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Stop or I’ll shoot!

‘Bailed Up’ by Tom Roberts (Public Domain)

I’m approaching the end of my long journey to craft a fictional account of Harriet Blaxland. Over the course of 2021, my plan is to self-publish three novellas which chart the course of her life. In dramatising from the relatively limited sources available, I have necessarily strayed into imagination and, on occasion, downright confabulation (!). See below for a fun extract to whet your appetite.

Note that in the fictional version, I’ve changed the names to make it clear that the story is more ‘inspired by’ than ‘true’: Blaxland/Burbridge, Dowling/Wood, Harriet /Henrietta, Newington estate/Aylesford estate. This extract is written from the point of view of ‘Henrietta’ who is regaling her fellow passengers with the tale nearly twenty years later.

The truth

(as reported on page 2, The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, Thursday 22nd April 1830.

The fiction

‘I am so longing to reach London.’ Mrs Sapsford sallied forth with another conversational topic to engage the attention of Mrs Berkeley.

Mrs Berkeley, kind as ever, obliged. ‘Yes, indeed. I’m looking forward to being able to take a carriage ride through the countryside.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Green pastures, hedgerows … won’t that be something?’

‘And no bushrangers. Papa said,’ piped up the Owens’ boy.

Morgan wondered if he should mention highwaymen but decided not to.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Mrs Berkeley said to the boy indulgently. Her hand automatically reached out to pat his head, but she rapidly withdrew it. The lice plague was ever in their minds. ‘Why, Lady Wood has first-hand experience of them.’

‘No, not at all,’ she said with a laugh. ‘My sisters were the heroines of the hour.’

‘It’s not like you to miss all the fun, Lady Wood,’ said Mrs Sapsford. ‘Where were you when the robbery was going on?’

Lady Wood ignored her. ‘It is indeed a most amusing tale. Have you not heard about it already, Mr Mayhew? Wasn’t it in the papers, Mrs McPhail?’

‘Oh, yes. Poor Mr Burbridge.’

‘Well, I wasn’t there, of course. I was in the house with my dear mama who had one of her headaches,’ Lady Wood said with a nod to Mrs Sapsford. ‘But I have all the details from my maid, who got it directly from the coachman—’

They all laughed and Morgan wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Lady Wood, the most demanding of servants’ time and energy, could reliably tap that rich vein of gossip.

‘Well, there was our dear papa quietly returning from a day at the races when, shortly after he’d turned into the Aylesford estate, four men sprang out from the bushes and, waving their guns, hauled the coachman down and bound him. Then, holding a pistol to our father’s head, they demanded all the money he had on him. So what do you think our father said to that?’

‘No doubt, not something that could be repeated in present company,’ said old Mr Quigley, clearly drawn into the tale from his corner.

‘Well, my father said he had none about him.’

‘That would’ve earned him a cuff about the ears at the very least,’ said Morgan, in admiration.

‘Well, of course, since it was race day, they’d be sure that a wealthy gentleman would be carrying more than usual. So then, they said.’ And here Lady Wood affected a rough man’s accent. ‘You’d better ’ave a care about wot you’re saying, ’cos we gonna search you and, if we find so much as a sixpenny bit more on ya than wot you said, then we’ll blow your brains out on the spot.’

Even Mrs Sapsford began to laugh.

‘But, no, does my father alter his story?’ Lady Wood continued.

‘No,’ her listeners cried in answer.

‘No, he doesn’t. He says he had a bad day at the races and had not a penny on him. So then, they tell him to strip to the skin. But then he pleads; he is an old man and in very infirm health, and to do so might kill him. And he must have been convincing, because then they fell to arguing with each other about what they should do. All this time, what they didn’t know,’ Lady Wood said, lowering her voice, ‘was that Jack, our stable boy, had hitched himself a ride home on the back of the carriage and he’d hopped off the moment the bushrangers sprang out, and he raised the alarm up at the house.’

Miss McPhail spoke up, asking, ‘But then how did—?’

Lady Wood smiled. ‘Luckily, for my father, we three sisters are all proficient horsewomen. With all the men of the estate yet to return from the races, my sisters rode out to the rescue, and the robbers, intimidated by such a force of gorgons, cravenly decamped post-haste.’

Tea being served meant that the conversation turned to other more mundane matters for a while.

Miss McPhail looked puzzled by the story. ‘I’m still a little confused. Did Mr Burbridge, in truth, not have any money on his person? Is he a gambling man?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Oh, I’m sure his pockets were bulging with money,’ said Lady Wood. ‘It would be so like him to plead poor while all the time secreting a fortune away. I think it’s actually why I liked the coachman’s tale so much. It sums up my life’s experience with my dear papa.’

Reading with 2020 vision

2020 was a good year for reading (when we weren’t glued to our screens). Looking back, I find that I chewed through over forty books, either by reading or listening to an audiobook. I confess that I abandoned a few half-way (life in the times of COVID is potentially too short to be bored). However, here are some I’d recommend if you’re looking for something to read during a snap hotspot lockdown.

My top 3 audiobooks of 2020

(judged on both story and narrator)

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol – read by Hugh Grant who brings the dark ironic tones of Dickens to the fore.
Robert Galbraith (JK Rowling), Troubled Blood: Cormoran Strike, Book 5 – read by Robert Glenister. Rowling’s controversial comments meant that this book received critique by people who hadn’t read it. I recommend a read, or enjoy listening to the hard-boiled detective voice of Robert Glenister.
HG Wells, War of the Worlds – read by David Tennant in a way that captures the intense psychological struggle of the protagonist in a time of fear and uncertainty. Definitely a story for our time.

My top non-fiction book of 2020

Alan Davies, Just Ignore Him. Seeing the funny side of things is the life raft that Alan has used to overcome tragedy and abuse. In this well written memoir, his lightness of touch makes this memoir all the more poignant.

My top relaxers of 2020

Jodi Taylor, Doing Time: The Time Police, Book 1 – audiobook read by Zara Ramm. In Jodi Taylor’s series ‘Chronicles of St Mary’s’, the Time Police are always portrayed as the arrogant dunderheads that fearless historians must outwit to save the day. In this new series, Taylor flips our perspective by introducing us to three new recruits to the Time Police – each of whom is uniquely unsuited to the role.
Martha Wells, The Murderbot Diaries (4 novellas and 1 novel). Making an android a compelling and sympathetic protagonist is the central achievement of this series. Sardonic humour laces the edges of fast-paced action and an unfolding mystery. Book 5, Network Effect was the latest stellar addition.

On to 2021 …

Covid Corpse*

‘And another death at Sea Vista Nursing Home,’ Inspector Bill Taylor said, reaching for the hand sanitiser as he finished up the morning briefing.

Sarah Ryan and her fellow officers began to rise from their scattered seats, giving a perfunctory groan. In these days of COVID-19, one more death in a nursing home — even one that had been so hard hit as Sea Vista — wasn’t news. And besides, thought Sarah, it was just another old person.

‘Sergeant Ryan,’ the Inspector beckoned her over. ‘This one needs a quick look-see.’

Sarah approached only as far as the mandated 1.5 metre mark. She knew how germ-phobic the Inspector was at the best of times. The betting pool was growing that he’d be wearing a full hazmat suit to work by the month’s end.

‘The one at Sea Vista? Why me?’ Sarah tried to make her question sound less of a whine. It wasn’t the risk of catching the virus. It was the smell. ‘I mean, Jack’s free.’ She gestured futilely in the direction of her colleague as he made a speedy exit.

‘As are you,’ said Inspector Bill Taylor, ‘And besides, you need the experience. You haven’t done a possible homicide yet, have you? They’ve got themselves a body in the library. The bloke’s heart probably just gave out. I wouldn’t be bothered usually, let alone now with them all going down like nine-pins,’ the Inspector said, continuing to work the sanitiser into his chafed hands.

At the mention of homicide, Sarah’s rising rebellion stuck somewhere in the region of her throat. She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably as if her ribs were closing in. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just the smell. Come on, it’s not as if you haven’t smelled worse.

It didn’t help.

It wasn’t just the smell. The cold chicken flesh of the hand gripping hers.

‘But the Superintendent’s fielding complaints from some nutter whose mother’s in there,’ he continued. ‘Keeps threatening to go to the press about a serial mercy killer on the loose. But look, don’t go getting ideas, just focus on the body in the library. Take some statements, do the report and keep the media off our backs. You’re good with the oldies. Wasn’t that grandmother of yours in a home?’

The words hung uncomfortably in the air between them.

The fug of soiled sheets. Windows grimed with years of stale air. The rasping laboured rattle of death.

Sarah turned on her heel to go. There was no point in arguing. She’d go in, talk to the manager, have a quick look and be out of there before the day’s end. No need to talk to anyone of the old people. They’d likely all be demented anyway.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ said the Inspector. ‘There’s a no visitor rule. COVID safety and all that. If you need more than a day, then you’ll be there overnight. Pack a bag.’

* (I’m very pleased to announce that this story of mine won first prize in the Wyong Writers pandemic short story competition, December 2020)

The Body in the Creek

(I wrote this short bit of fun as a murder mystery exercise in our writing group recently.)

The Inspector and I attended the funeral. Old world policing he called it. Inspector Pollock was the last of his kind. Show a bit of respect for the dead, he said, whether she was an old bat or not. And besides, we hadn’t managed to crack the case yet — accidental death or murder? Maybe we’d get lucky and spot the perpetrator lurking in the back pew. But this wasn’t TV. The best I could hope for was a bite to eat and a pint at the Bowlo afterwards to drown our sorrows.

Her body had been found caught amongst the reeds behind the Valentine Bowling Club at the mouth of Sheppard’s Creek. The trees behind the electricity sub-station meant that she’d been in the water for days, and any physical evidence at the scene had been obliterated by the East Coast Low that had uprooted half the trees in the park. I pitied the council workers who’d spotted her on the opposite bank when they were in the middle of their clean up. By all accounts she’d not been much to look at when she was alive, and death hadn’t helped matters. The casket was closed.

I’d expected that it’d be the two of us and the funeral celebrant, but the chapel was packed. From the details in the coroner’s preliminary report, the body matched the description of the bag lady who haunted Croudace Bay Dog Park, shuffling along, head bent in the search for litter, her face shielded by an old straw hat, the brim falling down either side. She’d scoop up discarded bags of dog shit as readily as empty cans and used condoms around the skate park. Witness statements described her as ‘outspoken’ or ‘direct’. If she’d still been alive, I’d bet my drinking money that they’d call her ‘rude’ or worse.

Looking around, I saw the mourners were a mixed bag. It looked like everyone who frequented the park had come along. A lot of grey heads, but families too, with the mothers trying to shush their unruly children, while manoeuvring their strollers out of the way. A few wore lycra, making a clatter parking their bikes at the back of the chapel where they could keep an eye on them. Some were skinny, muscles and tendons rippling even as they picked up the flimsy order of service. Others had to squeeze their bulk between the pews, and struggled to their feet when it came time to sing.

As the last off-key notes died away, the conveyor belt cranked into gear and the coffin retreated behind faded curtains. Amongst the chatter and bustle of people headed back out into the sunlight, and my attention was caught by throaty smoker’s chuckle.

‘You think you copped a serve from her? You ought to have heard what she said to the yummy mummies, not to mention the MAMILs. And it’s not as if I asked her to pick up my butts, now is it? She won’t be telling me off no more for having a quick ciggie behind the Club. Fire hazard, my arse. Got what was coming to her, I reckon. Ashes to ashes.’

Coughing broke the woman’s rant. She scrabbled for her cigarettes from her chef’s jacket.

I caught Inspector Pollock’s eye and, nodding, he joined me by the woman’s side, and offered her a light.

It was looking like it might be a while before I got that pint.

Conflict and Dramatic Irony

Studying English Literature at school has left me with rising anxiety whenever I encounter the terms irony, sarcasm, satire and paradox. Can I tell the difference? Does it matter? Resources permeate the internet (see Masterclass, Literary Devices just for starters). However, all I come away with is that a good tale involves slippage between what characters or readers expect and what transpires.

I was faced with these issues lately when I did the online course ‘Writing Conflict’ led by Cate Kennedy (through Writers NSW). Over a very intense week, we engaged with lively talks by Cate, well-targeted written explanations, and a series of writing exercises designed to push us out of our comfort zones. My motivation for doing the course was a dawning realisation that the therapist in me kept resolving conflict for my characters rather than using it to drive the story forward. Before the course, I had concentrated on building conflict in a narrow way, mainly involving characters opposing each other verbally or physically. However, Cate’s course widened the scope to integrate dramatic irony (and the rest of the team!) so that it provides the web within which the tale sits. As soon as a specific moment of conflict occurs within one strand, the vibrations resonate through those mismatched expectations.

Netflix 'Criminal' UK, Season 2 — (from Netflix, ‘Criminal United Kingdom’, Season 2)

A great example of this kind of writing is the Netflix series ‘Criminal’, where all the action is confined to the police interrogation room and its observation room (with occasional forays into the corridor for moments of dramatic relief) — see The Guardian for a recent review. As a story, each episode provides an excellent example of William Goldman’s maxim for storytelling: arrive late and leave early, i.e. we head straight into the interrogation/interview of a witness/suspect and leave the moment the detectives have uncovered the truth. Of course, the police interrogators’ goals are fundamentally at odds with those of the suspect or witness. However, more interesting is watching the characters on both sides of the one-way mirror say one thing and mean another. Our privileged position of watching from both sides ramps up the tension. We know things that the interrogators and/or the suspects/witnesses do not. Watching the suspect/witness make assumptions about where the line of questioning is leading is riveting.

In our writing course, we were invited to write a short scene where conflict arises through the mismatch between characters’ perceptions. Here’s my response to the task.

The Good Lecturer

Brent Thwaites, BA, PhD, MAMS, brushed his hands against each other, freeing his fingers of chalk dust. That’d show the inspector, or quality assurance officer or whatever they called him. No-one could question his lecture preparation now. His eyes raked across the densely packed equations and diagrams that covered every inch of the board. No smart alec student would catch him off guard this lecture.

The students drifted in, filling the seats from the back. He peered at their faces, trying to spot which might be that of the inspector. Possibly he’d sit with the usual mature-aged students perched at the front, already scribbling notes. Three flashes from the back. A student with a James Dean swagger was moving his iphone in a steady panorama, taking in the notes from the board. No wonder students were so abysmal these days. Had no-one ever taught them the point of notetaking? He shrugged as if to say, students these days, to the mature-age students.

At precisely five minutes past the hour, he commenced the lecture, not waiting for the packed lecture hall to fall quiet.

‘Dr Thwaites?’

The students’ heads twisted to view who had dared break into his train of thought. From their sly grins, he realised a hand had been waving for some time.

‘Yes?’

‘This is all in the text book, right?’

‘Of course,’ he said, picking up a stick of chalk and underlining where he’d written the relevant page numbers on the board. ‘All this,’ he stabbed at the board, ‘is absolutely up-to-date.’ The chalk snapped, with a shriek of protest.

‘So why do we need to be here?’

A mutter rippled through the hall.

‘Because young man,’ he said with deliberation, ‘without full attendance marks, you will fail.’

With silence effectively restored, Brent Thwaites continued the lecture to the end.

As the students rushed for the exit, a girl approached, her arms cradling a clipboard.

‘If I might have a moment of your time, Dr Thwaites.’

‘Certainly, young lady, what is it you didn’t understand?’

She placed her clipboard on the lectern. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ she thrust out her hand. ‘Associate Professor Judy Kingbury, from the PVC Teaching & Learning, quality assurance division.’

Her hand was smooth and cool. He wished he’d wiped away the last of the chalk.

‘So that’s my inspection over and done with,’ he said. His voice echoed in the now empty room.

‘Not quite over, I’m afraid.’ She looked through the notes she’d made on her clipboard. ‘Tell me, how well do you think that lecture met the learning objectives?’

‘Very well. Full attendance, as you saw. That’s very rare these days, as I’m sure you’re aware. And I got across all the information clearly,’ he gulped for air, ‘using um, written support material, and as you saw, there weren’t any questions.’

Her eyes softened in sympathy before she let the axe fall.

(by Alison Ferguson, 3 October 2020)

Slash & Burn (aka Editing)

You know that moment when you think you’ve polished a piece of writing to perfection? Savour it, because the next time you read over it, you’ll wonder how you missed all those clumsy word choices, awkward sentence constructions, and frank errors.

I’ve been immersed in editing two of my ‘works in progress’ over the last few months and have discovered the joys of automated editing tools. These computerised tools use complex algorithms to highlight aspects of your writing which may need attention.

Of course, word processing programs like Word do this to some extent, e.g., underlining questionable grammar and typos in red. But these automated editing tools do much more. For a review of six popular tools (After the Deadline, Autocrit, Grammarly, Hemmingway Editor, ProWritingAid, Word Rake) see: https://thewritelife.com/automatic-editing-tools/. They all offer free trials, and most provide a free version, with the option to upgrade at a cost.

The tool I have been using is Autocrit and it’s teaching me a lot about my writing habits. For example, long paragraphs, repeating words, and too many fillers (most notably, ‘that’). Yes, it does get tedious, but I think the end result is successfully moving from ‘polished’ to ‘burnished’.

The Crypt

As we’ve hunkered down in our separate corona-crypts, social media has been filled with tales of new skills (sour dough, anyone?). My challenge has been to embrace the video-making capabilities of Adobe Premier Rush. Here’s a short (5 minutes) recording of one of my traveler’s tales:

Click here for The Crypt!

2019 Reading Review

I am increasingly reading eBooks and listening to audio books. During 2019 I enjoyed listening to Helen Garner read her collection of short essays in True Stories (originally published in 1997). As I listened, I recalled that I had read one piece in particular — about cruising on a Russian ship — in a newspaper, so it was great to hear it again. Also, her reflections on the controversy she faced when she wrote The First Stone (1995) were fascinating, particularly given the more recent #MeToo movement — for an excellent reconsideration of The First Stone, see Gail Acorn‘s 2018 discussion, published in The Guardian. I notice that Helen Garner has kept quiet so far about the current debates about what constitutes sexual harassment but, since she’s an obsessive diarist, no doubt we will have the opportunity to hear her thoughts at some stage.

This year I also managed to keep up with some of the many recently published novels. Here are three of my favourites. (I read some on eBook, listened to others through my Audible subscription and, for Margaret Atwood’s latest novel, I did both modalities, swapping seamlessly from listening while driving to reading on my iPad!)

Author	Title	Year	My Star Rating	In a nutshell review
Atwood, Margaret	The Testaments	2019	5	Piercing insights into oppression, told from three perspectives with deft shifts in the use of language
Harper, Jane	The Lost Man	2018	4	Outback noir with heart
Pullman, Philip	The Secret Commonwealth	2019	4.5	Sequel packs an adult angsty punch

Local Award Winner!

‘Alison Ferguson’s Home Visit is a slick horror story, cleverly disguised by the banal language of bureaucracy…’

Or so say the judges of the 2019 Newcastle Short Story Awards in their introduction to the anthology put out by the Hunter Writers Centre. My story is titled, ‘Home Visit’, and it was awarded one of the ‘Local Awards’ for the Hunter area. Very excited about it all – by the sound of the comment, all those years of working in bureaucratic institutions paid off!

Competitions Come Good

Like many aspiring writers, I’ve been busily entering my writing into competitions over the last couple of years. There are pros and cons, of course, with some arguing that it’s a good way to build your reputation as a writer (if you win) and to develop your skills (even if you don’t). While I agree with both these arguments, for me there are even more practical reasons to enter.

A focus for my writing

The focus of a particular competition allows me to minimise the distractions of another idea or another story. Such distractions look much easier to write at the very same moment that the work in-hand starts getting harder. With the competition in sight, I can tell myself ‘later’.

A deadline

There’s nothing like a deadline to make you finish something. Inevitably, I can see ways to improve what I’ve written in the minutes, hours, days after submitting it.However, then I console myself with the thought that just means it’ll be available for revision on another occasion.

And, drum roll . . .

In 2017, I submitted work to two local competitions without success. But in 2018, I ramped up my productivity and submitted to five national competitions and one international competition.

Holding my copy of Seniors’ Stories, Volume 4

One of these, the Seniors Card Short Story Competition, doesn’t declare a winner, but they do publish the top 100 in book—and in 2018,my story ‘The Upside of Funerals’ made it into the book. As a government-sponsored competition, they make a lovely fuss so, with the other senior writers, I got to have lunch at NSW Parliament House in Sydney, listen to speeches and have my hand shaken with our local MP. The book, Seniors’ Stories Volume 4, will be available in hard copy in libraries through NSW and online.

2018 Scarlet Stiletto Awards (…must have missed the dress code memo!)

I also made it onto the Shortlist for the Scarlet Stiletto Awards for 2018. This is an exceptionally entertaining competition run by Sisters In Crime, to encourage and promote women crime writers. They also hosted a stellar Awards night in Melbourne at the Thornbury Theatre at which I received a ‘Special Commendation’ certificate for my story ‘Fragments of Meaning’. The nine top Award winners’ stories are available in ebook, ‘Scarlet Stiletto: The Tenth Cut’, from Clandestine Press.

It was a great way to finish the year and an inspiration to start thinking about what ‘crimes’ I can commit to paper next year!

Category: Miscellaneous