Blogging with Labradors - Page 20 of 25 - Lynn Bryant’s Writing with Labradors

5th July 20174th July 2018

Tynwald Day- the Manx national day

Tynwald Day, the Manx national day, is held each year on July 5^th and is a celebration of Manx independence and Manx culture. I wrote this post last year and am re-sharing it along with a free promotion of my most recent book, An Unwilling Alliance, which is set on the Isle of Man and in Denmark in 1806-7 and features a Manx hero and heroine.

Tynwald is the Parliament of the Isle of Man and no other parliament in the world has such a long unbroken record. It has been going since Viking times, more than 1000 years and governs a tiny island in the Irish sea. I had never heard the word Tynwald until I moved to the island fifteen years ago and I’m not sure I had really grasped the fact that the Isle of Man is an independent country with it’s own laws and its own Parliament. The island is not part of the United Kingdom, but a Crown Dependency with the Queen acknowledged as Lord of Mann.

The ceremony held at St John’s on Tynwald Day has changed in the details but has basically been going on for more than 1000 years. Back then the island was a collection of Viking settlements and an annual sitting of their Parliament was held around midsummer where people gathered to hear their laws proclaimed aloud, to seek justice and to air their grievances.

The Vikings or Norsemen first came to Mann around the year 800AD, and ruled the Island for four-and-a-half centuries before finally ceding it to the King of Scotland in 1266. By then they had firmly imposed their own administrative system, which continued even while the Island’s ownership passed between Scotland and England, to the Stanley family of Lancashire (Lords of Mann from 1405-1736), and to their kin the Dukes of Atholl, who held it until it was re-vested in the British Crown in 1765. The custom of Tynwald Day has continued throughout all these changes.

On Tynwald Day, Tynwald meets at St John’s instead of the usual parliament building in Douglas, partly in the Royal Chapel of St John the Baptist and partly in the open air on Tynwald Hill, a small artificial hill nearby. The meeting is known as Midsummer Court and is attended by both branches of Tynwald, the House of Keys and the Legislative Council. The Lieutenant Governor presides as the representative of the Lord of Mann, unless the Queen or another member of the Royal Family is present.

All bills which have received the Royal Assent are promulgated on Tynwald day and if this does not happen within 18 months of passing the bill it ceases to have effect. Other proceedings can include the presentation of petitions and the swearing in of public officials. There is a formal procession which includes the Lieutenant Governor, Members of the House of Keys and of the Legislative Council, the Deemsters who are the highest judicial officers, any guests of honour from other nations, clergymen, leaders of local governments and any other state officials of the Isle of Man. Members of the general public attend the ceremony as do local constabulary and military. It is a highly formal affair.

Before Tynwald sits, the individual presiding inspects the guard of honour and lays a wreath at the National War Memorial. There is a religious service in the chapel at 11am and then Tynwald proceeds to the adjacent Tynwald Hill. The path is strewn with rushes following the celtic custom of pleasing the sea god Mannanan with bundles of rushes on Midsummer’s Eve. The path is lined with flagpoles, which fly the national flag and the parliamentary flag. The laws are proclaimed from Tynwald Hill which has existed from at least the end of the 14^th century. Once this is done, Tynwald reconvenes in the Chapel and quill pens are used to sign certificates documenting the promulgation of the laws.

Once the captioning of the acts has concluded, the Lieutenant Governor and the Legislative Council withdraw, leaving members of the House of Keys for a session of their house. Once Tynwald Day is over there are three more sittings of Tynwald before the government adjourns for the summer until October.

Traditionally, Tynwald Day was marked by a fair and market; these customs still continue with stalls, demonstrations, music and dance throughout the day and on into the evening. The village of St John’s is packed with people and the following week, known as Manx National Week, usually hosts a series of concerts, displays and other events related to Manx culture.

For the first few years we were on the island it was an annual event to go to Tynwald Day. I admit I was fascinated by the history, the idea that this ceremony, in some form or another, has been going for so long. It is very different to the British opening of Parliament and Queen’s speech which is very much a Parliamentary event. This is an event for the people, and the tradition of people bringing their grievances before Tynwald on this day really happens, I know people who have done it. This year, as an example, several Manx women staged a silent protest dressed in Handmaid’s Tale type red cloaks and bonnets to show their support for reform of the island’s highly outdated abortion laws. Democracy moves slowly at times, but it does move and Tynwald Day is a traditional forum for protests like this.

The actual reading of the laws is long and boring and I’m not sure how many people really listen. But it’s an important part of the day. The officials are in full robes and wigs and there’s a real sense of ceremony and national pride.

I’ve not been to Tynwald Day for years now. It’s the day after my daughter’s birthday so it’s often difficult. But I think I’d like to do it again at some point. In the past, when the children were younger it was all about the fair and the activities and the market stalls. But I think I’d like to attend from the point of view of a historian, to read about the ceremonies of the past and feel the sense of continuity which shines through the day. The island is a small nation but has a deep sense of pride and community which I’ve a suspicion we could all learn something from.

Many thanks to Heather Paisley for use of her photographs.

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4th July 20177th October 2017

Independence Day, the Fourth of July. Or maybe the second…

Independence Day in the USA — Independence Day

Independence Day is the national day of the United States of America, celebrated on the 4^th July when the Declaration of Independence was adopted in 1776. It’s sheer coincidence that it is the day before Tynwald Day which is the national day of my adopted nation, the Isle of Man. It is also the birthday of my younger and most fiercely independent child which is possibly more a matter of fate than coincidence…

Independence Day - Thomas Jefferson — Thomas Jefferson

In fact, the Continental Congress declared independence two days earlier on July 2 but the declaration was debated and reworded, finally being approved on July 4. The thirteen colonies declared that they were no longer part of the British Empire and regarded themselves as a new nation. The principal author of the declaration was Thomas Jefferson. On 3 July, John Adams wrote to his wife Abigail:

“The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.”

Adams’ prediction was right about everything except the date. Americans chose instead to celebrate Independence Day on the day shown on the Declaration rather than on the date it was actually approved. The day is now a national holiday in the US with huge celebrations including fireworks, parties, picnics and barbecues. Local parades are often held in the morning and families gather to celebrate the long weekend.

I spent some time this week researching the origins of the Manx Tynwald Day without really thinking about the American equivalent, which is funny considering the different sizes of the two nations and two events. Surprisingly, though, there are some similarities in the fierce national pride which both nations take for granted. The Americans chose a date relating to the creation of their state for their national day; the Manx day was simply midsummer, the date when for over 1000 years their national Parliament met in the open air at St John’s to enact the laws passed during the year.

While I am not an advocate for the more aggressive forms of jingoism and the exclusive type of nationalism which can sometimes be associated with the Union Jack flag, I sometimes wish that the English had managed to come up with a national celebration which includes the entire country. We have more than our fair share of ceremonial but it tends to centre on London and the Royal family there and although there are occasional events which pull the country together like the 2012 Olympics and various Royal Jubilees, there is something to be said for a regular day where is is completely acceptable for a person to acknowledge their homeland and their pride to be part of it and it would be nice to feel it was celebrated throughout the UK in the same way that Independence Day is through America.

The Americans have been celebrating Independence Day for just over four hundred years. The Manx have been celebrating Tynwald Day for more than a thousand. It might be a small nation, but that’s what I call history…

1st July 20177th October 2017

High School Prom – a history and a personal experience

I’ve just had a very odd experience. My fifteen year old daughter has just attended her year 11 high school prom and I found myself, for a short time, turning into ‘prom Mum’. It’s astonishing how much time and energy can go into preparing a daughter for this one event, lasting a few hours only. I’m not sure that I was looking forward to it but in the end it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected.

It wasn’t the first prom in the family. My son went through the process a couple of years ago but on that occasion my only involvement was to admire him in his suit and make sure the corsage matched his date’s dress. There was little else for me to do.

It’s different with a daughter, especially one like mine who does not conform to most teenage norms. I was frankly surprised that she wanted to do prom at all. Given her ambivalence, we rather left the whole shopping thing to the last minute, so we ended up travelling to buy the dress. Make up and hair needed to be decided and the location of the pre-prom and after-prom events took some arranging. But my child is fearsomely independent and apart from buying the dress I had less to do than many parents.

The high school prom is a custom which began in the United States but has been exported in recent years to the United Kingdom and Canada, probably because of the popularity of the prom in films and TV shows over the years. A rite of passage for high school students it has become an important ritual in the UK and most schools now have a version of it.

Susan Ford, who held her prom at the White House

1950s High School Prom — Prom in the 1950s

In the early days of prom in the United States, the dance was a bit like a debutante ball. It was considered the first adult social event for many teenagers and the first real occasion to dress up. Initially nothing more than an end of year dance, it gradually became an iconic episode in high school life and during the 1950s proms became more extravagant and elaborate. Original proms took place at the school but gradually it became more common to use hotels or country clubs. One lucky girl, whose father happened to be a President, held her prom at the White House.

The high school prom arrived in the UK during the 2000s. Before then schools often held a summer ball or end of year disco to celebrate the end of formal schooling but this did not have the significance of the US style prom. However, the increasing influence of US TV shows and movies changed the nature of these events and most schools now hold a year 11 prom and a year 13 prom to celebrate the end of schooling for these two year groups.

There is something reminiscent of a wedding about preparing for high school prom. Boys wear suits, girls wear evening gowns and there is a tradition of wearing a buttonhole or corsage of flowers. Traditionally students have attended in couples although it is increasingly common for groups of friends to attend together. There are formal photographs, parents often gather for pre-prom events and there is often an ‘after prom’ party which might be organized and supervised but is frequently not, in which case alcohol plays a part.

One of the traditions of prom is the election of a prom queen and king, voted in by the other students. Not all schools hold to this tradition and there has been some concern that it can lead to jealousy and spite but it has proved popular in many schools.

I was worried about the high school prom for my girl. I thought she might feel slightly out of place in the glitter and self absorption of the whole event. That says more about my view of prom than hers; I’ll admit to being a bit of a prom snob. To me it was an American invention wrapped up with teenage rivalry, too much make up and the prom king and queen being the two kids one would least want to spend an evening with. Clearly I watched too much American teen TV and movies over the past twenty years.

As so often happens, I was wrong. Prom queen and king were a couple whom my daughter declares to be totally sweet. She was nominated herself which she found hilarious. She had a date; a good friend of hers but most of her friends went as a group and there was no sense of rivalry or teenage angst at the pre-prom gathering. They were all happy, all enjoying dressing up in glamorous clothes and all delighted to be together.

Astonishingly I felt very emotional. I’ve known a lot of these kids since they were skinny little eleven year olds and they looked truly beautiful. According to my daughter, the evening was great, she danced until her feet hurt and so did everybody else. She got bored with the incessant photographs but was tolerant of them. She enjoyed herself at a good party where she got to dress up like a princess and be with her friends.

I don’t know if high school prom is always like this, but if it is, I’m a convert. I’m glad that my daughter had this rite of passage at the end of her compulsory education and I’m happy for her to do it again at the end of sixth form. It turned out that it wasn’t a popularity contest.

The thing I really liked is that not once have I heard a single criticism or spiteful remark about anybody else. Nobody picked at each others hair or dress or make up. The kids I talked to seemed to have a genuine joy in being together for one last time before they separate to take their different paths. For my daughter it’s back to school for A levels; some are going to college or into work or apprenticeships. But on this evening they were all united and having a good time.

We here so much negative stuff about teenagers today. But this group, on this evening, at this prom, were a bunch of kids I’m delighted to know. Good luck to them all in whatever they do next. And just for one evening, I was a very very proud prom Mum…

24th June 201717th December 2017

The Bethnal Green Tube Disaster – a little piece of family history

The Bethnal Green Tube Disaster happened on 3rd March 1943. 173 people died; men, women and children while trying to hurry down the steep steps to the station which was being used as an air raid shelter. Growing up in East London with a mother who lived through the Blitz as a child, I can’t remember ever not knowing about this tragedy. The story was told through my family and with grisly curiosity I can remember being quite young and asking about it time and time again as my mother insisted on holding my hand going down those steps on our way to the underground. So it was something as a shock to me to discover as an adult how many people in Britain have never heard of it at all.

The story, for me, follows on from my previous post about my childhood in London. There were endless stories of wartime Britain from my parents, grandparents and aunts and uncles. I’ve often wondered about the accuracy of some of them given how memories change over time. My mother is gone now as are all her brothers and sisters so I can’t ask for more detail and I wish I’d done it while I could. But the story of the tragedy in March 1943 was very real.

The winter of 1940-41 was a nightmare for Londoners, with the bombing pounding their city. On one occasion, London was hit for 57 nights in a row. In December firebombs hit the city. Air raid sirens were a constant background to daily life although there were many false alarms, but a lot of Londoners used to go into the shelters for the night just in case. Many had Anderson or Morrison shelters in their back gardens but they were cramped with no light, little air and no toilet other than a chamber pot. A lot of people preferred to use the Underground.

Bethnal Green was a new station as the Central Line had been extended from Liverpool Street in 1936, but work had been interrupted by the outbreak of War. With the track not yet laid, there was plenty of room with up to 5000 bunks. There was a sense of community with singing, laughter, tea urns and even a library and with bombs falling around them it must have given many a sense of security to be with their neighbours and friends.

Bombing was not as bad as it had been in previous years but on 3rd March 1943 it was expected to get worse as the RAF had bombed Berlin quite heavily two nights earlier and people were expecting reprisals. With the sound of the Siren and the closure of the cinema, 3 buses had just stopped nearby and their passengers dashed for the shelter. A woman carrying a baby tripped and fell as she went down the steps to the platform. A man tripped over her and a domino effect started. At the top of the stairs came shouted warning of bombs falling and when a new and loud sound was heard people thought it was a new kind of bomb although it was actually a new anti-aircraft rocket battery being tested in Victoria Park near by.

People panicked and pushed into the shelter unaware of the horror unfolding below them in the dark. The way was blocked but still people poured down. There were no handrails in the middle, no white edgings on the steps and no police on duty. It was dark and the steps were slippery from the rain. Around 300 people were wedged into the stairway – an area measuring approximately 15 x 11 feet. By the time they were pulled out, 27 men, 84 women and 62 children were crushed to death while 60 survivors needed hospital treatment. In a horrible irony there was no air raid or bombs dropped that night in the East End.

There was a government enquiry although it’s findings were not published until the end of the war to avoid propaganda for the enemy and damage to British morale. The entrance was poorly lit, with no central handrail and apparently the local council had asked permission to alter the entrance and put in a central handrail, but had been refused the funds by the Government of the day. After the tragedy new handrails were installed on the steps down to the station. Each step was marked with white paint.

The official statement by the Ministry of Home Security states:

“According to accounts so far received, shortly after the air-raid Alert sounded, substantial numbers of people were making their way as usual towards the shelter entrance. There were nearly 2000 in the shelter, including several hundred who had arrived after the Alert, when a middle-aged woman, burdened with a bundle and a baby, tripped near the foot of a flight of 19 steps which leads down from the street. This flight of steps terminates on a landing. Her fall tripped an elderly man behind her and he fell similarly. Their bodies again tripped up those behind them, and within a few seconds a large number were lying on the lower steps and the landing, completely blocking the stairway. Those coming in from the street could not see what had taken place and continued to press down the steps, so that within a minute there were about 300 people crushed together and lying on top of one another covering the landing and the lower steps.
“By the time it was possible to extricate the bodies it was found that a total at present estimated at 178 had died and that a further 60 were in need of hospital treatment. Statements from a large number of eye-witnesses and members of the police and Civil Defence services make it clear that there was no sign of panic before the accident on the stairs. No bombs fell anywhere in this district during the evening. Preliminary reports received by the Home Secretary and Minister of Home Security indicate that police, wardens, soldiers, W.V.S. and civilians worked hard and well to rescue the victims. Mr. Morrison has instituted the fullest inquiries to establish in greater detail what took place and to see whether any structural or administrative weaknesses have been brought to light”

The injured were taken to hospital in Whitechapel and the dead were taken to the mortuary there on carts and buses. When it became overcrowded the bodies were stored in St John’s Church opposite the tube station. Many of the victims were later buried in Tower Hamlets Cemetery, which was cleared by members of the Drapers Company with help from the Friends of Tower Hamlets Cemetery in time for the 60th anniversary. Others are buried in Manor Park Cemetery and a few elsewhere.

Because of the government’s desire to keep the tragedy quiet while war was still going on, those involved were told to keep quiet and not say what had happened. A report was filed by Eric Linden with the Daily Mail, who witnessed it but it never ran. The story which was reported instead was that there had been a direct hit by a German bomb. The results of the official investigation were not released until 1946. Everybody in the East End knew the truth but in the days without the internet and social media it did not filter out to the country as a whole. The press were silenced. There was no counselling in those days and PTSD wasn’t recognised. People were told to just get on with their life.

There is a list of the dead on the memorial website, and one of them was a twelve year old boy called James William Taylor. Jimmy was my mother’s first cousin, living within a few minutes of her and in the close knit community of the East End he attended Bonner Street School with her and her brothers and was a close part of her extended family. My mother and her brothers heard about the disaster from some other children on their way to school and were told that the bodies were being taken out and laid out on the pavement waiting to be transferred. With the grisly curiosity of wartime children they took a detour to see them. Only later did they find out that one of the hastily covered bodies laid out beside the road was their cousin Jimmy.

Thinking about this tragedy in light of the recent horrible events in London has made me realise how much times have changed. It is inconceivable to us that families, including children like my mother, were allowed – in fact expected – to cope with the reality of a tragedy like this without help or counselling or even without financial support. Women who lost their breadwinner in the tragedy faced hard times with their children.

Surprisingly my mother used to tell me that she remembered surprisingly little sense of outrage or anger at the government either for the disaster or the cover up. Perhaps that was because she was a child but also it was wartime and everybody had been taught that ‘careless talk costs lives’. There were no internet groups on Facebook to stir up anger and resentment and animosity, there was just the local community which offered comfort and support and practical help to those in need. What blame there was landed upon the local council since they were not allowed to publish their requests for funding to improve the entrance, given the number of people using it. But in wartime London, protests were fairly muted. People had other things on their minds and it was not until after the war that the full truth gradually emerged and public anger grew including a number of court cases.

For many years the only memorial was a small plaque on the stairway, the one which used to spark my curiosity as a child but in 2007 local residents, including many who had lost family in the tragedy and one or two survivors, formed a charity for a proper memorial to the worst civilian disaster of the Second World War. Their web page is well worth a look, as it tells the story in far more detail including very moving accounts of survivors.

The memorial, called A Stairway to Heaven is finally being unveiled on Sunday 17 December 2017. More than 70 years after the tragedy, those 173 people, including my first cousin once removed, are being remembered. Most of those who survived the disaster are gone now, but those who remain have never forgotten.

My mother didn’t spend all her childhood in London, she had two spells of evacuation, but she had vivid memories of the time she was there and she was a good storyteller. I’m going to write them down and perhaps get my sister and cousins to dredge up their memories of their parents’ stories. It’s very easy to think there is plenty of time. I wish I’d asked both my parents a lot more and written it down so that I could remember it more clearly.

As a history graduate and historical novelist, perhaps it should be my job to record the family history as well so that all our children can benefit from it.

23rd June 20176th October 2017

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner was played at my mother’s funeral a few years back. It was very appropriate for her, because although for the last few years of her life she moved to the Isle of Man to be near us, she saw herself as very much a Londoner. She was fiercely proud of it, would defend London as the best city in the world – in fact the best place in the world – against anybody.

I was in London myself recently for a few days, cat sitting for a friend of my sisters and getting some quiet time after the complete madness of the past few months. It was as hot as Hades and I spent a few days with my sister catching up, being a tourist and getting sore feet after which she went home and I was alone and peaceful with Monty the cat. My intention wasto catch up on a lot of admin jobs that I’ve left for too long and then to get a really good way into my new Regency novel. It was a lovely flat with a balcony and the temptation to doze in the sun with Monty was huge, although I did try to resist.

It’s always odd being back in London. I’m not so familiar with this part, but we took a bus out through the East End where I grew up, to Stratford and then went on to Canary Wharf and had lunch by the river. In my childhood, Stratford was our local shopping centre and Canary Wharf was a place we simply didn’t go – it consisted of rotting and boarded up warehouses with a few dingy businesses still struggling on. I’ve watched the evolution of docklands through my life and it’s been a fascinating process.

Despite being born and raised in the East End, I’m not really a city person. I don’t mind small towns; Douglas is about right for me. But I love the countryside and the coast, the feeling of fewer people and wider spaces and not feeling trapped. I don’t think I’d ever choose to live full time in a city again, especially a city as overcrowded as London now is.

Nevertheless – and maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner – I actually do still love London. It’s the place of my birth and my childhood. I love the history and the parks and the odd little corners that many people never visit. I was so lucky as a child to have parents who adored both history and walking. Every Sunday, unless the rain was torrential, we were dragged out to the number 8 bus stop at the end of the road, to “go for a walk”. This did not mean a twenty minute stroll through a park. It meant a four or five hour marathon through parts of London I would never have known existed.

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner: Wellington Statue — Wellington statue in London

We walked through the City and listened to my mother’s stories of the blitz and of her first jobs in old fashioned offices, learning the switchboard and typing on an old fashioned typewriter. We wandered through the Inns of Court and the world of legal London, with my Dad stopping to read every plaque on every wall. We discovered hidden gems like the Museum of the Order of St John and Postman’s Park. On wet days we did every museum in London including ones I’ve forgotten even existed. We went into obscure but beautiful churches which were always open to visitors back then, and if it was late enough in the day we would stay for evensong before getting the bus home. When people ask me why I write historical novels rather than any other kind, I find it hard to answer apart from to say I always loved history. But I know that this is why. At times, wandering through the ancient streets, I would whinge about the fact that my friends from school were all off ice skating or swimming or just hanging out in the street. But Mum was adamant that unless there was a genuine reason not to (like a broken leg – arms didn’t count, I once saw her scale the cliffs at Hastings with her arm in a sling) we would all go out together on Sundays. Church, Sunday lunch, walk or other outing and then home for tea and whichever series was on TV on Sundays. Saturdays were ours; on Sundays we belonged to her.

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner: Tower of London — Tower of London

As I grew older the rule relaxed, but by then she didn’t have to nag me, I was hooked. At secondary school by then, I visited exhibitions relevant to whatever I was studying, sometimes with the school but sometimes on my own. I would think nothing – and still don’t – about taking myself off to the British Museum on a free day. A boat trip down to Hampton Court or Greenwich was a joy. I loved the Cutty Sark and the Tower of London – just wandering around outside them was enough. And I adored – and will always adore – the River Thames, where my parents did a lot of their courting.

All of this came from a family with very little. We lived, for the first thirteen years of my life, in an old rented house with no bathroom or indoor toilet. We washed in the kitchen sink and bathed in an old fashioned tin bath by the oil stove in the kitchen because there was no central heating. We ate healthily but with few luxuries on a daily basis although it made a meal out for a birthday or the extra treats at Christmas incredibly special.

When we moved to a council maisonette when I was thirteen, it was luxury. I can remember squabbling over who would be the first to use the new bath until we realised my mother was already in it. Curiously, we missed our old fashioned house; the new place had no garden. My parents were good managers and saved for their old age but we didn’t have that much stuff.

What we did have was experiences. We had one week’s holiday every year, always in the UK but always somewhere special. When we were small we went to holiday camps a lot as they were cheap and there was entertainment but as we got older we rented cottages and we explored Devon and Cornwall, the Lakes and Yorkshire, the Isle of Wight and parts of Scotland. We did it all by coach and bus and train; they had no car.

We went to the cinema to see every good new film going. We went to the London Palladium to see the Pantomime every Christmas. If there was a school trip to anywhere, they would find the money for us to go. My love of music came from endless school trips to concerts, the opera, and to hear Gilbert and Sullivan. My love of good plays and literature came from school trips to the Young Vic and Stratford upon Avon. They had never been abroad, but I went to Russia at sixteen with the school because my Dad did overtime to pay for it.

I’m aware as an adult of everything they did for us and everything they sacrificed so that we could absorb as many different experiences as they could afford to give us. It’s not that surprising that we both did so well. But I don’t think they thought it was that much of a sacrifice, I think they loved doing all these things with us, enjoyed introducing us to the city they both loved.

They were poor when we were young, got more comfortable as we grew up and travelled a bit more, spent more on themselves although they still never had a car or bought a house. They ate out a lot, discovered different cuisines and enjoyed it. They both still walked until arthritis and old age prevented them. But they never resented poverty or saw themselves as victims. They were never angry. They simply worked out what was important to them and what they could easily do without and if they needed more they worked a bit harder to get it.

They weren’t political although they never failed to vote, but they both voted on issues rather than blind loyalty to a party so at different times they voted for all three main parties. My mother voted for Margaret Thatcher simply on the grounds that it was time there was a woman in charge. She was a feminist without ever knowing what the word meant, or caring. My father voted Labour that year. Neither of them cared what anybody else voted. Their friends and family could be Labour or Tory or Liberal or nothing at all. It was considered rude to get personal about such matters as religion or politics. They were old enough to appreciate the welfare state, the NHS and any help they were given. They were gracious about it, didn’t see it as a right, said thank you when help was given. During the IRA bombings they continued to take us to all the same places, do all the same things. We missed the Ideal Home Exhibition bomb by a few minutes only, but there was no sense of anxiety. We were in London and that city belonged to us, not the bombers.

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner. But when I’m back here, no matter how much it has changed, no matter how much I know that I’d never come back to live here now, I still feel a very primitive sense of belonging. This is my city, my home, my childhood. I feel an enormous sense of familiarity and of love and gratitude both to the people who raised me and the city that shaped all of us. I’ve lived in many places now and loved a fair few of them. But when I come back to London, I know I’ve come home.

22nd June 201710th October 2017

An Irregular Regiment – Book Two coming soon

Wellington’s HQ in Pere Negro, the Lines of Torres Vedras

An Irregular Regiment, book two in the Peninsular War saga, is due for publication on 4th July.

The novel continues the story of Major Paul van Daan and the 110th infantry as they prepare to meet the French on the ridge of Bussaco in Portugal. Back on the battlefield only two weeks after his scandalous marriage to the young widow of Captain Robert Carlyon, Paul is ready for the challenge of the invading French army.

But Lord Wellington has another posting for his most difficult officer and Paul and Anne find themselves back in Lisbon dealing with a whole new set of challenges with army supplies, new recruits and a young officer who seems to represent everything Paul despises in the army’s views on discipline and punishment. Anne is getting used to life as the wife of a newly promoted regimental colonel as two other women join the regiment under very different circumstances. And an old adversary appears in the shape of Captain Vincent Longford whose resentment at serving under Paul is as strong as ever.

It’s a relief to return to the field but Paul finds himself serving under the worst General in the army in a situation which could endanger his career, his regiment and his life.

Given a brief by Wellington which requires him to use tact and diplomacy as well as his formidable fighting skills, it’s hardly surprising that the army is holding it’s breath waiting for Wellington’s newest and most explosive colonel to fail spectacularly.

Read the first chapter of An Irregular Regiment here. For those who haven’t read it yet, why not order an Unconventional Officer.

20th June 201710th October 2017

Blogging with Labradors – even when it’s too hot to do so

Blogging with labradors even when it’s too hot to do so is still a better idea than housework which is my official task for the day. I am going to get back to it after one little blog post, I promise. The sheer joy of a clean and tidy living room yesterday has spurred me on. But I feel as though I’ve neglected the boys in these posts recently in favour of history, art, writing and other stuff that they really don’t care about. And after all, it is named after them…

Toby and Joey are cross with me. For one thing it’s very hot which they are not keen on. It might seem unreasonable for them to blame me for this, but they do. They’re dogs, so they don’t realise I don’t control the weather. After all, I can provide food and water on tap and cuddles on demand. And if they are cold I light the fire for them. Why I can’t turn off the sun, they cannot comprehend but they’re cross about it.

They’re also cross because people are missing. My son is in Cyprus and my husband is in London and my daughter is out doing revision sessions and exams. Toby and Joey disapprove. They’re fond of me, but one human to adore them isn’t really enough, they like a team. Usually they struggle to decide who to be with when we’re all here, and pace from room to room like large Tigers. If we have the audacity to be upstairs where they are not allowed they will stand at the bottom and bark, knowing that somebody will come.

Now there is only me, and to make it worse, I’ve gone mad. The woman who can pretty much be relied on to sit at her desk for most of the day with their beds either side, has started cleaning things.

Yesterday was the pinnacle of my madness and their irritation. I took the sofas apart and cleaned the living room. I washed their beds. I opened windows and vacuumed noisily for what seemed like hours. They both got up onto the sofa (minus cushions) and sat there in the chaos, refusing to move and looking grumpy. I think they’d just about forgiven me by bedtime although I had to sit in the living room with them all evening to make it up to them.

Today they are alone with me again, and looking suspicious since I’ve picked up that vacuum cleaner again and taken it upstairs. They don’t trust me, I can tell.

I feel as though I have gone a bit mad, but the novelty of actually having time alone in the house has gone to my head. I know I’ll feel better when the house is at least reasonably clean and tidy, and it makes it easier to work if I’m not constantly irritated by the mess so I’m going to get on with it and feel better despite my allergy to housework.

My dogs will forgive me because I’m going to buy them a paddling pool. It seems mad on the Isle of Man given our usual weather but it is hotter than usual and at their age, heat stroke is a worry. Also it will be quite nice to put my feet in if this keeps up… I’ve read a couple of very sad stories this week about dogs dying of heatstroke, not here but in the UK, which has made me conscious of keeping an eye on my beloved boys.

The Dogs Trust gives the following advice about taking care of your dogs in hot weather.

There are many precautions that can be taken to keep your dog safe and well on a hot day.

Don’t excessively walk your dog
Avoid walking your dog at the hottest times of the day – often morning or later in the evenings can be cooler
Always take plenty of water with you when out with your dog
Make sure the dog has shade to cool off in, either inside or when out
Take your dog to the groomers and keep their fur clipped
Dogs can get sun burned – especially white dogs or those with little hair so try and keep them out of direct sun
Think twice about any car trips with your dog – avoid congested roads or busy times of day when they could overheart in the car if you are caught up in traffic
If driving with your dog plan your journey considering cooler times of the day and places to take breaks
Don’t leave your dog in a car – as temperatures rise, dogs overheat quickly and leaving them for as little as 20 minutes could prove fatal

Many of these are common sense and we’re fortunate to have a big shady garden for our two which they love. But I hope everybody takes care. Humans aren’t always that sensible in the hot weather either, especially in places like this where we don’t see it that often – we tend to get over excited and go a bit mad.

For example, some of us decide to clean house on a day when we’d probably be better sitting in the shade with our dogs, a cool drink and a nice gentle proof reading task. Ah well…

18th June 20176th October 2017

The Battle of Waterloo – the battle that changed the face of Europe – Part 2

Sir Arthur Wellesley, later the Duke of Wellington

The Battle of Waterloo – the battle that changed the face of Europe – was fought in what is now Belgium on July 18th in 1815. It started to rain on the afternoon of 17 June and this continued into the night but the morning of the 18th was sunny and bright.

On the plateaus to the south of the village of Waterloo, near Mont St. Jean, the two armies were camped some 1500 yards apart, the French with 72000 men and the Anglo-Dutch with 68000 men. Although the ridge was not high there were hollows and ravines where forces could be hidden until an enemy drew close and troops could rise up completely unexpectedly. This was land which Wellington knew how to exploit.

Wellington located his reserves and some of his main force behind the slopes of the plateau he had chosen to make his stand on; they would be concealed from view and largely protected from artillery. To the west, forward of his right flank, he sent troops to Hougemont, which was a brick-and-stone redoubt, fully enclosed and further protected by ditches, an orchard and hedges. Directly to his front he sent another force to a similar mini-fortress, La Haye Sainte. No similar fortifications existed on his left, or eastern flank, though there were smaller strongholds scattered about. This was the direction from which he hoped the Prussians would be arriving to reinforce him so he was less concerned about it.

Bonaparte’s favourite tactic was envelopment, swinging around his enemy’s flanks, but the heavy rains had left the low ground muddy between the plateau where his forces waited and the plateau where the Anglo-Dutch had their line. The mud would slow his cavalry and artillery in any envelopment attempt. He chose, therefore, to make a direct attack on Wellington’s centre. The poor weather also caused him to delay his main attack from 9:00 a.m. to noon, to allow the ground more time to dry.

Defending Hougemont at the Battle of Waterloo — The fight for Hougemont at the Battle of Waterloo

Bonaparte ordered General Reille to make an attack in the direction of Hougemont. It was intended to be a diversionary attack launched a half-hour before the main effort, but the commander of Reille’s lead division, after driving the enemy from some woods around the chateau, decided to attack the chateau itself. Both sides reinforced, and the fight drew in nearly half of Reille’s corps in a battle for a position of doubtful value to the French.

South of where the fighting was taking place, Grouchy had been ordered to seize Wavre and block the Prussians, but he moved slowly, and two corps had already passed through the town by the time his Frenchmen arrived. However, the same mud that had caused Napoleon to favor a direct assault over an enveloping maneuver also slowed the Prussian march to reinforce the Anglo-Dutch at Waterloo. Blucher pushed his men on, desperate to reinforce Wellington.

Knowing that the two forces would soon unite, Napoleon either had to withdraw to fight another day on better ground, or commit the rest of his force and hope to break Wellington’s line before Blücher’s full force arrived. Weighing against a retreat was the knowledge that an army of 250,000 Austrians were advancing toward Paris, and Napoleon was concerned that retreating would cost him support of the French people. He chose to decide the issue there and then.

For a half an hour he bombarded his enemy with 80 guns, but because Wellington had positioned much of his force on the downside of slopes away from the French artillery, the bombardment was not very effective.

Wellington reinforced La Haye Sainte and at around 4:00 p.m. both sides began heavy artillery bombardments. By now, Wellington’s centre began to disintegrate under the repeated French attacks and started to fall back. Marshal Ney, believing the Anglo-Dutch line was faltering, ordered a cavalry attack unsupported by infantry or artillery. The horsemen thundered forward, the ground shaking beneath the hooves of their mounts, crested a hill, and were greeted by British infantry formed in a patchwork of squares, the most effective defensive formation against cavalry. The French swept around the squares, trying to find a way to penetrate them, but momentum was broken. A counterattack by British cavalry drove the Frenchmen back, but reinforced, they came on again. Four times they charged, and four times they were repulsed.

By 6pm La Haye Sainte had fallen at last; Reille’s men had Hougomont surrounded, and a powerful attack against Wellington’s centre might have broken through, but the Prussians had begun arriving around 4pm and threatened the French rear by assaulting Plancenoit, a sizeable village with a stone church and stone-walled cemetery that could serve as strongpoints for either side. Napoleon directed a counterattack that gradually forced the Prussians back, but it took 10,000 French away from the central battle area, where they could have been used to break through Wellington’s weakened centre.

While Napoleon’s attention was focused on the Prussian threat to his rear, Ney took command of the rest of the Guard—some of the finest infantry in the world at the time—and led them in a futile attack against the strongest point of Wellington’s line. Finally, the French right flank caved, taking any remaining hope that Napoleon could avoid defeat. Napoleon ordered what was left of the Old Guard to form squares across the road south of La Haye Sainte while he withdrew his battered army.

Wellington and Blucher’s meeting at the Battle of Waterloo — Wellington and Blucher meet on the field at the Battle of Waterloo

Wellington and Blucher met on the battlefield with little sense of triumph. The allies had lost about 23,000 men killed and wounded while the French had lost 25,000 with an additional 9,000 captured. Napoleon retreated to Paris, pursued first by the Prussians and then by the British, and on the 22 June abdicated for the second time. He had hoped to escape to America but realising that he could not evade the Royal Navy, surrendered to them and was sent into exile on St Helena.

Whatever the significance of the actual battle, Waterloo is a watershed in the history of Europe. After many years of war, the nations were to enjoy an extended period of peace which gave time for the development of trade and industry and the fast changes of the industrial revolution. Had Napoleon been able to see the Europe of 1860 he would have found it very different.

The Battle of Waterloo changes everything for the characters of my books. It was the Duke of Wellington’s last major battle although he remained in France for the next three years in command of the Army of Occupation. After that he returned to England and moved into the political arena and for Paul van Daan the close relationship with his commanding officer which had begun on a hillside in India slightly more than fifteen years earlier is going to change forever. Whatever his future relations with Wellington he will no longer be serving under his command.

For now, that day in 1815 is a long way off and the men of the 110th have a long war ahead of them. But since I know it is coming, the date of the Battle of Waterloo still feels like a landmark.

16th June 20179th October 2017

The Battle of Waterloo – the battle that changed the face of Europe – Part 1

The Battle of Waterloo changed everything.

I’ve just made that statement with a snigger, knowing that dozens of historians out there will take a deep breath, their eyes gleaming as they get ready to launch themselves into the fray with the enthusiasm of a pack of hounds who’ve been cooped up during a twelve year ban on fox hunting. Some of them will argue that the Battle of Waterloo was of no real significance since Europe was in transition anyway. Others will say that while the campaign was important, the battle itself made no significant difference as even if Napoleon had defeated Wellington and Blucher he would then have had to face the Austrians and Russians. Some will say that the battle should never have happened, that the European powers could have negotiated with Bonaparte whose power was much reduced, and that Europe would have done better with him left in charge of France than the Bourbons. Others will get so excited arguing whether the battle was actually won by Wellington or Blucher and how many of each nationality were involved in the various armies, that they’ll forget what the original question was about.

I’d love to be in the middle of that argument; far more so than any of the current spiteful squabbling about Theresa May, Jeremy Corbyn, Brexit and who actually won the election (count the votes, it gives an enormous clue regardless of who we might have wanted to win). There is something about a good historical scrap which I thoroughly enjoy.

The Battle of Waterloo was fought on Sunday, 18 June 1815 in Belgium which was then part of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. A French army under the command of Napoleon Bonaparte was defeated by two of the armies of the Seventh Coalition: an English-led Allied army under the command of the Duke of Wellington, and a Prussian army under the command of Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, Prince of Wahlstatt.

Upon Napoleon’s return to power in March 1815, many states that had opposed him formed the Seventh Coalition, and began to mobilize armies. Wellington and Blücher’s armies were situated close to the north-eastern border of France and Bonaparte needed to attack and attack fast before the rest of the coalition could join them. The days of the Grande Army were long gone. Bonaparte had landed from Elba with a tiny force although he was picking up troops far more quickly than anybody had expected. Still many of his men were new recruits without the training and discipline of his armies of old, and he needed to buy time to bring them up to scratch. If he could defeat the English and Prussian armies he might be able to negotiate a temporary peace which would give him some time.

Realistically it was a faint hope. There had been so many attempts to make peace with Bonaparte, it is hard to believe that the powers of Europe seriously considered it. Wellington certainly did not. He wanted to fight and he wanted to fight on his terms and on his ground. Scrabbling together an army was not easy. His veteran Peninsular troops were scattered, some having been sent to America. Many of the European troops under his command were raw and untrained and he had little time. But he had already scouted his battlefield while on a tour of defences and he was hoping he could make the best use of it.

Napoleon successfully attacked the bulk of the Prussian army at the Battle of Ligny with his main force, while at the same time a portion of the French army attacked an Allied army at the Battle of Quatre Bras. Despite holding his ground at Quatre Bras, the defeat of the Prussians forced Wellington to withdraw to Waterloo. Napoleon sent a third of his forces to pursue the Prussians, who had withdrawn parallel to Wellington. This resulted in the Battle of Wavre with the Prussian rear-guard.

Upon learning that the Prussian army was able to support him, Wellington decided to offer battle on the Mont-Saint-Jean escarpment, across the Brussels road, the terrain he had already scouted previously. There had been no reason for Wellington to be searching out battle sites; his tour of the defences of the low countries was actually probably a way of getting him away from Paris for a time given his enormous unpopularity there. There were threats of assassination and Wellington was refusing to run away, so his timely visit to Belgium was a way to remove him from danger. But for a general whose eye for terrain was one of his greatest assets, the low ridge of Mont-Saint-Jean, south of the village of Waterloo and the Sonian Forest, with it’s selection of farms acting as bastions along the wall of the ridge, the advantages of the site were hard to miss.

Bonaparte was outnumbered in Europe; 250,000 Frenchmen faced a coalition of about 850,000 soldiers on four fronts. Napoleon was forced to leave 20,000 men in Western France to reduce a royalist insurrection. Six days before Napoleon reached Paris, the powers at the Congress of Vienna had declared him an outlaw and the United Kingdom, Russia, Austria, and Prussia mobilised armies against him. Napoleon knew that his only chance of remaining in power was to attack before the coalition had time to mobilise.

Had Napoleon succeeded in destroying the existing coalition forces south of Brussels before they were reinforced, he might have been able to drive the British back to the sea and knock the Prussians out of the war. Crucially, this would have bought him time to recruit and train more men before turning his armies against the Austrians and Russians. He also hoped that a French victory might cause French speaking sympathisers in Belgium to launch a revolution. In addition, coalition troops in Belgium were largely second-line, as many units were of dubious quality and loyalty, and most of the British veterans of the Peninsular War had been sent to North America to fight in the War of 1812.

His strategy was simple; to isolate the Allied and Prussian armies and annihilate each one separately. Wellington hoped to counter the threat by moving through Mons to the south-west of Brussels, bringing him closer to Blücher, but there was a risk of cutting communications with his base at Ostend, and Wellington’s Peninsular experience had taught him the importance of supply lines.

By June, Napoleon had raised an army of about 300,000 men. The force at his disposal at Waterloo was less than one third that size, but the rank and file were nearly all loyal and experienced soldiers unlike Wellington’s army which was cobbled together. Bonaparte divided his army into a left wing commanded by Marshal Ney, a right wing commanded by Marshal Grouchy and a reserve under his command. Crossing the frontier near Charleroi before dawn on 15 June, the French rapidly overran Coalition outposts, securing a central position between Wellington’s and Blücher’s lines.. He hoped this would prevent them from combining, and he would be able to destroy first Blucher’s army, then Wellington’s.

In the early hours of 16 June, at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in Brussels, Wellington received a dispatch from the Prince of Orange confirming that the Charleroi approach was to be Bonaparte’s main thrust and he was shocked by the speed of Napoleon’s advance. He hastily ordered his army to concentrate on Quatre Bras, where the Prince of Orange was holding a tenuous position against the soldiers of Ney’s left wing.

Ney’s orders were to secure the crossroads of Quatre Bras, so that he could later swing east and reinforce Napoleon if necessary. Ney found the crossroads of Quatre Bras held by the Prince of Orange, who repelled Ney’s initial attacks but was gradually driven back by overwhelming numbers of French troops. First reinforcements, and then Wellington arrived. He took command and drove Ney back, securing the crossroads too late to send help to the Prussians, who had already been defeated by Napoleon at the Battle of Ligny using part of the reserve and the right wing of his army. The Prussian centre gave way under heavy French assaults, but the flanks held their ground and the Prussians managed to retreat from Ligny uninterrupted by the French.

Crucially, the Prussians did not retreat to the east, along their own lines of communication. Instead, they, too, fell back northwards—parallel to Wellington’s line of march but still within communication with the English commander. The Prussians rallied on Bülow’s IV Corps, which had not been engaged at Ligny and was in a strong position south of Wavre and Blucher, although wounded, held himself ready to go in support of Wellington.

With the Prussian retreat from Ligny, Wellington’s position at Quatre Bras was impossible and he withdrew northwards, to the defensive position he had reconnoitred the previous year—the low ridge of Mont-Saint-Jean just south of Waterloo. On 17th June the armies prepared to give battle.

My series of novels set during the Peninsular War is well underway with the first four books published. I am halfway through the fifth and I have the rest planned out so I know where my characters are going to be at the Battle of Waterloo and I know roughly what is going to happen to them. It’s going to be emotional when I finally get there.

For the men of Wellington’s army who did fight at the Battle of Waterloo, it must have felt very much like a life changing event whatever the historians might say. The battle itself was bloody with enormous losses to death and injury on both sides, but more than that, these men had believed it was all over. The officers of the 110th had gone home to friends and family after five or six long years in the field. The powers of Europe had celebrated for weeks in London and the Bourbons had been restored.

Suddenly it must have seemed as though they had it all to do again. Men who thought they had made it, with their friends and comrades through the long years of war had to fight again and some of them would probably die.

For the men of the 110th light infantry and the women who loved them it probably would have seemed like a nightmare. For a historical novelist in search of a dramatic plot line, it’s a bit of a gift.

Back soon with the rest of the story of the Battle of Waterloo…

13th June 201717th October 2017

Georgette Heyer, Regency Romances and how much sex is really necessary…?

Of all historical novels, Regency romances seem to be one of the most distinctive genres, and although their popularity has waxed and waned they have never completely gone out of style. Set approximately during the period of the British Regency (1811–1820) they have their own plot and stylistic conventions. Many people think of Jane Austen when Regencies are mentioned and certainly her novels are set in the right period, but of course she was writing as a contemporary not as a historian.

It has always seemed to me that Georgette Heyer was the mother of the current Regency genre. She wrote more than twenty novels set during the Regency, between 1935 and her death in 1974 and her books were very much like a comedy of manners. There was little discussion of sex, understandable given the different views of her generation, and a great emphasis on clever, quick witted dialogue between the characters.

These days, Regencies seem to be divided into two sub genres. There are the traditional Regencies which are similar to Heyer’s originals, and a more modern Regency historical genre. Many authors do not seem to confine themselves to one of these two types but may move between the two. Both are currently popular.

Traditional Regencies emphasise the main romantic plot. They play close attention to historical detail and take care to replicate the voice of the genre. There is a good deal of research for writers of traditional Regencies. Heroes and heroines generally remain within the accepted rules and conditions of the period and although their may be some sex it is very likely that the action stops at the bedroom door, probably at the proposal of marriage.

The more modern Regency historical novels break more rules. They may be set during the time period but not necessarily in high society with an insight into life outside of the world of wealth and privilege inhabited by Georgette Heyer’s characters. They may also include characters who behave in a more modern way, particularly when it comes to sexual behaviour and moral values. The style can be very different to the more traditional works. There is another sub genre, the sensual Regency which has become very popular in recent years. These novels are far more explicit than the traditional Regency and the sexual relationship between the hero and heroine is key to the book.

There are some elements which are likely to crop up in all genres of Regency novels. Many are set in, or will refer to the Ton, which means the top layer of English society. They revolve around social activities such as balls, dinners, assemblies and other common pastimes. Men are often involved in sporting activities. There are detailed descriptions of fashion and a consciousness of social class and the rules of behaviour. The difference between them is that in traditional Regencies the heroine is likely to stick to them; in the modern genre pretty much anything goes.

The shift in the genre seems to have come about because of a slump in the popularity of Regencies in the 1990s. Some authors began incorporating more sex into their novels and while lovers of traditional Regencies disliked it, publishers and readers seemed to approve and the Regency novel got a new lease of life.

I grew up reading Georgette Heyer and owned every one of her books in paperback – I still have some of them and still read them from time to time. They are, for me, the ultimate comfort book – the only other series which comes close are P G Wodehouse’s tales of Jeeves and Wooster. These are the books I’ll turn to if I’m ill or miserable or sometimes just because my brain hurts and I can’t focus on anything else. They are written to entertain and with their quick dialogue and comedic moments they never let me down.

I wrote my first Regency novel for the Mills and Boon market during the years I was trying to find a traditional publisher. I’d tried several other novels, including at least two contemporary ones which are never going to see the light of day again, and had joined the Romantic Novelists Association new writers scheme. After very positive feedback on both A Respectable Woman and A Marcher Lord it was suggested that I try to adapt these to Mills and Boon. I did try, but it couldn’t be done. It appeared that I simply could not have a heroine who defended herself very capably against attack; it was the job of the hero to rescue her and Jenny Marchant simply wouldn’t wait. In fact she was more likely to do the rescuing. Philippa Maclay was even worse, she didn’t make it through two chapters without doing something so appalling that it put her beyond hope of redemption. If I rewrote these characters then I would be writing a different book. I gave it up and decided to start from scratch.

Out of that decision came Cordelia Summers and Giles Fenwick of The Reluctant Debutante. Once I got into the swing of it I really loved writing this book. It’s fun and fairly light hearted. I was already doing a lot of research into the period for my series set during the Peninsular war and that fitted very well with a Regency so it wasn’t that much extra work. And the fast paced dialogue and witty characters of the Regency genre exist in all my books, no matter which period they’re set in. I realise that those years of reading Georgette Heyer and Dorothy Dunnett have affected the way all my characters speak. They may have different accents and different levels of education, but most of them are smart mouths.

I had a lovely response from Mills and Boon on the Reluctant Debutante. It was a no, but a very detailed no. They liked the setting and the characters and even the plot, but once again my characters let me down. There was not enough internal conflict between them, it seemed; most of their difficulties were external and their way of overcoming them was not dramatic enough. Could I rewrite it to include more conflict between Cordelia and Giles?

I did try. I wrote a selection of scenes for them. The trouble was, trying to fit them into the book made no sense whatsoever. I’d already created these people and their responses to events grew out of their essential character. Cordelia might have flatly refused to see Giles after their quarrel and there could have been weeks of agonising and misunderstandings. But there wasn’t. Cordelia was as mad as a wet hen but once she saw him again, she didn’t have it in her not to listen to his explanation. She’s a practical girl with a wealth of common sense. She simply can’t behave like a drama queen.

So Giles and Cordelia remained as themselves and I published the book pretty much as I’d originally written it, with the removal of one or two completely gratuitous sex scenes which didn’t seem to add anything to the plot. I’ve been delighted with people’s response to it. So far it’s the best selling of all the books although the others are starting to catch up and readers seem to love it.

The amount of sex in my books varies a fair bit and for me that reflects reality. Everyone is different in how they feel about sex both in books and in real life. It’s not hard for me to write about sex; I used to be a relationship counsellor so I’m difficult to shock. At the same time I need my characters to develop their own attitudes towards sex and it needs to fit within the social norms of the time and one of the most important things to remember is that there was no reliable form of contraception available to any of my heroines which meant that there was an enormous risk involved in illicit sex.

Jenny and Will in a Marcher Lord are very compatible. He’s around thirty, never been married although knows he should be for dynastic reasons, and likes women. You have the sense he had a good relationship with his mother and adores his younger sister, so he’s likely to be fairly respectful around women although given his age and status there have definitely been a few adventures along the way. He’s not particularly a womaniser despite some of his cousins jokes about it and he knows how to behave. Jenny on the other hand grew up in a loving family where marriage wasn’t really an issue which has given her a very untraditional view on marriage and sex. Circumstances rather than morality dictate the progress of Jenny and Will’s relationship and they understand each other very well.

For Philippa and Kit, sex is a very different issue since at the start their entire relationship is based around his attempt to persuade her to be his mistress and her steadfast refusal. Their stances on this are very traditional for the time but there are a lot of other reasons why a sexual relationship is complicated for this couple and it was quite hard to write about at times. Certainly this was not a couple who were going to fall into bed every five minutes, that’s not what their story is about.

Giles and Cordelia are also fairly traditional. Giles might forget his manners from time to time but he understands what is expected of him. They are strongly attracted to one another but their relationship takes a fairly traditional course, for the first half of the book at least.

An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s army — Book 1 in the Peninsular War Saga

Paul and Anne are very different. Technically, An Unconventional Officer could be considered a Regency given the period but it is not; it’s a love story but it’s also the story of two very individual people and their experiences in the army during Wellington’s Peninsular wars and the Ton and Almack’s don’t really feature. When Anne and Paul meet there is no question of a romantic relationship between them; he’s married and she’s going to be soon. But of all of my characters, Paul and Anne are by far the most openly physical in their relationship. He is a shameless womaniser with a string of broken hearts behind him and she is young and inexperienced but neither of those things really matters. For Paul and Anne the chemistry is instant and undeniable and completely irresistible. It is also really obvious to everybody around them. It isn’t hard writing love scenes for Paul and Anne, the difficulty is trying to get them to behave with any degree of propriety at all.

I suspect The Reluctant Debutante falls somewhere between the old and the new when it comes to Regency. I do like my heroines to have something more about them than a pretty face and good manners, but on the whole I’ve allowed Cordelia to be fairly well-behaved in public although privately she’s a little different. She’s very grown up but she’s also led a sheltered life in comparison to all three of my other heroines and she behaves accordingly. It was nice to write something normal for a change…

My new Regency has the working title of A Regrettable Reputation and it’s early days yet but at least some of it is likely to be set in Yorkshire. Sophia Dorne is very different to Cordelia both in circumstances and in character. Nicholas Witham is nothing like Giles, having neither his fortune nor his arrogance although they do have some things in common. I’m looking forward to seeing how things work out for them.

Watch this space…