The Official S. J. Bolton Blog

At the risk of alienating every single one of my neighbours, I can no longer resist writing about this.  My peaceful, Middle-English village is up-in-arms about plans to build a waste recycling plant roughly half a mile from our southern-most edge. Predictions are dire:

There will be noise.  There will be dust. There will be seven million lorries a day passing through. There will be groundwater pollution, miscarriages, deformed babies, plagues of frogs, plastic bags in hedges.

The village is mustering. Battle plans are being drawn up.

I've been pretty relaxed about it, to be honest. I mean, look at the bigger picture for a second: we all know rubbish management is a major long-term problem, we accept that we should be re-cycling more and that such re-cycling has to be managed. Isn't a piece of land, adjacent to an already noisy and busy industrial estate, with an existing road infrastructure, just about the best solution we could hope for?

Then I found out that the man who sold the recycling company the land is the same scary (and possibly unstable) farmer with whom I had a major falling out last summer. He shouted. He called me names. He ordered me off his land (the exact same piece of land, fancy that!) He followed me along the path in his Land Rover, revving his engine menacingly. He lay in wait for me the next day and did the same thing again. He brandished his shotgun and threatened to kneecap me and blow my dog's ears off. Okay, I made that last one up, but you see where I'm going with this?

Scary (possibly unstable) farmer and I cannot be the only people in the village who actually want this recycling plant to go ahead. It would be too ridiculous. We'd have to bond. We'd have to meet down the pub to discuss the counter campaign. We'd have to go out canvassing together. Where would it all end? Supper invitations?

So, I've had to jump ship and swim rapidly to the other boat. Luckily, though, I don't need to do anything other than admire from the sidelines and send a couple of emails, because as village campaigns go, this one is pretty formidable. Meetings have been held. Lawyers have been consulted. School children have been inundated with propaganda. Posters have gone up. There is a discussion forum. And, best of all, there is the recent discovery that the piece of land in question might be a habitat for the Great Crested Newt.

Because if it is, it's game over. The Great Crested Newt is not only protected by British Law but by the unassailable EC Law and anyone found destroying its habitat will be stripped naked, publicly flogged, hung, drawn, quartered and turned into Polish sausage. OK, I'm making it up again, but you get my drift. Don't mess with the newt. Now all I have to do is find evidence that it inhabits said field and not only am I the local hero of the hour but I get to give scary farmer a right royal kick in the proverbials.

Evidence though? I possibly know more about forensic trace evidence than most people around here but even I'm at a loss. If I catch one of the little blighters, or interfere with them in any way, I'm breaking the law. It's similarly illegal to possess or control any live or dead specimen or part thereof. So I can't even grab one by the tail and hope it let's go. (Or is that lizards) What evidence, exactly am I supposed to find. Discarded fag ends? A footprint in the mud?

How about photographic evidence? Can I dress up as a newt and get my picture taken? Ridiculous, I'm far too big. On the other hand, last time I checked, I did have a small child in the house.

'Small child! Are you free?'

*****

Some time later…

We did it! Small child and I got a photograph of the Great Crested Newt on the site of the planned recycling plant and the day is saved. Take that, scary farmer, I knew I'd get you in the end.

Another perfect Spring day in the Chilterns and my thoughts, as always at this time of year, turn to snakes.

No, I'm not being Freudian. I'm far too old and long-married for any of that sap-rising nonsense. I mean genuine, long and thin, honest-to-goodness wrigglers.  They'll be waking up, emerging from woodpiles, shedding skins, lurking in the undergrowth. It's a thrilling time of year.

We live in a particularly snakey village here, something to do with chalk downland and lots of water, and snake stories abound: lady gardener discovering clutch of snake eggs in her compost bin; young mother terrorized by adder in back garden; dead snake in teenager's PE kit; grass snake slithering up the high street one sunny afternoon.

My own snake story is that I once had a small, black, hissy thing in my dining room but that was when I lived in Reading. I haven't seen a live one since we've been here and I spend the spring and summer in a state of permanent expectation. I'm cautious, obviously, adders can do a lot of damage to children and dogs, but mainly I'm hugely excited at the thought of them being out there again.

So, it was with great pleasure the other day, that I discovered this picture on my Facebook-friend Robert Strackland's page as it reminded me of researching and writing Awakening three years ago.

At the start of the book, wildlife vet Clara Benning is called to a neighbour's house in the small hours. She finds it overrun with grass snakes. A freaky trick of nature or a malicious practical joke? All she knows is that the snakes are harmless and she starts to gather them up.

She will never know what draws her attention to the small creature curled up in a corner of a child's bedroom, but when she sees it properly she knows the situation she thought she was managing has just spiraled out of everyone's control. The snake is no harmless British grass snake, it is one of the deadliest in the world. The taipan.

Now just look at it. I defy anyone, even the most hardened snake phobic, not to admire this slender, graceful, exquisitely coloured creature.

I'm going to meet a real live one soon. The legendary Mark O'Shea, whose fabulous book, Venomous Snakes of the World, was an important reference work for me when I was writing, has invited me and the family up to meet him (and his taipan) at the West Midlands Safari Park where he is honorary curator of reptiles.

The taipan is not on public view at the moment but Mark has offered me a private viewing. (Oh, stop it, you lot. Mr B and small child are coming too.) We'll have to stand behind protective glass (fine by me, those things are seriously lethal) while Mark brings the taipan out. We'll be sure to take lots of pictures.

Protective glass not withstanding, it will be very reminiscent of the scene in Awakening where celebrity herpetologist Sean North (not based on Mark, in spite of what his fans around the world are claiming) examines Clara's new find and confirms that it is, indeed, one of the three deadliest snakes in the world.

"In daylight, and in safe hands that weren't mine, the snake was beautiful. He gleamed a colour too dark to be silver, too bright to be gunmetal, and the beaten copper stripe shone along his full length. His eyes were like living topaz."

'It's a taipan alright,' said North.

Oh, I can't wait.

"Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows." Mark Twain.

Lupe the Lurcher woke me just after one o'clock this morning. I got up, to find the house bathed in a pale, eery light. No need for electricity, I made my way through the silent, far-too-empty-house (small child on sleepover) with everything around me as clear as day, except that this strange, unnatural glow was silver, not gold. Lupe was awake and oddly excited. I followed her into the garden and discovered, no hovering alien spaceship, just the full moon.

"The day, water, sun, moon, night - I do not have to purchase these things with money." Plautus.

We take such trouble, these days, negating the impact of night-time that we forget how perfectly sufficient, and how beautiful, the light from the moon and the stars can be.

Next Saturday we have chance to experience the night without artificial interference. The World Wildlife Fund wants us to switch our lights out for an hour, from eight thirty onwards, to draw attention to the problems of climate change. I hope lots of us will, because the planet our children will inherit needs all the help it can get.

"The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to." Carl Sandburg.

I make a point, normally, of never trying to think about anything too serious during the hours of night-time, being a firm believer that our normal powers of deduction, logic and judgement leave us when the sun goes down. The night makes problems seem more intense, our sadness increases and our world tilts, just fractionally, towards the negative, the minor keys, the dark side. On the other hand, what's to say our night-time judgement isn't the truer one?

You see, I was awake too long beneath the full moon.

"The moon is at her full and riding high.

Floods the calm fields with light.

The airs that hover in the summer sky

Are all asleep tonight."

William C Bryant

As I stood there, admiring, I had the strongest urge to go out, walk the streets of the village, wander through fields, sit in gardens, to see if, like my character Clara in "Awakening", I could become a nocturnal creature. Clara says, 'I have become quite adept at making my way, swiftly but silently, though the dark countryside. I've passed by fishermen, without them having any clue of my presence. Keeping upwind of badgers, I've watched them play and been close enough to join their games. I'd even seen roe deer nursing their young and caused them no disquiet.

'The trick is complete concentration; to be totally in the moment, aware of and receptive to everything around you: the flap of wings approaching; the tiny scurrying form at your feet, the scent of a dog fox. Try it some time. Clear your mind and let your senses do their thing. It's wonderfully exciting, and at the same time, quite calming, to become a creature of the night.'

I stayed where I was. I'm known for my eccentricities in these parts but even so, I think the sight of me, in polka dot pyjamas, wandering through my neighbours' gardens, might have resulted in the police being summoned.

Lupe, incidentally, had no pressing, urgent need to go outside. I think she, too, just wanted to bathe for a few moments in the light of a full moon.

"I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon." Amy Lovell.

Ripper Myth 4 - A Masonic Conspiracy

Over the years much attention has centred around the Ripper's practise of stabbing and disembowelling his victims and the question of whether or not the murders have echoes of certain Masonic rituals. Those who favour the Freemason conspiracy theory always cite the chalked message in Goulston Street, close to where Catherine Eddowes' mutilated body was found on 30 September 1888. The message read:

"The Juwes are the men who will not be blamed for nothing."

Cryptic certainly. Was the double negative deliberate, implying guilt on the part of the "Juwes," or the note simply mis-spelled and illiterate, a reference to anti-Jewish feeling running high in the East End at the time? (There had already been considerable public and press speculation that the Ripper might be Jewish.)

The Masonic conspiracy theorists argue that "Juwes" refers to three Masons of history: Jubela, Jubelo and Jubilim, who murdered their grand master Hiram Abiff during the building of Solomon's Temple. Their punishment was to be mutilated in a supposedly identical fashion to the injuries suffered by some of Jack the Ripper's victims.

They go on to claim that Sir Charles Warren, chief commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, himself a Freemason, recognised the reference to Juwes in the graffiti and ordered its immediate erasure. He certainly ordered it to be removed, but the reason he gave - wanting to avoid stoking up dangerous anti Jewish sentiment in an already volatile situation - could well have been genuine, if misguided.

As to why a group of well-connected and influential men who might have their corruptions and peculiarities but who have rarely been known to indulge in ritual homicide should embark on a murderous rampage, the most colourful reason offered brings poor old Prince Albert Victor back into the frame.

Historian Stephen Knight, in his 1976 book, "Jack the Ripper, The Final Solution", argues that Prince Albert married and had a daughter by a young Catholic woman, Annie Elizabeth Crook. Annie was subsequently incarcerated in a lunatic asylum by the Queen's physician, Freemason Sir William Gull, where a lobotomy turned her into a gibbering idiot.

When a group of prostitutes in the know threatened to blackmail the Government, Robert Cecil the prime minister (and Freemason) was ordered to act. He and Sir William together with Walter Sickert, another Freemason, (who allegedly had introduced Prince Albert to Annie Crook), drove round the East End, locating and dispatching the blackmailers.

There is no evidence, either medical or historical, to support this theory and it contains numerous factual inaccuracies and discrepancies. The victims were murdered where they were found, not in a royal carriage and a carriage could not be driven into many of the areas in question. Not all the victims were mutilated. Sir William was in his seventies and in poor health.

It's an entertaining idea, but not one that comes anywhere close to a final solution.

Not guilty (probably): Sir William Gull and the Freemasons

There's a big yellow thing in the sky again today and suddenly everybody is looking happy. People are even starting to mutter the S word.

Not me though. The imminent arrival of Spring has the opposite effect on me from the rest of the world because it's the time of year when my blissfully simple existence becomes rather more complex. Or to put it another way, the one trick pony has to start juggling.

First up, NOW YOU SEE ME (NYSM) is in proof form and being sent out to the opinion formers of the publishing world. They may not all be kind. I'm not the new girl on the block any more and I can't expect they'll cut me any slack. Which could be a problem, because NYSM is my favourite child. I was fully prepared for people to be ambivalent about BLOOD HARVEST (long and torturous pregnancy, agonising delivery) - but NYSM has been a delight from start to finish. If readers don't love it as much as I do, it will hurt. And I can't bunker down in a dark room, keeping my ears closed. I have to give interviews, write articles, talk to libraries and book clubs, have my hair done and wear shoes with heels.

On top of that, D(deadline) Day for Work-In-Progress is drawing near. Actually it's the end of the week and, as I continually remind myself, an author is only as good as her last book. So, around noon on Friday, I will send it. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed will pick up her red pen, little horns will sprout from her temples and editing season begins. Regular visitors will know what that does to me.

And it's sad, as well as nerve-wracking, when a Work-in-Progress comes to an end and I have to say goodbye to the characters who've taken up most of the room in my head for so long.

This year there's the added complication that I have to submit ideas for future books. Now, I know I like to say that ideas are the easy bit (and to some extent that's true) but taking an idea, that can probably be expressed in a couple of sentences at most, and turning it into something that might satisfy a notoriously hard-to-please editor is another matter entirely. Especially when all I really have up my sleeve at the moment is:

1. Body in river

2. Nasty thing in church

3. Black magic in Peckham

4. Kid knows more than he should

No really, that is as far as I've got. Yet, by the end of March, each must have a complex but credible plot, strikingly original and yet grounded in reality. Each will have to be heavy on atmosphere and meticulously researched with the forensic science/spooky folklore combination that has become my trademark. Each must be a fully developed story in miniature, just waiting to be written.

So to recap, while I'm planning at least three new books, (She-Who-Must … likes to have a choice), I'll be editing Work-In-Progress and promoting NOW YOU SEE ME. That's at least five stories I'll have to store in a head that normally only handles one.

Autumn's the season I love. When the ploughed fields look like dark chocolate and the air feels like a polo mint on your tongue (line from Blood Harvest). When small child goes back to school and I can lock myself away with the dog and a packet of biscuits, gain half a stone and lose myself in a world that always feels so much more exciting than the real one.

Ah well, next September will come around eventually. In the meantime, I have Spring to get through.