Why is it all my research trips take me to city parks in the
middle of winter? Last week, it was Victoria Park in London's east
end - not a tea-room, band stand or large dog kennel to shelter me
from the biting wind and freezing torrents. This week, Bute Park in
Cardiff. Weather similarly bad. (Friends remain unsympathetic:
"write a book set in the Caribbean then, you dozy mare," is the
typical response should I dare grumble.)
I used to live in Cardiff. I used to live in Bute Park, come to
think of it. In the Castle Mews. Once stabling for the Marquis of
Bute's horses, some time over the last hundred years it was
converted into sixteen flats for park workers. When I was there,
fourteen of them were empty. The walls were solid stone, there was
no heating. I learned the meaning of cold that winter.
But it was big on atmosphere. When night fell, it felt like I
was alone in this cavernous stone building, in the middle of a
large park. Who would hear screams? Certainly not Gerry and Gwen,
in the only other occupied flat. They were in their seventies and
deaf as posts.
So, when I needed a city park to set the opening, (very scary)
scene in my fourth book, my thoughts naturally turned to Bute Park.
True, it was over twenty years since I'd lived there but I could
more or less remember it: the magnolia lawn, the fairy-tale
elegance of the castle, the river Taff running through. Book four
is all but done and last Friday was my final tick-all-the-boxes
trip.
Now, they who must be obeyed without question (editor and
editor's boss) have previously given me clear instructions that I
need to broaden my commercial appeal and step away, a little, from
the claustrophobic, bucolic settings of my previous three books. I
need to become more contemporary.
I'm fine with that, honestly. I've enjoyed being the high
priestess of English Rural Gothic but a girl has to cast off the
purple mantle sometime. I was ready for something a bit more grown
up - more serious - and I've enjoyed writing book four like no
other.
So what do I find, at the exact spot where the "incident" in
Bute Park has to take place? A bloody great stone circle!
Now, I swear it wasn't there when I lived here. Actually, it
probably was but I swear I never noticed it. Or, if I did, I swear,
it had gone completely from my mind. Whatever, it's there, and
either I rethink half the novel or I bow to the inevitable, rewrite
this scene in true Gothic fashion and send the purple mantle to the
dry cleaners in readiness for a few more outings.
You can't fight fate!
We were deeply saddened last night, on the way back from
Hampshire, to learn of the death of Dick Francis. Husband
(from a very horsey family) introduced me to him years ago and I've
been a firm fan ever since. I've said this before, but it's worth
repeating. Few writers can pen an opening line like Dick
Francis. Open any of his books and you'll see exactly what I
mean.
I work very hard on my own opening lines, trying to make them as
impactful as possible. I'll try even harder in future, and I'll do
so in his honour.
Thanks for the stories, Dick. We'll miss you.