It seems lots of us have a stationery addiction, we can’t resist buying notebooks and journals, then can’t bear to spoil them by writing in them, or start a journal which only lasts a few pages. Judging by the cover design, how old do you think this notebook might be? At writers’ group we wondered how many of us had written long ago and if we still had our words of wisdom. I thought I had written ‘a few bits’ but found three full notebooks. This one was started in 1972 in Perth, Western Australia when I was nineteen and the handwriting neater than I remember. On the back it says Made in Japan – how long since you saw those words on humble everyday objects? How has it survived crossing the world and moving numerous times? I’m not going to start reading it all to you, but here are two pertinent snippets.
‘Our literature lecturer commented this morning that most writers of renown started their career by keeping a personal record. As I have aspirations to be an authoress of some sort I thought this to be a good idea.’
What took those aspirations so long?
My first entry for September, 1972 turned out to be very relevant.
‘Today was one of those pleasant spring days. The sun is still friendly and hasn’t yet become that hot enemy of summer.’
In the midst of our third heatwave in England, proof indeed that I never liked very hot weather. Too hot is too hot wherever you are, though in Australia we had the advantage of latitude with the sun dropping promptly down below the horizon. We have long warm evenings. The grass on the cliff will recover, grass always does and I am thankful for our sea breezes. The sky was hazy and the sea calm yesterday so come along and cool off. No pictures of being in the sea as my phone would get wet, but I think you should come in the water.
That is a person swimming in the middle of the picture, not a shark.
But sometimes smart phones don’t capture the moment – What I saw as I arrived at the cliff top – a snowy white yacht gleaming on a sparkling sea… I had to zoom in to my picture to see if I had imagined a boat…
We have our own Mount Rushmore – who would you like to see carved into our cliffs?
Be glad you are not a cactus…
Two days of glory and attention…
Then it’s all over for another year or two.
When you fall down a blog hole...
In the unlikely event you notice some absences on my part in July it will be due to summer projects or some projects. Forty one years ago people said ‘Pregnant?! What do you want another baby for, you have a boy and a girl?’ The answer was ‘So when he grows up he can do every home improvement imaginable, sort out all my technical problems, install a new computer and cook dinners.’ When he brought home his now wife and said she was a lighting technician and pyrotechnic expert, we knew life was going to be fun and he would have someone to help him with every project imaginable.
As we pass the the halfway mark of the year have you any summer or winter projects planned?
Lottie almost faltered under the withering gaze of her agent Felicity Buchannon, but it was too late to change her mind.
‘Felicity, it was you who said I must take a break after losing Callum.’
‘A break, not permanent exile.’
‘I’m hardly leaving the country, it’s a lovely little place where I can get away from everything.’
Charlotte stopped typing. She had set herself to write the opening page of her Lottie Lincoln novel, now all she had to do was decide in which order to put all the chapters she had written so far. She could well imagine the reactions of Felicity and Lottie’s friends. She recalled her boss’s reaction when she had handed in her notice.
‘Where on earth is Hambourne?’
Once her boss realised Hambourne was not within Greater London, Royal Berkshire or Surrey, she lost interest and obviously decided Charlotte was a lost cause and did not try to dissuade her. After that, the longer Charlotte left it to explain to people she was moving away, the harder it became to tell anyone, let alone mention David’s situation. Her best friend from school days had recently departed to live in New Zealand with her new partner, so there was no need to reveal her change of address, thank heaven for emails.
So here she was in Hambourne writing, which was more than Lottie was doing as Charlotte had given her writer’s block. She started typing again.
When Lottie’s mobile rang and she saw Felicity’s name, she was tempted not to answer, but Felicity had been a good friend to her, she deserved better.
‘Lottie, how are you, we’re worried about you.’
‘I needed time to think.’
‘Did you ring that number I gave you for the grief counsellor?’
‘I don’t need counselling, a walk by the sea helps.’
‘So how’s your novel coming along?’
Novel? She hadn’t even unpacked the few chapters she had written, so much had happened to her, Puddleminster was not the quiet place she had expected. After Callum’s tragic death some people had advised her to have a complete break from writing and work, while others had insisted she must keep busy, keep writing.
‘Are you still there Lottie? I don’t want to push you, but we have got a publishing deadline to meet.’
‘I can’t do it Fliss, maybe I’ve got writers’ block. If I do write it will be something dark, this is such a strange place it’s given me new ideas.’
‘Darling, we don’t do DARK, what on earth would all your readers say, they want romance and escapism.’
‘I’ll write under a pen name then, look I have to go, I have an appointment…’
Five minutes later Lottie was on the beach and happy to bump into Geoff the pathologist out with his friend’s dog.
‘Hello Lottie, my wife was just talking about you, wondering when your next book was coming out.’
‘Oh dear, my agent just rang with the same question. I think I’ve got writer’s block. Maybe I should write something different, about a pathologist or a forensic scientist, what is the difference?’
‘For a start hasn’t that already been done and my wife certainly doesn’t want to read about bodies, being married to me. Mind you, I have got an interesting case on the slab, elderly lady, quiet life, living alone with her pot plants, not an enemy in the world and she has been poisoned with a very unusual substance, the sort of thing arrows in the South American jungle were tipped with…’
Lottie wasn’t sure if there was a code of conduct among pathologists and if he should be telling her this, but her interest was piqued.
‘Ohh, was it a local lady?’
‘No, no, way the other side of town. I would not be telling you if it was local.’
‘Are you sure she was murdered? Would the plants still be in her house, did she have exotic plants?’
‘No idea, why?’
‘My aunt had plants, house like a jungle my father used to say. Anyway, she liked her tea brewed properly with freshly boiled water, so she would empty her kettle before using it, distilled water for her beloved plants. If your lady had an exotic plant and the kettle spout touched highly poisonous leaves, is it possible the poison might end up in her tea….’
Geoff laughed then looked thoughtful. ‘I am not an expert on tropical plants, but it would be amusing if an episode of Gardener’s World was devoted to plants that killed their owners.’
‘Oh yes, those viewers’ homes where they can hardly move for plants.’
‘…and you were right about the headless body in the park…’
Charlotte passed for a moment, what fun, this could be a further step to Lottie becoming an amateur detective.
Two weeks had passed with Lottie writing not a single word, while frantic emails from Felicity became more and more frequent. She had joined a walking group and a widow’s support group, where she was of great interest because of her novels and the unusual circumstances of Callum’s death. But she had to face the fact she had no idea in what direction her life should go.
As she walked on the beach one morning she looked up to see Geoff striding purposefully towards her waving.
‘You were right, house full of exotic plants. More than one type highly toxic. A gradual build up of poison in her body, it would not have killed you to have one cup of tea with her, but… ‘
Charlotte closed her lap top, no need to decide tonight how poor Callum had died or what might happen next in Puddleminster-on-Sea.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 