Notes from New Zealand

Work In Progress

2011-12-20T18:46:00.000-08:00

Today I completed the first draft of my work in progress.

There's still a long way to go, including several more drafts and a good deal of further research, but for the moment I'm enjoying the euphoria of having typed, "The End".

A celebration is in order.

Mining Country

2011-11-07T00:32:00.000-08:00

On our way back from Opotiki we stopped for the night in the Karangahake Gorge, an old gold-mining area that has some nice walks.

It's a lovely, peaceful setting, with the hills gradually being reclaimed by the forest, and the mining ruins weathered with age.

We left the main track alongside the Ohinemuri River, and followed the course of the Waitawheta. It's a stunningly beautiful walk along paths carved into the hillside, with a fresh view around each bend. In places the path goes through a tunnel, with holes (the "windows" that give this section of the walk its name) cut into the rock overlooking the stream.

This lovely place was very different a century ago, when mining was at its height. The little village of Karangahake was a town then, where the Waitawheta flows into the Ohinemuri, with shops, hotels and dance halls; it was busy, bustling, and above all noisy. These paths weren't cut for walkers, but for the miners and their machinery.

Gold mining here was not the alluvial mining that conjures overly romanticised visions of gold panners by rushing streams, searching for that elusive glitter amongst the pebbles and sand. These steep hills were threaded with tunnels—the slope on the right of this picture had more than a dozen levels of them one above the other, carved deep into the hillside.

Ore was brought from the tunnels in wagons that ran along rails down to Karangahake for processing, and the walking paths have such an easy gradient because they were built for those wagons. Those rock windows with their lovely views were cut for the miners to heave waste rock down into the Waitawheta River below.

Karangahake did not give up its gold readily. It meant crushing the ore in stamper batteries powered by coal-fed engines, pounding it into a fine powder, then using cyanide to extract the gold. Those batteries roared and thundered, shaking the ground, and the air must have left a foul taste with each breath. Some workers died of phthisis from the ever-present dust.

In Settling the Account I send a character into this Blakean vision; a fifteen-year-old farm boy who's spent his life roaming around the bush and the paddocks, never far from the sea, used to a wide horizon and to a palette of green and blue. I'd always known coming here must have been a shock to him, but until this visit I'd never quite appreciated just how terrifying such a place would have been. I now picture him standing at the entry to one of those deep tunnels, perhaps for some time too terrified to move. Stepping into that black, yawning mouth was one of the bravest things he ever did.

I strongly suspect he never did tell his mother just how dreadful it was. He wouldn't have wanted to upset her.

The history of one of the Karangahake mines, with some old photographs, here.

Ruatane in Real Life: My Old Home Town

2011-09-18T00:29:00.001-07:00

The wide sweep of the Bay of Plenty stretched to the edge of Amy’s sight, and straight in front of her ocean met sky all along the horizon, broken only by White Island with its constant puff of smoke.

- Sentence of Marriage, Chapter 1

Many small bays and harbours are held within that wide sweep of the Bay of Plenty. I slipped in one more, and called it Ruatane.

Ruatane is my own invention, but it's inspired by the real-life small town of Opotiki. Earlier this month I paid a visit to my old home town.

Apart from a hurried trip twelve years ago for a funeral, it was my first visit in decades. I left Opotiki at the age of 17 to go to university, and have spent little time there as an adult. But I grew up there; went to school there; fell in love and married there. The early memories are buried deep, but they're part of my core.

Opotiki never grew very large, its growth overtaken by towns to the west that were closer to the railway and to major highways. Partly thanks to this, many of its old buildings have survived, including some that (in their Ruatane versions) play a role in my books.

The Anglican church was built in 1864. Old photographs show that it had a more open setting in its early days, with plenty of room for buggies to pull up in front. I got married here (and many of my characters are in the congregation of Ruatane's):

The Courthouse - a little newer than Ruatane's version, but the building that I had in mind. The marriage that gives Sentence of Marriage its title took place here. I voted for the first time in this courthouse, as did the women of Ruatane in 1893, the first election after women gained the vote.

The Royal Hotel! Just don't go round the back and up the stairs (I should add that I have no reason to believe there's anything scandalous about the real life version):

The wharf has a boat ramp that's popular for launching pleasure boats, but it's a quiet place compared to the years when it was the hub of coastal steamer traffic linking Opotiki with the rest of the country.

Opotiki's theatre was built in 1926, and it's one of New Zealand's oldest purpose-built cinemas still in use.

Opotiki holds an annual silent film festival, and this was one of the motivations for our visit. We thoroughly enjoyed the film, complete with piano accompaniment, patrons dressed in period costume, and sweets rolled down the aisle.

The cinema is from a later period than my books have (so far) covered, but I suspect it will make its way into a future work. It'll be interesting to see what the people of Ruatane make of it.

We spent much of our brief visit just wandering around the town, searching for the familiar and adjusting to the unexpected. As so often happens with a return to childhood haunts, everything seemed far smaller than I remembered. It's a pleasant town for walking, the town land nestled into river flats and the streets almost empty of traffic. There's even a very nice place to eat in what used to be a shop: Nikau Café, where we had excellent venison for dinner and a fine breakfast the following morning. Espresso on the main street of Ruatane!

It's a strange sensation, seeing again places that are distant but exquisitely clear in memory, like images seen through the wrong end of a telescope. An unsettling experience, but also a rather wonderful one. I think we'll be back, and this time it won't take us so long to return.

1908 - travelling on the Main Trunk Line

2011-08-07T16:36:00.000-07:00

Building the North Island's Main Trunk Railway Line was an enormous task for New Zealand. It took more than twenty years to complete the 680 kilometre line from Wellington to Auckland, through some challenging landscapes. The line was officially opened in November 1908, but the first train to travel its length was several months earlier. On 7 August 1908 a group of parliamentarians, including Prime Minister Sir Joseph Ward, boarded the train in Wellington. The track wasn't quite finished, but those politicians really wanted to get to Auckland. The engineer in charge was offered £1,000 (a lot of money in 1908) to get the line finished in time for this August journey. The train and its passengers survived a section of temporary, unballasted track, and the politicians got to Auckland after a journey of 20 hours.

And why were they so keen to get to Auckland? The attraction was Teddy Roosevelt's Great White Fleet, a massive naval deployment and a major news story of its day. The politicians made it to Auckland in time for the Fleet's arrival on 9 August.

These days one can fly between the two cities in less than an hour, or drive the distance in around nine hours, but in the early years of the 20th century this 20-hour journey (reduced to a mere 18 hours in 1909) was a huge improvement over the long sea journey or going by stage coach.

The Main Trunk Line was a major achievement, but it still left many provincial areas isolated, including the Bay of Plenty. Rail did not reach the central Bay of Plenty till 1928, and got no further east than Taneatua, near Whakatane. The proposed link through to Gisborne was never achieved. My fictional Ruatane never did get a rail link.

I'm currently at a section in my work-in-progress where a character has to travel from Ruatane to Wellington. It means taking the coastal steamer to Auckland (which means going north when his destination is south), then the train to Wellington. Even this long, somewhat convoluted journey is a great improvement on the trip he would have had to make before 1908.

Tarawera Eruption - 125th Anniversary

2011-06-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

On 10 June 1886 Mount Tarawera erupted, killing over 100 people. Ash darkened the sky, and earthquakes were felt over a wide area.

More on Tarawera can be found here.

The Pink and White Terraces, destroyed in the eruption, were a major tourist attraction of the day. Recently it's emerged that the Pink Terrace may still exist, deep under Lake Rotomahana. Just this morning I heard on the radio that the White Terrace, too, may have been found.

In my book Mud and Gold, Frank doesn't realise that it's the distant eruption causing the earthquakes giving Lizzie and him a broken night. Something rather closer to home is claiming his attention:

‘Frank?’ Lizzie’s voice had an oddly strained note.

‘What’s wrong? Was it another quake?’

‘No.’ Her hand clutched at the sleeve of his nightshirt. ‘It’s the baby. I think it’s started coming.’

‘What? But—but it can’t be. It’s not time yet. You said not for another couple of weeks.’

‘I know, but I think it is. You’ll have to go and get the nurse.’

‘Now? It’s the middle of the night.’

‘I can’t help that!’ Frank heard the fear in her voice. ‘Hurry up!’

....

A kerosene lantern hung in the porch. Frank lit it and placed it on the floor while he pulled on his boots and reached for his hat. The night was black; there must be a heavy bank of cloud feeding the rain. Just catching a horse was going to be hard, let alone making his way up the road in the pitch darkness. The horses would be in a state with all those earthquakes, too; he could hear them snorting and whinnying. He wouldn’t be able to go faster than a walk.

He stood at the top of the porch steps and peered into the gloom. There was something strange about that rain. The air seemed to have a close, stuffy feel about it instead of the freshness rain usually brought; there was even a hint of sulphur. He stretched his hand out into the night air, expecting to feel cool wetness.

How could water feel rough against his skin? His fingers felt gritty when he rubbed them together. Frank drew back his hand and saw it was covered with a coarse dust. A sick realisation came to him: it wasn’t rain at all. It was ash.

Fear so intense that it left a bitter, metallic taste on his tongue sent a shudder through Frank, so strong that for a moment he thought it was another quake. What was going on out there? Why was the earth being convulsed while ash fell from the sky?

"And, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair.… And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth." Words half-remembered from a lesson in church crept unbidden into Frank’s mind. Was this the end of the world?

‘Frank?’ Lizzie’s voice came in a wail down the passage. ‘Where are you? It hurts, Frank.’

The sound brought Frank back from the edge of panic to a sense of his responsibilities. He had to look after Lizzie. He couldn’t go out into whatever was happening in the world; if ash was falling, maybe fire would soon shower from the sky. If that happened he had no way of being sure the house would protect them, but he knew it would mean certain death to anyone caught outside. That included his stock, but he could not risk himself to try and get the animals into shelter, even if he had had the barns to hold them. If he was injured there would be no one to look after Lizzie.

He pulled his boots off and left them lying in the porch with his hat and coat dropped heedlessly on top of them, stopping only to put out the lantern. Another quake struck when he was barely inside the kitchen door, and he stumbled against one wall as he hurried up the passage to the bedroom.

Frank rushed into the room and crouched beside the bed. He reached out and stroked Lizzie’s face, not speaking until he was sure he could make his voice sound calm. She must not know how frightened he was. ‘I can’t get out, Lizzie. Not till daylight, anyway.’

Passchendaele remembered

2011-05-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

Recently I've been reading Glyn Harper's superb account of the New Zealand experience of Passchendaele. I've written here before about the Battle of Passchendaele and its horrific toll on New Zealanders.

This current reading came close to home—quite literally. At the back of the book is a list of names from the Memorial to the Missing at Tyne Cot Cemetery. To quote Harper: "The memorial bears the names of 1,179 New Zealanders who fell in the Passchendaele battles and whose bodies were never recovered."

I was going through this list, noting ages and what I could glean of personal circumstances, when the address of a next-of-kin sprang off the page. It's a short walk from our little apartment in town, in an area with many surviving Victorian houses, and a place I've walked past hundreds of times.

This house was built in the 1880s, and its exterior looks to have survived relatively unchanged. In October 1917 a telegram arrived for the widow who lived here. It told her that her son had been killed on the other side of the world. He was one of the 17,000 New Zealanders killed in the Great War.

I'll think of that young man, and of his grieving mother, every time I walk past her house.

Chivalry of the Ovine Kind

2011-05-05T20:38:00.000-07:00

We have a flock of six sheep: five ewes and one wether. They're quite tame; even the most skittish (Scaredy) doesn't mind our presence, especially when we're handing out treats, and several will eat from our hands. Their purpose in life is to eat, and they're easily moved about from orchard to paddock, wherever the grass is longest.

The wether is the oldest of them. We're not sure how old he is, but he already looked fairly elderly when he came to live here several years ago. He still eats heartily, and is quite active, although he moves stiffly (hence his name, Limpy). We've had him checked out, and there's nothing obviously wrong with him. It's probably something in the nature of arthritis.

A few evenings ago I went outside to gather rosemary, and saw the sheep behaving as if something was up. The ewes were tightly bunched, as sheep like to be when threatened, but Limpy was several sheep lengths in front of them, standing firm and ready to face off whatever the threat was.

It proved to be the very small dog that belongs to our nearest neighbours, and which gives the impression it would have trouble injuring a teddy bear. I doubt if the sheep were really frightened, and they were certainly in no real danger. But Limpy takes his responsibilities seriously. He may not know quite what to do with his harem, but he does know he must look after them.

It's the thought that counts.

Here they are enjoying fresh pasture:

Amazon at Last

2011-05-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

After much delay, my e-books are available in the Kindle Store. They got off to a good start on Amazon UK, where they've been bouncing in and out of the Top 100 of the Historical Fiction category, have a recommendation thread in the forums, and a five-star review by a Top 1000 reviewer. Things are going more quietly so far on Amazon.com, where I've yet to have any reviews, but it's early days still.

My Amazon pages:

Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk

Beware of illicit book listings

2011-03-29T18:56:00.000-07:00

Today a very nice person took the trouble to let me know that my free ebook, Sentence of Marriage, was being offered for sale under another person's name on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com. I've contacted Customer Service at both sites, and have posted warnings to any prospective purchasers in the Reviews section, so this person shouldn't receive any financial reward for such nefarious activity.

My ebooks aren't yet available on Amazon. I very much wish they were, but the arrangement to distribute Smashwords books on Amazon has suffered repeated delays. I'm still waiting patiently. In the meantime, they're available at several retailers, including Barnes & Noble, as well as at the Smashwords site. And to reiterate: the first one is free.

It's worth being suspicious if something about a book seems not quite right; in this case, the fact that the author's name on the Amazon listing doesn't match the name (mine) inside the book. An observant reader noticed this when sampling the book. It illustrates the power of readers - I discovered this thanks to readers, not any sort of authority.

While I'm indignant that someone has tried to take ownership of my work in this way, I'm hugely grateful to the person who started a thread about this in the Amazon UK forums, the person who contacted me, and all the people who've responded so positively. I'm left feeling far more warm and fuzzy about the actions of so many good people than annoyed by the actions of one ratbag.

_________________________________
Update: Amazon UK has taken down the illicit book (I'm sure it helped that at least one person who'd bought this version contacted Customer Service for a refund when she realised the situation). It's still on Amazon.com, but is showing as unavailable for purchase.

Further update: It's now been taken down from both Amazon sites. Hurrah for helpful and observant readers!

Charlotte Brontë's New Zealand connection

2011-03-25T14:30:00.000-07:00

I've known for a long time that a friend of Charlotte Brontë's settled in New Zealand, and I recalled a rather non-committal quote from one of her letters: "It seemed to me incredible that you had actually written a book". It sounds like the sort of thing someone might say when obliged to read a friend's book not necessarily to the reader's taste. I came across this quote again recently, and decided to look for more details of Mary Taylor's connection with Charlotte Brontë, and of Mary's life in New Zealand.

Mary (often called "Pag" by friends and family) and Charlotte met at Roe Head School, along with Ellen Nussey, and the three of them were lifelong friends. Mary's family served as model for the Yorkes in Charlotte's novel Shirley, and Mary seems largely to have approved of their portrayal.

In 1845 Mary came to live in Wellington, New Zealand, where her brother William Waring Taylor was already settled. Charlotte described her own loss: "To me it is something as if a great planet fell out of the sky." Perhaps Mary was attracted by the idea of having more freedom of movement in a new colony. She did a little successful cattle trading, and when her cousin Ellen Taylor arrived from England in 1849 they set up a draper's and clothing store together.

Mary also kept an eye on her brother. In a letter of 1846 to Ellen Nussey, Charlotte commented that Mary "is in her element because she is where she has a toilsome task to perform, an important improvement to effect, a weak vessel to strengthen." The weak vessel, it seems, was Waring, who was described as "a kindly, well-meaning muddler" in a contemporary account. Waring was a prosperous businessman, and a member of the House of Representatives, and Waring Taylor Street in Wellington was named after him. But he certainly got in a muddle when Mary was no longer there to look after him, and in the 1880s he was jailed for fraud. There was a move at the time to change the name of the street, but changing street names is such a bother, and there does seem to have been much admiration for his earlier contributions. Waring Taylor Street retains its name to this day.

Ellen Taylor died of tuberculosis in 1851, and by 1857 Mary seemed weary of New Zealand. From a letter to Ellen Nussey: "I have some friends — not many, and no geniuses, which fact pray keep strictly to yourself, for how the doings and sayings of Wellington people in England always come out again to New Zealand! They are not very interesting any way. This is my fault in part, for I can’t take interest in their concerns. A book is worth any of them, and a good book worth them all put together." Mary left New Zealand in 1859, and spent the remainder of her life in England (she died in 1893). Charlotte died in 1855, along with her unborn child, so she and Mary never saw each other again after Mary's emigration.

Mary Taylor was a woman of strong views, and she did not mince her words. She placed a high value on independence for women, and the value of earning their own living to gain such independence. She responded to Charlotte's suggestion in Shirley that work was only suitable for some women with, "You are a coward and a traitor" (see longer quote below). It's clear from her letters that Mary had a robust sense of humour, and I think this "insult" needs to be read in that light, but this certainly doesn't diminish the strength of her feelings on the subject.

Mary had written on and off during her time in New Zealand, but she seems to have worked on her writing more solidly once she returned to England. In the 1860s she had a series of articles published in Victoria Magazine, reflecting her strong feminist beliefs, and in 1890 her feminist novel Miss Miles was published.

After Charlotte Brontë's death her biographer, Elizabeth Gaskell, approached Mary Taylor for recollections, and Mary provided "a long, lively account" of their friendship. Unfortunately Mary had destroyed most of Charlotte's letters to her (unlike Ellen Nussey, who provided hundreds for the biography). Charlotte is known to have written with great frankness (at least by Victorian standards) to trusted friends at times, and Mary said in a letter to Ellen Nussey of 1857 "I am glad to hear that Mrs. Gaskell is progressing with the Life. I wish I had kept Charlotte’s letters now, though I never felt it safe to do so until latterly that I have had a home of my own."

Fortunately several of Mary's letters to Charlotte have survived. Here are a few excerpts to give something of their flavour:

April 1949
'I write at my novel a little and think of my other book. What this will turn out, God only knows. It is not, and never can be forgotten. It is my child, my baby, and I assure you such a wonder as never was. I intend him when full grown to revolutionise society and faire époque in history.

'In the meantime I’m doing a collar in crochet work.'

Jul 1849
'About a month since I received and read Jane Eyre. It seemed to me incredible that you had actually written a book. Such events did not happen while I was in England. I begin to believe in your existence much as I do in Mr. Rochester’s. In a believing mood I don’t doubt either of them.
...
'You are very different from me in having no doctrine to preach. It is impossible to squeeze a moral out of your production. Has the world gone so well with you that you have no protest to make against its absurdities? Did you never sneer or declaim in your first sketches? I will scold you well when I see you. I do not believe in Mr. Rivers. There are no good men of the Brocklehurst species. A missionary either goes into his office for a piece of bread, or he goes from enthusiasm, and that is both too good and too bad a quality for St. John. It’s a bit of your absurd charity to believe in such a man.
...
'I mention the book to no one and hear no opinions. I lend it a good deal because it’s a novel, and it’s as good as another! They say "it makes them cry." They are not literary enough to give an opinion. If ever I hear one I’ll embalm it for you.
...
'I have now told you everything I can think of except that the cat's on the table and that I’m going to borrow a new book to read — no less than an account of all the systems of philosophy of modern Europe. I have lately met with a wonder, a man who thinks Jane Eyre would have done better to marry Mr. Rivers! He gives no reason — such people never do.'

April 1850
'I have seen some extracts from Shirley in which you talk of women working. And this first duty, this great necessity, you seem to think that some women may indulge in, if they give up marriage, and don’t make themselves too disagreeable to the other sex. You are a coward and a traitor. A woman who works is by that alone better than one who does not; and a woman who does not happen to be rich and who still earns no money and does not wish to do so, is guilty of a great fault, almost a crime — a dereliction of duty which leads rapidly and almost certainly to all manner of degradation. It is very wrong of you to plead for toleration for workers on the ground of their being in peculiar circumstances, and few in number or singular in disposition. Work or degradation is the lot of all except the very small number born to wealth.'

Aug 1850
'After waiting about six months we have just got Shirley. It was landed from the Constantinople on Monday afternoon, just in the thick of our preparations for a "small party" for the next day. We stopped spreading red blankets over everything (New Zealand way of arranging the room) and opened the box and read all the letters.... On Wednesday I began Shirley and continued in a curious confusion of mind till now, principally at the handsome foreigner who was nursed in our house when I was a little girl. By the way, you’ve put him in the servant’s bedroom. You make us all talk much as I think we should have done if we’d ventured to speak at all. What a little lump of perfection you’ve made me! There is a strange feeling in reading it of hearing us all talking. I have not seen the matted hall and painted parlour windows so plain these five years. But my father is not like. He hates well enough and perhaps loves too, but he is not honest enough. It was from my father I learnt not to marry for money nor to tolerate any one who did, and he never would advise any one to do so, or fail to speak with contempt of those who did.'

Hen Frigates: Wives of Merchant Captains Under Sail

2011-03-16T21:37:00.000-07:00

Ever since making the acquaintance of Mrs Croft in Persuasion, I've been intrigued by the idea of a woman living in such a thoroughly male environment as a naval ship, at a time when the spheres of men and women were far more strictly defined than today. So I was drawn to this account by New Zealand historian Joan Druett of captains' wives on sailing ships in the 19th century. It covers a period a little later than Mrs Croft's, and these were commercial vessels rather than naval, but conditions must have been similar in many ways.

Hen Frigates gives us glimpses from the lives of many such women, gleaned from journal entries and letters, and occasionally from newspaper accounts. There's excitement, boredom, irritation, sorrow, laughter and joy. Storms at sea; tedious becalmings; even getting caught up in battle. It could be a lonely life as the only woman on board, but there's little sense of self-pity in these accounts.

One example to give a small taste of these tales: Emma Browne took herself off to England in 1876, hoping that James Cawse, with whom she'd corresponded for the previous two years, would marry her when she arrived. Fortunately for her he did! A few weeks later they sailed off together, and by the time she returned to England she had a baby daughter - delivered at sea by her husband. Having the husband deliver the baby, unless the ship happened to be in port at the right time, was quite a typical experience, it seems. Many children were then raised on board, although parents tended to prefer to send their girls back to relatives when they reached their teen years.

The accounts are fascinating, though I did feel there might have been almost an overabundance of women represented (and even these are a subset of the comprehensive list the author provides in her references). After a time I started to feel I knew some of them specially well, and enjoyed their stories all the more for that. I wondered if the tales might have been even more effective if just a few women had been concentrated on, giving us more of a narrative structure of those particular lives.

Although I certainly wouldn't want to miss out on such exciting tales as that of sixteen-year-old "Miss Arnold", the daughter of the ship Rainbow's captain. Her father died, the first mate was a drunkard, and the second mate was "a cad". She "repelled... his dastardly attempts" [from the newspaper account], and threw herself on the protection of the crew, who acted like true British gentleman. It's a wonderfully melodramatic tale, with the virtue of being true, it seems.

I'm left with huge admiration for these women who went against the norm, for their own various and varied reasons. The opening quote is from one of the book's main "characters", Mary Rowland:

"As Henry [her husband] says, we have only one life to live, and he cannot be at home, and it is very hard for us to be separated so much".

She wrote that in 1873, 21 years after marrying Henry, and three years before he died. They had spent all those years together at sea, enduring difficulties but with the comfort of each other's company. I think Sophy Croft might have said something similar.

New Zealand's oldest bookstore in strife

2011-02-17T15:50:00.000-08:00

Just a day after Borders filed for bankruptcy in the US, New Zealand book retailer Whitcoulls has gone into voluntary administration. There's no common ownership between the two companies, but the problems they face are similar.

Whitcoulls is one of New Zealand's oldest companies. It began in Christchurch as Whitcombe & Tombs, one of the first companies to be registered under the Companies Act of 1882. In 1973 it was renamed Whitcoulls, after a merger with another company.

As a child, growing up in a country town with little in the way of books for sale, a visit to Whitcombe and Tombs (and yes, this was so long ago that the company still had its old name) in Auckland or Wellington was a huge treat. For purely sentimental reasons, I'd be sad to see those stores close down; all the more so since Whitcoulls now has my e-books on their website. But survival in the age of Amazon, particularly with the high price of books in New Zealand, will be a real challenge.

The A & P Show

2011-02-02T00:50:00.000-08:00

The Agricultural and Pastoral Show has been an annual event in many parts of New Zealand for over 150 years. In some places they're now quite heavily commercialised, and marketed as a tourist attraction to city folk, but some are much closer to their origins.

Warkworth is a small town north of Auckland, named for Warkworth in Northumberland. Their show is one that's kept much of the flavour of the old A & P Shows, as we found when we went there in late January.

There were stalls with farming machinery; a wider range of food than my characters would have recognised; and a few rides for the children. But the competitions for jams and preserves would have been familiar to Amy and Lizzie, and children were enjoying old-fashioned games like sack races. And a large area of the grounds was devoted to what was the most important part of the original A & P shows: the livestock.

Those 19th century farmers would have been taken aback by one group of livestock; alpacas might have looked like sheep in fancy dress to them:

But the Show had a good turn-out of cattle, and judges who gave expert advice on breeding lines and care of stock. And owners who are no doubt as proud as the Victorians were:

More on A & P Shows, and an account of an early one from my own Mud and Gold, here.

Rediscovering the Pink Terrace

2011-02-01T17:21:00.000-08:00

The Pink and White Terraces, beautiful silica formations that were a great New Zealand tourist attraction in the 19th century, were destroyed in the 1886 Tarawera Eruption.

At least we thought they were. The Pink Terrace has been discovered, or at least part of it has, on the floor of Lake Rotomahana.

At 60 metres deep, the terrace isn't easily accessible. But it's nice to know it's still there.

Elderflower Fizz

2010-12-18T20:54:00.000-08:00

At this time of year our elder trees are awash with soft white blooms.

As our lemon trees are laden all year round, it's a perfect opportunity to make Elderflower Fizz. It's light and refreshing, and a lovely summer drink.

Here's how I make it:

2 litres (8 cups) boiling water
2/3 cup sugar
1 tbsp honey
4-8 heads (depending on size) of elderflower
1 lemon, sliced
1 tbsp white wine vinegar or cider vinegar

Dissolve sugar and honey in water. Allow to cool, then add remaining ingredients. Cover loosely to keep out unwanted visitors, and leave in a cool, dark place for about a day. Strain into sterilised bottles, and leave for two weeks before drinking. Be prepared when opening, as this gets very fizzy.

Note: leave lots of room in the bottles. One memorable summer I had a batch explode, leaving broken glass and a sticky mess over walls and floor.

This keeps quite well - I once found a forgotten bottle the following summer, and it tasted just fine.

If you have some elderberries (I sometimes freeze a batch), steep them with the other ingredients to make Pink Elderflower Fizz.

Celebrating Jane Austen

2010-12-15T19:11:00.000-08:00

Today (it's currently the 16th December in England, as well as in New Zealand) marks 235 years since Jane Austen was born. She died tragically young, especially since she came from a generally long-lived family, but what a legacy she left. Her works seem to be more popular than ever, making frequent appearances on lists of favourite books.

They're certainly high on my personal best-loved list. They're among those few books that I never tire of re-reading, often discovering some clever detail that I've never noticed before. Jane may be 235, but for me she never gets old.

Back in the 1980s when we lived in England, a visit to Chawton Cottage was one of our first journeys. To walk among the rooms where Jane composed so much of her work was a real privilege. Our photographs of that visit don't seem to have survived the multiple moves since, but the memories are precious.

A virtual tour can be taken here.

Steampunk!

2010-12-13T22:19:00.000-08:00

With so many wonderfully ornate Victorian buildings crammed into this small town, it's only natural that steampunk has found a warm welcome in Oamaru. Here's the nicely spooky Steampunk HQ.

Steampunk was even more active than usual during our recent visit, with a special exhibition in the Forrester Gallery.

The building, designed in 1883, was originally a branch of the Bank of New South Wales. It's been an art gallery since 1983.

Note the "Dark Engine from the centre of the Earth" outside.

We returned to see it lit up at night (as shown in the "Dark Engine" link above), when it's quite a sight (and sound).

Inside the gallery were rooms filled with a dizzying variety of steampunk artifacts.

More pictures from the exhibition here.

Clark's Mill

2010-12-05T15:33:00.000-08:00

The land near Oamaru was recognised by early European settlers as being well-suited to raising wheat. Flour was an essential crop, and in this North Otago region (these days about an hour's drive from top to bottom) there were by the end of the 19th century thirteen flour mills. Of those thirteen one still operates, and still uses locally-grown wheat: the Ngapara Mill, built in 1898.

Clark's Mill was one of the earliest (1866) of the North Otago mills to be built, and it's the only one where traces of the original water-powered equipment survive. It's an attractive limestone building, built of stone quarried from the cliffs behind it. The mill began operating with a wooden water wheel driving millstones. While the equipment became more sophisticated, with the wheel being replaced by a water-turbine (and eventually electric motors) and the millstones by roller mills in the 1880s, the mill continued operating until 1976. Water came from a river several miles away; digging the mill race in the days of pick and shovel must have been quite a task.

Old photos show lines of horses and carts bringing in their loads of wheat, and bags of flour being carted to the mill's railway siding. It must have been a bustling place, and probably somewhere to catch up on the latest gossip while unloading the grain.

Today Clark's Mill is a peaceful spot a short drive from Oamaru, lovingly restored, and open on Sunday afternoons in the summer months.

More pictures here.

A night at the Oamaru Opera House

2010-11-28T18:40:00.000-08:00

We recently spent a week in the pleasant town of Oamaru, in New Zealand's South Island, for their annual Victorian Festival.

Fertile land, the growth of pastoralism, and the development of refrigerated shipping (of which more in later entries) made Oamaru a wealthy town in the Victorian era. The easy-to-work limestone found in the area was made into beautiful buildings, many of which still survive and are well-cared for. The people of Oamaru value their heritage.

The Opera House is more recent than some of the other buildings, dating from 1907:

What a gorgeous confection to find in a town of about 12,000 people! And it's well-used. On Saturday night we went to a fine performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Gondoliers. Front-row seats in the Circle, inside this gem of a theatre:

(My apologies for the poor lighting in this photo.)

This theatre will make a small appearance in one of my future books. How could I resist?

Readers are such wonderful motivation

2010-11-24T17:27:00.000-08:00

I got the most delightful piece of mail yesterday. A lady who's read all my books on her e-reader recommended them to a co-worker who then bought a set for herself. Another co-worker heard them discussing the books, wanted to try them, and got the full set in paperback. She's now lent the set to yet another co-worker...

They sent me this lovely picture, which I'm posting with their permission:

It's readers like these who keep me going when it all becomes a struggle.

Introduction to Smashwords

2010-11-21T12:32:00.000-08:00

Introduction to Smashwords - Ebook Publishing and Distribution Made Easy

View more presentations from Smashwords, Inc..

Meeting Mark Coker

2010-10-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

Mark is the founder and CEO of Smashwords. He's just completed a speaking tour that included Australia and New Zealand. I wasn't in town to attend the New Zealand session (which was sold out—it's great to see such interest in new publishing directions), but on Thursday Roger and I joined Mark and Lesleyann for dinner at one of Auckland's waterfront restaurants. It was a really enjoyable evening, with much swapping of stories and generally enjoying one another's company. Interacting over the 'net is great, but it's wonderful to have the opportunity of meeting in person.

Smashwords have just issued their quarterly payments. Record amounts, and things just seem to keep getting busier and better—including for me.

A New Toy

2010-10-19T21:25:00.000-07:00

No, not another set of toy soldiers, but something rather more modern.

Much as I love my laptop, I've found from hard experience that it's just too heavy and bulky to haul about. So when I go to the library to spend some time in the research section, I'm reduced to taking notes with pen and paper, which I then have to transcribe when I get home.

Not any more. Yesterday this arrived:

I've wanted one for a while, but decided to wait until a six-cell battery (and hence much longer usable time away from mains power) was standard.

This isn't only useful for the library, of course. I'll also be able to use it when lurking in my favourite cafés. I see rather more café time in my future.

Passchendaele

2010-10-12T03:14:00.000-07:00

Today is the anniversary of what was, in terms of lives lost in a single day, the greatest disaster in New Zealand history. On the 12th of October 1917, during the Battle of Passchendale, 2,700 New Zealanders were killed or wounded. More on the battle can be found here.

Last year I went to an exhibition commemorating Passchendaele, sent to New Zealand by the Passchendaele Memorial Museum in Belgium. It was held at Fort Takapuna, from where some of the departing soldiers were deployed. On the grounds of the fort over 5,000 white crosses had been set up, one for every New Zealander killed in Flanders.

My work-in-progress has some of my characters being caught up in this battle. It's not really a spoiler to say that at least one will die there, because I could not claim to be at all realistic without reflecting something of the tragedy surrounding Passchendaele. Oddly enough, I have no sense that I'm "killing off" a character here; the death feels as inevitable as the events that drag these boys to Belgium. Foolish as it may sound, I do sometimes cry over characters who die; all the more so when it's one I've "known" since he was a child.

Spring

2010-10-08T15:55:00.000-07:00

There are so many lovely sights on and around our property at this time of year. (Click for larger pictures.)

The kowhai is one of New Zealand's few deciduous native trees. It keeps its leaves till just before flowering, so that the mass of yellow flowers first appear on bare branches. This tree is only a few years old; mature ones can reach 12 metres in height. Kowhai is "yellow" in Maori.

A plum tree covered with blossom. I never realised that plum blossom is scented until our own trees began bearing so heavily. By Christmas this tree will be laden with fruit, a variety that's delicious fresh but not worth preserving. The sheep make a fine job of clearing the windfalls.

A new neighbour. This calf is only a day or two old, with a furry coat as soft as a cat's, not the rougher weatherproof coat it'll have later. It's being hand-fed, and rushes up to the fence as soon as it sees us, ready to suck at fingers or clothing, gazing from soft brown eyes under inch-long lashes.

And a sound of spring: the pipiwharauroa, or shining cuckoo. It spends its winters in warmer places like Vanuatu and New Caledonia. When that distinctive call is heard, I know spring is here.

Moving the Rob Roy Hotel

2010-09-22T17:55:00.000-07:00

Since 1886, the Rob Roy Hotel (more recently known as the Birdcage) has stood in the Auckland suburb of Freemans Bay. While much of the Victorian fabric of the city has been demolished, the Rob Roy has survived. When it was found to be in the path of a planned motorway tunnel, the decision was made to move the building forty metres up the hill out of the way—and then move it back when construction has finished.

This has been quite an undertaking. Old brick buildings don't particularly like being moved. Steel rods were inserted through the bricks, reinforced concrete applied to the rear wall, and carbon fibre strips inserted in the chimney to provide seismic strengthening. A heavily reinforced concrete track with a Teflon surface was built. Then, very slowly and carefully, and watched by thousands of people, the move of this 740-tonne building by two 30-tonne hydraulic rams began.

Before the move (click for larger pictures):

After the first day:

A time-lapse video of the move:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=W10FGmgrTq8

The hotel will stay in its new position for about six months, while the tunnel is finished. In the meantime, those concrete tracks have been broken up—quite an undertaking, as they were full of reinforcing rods.

Freemans Bay was a busy industrial area when the Rob Roy was built, with ship builders, sawmills, glassworks—and a brass foundry. Those of you who have read A Second Chance might remember a character who owned a small brass foundry; this is the area where I've placed his foundry, and the Rob Roy would have been his "local". While he's a fairly abstemious man, I'm sure that on at least one occasion he sat in the bar of the Rob Roy and raised a glass in honour of a certain young lady.

Celebrating Spring

2010-08-29T19:00:00.000-07:00

It's springtime in this part of the world. Blossom on the trees, daffodils in the orchard, calves and lambs in the paddocks (although not in ours; our sheep live a celibate lifestyle).

Calving was (and is) an important time of year on a dairy farm. Here's a snippet from my work-in-progress:

The shed was full of looming shadows that twisted and shifted with the swinging of the lantern. Her father placed it on a post at one end of the pen, and the shadows shrank away into the corners, leaving them in a pool of light. Petal moved about restlessly in her pen, white showing around the edges of her huge brown eyes. She tossed her head and let out a low moan.

Daisy stood by the corner of the pen, doing her best to keep out of the way, and watched her parents checking Petal over. Her mother put a hand on the cow’s flank; Petal flinched for a moment, then stood still, shuddering slightly. Daisy’s father picked up the lantern, setting the shadows in motion again, and shifted Petal’s tail to one side so that they could see what was happening under it.

‘Looks like she’s going to need a hand getting it out,’ her father said. ‘Nothing much happening there.’

Daisy saw her mother leaning closer to explore the area with her fingers. ‘It’s not sitting right,’ she said, frowning. ‘I think one of the legs is bent back under. We’ll have to move that before there’s any hope of pulling the calf out.’

Daisy had seen calves born before, when they had been considerate enough to arrive in the daytime and when she was not at school. They slid into the world all wet and shiny, head resting neatly on the two front legs. But there was no sign of tiny hooves emerging from the red, distended area under Petal’s tail.

‘Keep her still,’ said her mother. Daisy’s father placed the lantern on the ground and put one long arm across Petal’s chest, holding the tail out of the way with his other hand. The cow’s hooves moved in an awkward little dance, but Daisy’s father’s arm held her in place.

Her mother washed her hands and inserted one, still wet and soapy. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to get a clear view. ‘It’s no good, I keep getting in my own light. Daisy, can you hold the lantern?

Daisy picked it up by the metal handle and held it at the height her mother indicated, putting her other hand under it to hold it steady. She watched her mother slide her hand in further, then the other hand. One little hoof was teased out; the other seemed to be stubbornly wedged. A hand was pushed in further; Daisy saw the strain on her mother’s face as she worked away at the unseen leg. ‘I’ve got it,’ she muttered. ‘The elbow’s caught—if I push it back it should—that’s it.’ She went from pushing to gently pulling, and the tip of another hoof appeared.

‘You ready for me to start pulling yet?’ Daisy’s father asked; her mother shook her head.

‘Not just yet. I’ll try and get her opened up a bit more.’

She positioned a hand either side of what Daisy guessed must be the calf’s head and worked them in and out for several minutes. ‘That’ll have to do,’ she said, carefully withdrawing her hands and straightening from an awkward crouch.

Daisy’s father moved to take her place, leaving her to hold the tail. She leaned her face against Petal’s flank, and Daisy heard her murmuring soothing noises. Her father took hold of the little hooves and pulled, slowly and carefully. The head appeared, then the shoulders. He turned the calf a little, still pulling, and the last part seemed to happen in a rush. The calf was a soft, damp bundle on the straw of the pen, her father was gathering it up in his hands, and her mother was telling Petal what a good girl she was, how brave, how clever.

‘It’s a heifer,’ Daisy’s father said, smiling broadly. He carried the calf around closer to Petal’s head; she stared at the tiny creature in what looked like astonishment, then nosed cautiously and began licking it. Her eyes closed contentedly.

Daisy’s father took the lantern from her, and she realised that her arms were aching from having held it rigidly still for so long. The three of them stood watching mother and child, and Daisy felt warm right through.

The Winton Baby-Farmer

2010-08-11T23:14:00.000-07:00

On 12 August 1895 Minnie Dean was hanged; the only woman ever executed in New Zealand.

Dean was a "baby-farmer", a role that grew out of Victorian attitudes to illegitimacy. Having a child out of wedlock was seen as ruining the life of a respectable girl, blighting any chance of a good marriage. A baby-farmer could make the problem discreetly disappear, by taking the child off its mother's hands.

For a fee, of course. Sometimes the arrangement would be an ongoing payment of a few shillings a week; one imagines that this might have happened when the mother had some wistful hope of retrieving her child later. At other times a lump sum of several pounds was paid for the baby-farmer to adopt the child; such adoptions were fairly informal matters, with little in the way of records kept.

Minnie Dean would place discreetly-worded advertisements in newspapers, along the lines of "Respectable Married Woman (comfortable home, country) Wants to Adopt an infant - Address, Childless, Times Office". By 1895 she needed to be especially discreet, as she had come to the notice of the authorities. Two babies had died in her care: a six-month-old in 1889, and a six-week-old in 1891. The inquests in both cases found that the babies had been properly fed and cared for, but that Dean's premises were inadequate for the number of children (up to nine at a time in the Deans' small cottage).

The harsh fact is that infant mortality was high in those days. With little in the way of sanitation, rearing tiny babies without breast-feeding increased the risk. But Dean, already viewed with disapproval by many, as baby-farmers were sometimes seen as encouraging immorality, was more unpopular than ever in the community. Now she was being watched.

The events leading up to Dean's arrest are complex, with multiple train journeys over several days, and two babies handed over by their grandmothers. On 2 May 1895 a railway guard noticed Dean boarding a train while carrying a baby and a hat box. On her return trip there was no sign of the baby, but railway porters reported that the hat box was suspiciously heavy. Police dug up Minnie Dean's garden, and found the bodies of two recently-buried infants.

The coroner found that one-year-old Dorothy Carter had died from an overdose of laudanum. One-month-old Eva Hornsby's cause of death could not be determined, but was thought to be asphyxiation (Dean was not charged with her killing). Dean claimed that the deaths were accidental; that she had inadvertently overdosed Dorothy while trying to keep her quiet in a train carriage full of disapproving fellow-passengers, and had found Eva dead during the train journey, for no apparent cause. She said she panicked, and buried the bodies rather than notifying the authorities.

Unlikely though it sounds, it's possible that she was telling the truth. Laudanum, an opiate, was commonly used to quieten children (just look at those tiny houses and large families), and the strengths sold varied. It was all too easy to overdose a baby. Eva Hornsby was only a few weeks old, and her short life may have been lived in unhealthy circumstances. Perhaps she died of what we'd now call Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or cot/crib death.

Dean was charged with the murder of Dorothy Carter. Her lawyer argued for a verdict of manslaughter, on the grounds that the death was accidental, but any hope Dean might have had on that score must have collapsed when the trial judge said in his summing up that a verdict of manslaughter would be "a weak-kneed compromise." The twelve men (all jurors in New Zealand were male then) of the jury would not have wished to be seen as "weak-kneed".

Dean maintained her innocence to the end. "I have nothing to say except that I am innocent," were her last words.

During the trial, miniature hatboxes with baby dolls in them were sold outside the courthouse. Bad taste is not a modern phenomenon.

Public concern after this case led to advances in child welfare legislation, including the passing of the Infant Protection Act, regulating the activities of those who were paid for looking after infants.

Those of you who have read Mud and Gold may recall that the Minnie Dean case plays a small role in that book. It was, of course, a sensational news story at the time. But within my fictional world it has a particularly profound effect on one character.

Sentence of Marriage: the trailer

2010-08-06T00:46:00.000-07:00

Memorial to the Suffragists

2010-07-24T18:06:00.000-07:00

In 1993, the centennial of New Zealand women gaining the suffrage, a memorial was set up in central Auckland.

It's a bright and cheerful affair done in coloured tiles, but opinions are widely divided on this memorial. Many in the artistic community would like to see it go, and recently it's become something of an issue in this year's upcoming mayoral election.

I've no wish to engage in political or artistic debate on its merits, but I'll miss this memorial if it does disappear. Perhaps it is more of the craft shop than the art gallery, to paraphrase one commentator, but to me that's part of its charm. It speaks to me of the lesser-known heroines of the suffrage movement, hanging up their aprons, pinning on their hats, and letting the mending wait for an hour or two while they went out to meetings. The women who spent hours collecting signatures for pro-suffrage petitions. Who somehow found the energy, with all the other demands on them, to support the cause that meant so much to them.

This week marks the anniversary of the third and final suffrage petition's being presented to Parliament. It was a massive undertaking, with 32,000 signatures - a substantial proportion of the adult female population of the time. The petition forms were joined into a 300-yard long bundle that was ceremoniously unrolled in the House. Two months later, a new Electoral Act came into law. All adult women now had the right to vote.

One Hundred Years Ago

2010-06-26T16:12:00.000-07:00

One hundred years ago, on 23rd June 1910, a group of thirteen farmers gathered in Palmerston North and formed the New Zealand Holstein Friesian Association. What makes this occasion rather close to my heart is that my husband's great-grandfather was one of the thirteen, and I have his diary recording the event.

Just getting from the farm to Palmerston North was quite an undertaking. On Friday 17th June he went by buggy into Opotiki (the town where I grew up, and which my fictional Ruatane is based on). He caught the coastal steamer Ngatiawa at 1 pm, and arrived in Auckland the following morning at 11 am (in the diary he comments that "We would have been earlier only we had to put off sheep at Orakai"). He stayed two nights with family members in Auckland, then on the evening of Monday 20th June he caught the train to Palmerston North and arrived there about midday on 21st June.

One hundred years ago this circuitous route, first north to Auckland, then south (despite the name) to Palmerston North, was the fastest way of making the journey. Today it's about a seven hour drive, on sealed roads all the way.

Communication could be a trial. Great-grandfather had arranged to stay with a Mr Lovelock of Palmerston North, one of the other founders of the Association, but he found that "Lovelock was not in to meet me so I borrowed a horse from the New Zealand Loan and rode out there. When I got there I found Lovelock had missed me having gone in in his Motor car for me. But he got home about eight o'clock." Next day "I could not ride into P/N with him in his car as I had to take back the horse. But I came home with him this evening, and I rather like riding in the car."

He obviously did "rather like" it, because a little later he became one of the earliest motorists in Opotiki.

Thursday 23rd June's entry includes "We all went into P/N after dinner we went to the Holstein meeting had a good talk there and formed a Holstein Association." Here's the page:

The following day he began his journey home, retracing his route by train, steamer and buggy, and on Thursday 30th June was back on the farm. He'd had quite an eventful two weeks.

The Association still exists, and this week has been celebrating its centenary. I've found on their website a request for any descendants of those thirteen men to contact the association; I'll bundle up some of my information and send it off to them.

In good company

2010-06-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

I was checking the Barnes & Noble e-book listings for historical fiction today, sorted by number of sales, and was pleasantly surprised to find Sentence of Marriage at Number 34 (of 2,019) sandwiched between a Michael Crichton and Hilary Mantel's Booker Prize-winning Wolf Hall. Heady company for my little tale.

Of course there's the not-so-small matter of money: Sentence is free. So I was just as pleased to find Mud and Gold, which isn't free, at Number 168, with one of Laurie King's Mary Russell books and Rafael Sabatini's tale of derring-do, Captain Blood, either side of it. It's a good neighbourhood.

Drawers

2010-06-05T16:47:00.000-07:00

Ma's out, Pa's out, Let's talk rude!
Pee, Po, Belly, Bum, Drawers.

Flanders and Swann's "naughty words" song isn't referring to an innocuous chest of drawers, but to gasp underwear. As if that weren't shocking enough, Victorian ladies often wore split drawers.

As part of my quest for authenticity, and my wish to share from the comfort of today a little of the experience of being a Victorian woman, some years ago I made a pair of 19th century-style drawers.

They're quite full in style, loose around the thighs and trimmed with generous frills. Should the unthinkable happen, and a man get a glimpse of these drawers, they would look like a petticoat, albeit an indecently short one (they barely cover the knees).

But the legs are quite separate, joined only along the waistband.

Split drawers are sometimes assumed to have been the Victorian equivalent of naughty knickers, and to have been worn only by women of ill-repute, but that's not the case at all; they were normal, everyday underwear, worn by respectable women as well as (presumably) their fallen sisters. Their design is based on simple practicality.

A woman's underwear included, in addition to drawers, a chemise, a corset, a camisole, and at least two petticoats, and all this in the days before zippers or lycra. With split drawers, relieving oneself doesn't mean struggling with hooks, buttons, or cotton tape; it's simply a matter of making a minor adjustment. When braving a gloomy outhouse, complete with a population of spiders, anything that makes the task a little easier is to be welcomed.

Crabapple Jelly

2010-05-23T17:21:00.000-07:00

Making jams and jellies was a necessity for the women I write about; for me it's an indulgence. There's much satisfaction to be had from a row of gem-bright jars filled with fruit from our own orchard.

A brilliant new review

2010-05-22T20:54:00.000-07:00

from an editor who's read all four books. I was gobsmacked in the best way when I read this.

Remembering Waihau Bay

2010-05-07T18:25:00.000-07:00

When I was six years old, our small town was flooded. Flood waters went right through houses and shops, and retreated leaving chaos and a stinking layer of mud in their wake.

It must have been a nightmarish experience for the adults, but for a small child the outcome was delightful. The school had been flooded, and schoolchildren were given an unexpected holiday. To keep them out of the way while the massive clean-up was going on, many parents sent their children to friends or relations out of town. And I was lucky enough to be sent to the tiny seaside settlement of Waihau Bay.

Waihau Bay can be found towards the eastern side of the map on this page, a little to the east of Raukokore. You'll need to magnify the map, though—it really is a tiny place. There was a vague connection, involving one or two layers of in-lawness, between my family and the people who owned Waihau Bay's general store, and they good-naturedly took in several children during the clean-up.

Looking back, it feels as if we were there for months, but it can only have been a few weeks at most. It's hard to be sure exactly how long it was—while my visual memories of this time are outlined with startling clarity, that doesn't extend to having any real sense of the passing of time.

Every day seemed to be brilliantly fine, and we spent all day every day out-of-doors, paddling, clambering over the rocks, exploring rock pools, gathering shellfish, and having impromptu barbecues. I've a feeling that some of these images became conflated with my later reading of "Famous Five" books (helped by the fact that I had my dog with me, and he was called Timmy), but those weeks nevertheless remain golden in my memory.

That's no doubt why, when I was choosing a setting for one of my future books, Waihau Bay came to mind. It will be a fictionalised version, given a different name; I don't feel I have the right to send my invented characters to where they'd be usurping the place of real, well-documented people. But it will be informed by that special place with its golden memories.

I haven't been there in years, but I recently saw Taika Waititi's new movie, "Boy", which is set in Waihau Bay. I found the film itself engaging and often moving, and it was a delight to see the Bay again.

I have six or seven books in various stages of planning, including at least two that follow secondary characters. One of these will be set in my fictionalised Waihau Bay. I look forward to finding out just what happens there (although I do have a fair idea, characters have a way of following their own paths, and it's generally best to let them). Now all I have to do is finish my work-in-progress, and the two or three that will come after it in this sequence of stories. And then, I think, I had better plan a visit to the real Waihau Bay.

Anzac Day

2010-04-24T16:51:00.000-07:00

The 25th of April is a day when New Zealanders remember the landings at Gallipoli in 1915, and their tragic aftermath. To quote from an official New Zealand Anzac web site,

On this day the people of New Zealand have acknowledged the sacrifice of all those who have died in warfare, and the contribution and suffering of all those who have served.

There are dawn services, often held at war memorials. When I was a child, many veterans of World War 1 marched in the parade (in fact I lived near a veteran of the Boer War, a man who lived to be 100). Now all our WW1 soldiers have passed on, and the survivors of WW2 are elderly. My father-in-law was one of the WW2 veterans; he died late last year, aged 89.

Anzac stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Anzac Day is formally recognised in Australia, New Zealand, and Tonga. There are also ceremonies to mark the day in many other countries, including Britain, Canada and the United States. And at Gallipoli itself, every year the day is marked by a dawn service attended by thousands.

I've been fortunate enough to visit Gallipoli, though not on Anzac Day. I'm glad to have had the chance to contemplate this place in silence.

Information on Anzac Day in New Zealand.

Cover story

2010-04-22T22:20:00.000-07:00

When I decided I wanted new covers for the three books that make up the "Promises to Keep" series, I spent quite some time trawling through old photographs, looking for an illustration that felt right for my books' setting. I finally found it much closer to home.

This is a small patch of our own native forest. The fronds on the left are from a nikau, New Zealand's only native palm species. The distinctive, spiky-leaved tree with its head just to the right of "Marriage" is a tī kōuka or "cabbage tree". Despite the name, it's a woody plant rather than a true tree, somewhat related to lilies.

The tallest trees in the photograph are mostly rimu and totara, species that were felled for timber before they became too scarce to harvest.

The forest around Amy's home would have looked quite similar to this.

Dueling in downtown Wellington

2010-03-28T20:00:00.000-07:00

What's now New Zealand's capital city was a wilder place a century and a half ago. On 25th March 1847, Dr Isaac Featherston and Colonel William Wakefield fought a duel at Te Aro, Wellington.

Dr Featherston was an Edinburgh-educated medical man who became a newspaper editor and later a politician. He arrived in Wellington in May 1841 on a ship owned by the New Zealand Company (a group planning to colonise New Zealand on a so-called systematic basis, creating “a perfect English society”), and was singularly unimpressed by the place, as he expressed in an editorial on 24th March 1847:

“Did those mud hovels scattered along the beach, or those wooden huts which appeared every here and there … represent the City of Wellington? Where were the hundreds of acres of [quoting from the Company's marketing] ‘fine fertile land which shall produce such astounding crops?’ ” His own investment, he said, was no more than “a useless swamp worth nothing”.

Colonel Wakefield, the Company's Principal Agent in New Zealand, took offence at this, seeing it as an implication that he was a thief. The two gentlemen met for honour to be satisfied. Featherston fired first and missed; Wakefield then fired into the air, announcing that he would not shoot a man who had seven daughters. That appears to have been an end to the matter, at least as far as regards pistols.

Dr Featherston lived till 1876, but Colonel Wakefield died the year after the duel, aged only 45, of an apoplexy.

The story of the Wakefields and the New Zealand Company is a complex and contraversial one, but Wakefield's personal history reads like the stuff of melodrama, with an abducted (on behalf of his brother) heiress, a betrothal that ended tragically when his fiancee died while he was in jail (for his role in the abduction), leaving a baby daughter; service as a mercenary in Portugal, and later with the British Auxiliary Legion in Spain (he was knighted by Queen Isabella). With such a history, fighting a duel seems almost inevitable.

A Night at the Theatre

2010-03-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

On the 8th of March 1929, for the first time a movie with a soundtrack was shown in New Zealand, at the Paramount Theatre in Wellington. The movie, "Street Angel", wasn't a true "talkie", but a silent movie with a recorded musical soundtrack.

Silent movies had been popular in New Zealand for many years, ever since the first film was screened in 1896 (in Christchurch). In the early years, they were short films usually shown as part of a vaudeville-style performance. In A Second Chance, I have two of my characters attend such a presentation in 1906. I've taken the details from newspaper reports of an actual show in Auckland.

(Note: I've changed character names to avoid spoilers.)

... a performance one evening by a Mr R. G. Knowles offered real novelty. Mr Knowles, a music hall artiste, presented a series of comical talks, interspersed with songs and dancing, accompanied on the piano by Mrs Knowles, who also performed several items on the banjo. The items were amusing enough, but what truly caught Anna’s imagination were the moving pictures, projected by a machine called a Bioscope, with which Mr Knowles illustrated his songs. It was Anna’s first experience of moving pictures, and she was fascinated by the images, which included an exciting trip by motorcar and scenes of the King and Queen walking about.

‘There’s talk of making moving pictures of entire plays eventually,’ Sophie remarked when the two of them were discussing the show late that evening. ‘Though not being able to actually hear the actors speak would be rather limiting.’

Interesting as the moving pictures had been, Anna agreed with Sophie that such entertainments seemed unlikely to displace live performances.

My apologies to any banjo fans reading this, but I'm afraid I find something irresistably comical in the image of this redoubtable Edwardian lady wielding her banjo on stage.

Short stories

2010-03-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

I've added a new section to my website for short stories and essays. It can be found here.

Great-grandfather's Diary

2010-02-22T18:40:00.000-08:00

Over the years that I've been researching and writing, I've been fortunate enough to have access to extracts from the diaries of several generations of the men who farmed the valley that my Waituhi Valley is based on; portions that have survived, at least in transcript, within the extended family. But recently I was given a great gift: the 1910 diary of my husband's great-grandfather.

He was a punctilious diarist, writing an entry for every day with the notable exception of Sundays, which were always left blank, their events recorded on the following day. This was a man who took the Sabbath seriously. A family story survives in oral form of the day Great-grandfather, when driving in to Sunday service, saw a man ploughing a field. He stopped the buggy, got out, and went across the paddock to tell the plougher what his afterworld destination would be if he did not mend his ways. (The man's response has not been recorded).

So what did this farmer find to write about? The range of topics is fascinating, from the careful recording of expenses as small as a few pennies for a new spade handle through to (one would hope) far more significant events like the birth of a new grandchild. Sometimes the juxtaposition of such entries can be startling: on the very same day Great-grandfather writes of learning that his beloved oldest daughter is dangerously ill with scarlet fever, he also records that "Harold took in the four pigs today to [the local stock agents] Dalgetys and Co.".

This man spent much of his childhood trailing from one goldfield to another, first in Australia then in New Zealand, with a father who had a severe dose of gold fever, and I imagine that his education was sketchy at best. His handwriting is a challenge at times; certainly a long way from the copperplate one sometimes finds in the writings of those educated in the late 19th century. But the effort is well-rewarded.

This week in New Zealand history: first shipment of frozen export produce

2010-02-16T14:52:00.000-08:00

Frozen meat had been successfully exported from Australia in 1879, and a few years later New Zealand had its own first shipment.

On the 15th of February 1882, the Dunedin sailed from Port Chalmers for London. The Dunedin was a sailing ship, but a steam-powered freezing plant had been installed on board, and thousands of sheep carcasses frozen for shipping. The exporters must have been delighted with the outcome; a carcass that would have fetched 13 shillings in New Zealand returned over 22 shillings on the London market.

That first shipment carried butter as well as meat, and marked the beginning of a true export market for New Zealand's dairy produce. No longer were farmers limited to selling what butter they could persuade the local storekeeper to take, often in exchange for goods rather than for cash. Herd numbers expanded, more butter factories opened, and the co-operative system of factory ownership blossomed.

In Mud and Gold, Frank first gets the idea of trying to set up one such co-operative in Ruatane, although he will face some scepticism from the older farmers.

Why I Write

2010-02-01T13:39:00.000-08:00

The Editor Unleashed site is currently running an essay competition on the topic "Why I Write". This moved me to ponder my own reasons and rewards for spending so much of my time shaping thoughts into words. Here's the result.

(If anyone would like to vote for my entry, it can be found here)

The pleasure of their company

When I was fifteen, I made my first visit to a farming valley a few miles from my home.

Much of the land had been cleared, but the steeper hills were still covered in forest—bush, as we call it in New Zealand. The bush muffles any sound from outside, and makes it easy to lose the present. Trails are shaped by the feet of generations, finding a path through undergrowth that presses against tall trees. A track will open onto a quiet glade, sunlight filtered green-yellow through fronds of tree-fern.

I was captivated by this place (and by the farmer’s son, who eventually became my husband); later, after the farm had passed out of family ownership, I was captivated by the memories of those who had lived there. They tend to be long-lived, these descendants of pioneers, and their connection with this land lasted more than a century. Tales were told of the days before electricity or engines had reached the valley; when milking was done by hand, and machinery was drawn by horses. A weekly buggy trip to town was an adventure in its own right, dependent on the state of the track and on tides. The valley was isolated, and family all-important.

As I mused on what the land might have looked like a hundred years before, imagination delivered something unexpected: characters to people the valley, my own inventions but surprisingly real to me. And as I thought about these people, how they might have lived and what they might have been like, stories took shape. Took shape and grew, to the point where I conceived the outrageous idea of writing a novel.

It began with the characters; with getting to know them properly. It’s like sitting quietly in a room listening to the conversations of others, occasionally nudging a conversation in a certain direction, and then recording what I’ve learned about these people. Characters and story each grow with the telling—for events shape character, and characters shape events.

For me, one of the joys of writing historical fiction is the excuse to indulge in research. Letters and diaries that have survived in family hands; modest little books published by local history societies; official tomes that when released from the faded pink tape tied around them collapse broken-spined in a halo of brown dust. Then there’s the more active research: any old shack or open-air museum passed on the road must be investigated. I took riding lessons so that I could write with some accuracy of travelling by horseback. I’ve milked a cow by hand; I’ve churned butter; I’ve sewn authentic underwear. I delight in research—and it does need to be a joy in itself, because the vast bulk of what I discover will never make its way onto the page. I want my research to give authenticity, not to weigh down the story.

Some authors write historical fiction about the great and powerful; monarchs and politicians and generals. I write about those whose lives might appear small and narrow; “ordinary” people. I began writing because I wanted to explore what life might have been like for such people; now I write because I miss my characters if I spend too long away from them. I want to know what they’re getting up to; their disappointments and their successes.

My father-in-law died in November 2009, aged 89. Right till the end his mind was sharp, easily able to recall stories from his childhood. A few years ago he visited the valley for the last time, and came back to the city full of how much it had changed. The land has been carved into smaller blocks, and some of the remaining bush cleared. To top it off, there’s now a sealed road with (this was expressed in awed tones) “A white line painted up the middle!”

I can’t go back to the valley, because “my” valley no longer exists. But I can return in imagination whenever I want. I write because it takes me back to that special place. I write because I love delving into the past. But most of all I write because it means I can spend time with those lovable, bothersome, and occasionally infuriating characters, some of whom are the children and grandchildren of the ones I first got to know, and all of whom at times take me completely by surprise with what they decide to do. I can enjoy the pleasure of their company.

Skiing in a three-piece serge suit

2010-01-13T17:13:00.000-08:00

We spent Christmas at Mount Ruapehu, which combines being an active volcano and the home of several ski fields. It was a glorious few days, with hiking every day and delicious meals every evening, staying in the very comfortable Chateau Tongariro.

Some of the pioneers of New Zealand skiing chose Ruapehu as their base. The Visitors' Centre near the Chateau has a small display dedicated to these men and women. In the pursuit of adventure, and very properly dressed (the men in three-piece suits and ties; the women in long woollen skirts and thick jackets), they strapped on heavy wooden skis and flung themselves down the slopes.

The chance to explore the haunts of these early skiers was a bonus of this holiday, because one of my characters has decided to give skiing a try, and will probably make his first attempt during the current work-in-progress. I already knew he was a keen hiker, but skiing took me rather by surprise. But I learned quite some time ago that it's best to give the characters their heads.

Accommodation on the mountain was a good deal more basic than it is today. One of the early shelters, the old Waihohonu Hut, still survives, and now has an Historic Places classification.

We visited it on one of our hikes. The interior could not be described as luxurious.

New Year's Day

2009-12-31T14:50:00.000-08:00

The New Year arrives early in New Zealand, thanks to our position close to the Date Line. So it's already eleven hours old as I write this. 2010 has got off to a pleasant start, including leftover méthode champenoise for breakfast.

Musing over 2009:
- I substantially edited Sentence of Marriage, removing most of what made up the first five chapters and reducing the word count by over 20,000. I also tightened and polished the three later books.
- I joined Authonomy in November 2008, so I've been a member for all of 2009. Sentence of Marriage has been in Authonomy's top 40 for the last few months. More importantly, I've received useful feedback and real encouragement, and have had the chance to read some fine manuscripts. I've also had a lot of fun there.
- I put my books on Smashwords, which has itself made huge progress this year as an increasingly high profile e-book provider. Sentence of Marriage is currently at number 15 on Smashwords' Top 100 list, and has had almost 3,000 downloads.
- I've had fine reviews on WorkingGirlReviews for Sentence of Marriage and Mud and Gold.
- I've made some progress on my WIP, most importantly in getting to know the characters who make their first appearance in this volume.

Looking ahead for 2010:
- I'd like to see a completed first draft of my WIP by the end of the year. It will take the series from 1912 to the mid-1920s, so will include the years of the First World War (though from the point of view of those left at home, not at the Front), a new area of research for me. The whole book is going to demand much research, a thought I relish.
- I'm hoping for more reviews (Sentence of Marriage was accepted for review by a site specialising in historical fiction on 31 December), and to gain more visibility for my books.
- I have a list of ideas for future books that keeps expanding, much to my delight.
- I hope to keep growing and improving as a writer (which, as Mr Collins said to Lizzie, perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier).

Happy New Year to everyone reading this.

Christmas on the farm, 1883

2009-12-24T20:51:00.000-08:00

To everyone reading this, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.

In Chapter 14 of Sentence of Marriage, we see one family's Christmas Day 126 years ago. For them it was not so very different from any other day of the year. There were cows to milk; cooking to do; children to tend. They went to church in the morning, and at lunchtime sat down to a hot dinner: roast lamb and vegetables, followed by plum pudding. Quite unsuitable for a New Zealand summer, of course, but a hot dinner on Christmas Day was a tradition brought from "Home".

Gifts were simple, and often homemade—Amy has given each of her menfolk a handkerchief embroidered with his initial. This year there's a houseguest: a young man from the city, who's been paying Amy a good deal of attention. She's unable to hide her disappointment when he appears to have no gift for her, but he persuades her to slip outside with him while the rest of the family is lingering over tea and cake.

Jimmy took hold of her hand, then reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small box. He placed it on Amy’s palm and closed her fingers around it. ‘How could you think I wouldn’t have a real present for you?’ he said, the slightest hint of reproach in his voice.
‘I… I’m sorry, I was silly and thoughtless.’
‘No, you weren’t. You’re never thoughtless. Aren’t you going to see what’s in it?’ He let go of her hand.
Amy lifted the lid of the box. Lying on a bed of white velvet was a gold brooch in the shape of a letter ‘A’. She touched it in disbelief, and looked up at Jimmy with wide eyes. ‘For me? It’s gold! I’ve never had anything gold before. Oh, it must have cost you a lot of money.’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘Father’s still paying my allowance into the bank while I’m down here. And I can’t think of anything I’d rather spend money on than making you happy. You like it?’
‘I love it!’ Her face dropped. ‘What’ll I tell Susannah about it, though?’
‘Don’t tell her anything. I’m afraid you won’t be able to show anyone—at least not for a while. Can’t you wear it somewhere no one will see it?’
Amy nodded. ‘I can wear it under my dress. I’ll wear it every day.’ She gave him a radiant smile.
‘Could you put it on now, just for a minute, so I can see it?’
‘Of course.’ She tried to fasten the brooch at the front of her collar, but it was awkward without a mirror. Her fingers fumbled with the catch.
‘Let me.’ Jimmy took the brooch and pinned it deftly, but when it was done instead of dropping his hands he slid them on to her shoulders. He leaned towards her till his face was only a few inches from hers and caressed her shoulders with his fingers. ‘Don’t I get a thank-you?’ he asked, looking into her uptilted face.
Amy opened her mouth, but before she could get any words out Jimmy’s mouth was on hers, and she gave a little mew of surprise. He raised his head and smiled down at her.
‘I’m afraid we’d better go back now,’ he said, letting his hands drop from her shoulders. ‘They’ll miss us soon. Happy Christmas, little one.’
‘It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had.’ Amy took off the brooch, slipped her hand into his and walked back to the house at his side, clutching her brooch in a blissful dream.

This week in New Zealand history: Our First A & P Show

2009-12-16T17:32:00.000-08:00

On 14 December 1843, an Agricultural and Pastoral Show was held in Auckland, the first in New Zealand. The idea of such shows was at first slow to spread, but from the 1860s onwards they were held in more and more areas of the country.

Agricultural and Pastoral Shows still take place every year in many parts of New Zealand, but in the 19th Century, when rural communities were isolated, they were an eagerly anticipated event. The original aim of these shows was to improve stock breeding and husbandry, but from the early days they also had an important social function.

A & P Shows did not come to the Bay of Plenty until the early 1890s. My fictional version of one of these early shows is in Chapter 30 of Mud and Gold, set in March 1893. Here's an extract:

There was some good-natured grumbling over Frank’s cheek when he was awarded a ribbon for the best Jersey bull in the show; as the only Jersey bull, Duke William had not had to face competition to win his prize. But after Orange Blossom had been awarded her own ribbon as the best Jersey cow of any age in the show, again having been paraded around the ring in solitary splendour as the sole example of her breed, she was involved in a more genuine contest.

A small group of cows were arranged in a ring, with their owners crouched beside them on stools to milk them. When the buckets were full they were passed over to the judges....

In terms of quantity there was not much in it. Orange Blossom was much smaller than any of the Shorthorns, and by rights a good Shorthorn should have had the edge over her in sheer volume produced. But when the contents of the buckets were carefully measured, Orange Blossom’s production was found to be second only to one huge Shorthorn.

That would have been enough to make Frank prouder than ever of the dainty Jersey, but there was better to come. With elaborate care, milk from each cow had been poured into graduated glass cylinders and left to stand in the shade of the judges’ tent while other competitions went on in the ring. When the milk had stood long enough for a clearly discernible layer of cream to have formed, the percentage of cream was measured and the winner announced.

Frank knew well enough that his Jerseys produced creamier milk than any other cows in the area; the payments he was getting from the factory showed that more tangibly than any afternoon competition could do. But to have it loudly announced in front of everyone he knew made his chest swell with pride. He owned the cow that produced the best quality milk in the whole district.

Lizzie squeezed his hand so tightly at the announcement that he knew she was almost as excited as he was himself. She gave him a little push to start him on his way over to the tent to collect his prize: a small silver cup and five shillings.

‘Congratulations, Mr Kelly,’ the Dairy Advisor said, fixing Frank with a friendly smile. ‘Even for a Jersey that cow of yours is producing impressive milk. You must have a fine herd.’

‘They’re not bad,’ Frank said, then he plucked up the courage to express his true thoughts. ‘I haven’t got many Jerseys yet, but the ones I’ve got are really good. I’m going to have a really special herd.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ the advisor said. ‘Perhaps I should pay you a visit while I’m in the area, have a look at these fine cows of yours and talk over your plans?’

‘That’d be good,’ said Frank. ‘Come out for lunch one day, my wife’s a great cook.’

The advisor laughed. ‘You’re obviously a very fortunate man, Mr Kelly.’ And Frank silently but wholeheartedly agreed.

Frank was not used to attention. Elation had carried him over to the tent, but when he stepped back clutching his prizes and looked around at what seemed a sea of faces all staring at him, his courage nearly failed. It was only when he picked Lizzie’s face out of the anonymous mass that he found the strength to make his way back past his applauding audience, fixing his eyes on Lizzie like a beacon to safe harbour. He hugged each of the children in turn, then gave Lizzie the biggest hug of all despite the baby in her arms, heedless of the amused looks turned on them.

Book Review - Mud and Gold

2009-12-12T01:17:00.000-08:00

Some time ago I had a wonderful review of Sentence of Marriage on the review site WorkingGirlReviews (see link in sidebar). Willow from WGR has just reviewed the second book, Mud and Gold, and once again I'm delighted with her review.

NB: this review contains (unavoidably) a large spoiler for Sentence of Marriage. So if you've yet to read SOM, and think you may read it one day, it might be best to avoid the review for now. But here are its beginning and end:

Picking up where Book I ended, Mud and Gold is the second in the trilogy, Promises to Keep. I purchased this book after reading the first in the series, Sentence of Marriage. The same excellent writing, characterization, and realism make Book II just as riveting.
...
Mud and Gold is the perfect blend of darkness and light. Ms. Parkinson has created quite a masterpiece with the Promises to Keep series, full of so many interesting characters and intriguing stories. If you love historical fiction, don’t miss these books.

Once again, WorkingGirlReviews has awarded me its highest rating. I'm honoured.

This week in New Zealand history: NZ troops in the Boer War

2009-12-05T23:32:00.001-08:00

The first contingent of New Zealand troops embarked for South Africa on the 21st of October 1899. On the 9th of December that year, the New Zealanders had their first engagement with enemy troops.

By the end of the war in 1902, New Zealand had sent almost 6,500 troops and 8,000 horses in ten contingents. To that total I've added one more soldier: in Settling the Account, a young lad's desire for adventure and loathing of home make him long to sail off to South Africa.

It's no easy task for him; not only is he underage, but would-be soldiers had to come up with the daunting sum of £25 for their equipment. My boy does find the money, from a source he would never have thought of. And then there's the question of whether or not he'll manage to smuggle out the horse he thinks of as his own, but about which his father feels quite differently.

Most of the soldiers came home again. None of the horses did.

Toy Soldiers

2009-11-28T16:27:00.000-08:00

While wandering along Greytown's main street during our recent visit to the Wairarapa, admiring its Victorian buildings, my attention was caught by a fine display of toy soldiers in a shop window.

Now, I'm not a great fan of buying souvenirs; I really have no need to add to the clutter of my life. But anything with a connection, however tenuous, to my writing demands closer study. Toy soldiers play a part in my later books; a small part, but one with a certain significance. So the thought of having a set of my very own was tempting.

I found that the soldiers are made right there in Greytown, by a small family firm. The next day I went to their tiny shop just off the main street, and after much agonising I chose the Earl of Uxbridge and the Colour Party from the 1st Foot Guard, all from Waterloo. Here they are in as much of their glorious detail as a small picture can show:

A larger version can be seen here.

Imperial Productions doesn't have a website, but a potted history of the firm can be found here, and a few illustrations here.

This week in New Zealand history: women vote

2009-11-21T19:11:00.000-08:00

On the 28th November 1893, New Zealand women voted in their first General Election, having gained the right to do so when an Electoral Bill was passed two months earlier. Concerns had been expressed by opponents of the Bill, no doubt with varying degrees of sincerity, that women voters might be jostled by unruly fellows when exercising their new right, but the day went smoothly, with no unpleasant incidents, and (despite opponents' claims that few women were interested in voting) a large turnout.

More details of the campaign for women's suffrage can be found on the Women and the Law page of my website. And a fictionalised account of that first voting day is included in Chapter 31 of Mud and Gold.

This week in New Zealand history: Mark Twain's visit

2009-11-17T10:19:00.000-08:00

In 1895, Mark Twain spent a month in New Zealand, as part of the year-long lecture tour he made to pay off his debts. He travelled the country, encountering such unexpected events as dogs being brought to his show in the South Island town of Timaru. On the 21st of November he arrived in Auckland, and performed his "At Home" in the city's Opera House to a packed audience. Those attending had paid 1/- (in the Pit), 2/6 (Stalls), or the princely sum of four shillings for seats in the Dress Circle. No dogs were in attendance.

As a supporter of women's suffrage, Twain was particularly impressed that New Zealand women had had the vote for two years by the time of his visit. From his account of the tour, Following the Equator:

In the New Zealand law occurs this: "The word person wherever it occurs throughout the Act includes woman."

That is promotion, you see. By that enlargement of the word, the matron with the garnered wisdom and experience of fifty years becomes at one jump the political equal of her callow kid of twenty-one.

Greeting Saint Brigid

2009-11-14T14:54:00.000-08:00

Writing brings many rewards. There's the pleasure of the writing itself, when things are going well. There's the delight of a reader who gets what I've tried to say; who tells me s/he really cares about my characters.

And then there are unexpected pleasures like the gift of seeing the world a little differently because I'm seeing it through the lens of my own sub-creation. Like my small ritual of greeting Saint Brigid.

On Thursday mornings we often walk up the hill to a nearby church for Holy Communion. It's a small, intimate gathering in a chapel behind the main altar; generally only four or five people are there. Afterwards, as we walk out down a side aisle, a row of stained glass windows is illuminated by the pale light of early morning. Each small window shows a saint, and I always pause for a moment before Saint Brigid. Because, without my quite intending it, Brigid (or at least an image of her) has made an appearance in my writing.

There's a character with a minor role in Settling the Account who appears again in A Second Chance; again in a small role, but with a little more page space. Here's an extract:

Bridie was propped up against the pillows. What Frank could see of her looked a good deal cleaner than on the previous occasions they had met, but the skin was stretched taut over the bones of her face. Her hands rested limply on the bedcovers, all knuckle and sinew. Her hair had been cut short; it stuck out around her head like a dark halo.
...
‘Who’d have thought I’d end up with the nuns, eh? Do you see who I’ve got here?’ A slight tilt of her head directed Frank’s attention to a small painting on the wall above her bed. It showed a young woman dressed as a nun, smiling mildly down as if on the bed’s occupant. ‘That’s Saint Bridget. She’s me name saint, see? The nuns put her up there to keep an eye on me.’ Bridie smiled, and Frank saw a trace of the spark he had once noticed in her dark eyes. ‘Ah, but she’s an Irish lass, so she’ll not be one for passing judgement on the likes of me.’

Brigid (or Bridget; both forms are used) does seem to have been a large-hearted woman, readier to dispense aid than judgement. My mornings seem a little brighter whenever she and I exchange a smile.

This week in New Zealand history: Armistice Day

2009-11-11T01:20:00.000-08:00

On the 12th of November 1918 (it was still the 11th in Europe), the official announcement of Armistice was published in New Zealand. After four years of hostilities, the Great War was over. In towns up and down the country, parades with brass bands and decorated floats, returned soldiers and schoolchildren, marched carrying banners and flags.

18,000 New Zealanders had died in the war, out of a population a little over one million; the highest death rate of any country in the British Empire, and one of the highest of any participating nation. Many of those people lining the streets to watch the parades would have been in mourning.

There were no parades in Auckland. The city's Chief Health Officer did not allow any official celebrations for Armistice Day - because crowds were something to fear. The war might be over, but deaths were not. Influenza was ravaging the country.

An Avenue of Lime Trees

2009-11-07T14:01:00.000-08:00

Last month we spent some time in the pretty little Wairarapa settlement of Greytown. From the time it was bypassed by the railway line, "development" left Greytown behind. As a result, it's well-endowed with Victorian buildings, both commercial and residential, and is now a popular spot for weekend visitors.

But what I specially wanted to see was the lime tree avenue in the Soldiers' Memorial Park.

Every town in New Zealand, small or large, has a war memorial of some sort, put up after World War I. Most often it's a tall monument known as a cenotaph. In Greytown the townsfolk did something different: they planted an avenue of lime trees. One tree for every soldier from the district who died in the war. One hundred and seventeen trees.

A town that before the war had a population of 1,123 lost 117 men in that war. There cannot have been a family left unscathed. Not a household that didn't lose a husband, a brother, a son. Girls who lost their sweethearts; women who never did meet the men who might have become their husbands. Farms "let go" because the strong young men who would have worked it never came home. As we walked along that long avenue, speaking in the hush that such a place evokes, it was a more powerful illustration of loss than any page of figures could be.

This week in New Zealand history

2009-11-03T14:44:00.000-08:00

1 November 1898: the New Zealand Old-Age Pensions Act came into law, the first measure of its type in the British Empire.

The pension was modest (£18 a year), carefully means-tested, and had a racist element in its careful exclusion of "Chinese or other Asiatics". It was also limited to persons "deemed to be of good character"; no drunkards or fallen women allowed.

But for those fortunate enough to be eligible, the pension made the difference between destitution and a measure of security. It was the first stirrings of what eventually became New Zealand's social welfare system.

Oldest and youngest

2009-10-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

Close to 2,000 people have now downloaded at least one of my books (it helps that the first one's free). Beyond the fact that something about my writing has caught their attention, I don't usually know anything about them. But just sometimes a reader contacts me or leaves a review, and then I'm lucky enough to learn a little more.

A while ago a reader told me that she'd lent her copies to her neighbour's seventeen-year-old daughter, who'd devoured each book in a day. This lass is the youngest reader I know of so far, although one very keen lady (she read all four books, then went back to the beginning and read them all again) has told me she can hardly wait for her daughter to be old enough to share them. Her daughter's only ten, so it'll be a few years yet.

And just this week I heard from a lady who so far holds the record as my most senior reader, at seventy years old. What I found particularly delightful is that this is her first time reading an e-book, and she read four in a row - all mine! And just like my seventeen-year-old reader, she read each one in a day. Here's an extract from her wonderfully enthusiastic review:

An avid reader of thousands of books spanning 70 years and this was my first experience reading an eBook. Thank you for an enjoyable 4-day ride! Each of the four books in this series were read non-stop except for the necessary few breaks one needs. whew! WELL DONE! If I could give you ten stars I would!

I love the fact that readers of such different generations can relate to my characters, and I love the way e-books overcome the tyranny of distance to make my writing available to anyone with a 'net connection.

Going too far for art? "Method writing" laid bare

2009-10-24T15:12:00.000-07:00

My characters have a way of being very real to me, but perhaps I identify with them a little too closely at times. I've sometimes had migraines when a character complained of them (mind you, she's always complaining), and when another character was having repeated pregnancies I started suffering the Worst Cramps Ever. But my most recent experience is, I think, the furthest I've gone yet.

I went for my annual check-up. My GP did the usual bits and pieces, then pulled out her stethoscope to listen to my chest. And she went "Hmm..." And listened some more. And said, "I think you may have a heart murmur."

Now, I'm blessed with excellent health. I had an ECG years ago for a job application, and my heart has never given me the least pain, other than metaphorically. My response was to laugh. And then, because my GP is a lovely lady and very easy to talk to, I told her why I was laughing. You see, I'd just given one of my characters a heart murmur - and in her case it was no laughing matter, as she was pregnant. In 1907, a weak heart in a pregnant woman was highly dangerous.

I had an unexpected bonus from sharing this with T. She worked for several years in one of the Pacific Islands that New Zealand has close associations with. Rheumatic fever is common there, and it often leaves a legacy of a damaged heart. Many of the first-time mothers T. was caring for had heart murmurs as a result of rheumatic fever. In a third-world country, this is almost as dangerous as it was in Edwardian New Zealand. We had a fascinating, albeit short, chat.

Oh, and my heart? It turned out that the "heart murmur" I'd caught from my character was a phantom one. I had a few interesting tests at a cardiologist's, and the most interesting thing noted was that I have a very slow (in a good way) heart rate.

I'll have to be more careful about what I put my characters through, though.

New Website

2009-10-14T22:19:00.000-07:00

I have a website with some background information to my novels. Snippets of New Zealand history, as well as a description of the geographical setting.

The site is here.

Lost in Translation

2009-10-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

Scanning the 'net for news of myself (yes, I admit it. I do this), I found a review of Sentence of Marriage. Well, sort of. The site in question seems to have picked up the wonderful review I got from WorkingGirlReviews, pushed it through an automatic translator and back to something approximating English. Now that I've stopped being completely convulsed with laughter, let me share the joy.

The original is here

And the mangled version is here.

Writing about real people

2009-09-26T19:03:00.000-07:00

Although I use historical settings, I've studiously avoided using real, historical characters in my works. Over the years I've read and enjoyed many books that do portray real people, but I have an aversion to doing it myself that almost borders on fear. I'd hate to "get it wrong".

Recently I was blog-browsing, following links from one to the next, as you do, until I was so many link-layers in that I can't now remember whose blog it was or how I got there. I do remember that the blog quoted an author whose opinion on the subject helped me crystalise my own: what I feel most unwilling to do is use a real person as a point-of-view character. I simply don't feel comfortable thinking someone else's thoughts for them, when the person is not one of those characters living within that chaotic place I call my mind.

It's good that I've got that straight at last, because it's become increasingly clear to me that in my current work-in-progress I need to include a real, historical figure: the real, historical headmaster of an Auckland school. Oh, I could manipulate matters to avoid this. I could use a different name, but the headmaster at the time was a fairly well-known figure, and the school in question has a building named after him. I could scurry further from the issue and use an imaginary school, but anyone who's at all familiar with Auckland in the early 20th century would know what school I'm referring to. So I've taken the plunge, and am using the real Mr Tibbs (a name I'd hardly dare invent) for a short scene on enrolment day.

I'm fortunate enough to have read the memoirs, retrieved for me from the distant basement stacks of the library, of a man born just a few months after my point-of-view character for these scenes, and who went to this very school. He recorded his memories of his own enrolment day, so I can put words in Mr Tibbs' mouth that he is on record as having said. I've daringly added a few words of my own invention, but I don't think they will have the gentleman turning in his grave. And I've stayed steadfastly out of his head.

My best review ever

2009-08-26T14:10:00.000-07:00

So far, anyway.

Sentence of Marriage

I submitted "Sentence of Marriage" to a review site recently, and this morning I received a review that quite literally had me dancing around the room. Perceptive, generous, and responding to the elements of writing that mean the most to me. I'm gobsmacked in the best way.

Lines that don't stand in isolation

2009-08-23T23:17:00.000-07:00

Recently on Authonomy, someone started a thread for people to post favourite lines from their own books. I leapt on it, fingers poised to post a few of those that never fail to make me laugh or cry (and occasionally both).

And came to a complete standstill. Because taken in isolation, the most animated reaction I could hope for would be along the lines of, "And your point is?"

"Reformed whores, Jack" perhaps retains a certain trace of grim humour, even without its context.

But "This had somehow become his fault", a line from Book Four that the Mr and I often use to each other, gives no sense of the weeks of marital negotiation, sleep deprivation and other game-playing that precede it.

And
"I’d have to come and get you if you didn’t, you know."
"I know."
comes after years of power play, passive (and not so passive) aggression, and large doses of self-deception, only to appear as a trivial exchange left bare on the page.

On reflection, though, it's not surprising. Clever wordplay, convoluted puns and extended jokes come from Pratchettian pens, and deliver witty one-liners that can raise a chuckle even out of context. But lines said by or about characters whom we've seen grow and interact over years don't have that luxury.

I think I'm in good company. "Reader, I married him" is almost cringeworthy taken on its own. And what could be flatter than this:
" 'Well I'm back,' he said."

The Future of the Book

2009-07-13T01:15:00.000-07:00

was the title of a recent radio interview with Ursula Mackenzie, CEO of Little, Brown Book Group. The later part of the interview fits the title more than the earlier; that's when Mackenzie talked about e-books and where she sees them fitting in the world of publishing. She speculated that publishers might test the water with a new book by releasing it first as an e-book, and only if sales warranted it then producing a print run, which is an expensive business.

The interview can be heard by clicking here, then selecting "Future of the Book".

Sympathy for the villain

2009-06-19T13:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had an e-mail from a reader who'd just finished the final volume of "Promises to Keep". Her comments were warm and enthusiastic, and she's making her enthusiasm tangible by buying a copy of "A Second Chance", which she wants me to autograph it for her.

All of this is wonderful, but what I was perhaps most pleased about was her attitude to a particular character. He's not a likable character (to put it mildly), and earlier in the book this same reader was wishing him dead. But thoroughly evil characters are mercifully rare in real life, and I don't generally find them interesting in literature. I certainly have no desire to write one. Characters grow, and the reader grows in understanding of them. My correspondent told me almost apologetically that by the end she had tears in her eyes for this man.

It felt good.

The people at Lulu have adjusted their agreement with Amazon so that there's no longer an extra charge to buy my books via Amazon. This seems a good thing.

As listed on Amazon

2009-06-03T20:55:00.000-07:00

Lulu has done a deal with Amazon, which means that three of my books now appear in the Amazon marketplace. I was more chuffed by this than cool logic should suggest. The books are substantially cheaper on Lulu, but there's a certain thrill in having my work appear in the catalogue of such a high-profile retailer.

Reading aloud

2009-05-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

Of all the editing techniques I've read of, stumbled across or worked out for myself over the years, the single most useful one is reading aloud; ideally to an interested (or at least tolerant) audience. A passage can be one I've looked at a dozen times before, but when read aloud it leaps off the page and demands to be improved in some way.

At the simplest level, reading aloud reveals typos that have resisted any amount of proof-reading. And it's particularly effective for finding words that are repeated in uncomfortably close succession. The eye can be determined in seeing just what it wants to see, but when the text is slowed down to the level of the spoken voice, many such hidden flaws are revealed.

It's particularly unforgiving, and particularly useful at detecting, what I give the editing abbreviation of "lw" to: long-windedness. Again, the eye can skip over such passages, but when said aloud they're revealed in all their tedium. And they get cut in the very next editing phase.

I like my prose to have a certain rhythm, and reading aloud is a good way of checking this. Even though most of us have gone beyond sounding out the words as we read, dialogue in particular does flow better if it's in a form that it's actually possible to speak. It's an effective way, too, of checking that the various speech patterns of the different characters are consistent.

What's in a name?

2009-03-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

The name is usually one of the first things we learn about a character.

Like it or not, readers are inclined to react differently to a character called Chloe or Saffron than to a Mildred or Ethel. First impressions, in fiction as in real life, can be startlingly accurate or blisteringly unfair. They're also inclined to be hard to shift. So characters' names need to be chosen with some care.

I want my characters to have names that suit them; a part of the word picture that paints them. I'm also constrained by the times in which I set my works. I don't believe there were many Chantelles, or Tiffannie-Krystals, in Victorian New Zealand.

Quite a few names from Victorian times are still in current or near-current use, and I've tended to choose from those for my younger characters. Names that sound old-fashioned (at least in 21st century New Zealand) are fine for older characters.

On checking the most popular names given to babies in New Zealand in 2008, I find I've used five out of the top ten names for girls, and seven of the top ten boys' names. Boys' names tend to keep to the traditional a little more, but babies of both sexes are given more of those traditional names than was the case in the 1950s-60s.

The lists, with the ones I've used marked by an asterisk:

Girls - *Sophie, Olivia, Ella, Isabella, *Charlotte, *Lily, *Emma, *Emily, Jessica, Grace.
Boys - *Jack, *James, *William, *Samuel, Joshua, Riley, *Liam, Oliver, *Benjamin, *Daniel.

The Beginning

2009-03-13T00:05:00.000-07:00

The longest novel begins with a single word. That word is followed by another, and soon we have a whole sentence. Sentences grow into paragraphs, and after a mere few years of mental anguish, a novel appears.

The books I write are historical novels set in New Zealand, with a strong character focus. New Zealand is a place that's exotic to most of my readers. I want them to be able to picture the settings, and picture my characters within those settings. I like to start with a word picture of the scene, and it's never long before the main character makes her appearance.

Here are the opening paragraphs of the first book, "Sentence of Marriage". The year is 1881.

Beyond the farmhouse the ground fell gradually in a series of low hills and flat paddocks, bright green where they had been planted in grass and darker green where the bush remained. The Waituhi creek wound along the valley floor before it disappeared from sight behind a steep bluff. Amy reached the top of a hill and paused, caught as she always was by the beauty of the view.

And beyond the mouth of the valley was the sea. The wide sweep of the Bay of Plenty stretched to the edge of Amy’s sight in either direction, and straight in front of her ocean met sky all along the horizon, broken only by White Island with its constant puff of smoke. Today she could see the island quite clearly through the crisp winter air. The ocean looked blue and mild. Some days it was grey and threatening; but always to Amy it was fascinating. To her it meant the world outside her valley; it meant excitement and adventure, and the lure of the unknown.