I’ve been following the growth of dystopian novels in the YA bracket. This was a genre that I had no interest in myself as a young person, and as an adult my thinking has been, I must admit, why can’t they enjoy something more cheerful? Isn’t there enough that’s depressing in the news at the moment without worrying about the future? And then I read the Hunger Games trilogy and the scales fell from my eyes!  Then I moved on to Divergent… lets just say I’m a convert.
Last week I speed read The Handmaid’s Tale  by Margaret Atwood for my book group. I didn’t need to finish it until today, but ended up gobbling it up in the way you do with books that are unputdownable.I’ve started writing my own dystopian book, Catalunya, and I’m really enjoying letting my imagination go in a totally different way.  It’s made me realise though how clever the writers I admire have been. It’s not easy writing about a world in parallel, or our world that has been completely changed without careful attention to detail. Even Margaret Atwood mentions things that are still produced like tea towels and the new handmaids outfits, but it is far from clear how these could be manufactured in Gilead when other goods are in such short supply. I am also struggling to write in a new, hybrid language that can still make sense to the reader.

“I stuff the pillow over my head to block the sound of the dogs howling, and then it begins. The rousing music which comes slowly to a crescendo, followed by that droning man’s voice. I cannot understand him. If I ask Creo she will raise her eyebrows and haltingly try to explain what was said. But usually I don’t bother to ask her anymore. What’s the point? This is not my township, familia or language. What do I care what goes on in their world? Eventually the tannoy announcement concludes with a high pitched screech. The dogs stop. It’s quiet, apart from the “chirruppo” of the papernelle bird who frequently comes to perch on the dry tree branch outside my window.
I have to keep my hope. This day could bring word of my parents and Lowries. The fact that I have been telling myself this for the last thirty parses, as I carefully negotiate the uneven and steep steps down from my attic room under the roof, is not something I care to dwell on. The peacekeepers who bought me here will return. They promised it would only be a temporary respite with these my distant kin until…”

By very happy coincidence the next children’s book I am researching for, The King, is set in Dorset during the English Civil War, so I am thrilled that at the moment there are several documentaries, new books and exhibitions on the Stuarts, all adding fresh colour to the period.
I am enjoying watching The Stuarts with Dr Clare Jackson, and Art, Passion and Power with Andrew Graham-Dixon, both on i Player. Also, Fit to Rule: How Royal Illness Changed History with Lucy Worsley was interesting on Tudors to Stuarts, Episode 1. And there are currently, not one but two major exhibitions in London this spring, on Charles I at The Royal Academy and Charles II: Art and Power at The Queen’s Gallery.

Guess where I’m visiting at Easter? Father Christmas brought me Charles Spencer’s new book, To Catch A King. I was really happy to hear him talk about it at The Bridport Literary Festival last November. He was a really engrossing and well spoken interviewee, and I wished he had been on for longer. Although I knew a little about the places that Charles II had hidden locally after the Battle of Worcester in 1651 , when he was trying to escape to Europe, the details of his flight and the near misses are amazing. And I am finding out many new things. I’m not surprised that Charles II used to tell the story of his escape repeatedly, as a party piece. He was incredibly brave and resourceful, at this time. I am also ploughing through James II. King In Exile by John Callow, which often feels like chewing on very dry crackers to me, sadly. But there is a good deal of new detail here for me too.

The people, landscape, villages and towns of Dorset played a really important role in the lives of Charles I and Charles II especially. Did you know that the longest siege of the Civil War took place at Lyme Regis? And that there was a castle in Chideock, virtually destroyed by the parliamentarians? Charles II stayed in Bridport,  disguised as a groom. He ate a meal at the George Inn (now the Cancer Research Shop), watching the parliamentarians in the streets looking for him, from an upstairs window.  There is a huge wealth of material to write about, and hopefully engage young readers with too.

Bridport museum is set to re-open on Saturday May 27th. After a really exciting refurb it now showcases a working ropewalk, which will be demonstrated regularly, and there will be lots of interactive items to entertain children of all ages.
In the lead up to the re-opening there is a busy programme of events celebrating the town’s rope heritage.
The Rope Fair takes place on Sunday 14th May 10-4 on the Millenium Green, and on Saturday 13th May there is the Spirit of Bridport Parade.
​Another, free event hosted by the writing group Story Traders, “Roped In”. This is a collection of short stories and performance pieces inspired by photos and artefacts from Bridport’s rope industry.
It takes place on 10th May at 7.30 at the Stables, behind the Bull Hotel in East Street.This is a short story that I wrote, based on a photo of a homeworker making net, at Loders, just outside Bridport.

Run rabbit, run.

Why does it have to happen with Charlie Cope of all people?
Crimson red they must be. My cheeks. My whole face is prickin’ and smartin’ something fierce.
“Is he here? The Foreman?” I asked.
“What are you wanting him for?” Charlie replies.
“Who died and made you king of the hill?”
Oh no! Bad to worse. I sound like Auntie Vi, when her lumbago’s playing up, and she’s got a “cob on.”
That was so much meaner than I meant it to be. I rub at my face crossly and find myself looking at my hands, as if the red would come off – ha! Better than looking at Charlie’s crumpled noggin. I try again.
“Sorry, that came out all…,I just meant…, how long have you been at Gundry’s anyhow?”
I change the subject.
“Oh, ’bout six months now. Brings in a bit extra, and I like it right enough, although you can’t hear yourself think in the machine room.”
Charlie was in the class above me at school. Me and Cissy used to chase him around the yard playing tag. Don’t know why he put up with us.
“Ma’s run out of twine. Cart didn’t come today, on account of Mr Sewell is laid up with bronchitis. So she’s sent me to get it direct like.”
Why am I blathering on? If I don’t hurry my piece of pie will be getting all dry in the oven. Thinkin’ about it’s makin’ my mouth water now. Grandad caught a couple of rabbits last night, and was skinning them this morning before I went to school. Hard to eat my porridge, but Grandad’s used to it. He was singin’ that song that I like:
“Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.
Don’t give the farmer his fun,fun,fun…”
I love watching Ganny tucking the pastry blanket over the meat in the dish, and pushing the blackbird through the middle. “Does it sing?” I asked when I was little.
“No, silly, it’s to let the steam escape and make the pastry crisp up.”

“Do you want a drink Rose? I can fetch some water from the back tap,” Charlie asks.
I swallow as if I’m already drinking it. My mouth is dry and I’m hot and sticky. It’s ’bout two miles across the field s from the village into Bridport, and I was luggin’ the heavy net, to get paid. I got a stitch and had to slow right down. I want to say no, I haven’t time, but my body betrays me and I nod keenly.

Charlie disappears into a shed, and I jiggle up and down impatiently. Eventually he comes back with a pewter mug, dripping water. I snatch it off him and down it in a single go. The water tastes a bit metallic, but it is cold and liquid, and it all goes down the same way.
“Thought your Ma was working on the farm.”
“Oh yes, she is, early milking and sortin’ the land girls out. Afternoons she and Ganny work the lines. I usually end up filling the braiding needles from the ran. There’s not much money now that Dad’s…”
Actually, not a good idea that. Charlie left school cos’ his Dad was killed in France, One of the first. People were really kind to Charlie’s Mum, but that don’t put food on the table, as my Grandad says.

Eventually Charlie finds the Foreman, and I’m off again, back across town and over to Happy Island Way. ‘Cept it’s dark now, and hard to see. I know I’m not near the bomb pits from last month’s incendiaries, but what if Gerry comes over here again? Nearest shelter is back at St Andrew’s Road, long way if they come before the siren sounds. So, I sing to myself, and then a breathy voice joins in,
“He’ll get by, without his rabbit pie
So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s just me, Charlie. Don’t be scared. They let me go early. Thought I’d keep you company.”

I found out later that he’d skipped off early. He could have got into a lot of trouble. Five years later Charlie and I were married. We both worked at Gundry’s for another forty years.

At my local writer’s group, the fantastic Story Traders, a great homework was set last time, which asked us to take a newspaper headline and use it as the starting point for a piece of writing.
I found this intriguing one in the Independent: “Virgin Mary no longer welcome.” I’ve used it as the first line of a poem. Poetry isn’t something that comes easily to me, and I think this needs a lot of work, but here is my baseline:Virgin Mary no longer welcome.
Stable up for rent.
Joseph has gone down the pub,
and the angel’s halo is bent.Kid’s prefer their X Box,
Dad’s too busy at work.
Amazonians are rushed off their feet,
Grandma’s learnt to twek!Again we mourn the passing
of a Christmas that was perfect.
Solid Christian values,
You really couldn’t fault it.

Mince pies and Christmas pudding,
turkey crown and cranberry sauce.
Listening to the Queen’s speech,
watching Inspector Morse.

So, let’s pause and take a moment
to remember why we’re here.
Don’t have to be religious, but Christmas time is near.
Let’s make sure to spend time with our loved ones,
and give help to those who need it.
Raise a glass to all who’ve passed,
​and a future that we dream of.

I’m proud to have two stories included in this new anthology produced by The Dorset Writers Network.
Mine  are flash fiction stories for adults, but I was really impressed by the contributions from teenagers from several schools in Dorset.

I especially liked “The Roman Hill,” by Alfred, who has written about a boy called Luke who goes to Hambledon Hill to fly his kite, and is connected to the past by something he finds there.

In the Abbotsbury series of books that I am writing, I have found it hard to explain how my character is able to time travel and have adventures in the past. Does there always need to be some device e.g a wardrobe, to help characters transition? What other methods do you like/have you used effectively?

This Little World: Stories from Dorset is available now from http://amazon.co.uk

In “The Spy”,Will travels back in time to stop a German plot to sabotage Operation Upkeep, the Bouncing Bomb development, which began on The Fleet, the natural lagoon next to Chesil Beach in Dorset.

Will woke up with a jump.
What was that droning noise? It sounded like an aircraft engine very close overhead. Funny, he had never seen a jet or even any light aircraft over this part of the coast before, although there were often paragliders near Burton Bradstock. The throbbing, grew to a ground shaking roar, and suddenly, breaking from the cloud to his right, a plane emerged, coming straight at him!
“What the?!”
Will flung himself to the ground as the plane came right over his head. It banked sharply and then turned to towards Weymouth. Getting up shakily, Will grabbed his binoculars and focused them on the grey plane as it became smaller. He hadn’t been very interested in planes, until last year’s DT project at school, where they had designed their own gliders. They had also visited the Air Museum near Yeovil, and he had started  to enjoy looking at different planes and their design. Surely it couldn’t be a …?

Incredible! An actual Spitfire, the black and white striping on its body and under the wings  were unmistakeable. As he continued to scan the horizon, Will picked up two growing dark spots over Portland. The air was filling with a growling energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He whistled for Tilly. When he had fallen asleep she was lying beside him, her impossibly long tongue hanging out covered in mud and grass from her rabbit burrowing exploits. She probably couldn’t hear him. He tried to keep his binoculars trained on the new planes which were coming rapidly towards them, following the coast. They were much larger, twin engined planes, dark grey with markings . Now the low roar of the planes was becoming deafening, making the air around him seem to vibrate and hum. Then they veered out to sea and over towards Lyme Bay.

Will wondered if there was an airshow on that he had not heard about, but there was no-one else around, not even any of the walkers he had met earlier, or tourists visiting the chapel. Suddenly the Spitfire was coming up behind him again and made a low pass over his head. So low that Will could make out the pilot. He half waved at the him, but his focus was grimly ahead of him. Will was impressed. He was dressed just as a World War Two pilots would be, in leathers, goggles, the lot!

The other two planes were returning now, flying low, side by side. They also looked like old aircraft,
Will focused his binoculars more closely, and saw the markings on the side of the facing plane clearly – a black and white cross and a swastika on the tail. Will tried to think what sort of planes they were? Perhaps Junkers or Messerschmitts?  As they headed down the coast towards Weymouth, Will saw the Spitfire returning at speed, heading towards them. It’s nose cone was a gleam of silver as it caught the sunlight. It flew over the two German planes and Will thought he saw a burst of red, but the sun was in his eyes. The Spitfire banked sharply and twisted out to sea and into low cloud. The Junkers also turned abruptly and headed back out to sea. Will lost sight of them all, but then there came the familiar vibrating resonance, growing even louder, until Will felt as if he was vibrating too.
Then he spotted all three of them, coming out of the cloud and heading inland across Chesil beach below him. The German planes were behind the Spitfire and gaining on it. Becoming dangerously close in fact.
“What are they playing at?” thought Will. But even as he asked himself this question, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“OH MY GOD!”  He saw sudden bursts of fire coming from the German planes aimed directly at the  Spitfire, and an alarming cracking noise “ak, ak, ak.” The Spitfire rolled away quickly and  gained height rapidly, then slowed its speed, so that it was actually above the other two, who seemed at a loss to locate it. Now it was the Spitfire’s turn to fire, but as it did Will lost sight of them all as they disappeared over the Abbotsbury ridge and towards  Dorchester.

It was happening again! He must be dreaming. But why was he seeing this? Why here and this point in time? Will had no more time to think about it. The planes were returning and the noise was so deafening that he had to put his hands over his ears. He started to run back, away from the sea and towards the chapel, but he tripped in a hidden hollow. Flat on his stomach he dared a look upwards. The German planes were so low that he could see the bombs attached to their undercarriages . Will looked around him, desperate for some cover, as the planes began to fire on one another again right above his head. There were a few chips and dents in the landscape, like the depression he had fallen in, but otherwise the ground was completely flat until you reached St Catherine’s  and made the steep climb down to the village. It was hard to think of a higher, more exposed area locally, thought Will grimly, how was he going to survive this one?