreshadowing, 3, the creation of atmosphere and D, the transportation of the reader; that is, the art of sweeping the reader away on a journey, all for the price of two teas.’
She flashed a twinkle at the Admiral, who missed it, for his mind was still in the swimming pool. I felt sorry for him that he’d missed it, it was a beautiful gaze and never to be repeated. My antennae are hot for that sort of thing at the moment because Icarus misses all mine. Joe doesn’t though. Even though they are not for him, he doesn’t miss one. It is like working beside a microscope.
I typed ‘Sweeping the reader away’ on my notes, while trying to stop analysing group members’ gazes. For how I long to cliff-hang and sweep and transport. And how I would love to foreshadow.
‘The cliff-hanger,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘The cliff-hanger is a device or a tease for the reader, to bait them into continuing with the story. Can anyone spot any cliff-hangers in our extracts?’ she asked.
We all put our hands up.
‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.
‘What is the truth about Roger Mead, in Joe’s story,’ I said.
‘Excellent Sue, yes, we all want to know the truth about Roger Mead and we sense the author will tell us if we keep on reading. Anything else?’
We all put our hands up.
‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.
‘There’s always tomorrow in Delia’s story,’ I said.
‘Yes indeed, excellent Sue, “there’s always tomorrow” draws the reader onwards, literally, to tomorrow. You’ve got the idea.’
I couldn’t see much in the way of cliffhanging in the Admiral’s story. It was clearly just a fantasy about Loudolle.
‘Now, what is the question most people want to know about a story?’ said Aunt Coral.
We all put our hands up.
‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.
‘How does it end?’ I said.
‘Excellent Sue, yes, how does it end. Always remember, the reader wants to know the end – it’s what keeps them turning the pages. Now …’ She shuffled her papers and took a long swig of Sapphire which had become her group staple. ‘Now, moving on to the art of foreshadowing, can anyone think what this might mean?’
We all put our hands up.
‘Sue?’ said Aunt Coral.
‘Is it giving an impression of what might be going to happen later in the story?’
‘Excellent Sue, well done. Can you think of an example?’
‘The possibility that the pretty socialite in the Admiral’s story is going to end up as next year’s model?’ I said.
‘Good,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘And Joe?’
‘Well, in “Roger Mead” I’m giving the impression that if Hawley waits, the girl might fall for him,’ he said.
‘Excellent Joe, well done, you’re therefore somewhere between cliffhanging and foreshadowing, which is excellent. Now let’s go to point three on the plan, the creation of atmosphere, or the world of the story. Here is an example of what I mean.’
Aunt Coral stood up in the conservatory window, her dear face swamped in apple blossom, and for the first time offered some of her own work as an example to the EHG. Her voice was clear and small, with only a slight vibrato to give away her hidden inner emotions.
‘Looking out of the window, at the road down to the gates,’ she said, ‘could for example be built into: “She gazed out of the window, stuck closed with paint from that job that turned out to be a false economy, and watched the rain roll down the tarmac to the wet gates.” And if we say something about how the rain fell it will further beef up the atmosphere. For example, “the rain fell like carpets”, or “the rain fell like stairlets”. Try to think of new ways to give the impression of what kind of rain it is, i.e. whether you want it to be teeming or spitting or cascading. But also and most importantly, you must remember to say how the woman is feeling when she looks out the window, to draw us into her emotional state, for example: “She gazed out of the window, stuck closed with paint from that job that was a false economy, and watched the rain roll down the tarmac like stairlets to the wet gates, behind which no one could hear her cries.”’
We all sat in awe. Aunt Coral had filled her tiny passage with buckets of atmosphere, transporting us in a nanasecond to a badly painted window with a sad woman behind it. I was inspired beyond belief and could hardly wait to get on with ‘Brackencliffe’. It was a very emotional moment for the Egham Hirsute Group.
‘That’s it for now,’ she said, spent from her efforts. ‘Next week we’ll look at red herrings.’
We applauded her as she left the room, a tiny figure in a spring cardigan tottering unsteadily as she walked away. Was she thinking, as I was, of the cliff-hanger in our own story?
‘I’ve got a big football match coming up, on Sunday 5
th
July,’ said Joe, bringing me back to earth. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come.’
Though I was not plus about it I thought that I’d probably go. ‘Thank you, that’d be nice,’ I said.
Icarus plays football too and the thought of seeing him outside Toastie hours was quite overwhelming. I am now upstairs alone with his eye, my heart full of excitement and despair. But it is nice to have a date in the diary, albeit with the wrong man.
Coral’s Commonplace: Volume 2
Cutting from the
Egham Echo
, May 30 1936
Poor Gollywhopper (daddy long leg)
By Coral Garden, age 14
Oh I am not long for this world, so I must savour every moment,
each leaf on the hedge thrills me, and how I wish for more.
It is light in the garden and green and we are many.
I am drawn to the light, when the sun goes down.
Is that some small sun?
I dance towards it for lo, there is the night sun!
I find a chink and I fly in, but how did I get here? How do I go back?
I fly at the light, I fly at the door, but I cannot nd my way out,
With the last of my strength, I cling to life,
My legs fail one by one.
I land forever in a silver cup, it burns my wings, my last thoughts are of the hedge.
And there you will throw me in the morning.
Sue
Thursday 4 June
I
AWOKE THIS
morning from one of my nightmares, calling for my Mum, and Aunt Coral came running. She made me some breakfast on the terrace, and then gave me her one piece of published verse to critique in order to distract me. She had it pressed inside her Commonplace. Unfortunately her poem only made me feel more upset, and it was as though I were a fountain, raining tears on the frills of her collar, which luckily seemed quite waterproof, so they ran off to be baked in the sun.
‘It’s very depressing,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps you should have dwelt more on his life before he got trapped in the house?’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Poor gollywhopper.’ And we rewrote the poem from all the positive points of view about being a daddy long legs, such as being high on sweet air, and not knowing you’re going to die, and nose-diving martinis and sleeping in herb tubs. Aunt Coral really has a talent for getting inside the minds of the small things.
The sun had risen like a fireball beyond the pool, with the plumes of buddleia like reeds in front of it. The Nanas were already at their sewing, discussing the Queen’s holiday pattern. Delia was cutting trenches of calico and the Admirals were in the depths of the garden, so Aunt C and I found ourselves with a rare moment to talk uninterrupted.