The next series of posts comes from Deb Kinnard. You may want to refresh your memory of the first excerpt. This is a first draft, and Deb doesn’t need help with little technical things like punctuation or word choice—those will be handled in a later draft. She’s only asking for an overall look at the story: Pacing and flow and any road bumps—things that make you say “huh?”—that may have slipped in. So if you notice things in those categories, please comment.
In my opinion, it’s very smooth and full for a first draft. I’ll be reserving most of my comments until the end. I’ve broken it up into four posts, and I only took on so much because she didn’t need a line-by-line. Plus Deb has been such a great supporter of this blog. I’ve enjoyed Deb’s story so far, and I hope you will, too.
Seasons in the Mist, Part 2
By Deborah Kinnard
Graeme Tyrrell pulled up almost immediately. Sheila’s son turned out to be a long, thin man of about twenty, with a low-key manner and virtually no conversation. Jess yielded to Graeme’s insistence that he load her duffel into the “boot” of a sleek black Vauxhall. She froze a moment when Graeme got into what she considered the passenger’s side of the car—until she noticed the steering wheel was there, too.
Duh. Knowing they drive on the left side sure isn’t the same as seeing it!
Sheila offered Jess the front seat, for the better view, and chatted comfortably from the back, pointing out various items of interest as Graeme wove skillfully through traffic and onto the M4.
“The West,” said the large blue motorway sign. Jess rubbernecked without shame as the superhighway wound through tidy communities, industrial parks, farm country of a lovely, luminous green. Hedgerows, another first, bordered the country roads they passed. Occasionally Sheila pointed out a landmark visible from the motorway.
The driving part of the experience Jess tried hard to ignore. Graeme drove much too fast, on the left side of the road, of course. Knowing about this British aberration hadn’t prepared her for the reality. To Jess’s eyes it looked as though driverless cars shot toward them at terrific rates of speed, from the wrong direction. She’d just have to grit her teeth and get used to panic.
“Now over there—” Sheila pointed. “Up that road a ways is
Jess nodded and smiled. Sheila continued, “Or course, you’re not on holiday but on business. I keep forgetting you haven’t sufficient time. A pity it is you can’t sightsee.”
Graeme glanced in the rearview mirror and chuckled, the first sound he’d produced in sixty miles. “She might get the chance, Mum.”
Jess felt obligated to explain. “More than anything I’d love to, but my project won’t let me. Given the short time, I’ll have my hands full getting the work done.”
Sheila and Graeme exchanged a glance. “Wait and see,” said Graeme’s mother. “Just wait and see.”
Small towns along the way spaced out further. When she turned to ask a question, Jess found Sheila in a sudden doze, sleeping tidily without sound, her dark head canted back on the seat rest. “Catch a nap yourself if you’ve the mind to,” Graeme said softly. “We’re still an hour from home.”
“Thanks. It won’t bother you?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “I drive this route often enough to do it in my sleep.”
Jess shuddered. “Feel free not to.”
Graeme chuckled and lapsed into silence. Taking Sheila’s example, Jess rested her head and let her imagination take flight.
And I’m headed toward
She drifted on a tide of jet-lagged fatigue, dreaming in spurts of Mossock House and of her project. For two months she would join the dig team at
Jess knew the source documentation as well as any seasoned scholar. In old manuscripts she’d studied contemporary accounts, comparing the eyewitness version with that of modern scholars. Though the Pestilence, as the contemps had called it, had depopulated all
“We’re home.” Graeme’s voice cut through the dreams and she started awake. In the back seat Sheila was stretching; apparently both women had succumbed to jet lag. Jess stared into the hazy blue-gold of her first English afternoon, and gaped. An imposing pile of gray stone and slate, Mossock’s photos didn’t do it justice.
Sheila laughed while unfastening her seat belt. “Go ahead and look, Jess. It’s a bit run-down about the edges, but it’s home.”
“My word.” Jess had trouble finding her breath as she got out of the car. “It’s incredible.”
“Mossock,” Graeme said simply. “Welcome.”
As before, he insisted on carrying her duffle. Jess gaped some more as Sheila, quite wide awake, led her in through two great iron-bound oak doors. “Bertie! Trev! Hullo, house. I’m home.”
Two huge dogs with wiry gray hair bounded out to be rubbed and greeted. On their heels came a tall man of about fifty, clear-eyed and dark bearded, emerged from a side door. He caught Sheila in a massive hug. “So you are, sweet.” He kissed her soundly and set her onto her feet on the stone floor. “And who’s this you bring with you?”
Jess hastily put down her carry-on and took the man’s outstretched hand. His paw enveloped hers twice over, warm and firm. Sheila made the introductions. “Albert—we all call him Bertie—my husband. This is Jessica Lindstrom.”
“Welcome,” Bertie said with a smile.
“Thank you for having me in your home.” Jess gave a futile gesture around the hall and the grand room into which it opened. “Amazing. The photos don’t do it justice.”
“But you’re not to tour it yet,” Sheila declared. “That’s for after tea. For now, let me settle you in a room. You’ll want to clean up—I’m certain I do.”
“You’re right. I feel as though we’ve been traveling forever.”
“Then come right this way, luv. I have just the thing.”
* * *
Jess crept—she could find no other pace—down the great staircase after showering and changing. Her bedroom had blown her away. More a suite than a room, it was decorated in yellow and navy, with ivory accents, the patterns echoing the eighteenth century flavor of the Chippendale furniture. The bed’s ivory curtains draped gracefully from a massive four-poster bed almost too tall to climb into. Large, deep-set windows faced the ocean, which muttered and hissed against the rocks fifty feet below a stone garden wall. The private bath seemed minimalist by contrast, but proved more than adequate. She’d indulged in plenty of soap and hot water to make her feel more like a human than a piece of abused airline baggage.
The staircase was straight out of Masterpiece Theatre, its banister a solid foot of wood so polished she checked for her reflection. Her footfalls made no sound on thick moss-green carpet as she entered the downstairs hallway.
On the right, two sets of closed pocket doors, also varnished to an intimidating luster. On the left, an open set. Toward these she ventured. Spotting her, Sheila waved her in. With a grin, Jess joined her hostess in a cheery parlor, where tea had been set up near French doors open to the summer evening.
“You’ll have to excuse Bertie and Graeme. They went into Newquay to look at a grass mower, or some such male concern.” Without asking, Sheila dropped a half-spoonful of honey into a fragile cup of floral china and added a tiny drizzle of cream. “Feeling more the thing, are you?”
Jess accepted the cup and sipped. How does she know how I take my tea? “I certainly do feel better. You didn’t mention you live in a famous house. It’s wonderful.”
Sheila smiled as if pleased. “Mossock has been in my husband’s family since the Civil War,” she said with a hint of pride. “It’s much older than that, of course. Parts of it—not the parts we live in, unfortunately—date from before Henry V. We’re greatly blessed to have our home. So many Cornish families lost their family estates to bad political judgments, poor management, hard times. This is not easy country in which to prosper.” She sipped from her china cup and handed Jess a plate on which many tiny sandwiches clustered as if fighting for the attention they deserved.
“Tell me about the house.” Jess took a sandwich.
Sheila gave another smile, almost conspiratorial. “Eat hearty, luv, and I’ll do much better than that.”
Jess obeyed and finished without delay. A girl in a black turtleneck and blue jeans came with a smile to clear away. Before the fireplace, one of the hounds sighed and lumbered to its feet. With the dog for escort, Jess followed Sheila down a bewildering maze of passages. She not only knew her ancestral home’s structure but its history, down to the fascinating personal stories and little details historians craved.
“You’ll want to see the oldest wings, won’t you?” she guessed with scary accuracy. Jess could only nod and rubberneck. Sheila turned to regard her, and after a long moment, returned her nod. A glint in her eye gave her a sudden sly look. A shiver traced its slow way up Jess’s spine.
Once again, I’m the one ending it here, not the author.
So far, so good. Come back tomorrow for the next part, where things take a twist.
3 comments:
Here are the things that stand out to me and make me say, “huh?”
In paragraph five, the information that Graeme drives too fast is helpful in establishing what the character is like, so it might be good to expound upon this. The first paragraph establishes that Jess is unfamiliar with the situation, so additional comments about how wrong it is to drive on the left side of the road become tiresome. I am left wondering, would I really think that a car would look driverless in this situation? A passenger in the front seat has to look past two drivers seated on the right side before she sees an empty left seat.
In paragraph seven, it seems like Sheila is telling Jess something that she already knows. She knows that she is on business.
Paragraph fifteen: Are there people who talk to themselves this way? I don’t. Instead of having the character recite a list of names to herself that most of us don’t know, don’t care about, and don’t want to be bothered with going and looking them up, why not tell us why these people are important to her? Make us excited for her that she gets to visit this place. You might have her think, “What must this land have been like when Longshanks captured Wales? What would I have thought when I saw his men riding toward me with his banner at their front? Would I have been happy to see them or would I have been one of the rebels who feared his savage treatment? Or what about in the time of William Marshal? Etc.
Paragraph 16: Why not just say, “Jess was happy to be headed for Cornwall” rather than having her tell herself where she is going?
Paragraph 36: Which civil war? While this may be assumed that the characters know which one, the reader may assume a different war than was meant by the character.
Paragraphs 39&40: These paragraphs are out of character. Up to this point, the story has established that Jess is in her element. We have been following from her point of view. If Jess was in this house and was with a person who knew the history of the house, she wouldn’t be satisfied with saying, “She not only knew her ancestral home’s structure but its history, down to the fascinating personal stories and little details historians craved.” This is a woman who knows who Longshanks was. If there is a painting of Henry VIII on the wall then she will remember it. If part of the house was rebuilt after part of it burned during a war, she will remember it. In the previous paragraphs, she was passionate about this stuff, but here we get the impression that she is looking at it like a redneck in an art museum. In short, we need more details. Why is Jess excited about this house? It is out of character for Jess to be passionate about the older passages and not be interested in the newer ones.
Fascinating story so far. I'm a history buff too, so I could imagine myself in Jess's place.
Perhaps a few comments... watch for unnecessary author additions. The last sentence in the first paragraph could just be, "She froze a moment when Graeme got into the passenger’s side of the car—until she noticed the steering wheel was there, too." We know she considered it that, so you don't need to say that.
I thought perhaps the details about Graeme's driving could come two paragraphs sooner, when he is first weaving through traffic and onto the M4.
I must ask - have you been to England or Australia, where they drive on the other side? It is a bit odd. I don't remember thinking the cars were driverless, but I do remember finding corners rather mind-boggling. I watched very carefully each time, trying to guess where the car would turn to - and never getting it right, for the first couple weeks.
I recognized the names you listed, so I was okay with that, but perhaps Timothy is right, that other readers won't recognize this so may need a bit more details here.
Who's Trev? At first I thought Bertie and Trev were the dogs, but then Bertie is the husband, and Trev remains unexplained...
I'd agree with Timothy, that a few more details on the history of the house could be included. However, too many will bog the story down, so try to keep them light and relevant (are any of them important later in the story?).
Looking forward to the next part...
Trev's gone. (G) Originally I had it in mind that he's the household all-around land manager, and as such is all over the place, but then I realized the story doesn't "need" him. Sheila might, but SITM doesn't. I just forgot to take his name out when I nuked him out of the tale I'm telling.
Thanks for calling this boo-boo to my attention, Koala.
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