Target

I should never set myself targets in my writing. I posted a month ago about finishing my first draft of Veiled in Shadows in ‘a month or two’. A month further on and I had expected to have knocked over another 20,000 words or so.

Well I got more than half way toward that target. To be precise I have written 13,515 since that post. Now before you assume I have been beating myself up about a failure - I haven’t.

I write for the enjoyment of it.

The enjoyment of it.

Aren’t those four lovely words?

And I have been enjoying my writing. To be sure my inner sadist has been making some of my characters go through hell (don’t worry Valentina is still in happy mode) but I have been writing some bittersweet scenes over the past few days.

And it is fun!

You may know my first novel Veiled in Shadows was written from multiple perspectives. Shadows is a complete story on its own, but it is also part of a series. Veiled in Storms (my WIP) is also a complete story and while it is not exactly a sequel it is related to the first novel. Some of the minor characters in Shadows are major characters in Storms and vice versa. So Ronnie (that is Valentina’s Ronnie) for example is only mentioned by name in the first novel and is a significant player in the second. While his sister Penelope is a major character in the first and a bit player in the second.

So what have I been writing over the past day or two? I won’t say too much, but for those (few) of you who have read Shadows there is a reunion in the final scenes. So I am revisiting that reunion from another character’s point of view. Only for that character it does not come at the end of the story. It is both a sad and happy moment.

And fun to write.

Now a little news. I am hoping to post again on Friday, but from Saturday I will be away on leave for a week. So it is possible there will be no posts until I get back.

A photo from my archive

Rainbow Lorikeets

Secondary Characters?

I think I am in a crazy mood tonight so you will just have to forgive me.

I have been puzzling about characters. Where do they come from?

How do we as authors (or daydreamers, or whatever) create them?

As I write my characters grow. In some ways that should be obvious, a novel would be fairly tedious if characters did not change with the progression of the plot.

But for me it almost feels like my characters shape the plots as I write.

I talked a while ago about Valentina, one of my characters in my WIP, forcing her way from a secondary character into prominence.

I have to say this is not the first time I have had this experience. In my first novel Veiled in Shadows two of my minor characters met and fell in love. It was a necessary plot device because those two characters being together meant two of my main characters could meet, but then sparks flew.

So how is it that the secondary characters shifted into prominence? Well in my first draft both characters Penny and Danny were present. Both had roles that were important to the plot but they never even met.

Yet by the time my final draft had been completed they had not only met. In fact it went much further, they had fallen in love and been married.

On the surface it made sense, the plot needed my main characters to be drawn together through a chance meeting. Logically it made more sense to me to have some of the characters already in the story bring them together, rather than creating new characters to use in one or two scenes.

So Danny Parnell and Penny Chesterfield were introduced. On the surface they did not seem at all matched. She was beautiful, elegant, educated and sophisticated. He awkward, not particularly good at anything and shy. Yet they fell madly in love with each other. (I will forgive myself that contrast. I have known many, many loving couples who seemed to have nothing in common).

As an author I have to take the blame. These characters sprang from my mind (at least I think they did). Yet it really seems like they were in charge. I’ll add a couple of points to show why -

I mean Penny and Danny? Would any self respecting author have a couple with such names. Daniel fine, Penelope fine but together?

And Penny Chesterfield becoming Penny Parnell, it is so alliterative as to be almost painful. Yet neither character would let me change their name once they were on the page.

I swear it was their choice not mine!

Have you ever created characters that took charge of your WIP?

Sunset and trees damaged in the 2009 Bushfires taken this evening with my new camera

Regeneration and Sunset

Once again we have been spoiled with beautiful Autumn weather.

And once again we have been out and about. We were late getting away so we only drove about an hour into the hills to the north.

We went to a spot called Island Creek Reserve in the Kinglake National park.

Kinglake was one of the towns all but destroyed in the 2009 Black Saturday bushfires (173 people died in the fires-many in Kinglake).

The bush here was devastated by the fires. Yet the Aussie bush is amazingly resilient. Eucalyptus trees usually survive fires.

This piccie was taken from the picnic area; around one in five of these mature trees have perished in the fire. The rest are struggling and hanging on. I expect some will recover while others will perish over coming years.

But the bush has a strategy for jumping back. Many species seeds germinate after a fire.

As you can see from this piccie literally thousands of saplings have sprung up from the ash. It is barely possible to move away from established paths here. These young trees will grow like mad for the light, gradually thinning themselves out as the larger ones shade out the smaller.

By the time we finished our picnic we had time only for a short walk because dark was threatening to close in.

As we walked I got a shot of the creek, once again the banks are choked with new growth.

We saw a number of little delights.

This little fungi

And this thing, I have never seen one before.

My guess is some kind of fruiting body of a fungi but honestly I have no idea. Click on it to enlarge it is the strangest thing.

When we got back to the car this little fellow was arguing with his own reflection in our wing mirror!

Sorry about the bad photo but it was really bad light under the trees. By the way he is little native known as a “Scarlet Robin” (Petroica multicolour)

On the way home I paused to look down into the valley.

The lingering sunset was drawing amazing colours across the landscape.

I thought the harsh lines of the power-lines made a great contrast to the soft pastels of the light

If you click on the third sunset piccie you might be able to see some distant lights twinkling. They are part of the northern suburbs of Melbourne.

Now in case I don’t get to it tomorrow (it’s been one of those weeks) an extract from my WIP. And by total coincidence it is kind of fitting this gets posted this weekend.

It follows straight on from last weeks post. Valentina is still hidden in a hanger on a Berlin Airfield and still recovering from shock…

Valentina Meshcova

Berlin 1948

‘Penelope?'

‘Yes Val?’

'What's going to happen to me?’

'I'm not quite sure, Ronnie is trying to organise travel documents for you. To get you home to England. The fact that you're a Major defecting is worth something, but they aren't jumping with excitement because you are a medic, not a field commander, or in intelligence. He’s having to make a few phone calls and wake people up.'

'Won't he get himself in trouble?'

'No, plenty of people owe Ronald Chesterfield favours. He'll just call some of them in.'

I was dozing on one of the chairs when I realised she'd gone again. A different guard was sitting by the door. The mattress was empty Natasha was gone.

Panic gripped me, I barely remembered to speak English. 'My little girl, where is my girl?'

He smiled reassuringly, 'It’s all right Luv, she's gone with Mrs Parnell.'

'Who's Mrs Parnell?'

'The lady who was here before.'

I relaxed, a little. He explained, ‘She, meaning Mrs Parnell, said she was taking your daughter to find some breakfast.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘It’s just coming up to eight o’clock.’

I dozed again, still sitting in the chair. Somehow I felt I would be too vulnerable if I lay on the mattress.

Some hours later a car rumbled into the hanger. I waited expectantly, Natasha burst in followed by Penelope, ‘Valentina we brought you some flowers.’

I smelled the roses she thrust under my nose. ‘Thank you, but some breakfast would have been more useful.’

‘But they do smell lovely.’

‘They do but they aren’t as lovely as you.’

Penelope frowned, ‘I was planning to take you for something to eat. But you’ve slept on wet hair.’

My stomach rumbled at the thought of food. ‘Do you think it will be safe?’

‘Safe enough, we’ll go to an army canteen. Now let me help with that hair.’

I didn’t mind being spoiled. But I drew the line when she suggested makeup. ‘I am going to eat breakfast not to the Bolshoi.’

‘With a little practice you could all but cover that scar on your cheek.’

‘Why? I’m hardly husband hunting.’

Natasha burst out laughing, ‘What is so funny?’

Her laugh continued, we had tickled her fancy. She giggled breathlessly, ‘Husband hunting!’

I sat low in the back of Penelope’s Volkswagen. It didn't make me invisible but I definitely felt less exposed. Berlin felt as hostile to me now as it had in April and May 1945. As dangerous now as when we fought our way in to root Hitler out of his lair. I did not look twice at the building where we stopped, like so many in Berlin it was pockmarked with bullet holes and still had its windows boarded up.

Natasha skipped happily across the footpath and onto the step at the front. She stood with a self satisfied smirk. 'Valentina hold these for me.'

Obediently I took them, and then looked, 'Why on earth did you bring the flowers?'

I did not realise what the building was until I stepped inside. An aisle ran down the centre, lined with benches along each side.

A church.

At the far end sat half a dozen uniformed men.

In front of the altar Fred who had been our armed escort the afternoon before.

And a priest.

And Ronnie, smiling the happiest smile I had ever seen.

I never expected to cry at my own wedding, but it passed through a blur of my tears.

The words meant little to me, I repeated what I had to repeat. What mattered was the man standing so tall, opposite me and smiling the smile that had enchanted me six years before.

But then consternation, 'The ring...'

Ronnie's smile evaporated there was no ring. In Ronnie's rush the obvious had been overlooked. 'Bugger! Oh, sorry padre.'

'I have a ring.'

Penelope struggled with her finger and passed the ring to her brother.

'Danny's ring? Are you sure Pen?'

She smiled, tears in her eyes too. 'Danny wouldn't mind.'

Her next smile was for me, 'See Val? I said I was your friend.'

Easter and an Extract.

We are being spoiled with a five day break for Easter. Normally there is a four day holiday at Easter with Good Friday and the Monday after being Public Holidays. This year ANZAC day (25 April) falls on Easter Monday so in an Oz tradition there is another public holiday awarded to make up for the overlap.

Now the homeless program I run operates 365 days but my staff usually like to work Public Holidays because they get bonus pay. So I get to take 5 days off straight. Sweet!

Today we went for a family picnic at the same spot as last week. The little pond was doing an even better job of being a mirror. I just had to share.This evening Deb and I went to have a look at the flying foxes I posted about a couple of weeks ago. Specifically we went to watch them set off for their nights foraging for fruit and nectar. Watching thousands of these beautiful creatures streaming over head was awe inspiring.

I did try to get some shots, but my camera isn’t up to shooting moving targets in the dark. This was about the best I could do. With the new camera I am getting in a couple of weeks I think I should be able to get clear shots of these beauties even in the dark.

Now as is my wont an extract from my WIP Veiled in Storms.
After the ordeal last week Valentina and Penelope escape through the woods looking for safety. Valentina faces an uncertain future…


Valentina Meshcova
Berlin 1948
The guard was a big man in British Army khaki and the red cap of their military police, a huge pistol in a canvas holster on his belt.
I sat half slumped on a mattress against a ply-wood partition wall. We were in a small room at the back of a huge aircraft hanger. Natasha absolutely tired out, lay sprawled along the mattress with her head on my lap.

By now it must have been the early hours of the morning, I was bone weary as well but far too much was racing through my head to allow me any sleep.
I was still dusty from the events of the afternoon.

What an afternoon.
I must have been verging on shock because the rest of the afternoon played like a series of disjointed images in my memory.

The terror of Stepan’s ruse, followed by an unnerving walk through the woods.
Penelope and I taking it in turns to sob nervous tears of relief. Holding to each other and Natasha as we pushed our way through the trees.

Past the trees was open farmland with the houses of an outer suburb in the distance. Crossing those fields felt as terrifying as being under fire. I shook the whole way at the thought of a Red Army patrol coming past. Stepan had said we were walking into the American sector. But for all I knew he was still playing some terrible game with us.

Relief at finding a working phone box near the first group of houses we came to. More anxious minutes as Penelope struggled to get through on the phone.

Not knowing what else to do we hid, waiting behind a hedge until we heard a car coming. I peered through a gap in the hedge as I watched the car, a grey hump backed Volkswagen, slowly approaching. Then as it got near I could see Ronnie was driving. Fred crouched on the passenger seat, clad in army uniform, a machine-gun across his lap.

What a moment, joy and tears and laughter all round. All except Fred who stood with the gun tucked under his arm, scanning the hedgerows for movement.

Finally, a claustrophobic ride across the city with Penelope, Natasha and I squashed together. Hiding again, this time under a blanket in the back of the Volkswagen.

We drove straight into a hanger. They brought us into this little room at the back.
Penelope took Natasha by the hand and led her away; how it tore my heart to see her go. I faced a barrage of questions from both Ronnie and a uniformed officer; Fred standing outside with the gun.

After what seemed like hours they relented. The strange officer stepped out. Ronnie, gave me a half hug, but he seemed distracted, distant, 'I’m going to have to leave you for a bit. I've a hell of a lot to organise, then we'll get you on a plane.'
'What's going to happen to me?'
'It's alright Val, we'll sort it all out. But really I have to go, it's going to be a bun fight to organise a special flight.'

Then he was gone, leaving the guard in his place.

My head spun, I was as powerless now as I had been that afternoon. I had no choice but do as I was told.

How uncertainty for the future undermines a person.

My anxiety eased just a little as Natasha came back in with Penelope. Penelope, looked at my expression, measuring me. A warm sympathetic smile. She pulled me close, 'It will be alright Val. I've always said it will all be fine in the end.’
She brushed futilely at her filthy dusty clothes, ‘Now on a more practical note I am going to get a change, I'll bring you back something clean as well.'

We were left with our guard. He was friendly enough but still a guard. Over all a degree of uncertainty. I was not sure if he was there to protect me, or to prevent me from leaving.

Now sitting against the partition with Natasha close I shut my eyes. I must have dozed for a time because I started awake as the door opened.

Penelope bustled in, she was transformed back to her usual self, clean and elegant. You would never guess she had been through such an ordeal just a few hours before. In one hand she held a dress on a hanger, a summery floral print and in the other a small leather case. 'Sergeant, in the car outside there is a wash bowl and a can of warm water, could you be a dear and fetch them in. Oh and there's a pile of clean towels, don't drop them.'

He placed a large wash bowl on a bench at one end and half filled it with steaming water before stepping out and closing the door behind him. 'Now get out of those filthy rags and I'll help you get cleaned up.'

I climbed out of my filthy blouse and skirt. Dropping my pitiful rags on the floor it hit me, I was a refugee, a displaced person like so many others. My few possessions were still in my apartment in the Russian Sector.
Nothing of monetary value, but some of it irreplaceable. The only photographs I had of my parents, my brother. All dead, all gone now I had nothing to remember them by.

She must have seen my face, 'All a bit much isn't it?'
I held back tears, Russian soldiers do not cry, 'Yes.'
Penelope looked around the room and frowned, 'Well it's not the Ritz salon, but we'll make do somehow. Grab that chair and bring it over here. We'll start with your hair. It's not ideal but we won't hurt this floor with a bit of water.'

It was the first time anyone else had ever washed my hair.
It was just what I needed. A lot of my anxiety washed away with the grime. In maybe twenty minutes I was clean. Penelope patted me dry with large cotton towels.
'I’ve never felt such soft towels.'
'Ah,’ she smiled knowingly, ‘that’s one of the bonuses I get for being a decadent capitalist.'
I slipped on the dress Penelope had brought me. 'It's one of mine I'm afraid. No chance to buy you anything, but it's nearly new. It will be a little long but otherwise I don't think it will be too bad a fit.'
'It's lovely.'
And it was, I had never felt fabric like it. I reflected that this one dress she was passing on to me had probably cost more than my whole wardrobe.

The Wonders of Commuting.

Well I am still going into the city by train everyday.

An hour on the train each way seemed pretty daunting at the start. But if you remember I got myself a Netbook and now I write on the train.
Now to be sure Melbourne’s train system is old and falling apart at the seams. Last week my 1 hour trip turned into 2½ hours on the train due to a signal fault. Normally I’d be steamed about such a delay but I just took it in my stride and thought “More writing time.”

All this time on the train is doing wonders for my WIP Veiled in Storms. As well as the sections I have posted about Valentina and Ronnie I have written tens of thousands of other words.

I am now past 80,000 words on my first draft which is about two thirds of my target. Most days I am adding 600 – 1,000 words. If I keep steaming at my current rate I will finish my first draft in another month or two!

Now a first draft is a long way from a finished novel, but this feels amazing. I’m working full time, getting out and about on the weekends and blogging (although I must say I don’t spend nearly enough time visiting other blogs) and the book is progressing!

The only hole in all of this is I have been largely neglecting promotion of my first novel Veiled in Shadows, and with me being my marketing campaign nothing is happening. Ah well you can’t have it all.

SO how about you. How is your writing going? How do you manage to fit it all in?


Now a photo from my archive: Wilson's Promontory after the 2009 bush fires

A Relaxing Weekend.

We had miserable wet weather all week. Come the weekend and it turned the bend. Today was a glorious sunny autumn day. Bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky and not a breath of a breeze.

Melbourne is famed for wet dreary winters so we made the most of the weather while it lasts.

Once again we stayed close to home and headed to another spot in Plenty Gorge Park. With the whole family in tow we arrived at this picnic area. We’ve been there a couple of times before and for some unfathomable reason it is always virtually empty.
We parked ourselves for a BBQ lunch.

One of the locals an Australian magpie (Cracticus tibicen) came panhandling. The second half of their scientific name means “flute-player”. They have a lovely warbling song.

From the picnic area you can see down into the gorge which cuts through Melbourne’s northern suburbs.The park is very different from places like Fitzroy Gardens. These are all native trees, mostly Eucalyptus species with a smattering of wattles (acacia) and others scattered through.

Because most Oz trees are evergreen there is no autumn flush of colour like the one I posted last weekend.Many eucalypts shed their bark rather than their leaves.Some of the smooth barked species end up with lovely mottled patterns as the bark comes away.It was amazingly still; I shot this rather ordinary looking pond to show how glassy it was.In fact the water was so still it was reflecting like a mirror.

I captured another local, a small honey eater called a Noisy Miner (Manorina melanocephala). They really are noisy; they live in family groups and gather together to noisily confront threats in an attempt to drive them off. We used to have a cat that was terrified of them. They should not be confused with Indian Myna birds which are an introduced pest in Oz.(Indian Myna image from Wikipedia)

In a damp spot some little fungiAnd soft green pillows of moss.Now to my WIP extract for the week.
Last week Valentina, Penelope and Natasha were “taken for a ride” by Stepan.
I have made you wait and indulged my sadistic side long enough. So here we go…


Valentina Mescova
Berlin 1948
A surreal conversation I half heard over my sobbing breath.
Stepan’s voice, ‘So your name is Natasha?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Stepan. I used to be a friend of your mummy,’
‘Valentina isn’t really my mummy.’
‘No I suppose she isn’t. But you do love her don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Are you a brave girl Natasha?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even better. Now listen carefully, I am playing a trick on my men, will you help me?’
‘I don’t like them.’
‘I don’t like them either. Now I am going to take these hoods off Valentina and her friend. Then I am going to untie them. You have to help me look after them, but I am going to make some very loud noises with my gun. It is very important you stay very quiet. Can you do that for me?’
‘Yes.’

A spatter of loose earth as he knelt down next to me, his voice in my ear. ‘Be quiet…’ Hands on my wrists, the manacles coming away. Hands on my shoulders, helping me to a sitting position. ‘I am going to take this hood off, keep your eyes and mouth closed so they don’t get full of dust.’

Light, and air. ‘No don’t wipe your eyes you’re going to get more dirt in them.’
Little hands pushing my hair away from my face. I grabbed my little girl and hugged her tight.
‘Natasha block your ears I am going to make the first noise.’
I sat stupidly as Stepan pulled his gun from its holster. Once, twice he pulled the trigger. The bullets kicking up fountains of dirt as they slammed harmlessly into the side of the hole that might have been my grave. He looked intensely at me ‘Now you’re dead, so no noise!’
He turned to Natasha, ‘Well done, but you still need to keep quiet, okay?’
She nodded solemnly.
He stepped across to Penelope.

He was rougher than he had been with me, as Stepan hauled off the hood Penelope’s. face was streaked with mud as the dust stuck to her tears. He rolled her on to her side. As he began undoing her manacles he urgently whispered to her in English. ‘As you can see no one is dead, but I have to make a fiction for my men. Pretend I am raping you and scream.’
She shook her head as if to clear it, ‘What?’
‘Scream like I am hurting you.’
Her scream was shrill, ‘Noooo!’
Stepan looked exasperated, ‘Not nearly real enough.’
He flung aside the manacles. Then Penelope really did scream. ‘Stop! You’re hurting me!’

He frowned as he twisted two of her fingers the wrong way back toward her wrist. She screamed again. He dropped her hand, she held it with her other softly moaning he smiled, ‘Much better, much more real.’
‘You bastard.’ She hissed
He smiled, ‘Play with the big boys English girl and you see what you get.’
He turned back to us, ‘Almost over, Natasha block your ears.’
She obediently stuck her fingers in her ears. His gun barked again.

Holstering the gun he squatted next to me. His eyes were intense, ‘I’m sorry for scaring the shit out of you.’ He jerked his thumb at Penelope, ‘but once she came on the scene I had no time to come up with anything better.’
‘Why this.’
‘You had been noticed which is bad enough. She made it impossible. You would have ended up in Siberia at best. It’s kinder to shoot someone.’
‘What happens now?’
He pointed, ‘You walk through those trees, straight ahead, due west two kilometres and you are in the US Zone. Patrols don’t often come here, they know we use this patch.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me? I fill in your grave and go back to my job. About your friend.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t tell her my family name. It will be dangerous for me if she knows it. She’ll get me what she nearly got you. And for heavens sake don’t let her do any field work in Berlin. Or anywhere, she stands out, far too pretty, far too noticeable for field work.’
‘Stepan come with us.’
‘What would I do with all those capitalists?’
‘Stepan…’
‘Go! Now!’
Firmly holding Natasha’s hand I looked back before the trees hid him from me. He was pushing soil back into the empty graves.
His eyes caught mine and he smiled.
Another step and he was gone from view.

The Inner Sadist

I sometimes wonder at the twisted workings of my subconscious. Those of you who have followed my blog for a while will know I work for a charity running a couple of programs that provide direct support to the homeless of Melbourne. Seems like I could be quite a nice guy.

But as an author it seems I have another persona entirely. Putting it simply I am a bloodthirsty sadist.
At least when it comes to things that happen to my characters. Those of you who have read my book Veiled in Shadows will know that during its course some really nasty things happen to some really nice people. To be sure things don't come out too badly for some of my characters but the things that happen to some of them along the way... well you just wouldn't want them happening to your worst enemy. Shootings, beatings, loss of loved ones, grief, fear, breakdown and death are the sorts of things my poor characters have to contend with.

Now sometimes it seems like I am channelling their stories and they don't come from me at all. But maybe that is just a cop out so I can avoid looking at just what a sick twisted cookie I am?

I mean as a perfect example of how nasty I can be look at what is happening to poor Valentina in the extracts I have posted from my WIP. From the bits you have read you could have gathered: Valentina has been persecuted for falling in love with a man from another country; She has survived four years on the front-line of the worst war in history; she has been wounded and scarred physically and emotionally; she has lost her dearest friends; and she has come within an ace of suicide. To be sure there was a lifeline in the form of love from Natasha an innocent little girl.

But was Al content with leaving it there?

No he was not as since then Valentina has suffered a concussion through the actions of a woman she thought was a friend. Then she had an old dear friend come back into her life, but he is a secret police officer and arrests her.

Poor Valentina what did she ever do to deserve all this?

Are you questioning the sanity of Al yet?

Well if it isn't bad enough to show my nasty streak to my characters what about my treatment of you my poor readers?

I lure you here with nice piccies

of beautiful birdsof spectacular sceneryof gentle wild lifeand cascading waterfalls
But it is all a ploy, I tell you stories that leave a brave resourceful young woman fearing for her life and for the life of her loved one. And I make you wait a week to find out what comes next.

So if you find yourself in blog-land tonight be careful there could be lurking authors!

Cue wicked laughter.

Autumn is Here.

The weather has turned cold. I hasten to add, that is by our standards.
My brother lives in the UK. I was talking to him last night, he was saying it was a lovely sunny day and beautifully warm.
I was grumbling because it was cold and wet. When we compared temperatures we were both talking about 20ºC (68ºF). I guess things are relative.

Anyway this afternoon the clouds broke up and the sun came out for a while. So Deb and I decided to go for a walk.
We stayed fairly close to home and went to a spot called The Plenty Gorge Park.
As you can see from these trees autumn is starting to bite.In the Park is an old farm the LePage homestead.
The original farmhouse was built in the 1850s. Then it was rebuilt in the 1870s. Unlike the Georgian buildings I photographed in Tasmania this building shows the hallmark of Aussie bush homes verandas most of the way around. They keep a house cooler in summer and if you get really desperate you could sleep on the veranda on hot nights.

I would guess this old bluestone barn is one of the older buildings on the property.
Around the corner you can see down to the pond below.As you can see the garden is planted in a cottage garden style.And one last shot a rose budding in the shade.Now to the extract from my WIP.

Last week if you remember Valentina was stopped by Stepan on her way home. Things are about to get a whole lot worse…

Valentina Meshcova
Berlin 1948
'Get in the car Tina’, Stepan jerked his head at one of the men, ‘Put the child in the front vehicle.'
One of the thugs picked Natasha up, not roughly, but not gently either. Her eyes were huge in her little face, her eyes desperately clung to me until she disappeared into the car.
With a sinking feeling I slid in next to Stepan. It was a huge black car, not German I thought, maybe American.
It was a limousine really, with a huge amount of space between the driver’s seat and the rear bench seat. Half lying, half sitting on the floor against the far corner is a woman’s form. A black hood pulled down over her face. With a frightened intake of breath I recognised the clothes.

It was Penelope.

'Hands behind your back Tina.’ Stepan’s voice strained impatient, ‘No! Facing away from me!'
The cold of metal against my wrists, with a clicking noise my hands were cuffed tight. 'Now face me.'
I turned to face him. 'What is going to happen?'
He was white and shaking, 'I warned you Tina. I warned what would happen if you didn't watch yourself.'
He slid across toward the far door pushing Penelope’s body further into the corner with the callous thrust of a boot. A muffled moan from under the hood.
‘Tina, into the middle.’
One of the men climbed in next to me.
With a lurch the car moved off, 'Where are we going?'
For the first time Stepan smiled as if to a private joke, 'As the Americans would say "we are going for a ride".'
'Stepan, please.'
'You have forfeited any right to ask favours of me. There is nothing I can do. Consorting with an enemy of the people,' he jabbed Penelope with his toe, 'means you are an enemy as well. Hood her!'
The world went black as a bag was pulled over my head.

Time drags when you are frightened. A second becomes a minute and a minute like a day. Not being able to see only made it worse, the trip seemed to go on forever.
Towards the end the vehicle bounced and swayed from side to side.
When we finally came to a halt everything went quiet for a moment.
In the hood sounds were muffled and magnified at the same time. Disembodied men’s voices, the sound of the door opening. Someone seized me by the arms and pulled.

With my arms still pinioned I was half dragged and half fell out of the car. Not onto cobbles but onto soft ground. I was dragged maybe another metre or two and dropped on my face. The smell of grass and leaf litter.

More words, the creak of the car’s springs. The thump of something heavy hitting the ground next to me. A moan, half pain half fear came from the body that had fallen against me. ‘Penelope?’
Her voice muffled by the hood, ‘Val? I’m sorry, I cocked it all up.’
‘Shut up!’, man’s voice bawling in Russian.
Noises, a regular thumping, then a rhythmic muffled metallic sound. A sound of, of what? I puzzled for a moment. Someone swinging a pick, another digging with spade.

Someone digging a grave.

Penelope must have realised what was happening almost as soon as I did. She half sobbed, two choked sobs. Then low, so low I could barely hear although I was against her she began to mutter. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done…’ again and again she chanted.
‘I said shut up!’ The hollow sound of a blow.
Then silence. Silence except for the rhythmic sound of digging.

I have been under fire many times in the war and had been very close to death many times. I had always been terrified, often so frightened I could barely move.
This time was different, my death was absolutely certain. Strangely I felt no fear, none. Instead I felt a terrible grief that my life was over, with so much wasted opportunity. But then, an appalling fear gripped me not for me, but what would happen to little Natasha. Was the other car here too? Surely they wouldn’t hurt her?

Inevitably the digging stopped. Then more hands grabbed me, some by the shoulders and some by the feet. I was carried a short distance, but suddenly shouting, a tirade of shouting. Surely it was Stepan’s voice but I couldn’t be sure. I was dropped again an involuntary ‘whoosh’ of air was driven from my lungs as I hit a pile of soft powdery dirt.

Grumbling voices, the noises of car doors opening and the slamming. The engines started, revved and began to move away. They faded but before they vanished entirely away they stopped as if they had been turned off.
Silence, then voices. A little girl, and Stepan? I screamed aloud, my voice muffled in the hood. ‘Not Natasha, Stepan please anything! Please not Natasha!’

Fitzroy Gardens and Valentina

Yesterday started grey and gloomy but the afternoon showed promise of being sunny. So Deb and I packed ourselves a picnic lunch and headed to Fitzroy Gardens in the heart of Melbourne. We were starving by the time we arrived so we parked ourselves in this classically inspired pavilion to picnic. I snapped this avenue of elms from my seat. Autumn has yet to really bite and most have not yet begun to turn.Looking into the park you would forget you’re in the middle of Melbourne.

Down between the tree trunks we could see another classical folly.After eating we went for a stroll along a profusion of tree lined paths.If you lift your head you get a reminder of the city that surrounds you.Near the bottom of the garden is “Captain Cook’s Cottage” The cottage was constructed in 1755 in the English village of Great Ayton, North Yorkshire, by the parents of Captain James Cook. Cook had been in the Merchant Navy for years by that point and joined the Royal Navy that year, but almost certainly he visited his parents at the house.
The cottage was brought to Melbourne and rebuilt in the 1930s in a fit of Oz (and Empire) patriotism.
I find it very odd. Cook never got nearer to Melbourne than Tasmania and he died 56 years before Melbourne was settled.
Ah well it gives the tourists from overseas something to be photographed in front of.

I thought this cottage built in 1866 and used as the head gardener’s residence until 1990 is much more interesting. By the way the banana trees in this piccie indicate that Melbourne is not so very far from the tropics. Remind me of that when I am grumbling about the cold this winter.

Just in case you don’t believe in fairies, quite a number live in Melbourne.

Heading back up the hill we came on a familiar sight. We’d finished our circuit of the park.

Now to an extract of my WIP for the week.
Last week Valentina caught up with Stepan an old and dear friend. This week Penelope is back on the scene…


Valentina Meshcova
Berlin 1948
By the weekend I was feeling well enough to give in to Natasha's pestering and take her to the lake. It was not really warm enough, but I relented because autumn was around the corner and that would mean months mostly confined inside.

I also needed to get out. I didn't know what I would do after my personal disaster with Ronnie. But whatever lay ahead I was not going to be despondent. If grief was what faced me I would cry for a time and then heal. Natasha showed me again and again that what matters is enjoying the moment, not dwelling on what might have been.

In that spirit I promised myself I would enjoy the day. So, I sat on the sand and watched Natasha frolic at the water’s edge.

'Hello.'
My insides turned over, 'I was not expecting you.'
Penelope knealt down on the sand beside me, 'I wanted to apologise for my part in the cock up last week.'
My resolution of moments before vanished, 'Apologise? What a bourgeois notion. Do you think a few words will mend my opinion of you?'
She flushed red, she looked even more like Ronnie when she was angry. 'I don't know. Before you were frightened I thought a great deal of you. Enough to continue taking this risk. Enough to make debasing myself seem worthwhile. Now I don't know!'
'Before?'
'Before you got frightened. But frightened of what?'
'The NKVD...'
'NKVD, NKVD I have heard enough of that. With Ronnie you could have had a future away from that. For that matter even without Ronnie. You can walk away. Walk straight into the American or British sector and you would be welcomed as a defector.'
'I am Russian...'
'Yes you are Russian. But the tyrant who drives all the terror is not. And you can't believe that he is a Communist with the people at heart. Walk away, there is nothing stopping you. No wall imprisoning you except in your head!'
'What would I do over there?'
'That is fear speaking. You would do anything you chose to do. And what of Natasha?'
'Natasha?'
'Do you want her to grow up in a society where she has to watch what she says, what she thinks? A place where she is always looking over her shoulder?'
'You are trying to manipulate me.'
She laughed, a harsh sound with no hint of humour. 'Yes I am. In spite of everything I think of you as my friend. I give more than a fig for what happens to you. And there is Ronnie.'
'What about Ronnie?'
Her anger faded away, spent, gone.

A sigh from deep within her, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. 'I grieve everyday for my husband. His name was Danny, did I ever tell you that?’
‘No.’
‘For six years I have grieved, never whole, never serene.’
She scooped a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. I watched it fall through a mist of tears. ‘Ronnie has grieved for you. For years now. What ever happens I will always carry my loss. My darling boy lies in a grave, he will never come back to me.’
Her grey eyes transfixed me, ‘I can't bear to think of Ronnie going through what I have any longer. The only thing that prevents his happiness, and yours for that matter, is your fear.'

I could not entirely hide my tears from Natasha as we packed our beach things. 'What's wrong Valentina?'
'Nothing.'
'Why are you crying?'
'Penelope said something that reminded me about someone I lost in the war.'
‘Penelope?’
‘She was here, she’s gone.’
Natasha wrapped her wet little body around me and patted my shoulder, 'It's alright, I'll look after you.'

I took her hand, as we left the beach 'You know I think we might have some bratwurst at home, just for a certain person.'
'Yummy!'

As we walked home I tried very hard to recapture the hint of optimism I had felt only a few hours before. The cold grey streets of Berlin did not help.
A city block from our apartment with racing motors two big black cars pulled up beside us.
Two uniformed men jumped out of the front car and blocked our path. 'Hello Tina.'
I spun to face the voice, Stepan was not smiling this time.

In Oz the Pigs Don’t Fly. But the Foxes Do!

Deb and I went for another stroll yesterday. Our target was again the Yarra River.
This time closer to the Melbourne CBD in a reserve called ‘Yarra Bend Park’.
The Yarra is wider and lazy here.

We followed this trail which parallels the river. As we approached the bend we looked across the river. Notice something hanging in the trees on the other side?Really big fruit perhaps?

I recognised this fruit as soon as I saw it. As you get closer you can see more clearly. Can you see what they are now?Closer still.Look at this face isn’t he just sooo cute?What we had stumbled across was a camp (Aussie slang for a colony) of flying foxes.

To be exact these guys are grey-headed flying foxes (Pteropus poliocephalus).
Despite the name flying foxes are strictly vegetarian, they are known as ‘fruit bats’, they do eat fruit but their main diet is pollen and nectar.

They are a species of 'megabat', unlike the small insectivorous bats found in most of the world (we have a lot of tiny bats in Oz too) they don’t use sonar to find their way in the dark. Rather they rely entirely on very good eyesight.

We came upon this camp late in the afternoon, so most of them were like this guy with their little faces tucked neatly under their wing. But because it was getting lateish some early risers were beginning to stir,To stretch And scratch
Unfortunately we couldn’t wait around until they set off in the evening because we had to pick Lu up from her work.

But I will definitely be back another night to watch them set off. Watching thousands of these large animals stream overhead in the early evening is a real treat.


Now as I am a creature of habit, this weeks episode of Valentina’s story from my WIP.
This episode is very much a first draft. It needs a lot more work, a lot happens in this episode. I think it deserves more fleshing out.
So this week poor Valentina has more or less run from her meeting with Ronnie.
Still concussed from her tangle with Fred she gets one of the biggest surprises in her life.

Valentina Meshcova
Berlin 1948
'Major wake up, Major.'
I forced open my eyes, my head spun despite the fact I was lying down, and I was tired so tired.

I had refused all offers of help from Ronnie and Penelope. Contact with Ronnie, with her was impossible. I struggled back toward the orphanage unaided.
Being concussed and crossing the city alone was the hardest thing I ever tried.
So hard that I hadn't made it back.

The following morning I woke in a Soviet army hospital. Lying in a bed in the stark hospital ward, I wasn't entirely sure the events of the evening before were not a dream. But I couldn't stay where I was. Fear nearing panic gripped me, I couldn't lie around waiting until somebody noticed my behaviour was odd.
Despite the protests of the nursing staff I discharged myself.

I telephoned my driver who picked me up in the jeep and drove me home.
Natasha grabbed me when she saw me, holding me tight like she would never let go. She didn't let me out of her sight for the whole day, not until I packed her off to bed that evening. I had never let her down before, I swore to myself it would never happen again.

Now, two days later unable to keep my eyes open I was dozing on a daybed in my office, 'Major you have a visitor.' My aide shaking me.
'A visitor? Natasha?'
'No, an officer’, her eyes were wide with alarm, ‘an NKVD officer.'

I rolled over to sit up. Not entirely sure I was not going to throw up or pass out I struggled over to stand by my desk. Better to greet the NKVD on my feet, to at least look like I was trying to pay respect.

Focus on something, stay in the room. A noise, that would do, heels clicking on the polished floor as my aide left. It must only have been a minute or two but I was already in danger of dozing off when the click of another pair of feet woke me. 'Tina?'

I looked apprehensively at the figure in the blue and green NKVD uniform. For a moment I stared at the haggard face under the beak of the blue and red officer's cap.
'Stepan?'
I jumped at him pulling him tight, holding him like Natasha had held me the day before. My tears soaking the shoulder of his uniform coat.
I sobbed with relief and real joy. ‘Stepan, oh Stepan, I can’t believe it. I thought you were dead. Gone like all the others.’

It was a long while before I could pull back a bit and look at his face.
He looked so strange in his crisply pressed uniform, yet still the same wry smile. Still my friend.
‘Tina, it is you. I hardly recognised you.'

For a moment I was back in the student's club before the war in Moscow. A place and time of laughter and joy. I couldn't let him get away with being so clumsy. 'Why not? I never was a beauty like Svetlana, or Raisa, but surely I am not so ugly now?'
His haggard face broke into a broad grin, the warm smile of the old Stepan. 'I deserved that, you are still the old Tina.'
But I wasn't I felt an almost unbearable tide of grief, 'I'm not the old Tina. I've been through too much to be that sweet girl any longer.'
'Oh shit.'
It was him this time. He leant his head onto my neck and pulled me against him. He held me for the longest time.

Perhaps he was trying to comfort me, but I thought it was just as much about himself, maybe we both needed to be held.
When he finally let go it was not just me with tears on my face, 'It's so amazing, I can't say how good it is to see you.'
He stared into my face drinking me in. He looked closer, a frown. 'Your eyes, you're concussed.'
‘It’s nothing.’
‘I might not be a medico any longer, but I know a concussion when I see it.’
'I'm dizzy.'
'Let me help you.'
We sunk onto the daybed together.
'Why?'
'Why am I here?'
'Yes.'
'Aren't you happy to see me?'
I squeezed his shoulder. 'Of course I am.'
'Ah, this uniform.' His mouth worked but he didn't say anything more.

'The uniform, it doesn't matter, you're my friend.'
He was quiet for a moment. 'So how did you find me? Were you looking?'
'No I wasn't looking.' He groaned, 'It does no one any good to have an NKVD officer looking for them.'
'So how did you come to be here?'
He stiffened, 'A report came across my desk. An army major being found unconscious on the street is something that will be noted.'
I concentrated very hard on keeping my voice level. 'I see.'
'It’s not generally good to be noticed.'
'Is it going to be bad for me?'
He turned to meet my eyes. 'No, I don't think so. I will put in a report that you tripped and banged your head.' He looked at me expectantly, 'That is all isn't it? There’s nothing I need to help you cover up is there?'
His warm smile again, 'No? Then I am going to play the optimist. It’s good because if a report about Valentina Meshcova had not landed on my desk I would never have known you were in Berlin.'