blog link up, beautiful people, sparrow jones

Say hello to Sparrow Jones, the nine year old leader of the Brats. Sparrow lives in Garden City - a bright, idyllic, leafy place, where children can walk home safely from school, and hardly anyone gets sick. But then Sparrow's mum gets suddenly re-called to Central, war breaks out, and her dad goes missing from his job on the construction site. She and her little sister Tekla run away from the authorities, and accidentally get left behind when the city is evacuated. They meet up with another group of abandoned kids, and at first they have fun exploring the empty city. But the war catches up with them, and they need to take to the road to find a place of safety...

1. What is their secret desire?

Secretly, she wants to be a little kid again. She's fed up of being the leader but won't let anyone know because she feels that being in charge is the only thing she has left.

2. What is the best and brightest moment they experience during the story?

Just before the Brats have to leave Garden City - they've got a massive bonfire, have raided the abandoned depot for the quarantined food, and everyone is wrapped up in blankets and eiderdowns, just sitting around talking and laughing, and picking at the remains of the food. Sparrow feels that they have all they need, and life is good, for the moment.

3. What are the emotional places your characters are afraid to go to?

Sparrow doesn't think about her mum or dad, and doesn't like it when her little sister Tekla talks about them.

4. Is there a place/city/room where they will never go? Why?

There's a strip of forest surrounding Garden City, and no one ever goes there. Ostensibly the trees were planted to improve the air quality, but urban legend says that there's a dark secret involving underground bunkers and skeletons. But that's just kids' tales, right?

5. If they were permanently leaving town, what would they easily throw out? What would they refuse to part with? (Why?)

She gets rid of all her 'trophies' collected from the abandoned apartments - toys, forks (she just likes forks, OK?), books. But she keeps her scrap book of all the identity photos, because it's her only way of remembering EVERYONE who got taken away.

6. What do they want (consciously and tangibly)?

She wants the Brats to stick together, so that they can get to a safe place where they can do whatever they want. More immediately, she wants medicine from the clinic in Exchange to make Tekla better. And she wants Kayzee to stop crying right now.

7. On the other hand: what do they need (on the emotional, subconscious level)?

A feeling of security. To be able to play, without having to worry about how to feed the others and look after them all the time.

8. If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

When she was at school before the evacuation started, it would have been to change her status from Red to Green. Now she'd like to be bigger and older, so that people would give her more respect.

9. What is the most humiliating event of their life?

Life before the evacuation? When everyone else in her class got their green badges presented after their second blood tests, but she had to stay in her seat in front of the whole school because her test came back positive for infection. As a Brat - when they all get transferred to Central, and put in quarantine lock-down. All her clothes are burnt, and she has to wear a hospital tunic, and they cut her hair really short.

10. What things do they turn to when they need a bit of hope?

Sparrow doesn't really have hope, but she gets a kind of comfort from two things: Fire, and books. Two completely contrasting things - but Sparrow is made up of contradictions. Fire makes her feel warm, and safe, and powerful. She's the only one of the Brats that is allowed to keep and use the fire-starter. Books - she's the only one of the Brats who can read, so it's a power thing again, but also she's only ever come across factual books before, so she's fascinated by the idea of story books, and reads them whenever she feels the need to escape.

from the bookshelf: H is for Hawk + The Wake

I sleep surrounded by books. They are stacked in papery towers on the floor, jammed two deep on the shelves, and even hold my bedside lamp up. They have covers of every colour; they are hardback, paperback; old books, new books; slipcase and  dust-jacket. Occasionally I'll pull one out to re-read a favourite chapter, leave it lying, and it will start a new tower of its own. In some ways it reminds me of the second-hand bookshop in Otago Lane - where the books are in teetering, tottering piles all around you, and the proprietor is hidden behind a stack of yellowing old periodicals.

My collection is added to in dribs and drabs - a birthday present here, a charity shop find there. Once a month there's an antiques fair in town with a particularly good  dangerous bookstall - I rarely come away without a book or three. And while I love the way old books look and feel, there is also something nice about a properly new book. I don't get them very often, maybe that's something to do with it.

I want to talk about two books that I've read in December and only got around to writing about now recently: The Wake by Paul Kingsnorth, and H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald. Judging by covers, they should have been very different - one a work of fiction telling the story of a man whose world was torn apart by war and invasion; the other part-biography of T. H. White, part-memoir detailing stages of grief, depression and acceptance after the loss of a father.

As I read, however, I began to see parallels between the two books. The main character in The Wake -Buccmaster- and the personality of T. H. White revealed by Macdonald share similarities. Both take to the woods and wild spaces - White as a self-imposed exile, and Buccmaster through the loss of his lands and status; an actual exile.  Both are cruel, and selfish, and concerned with subjugating others, be they human, beast or bird. Neither man really learns from his experiences, but instead continues blindly, painfully, through their existence in a world that they no longer seem to have a place in (although White did eventually become a good falconer).

By contrast, Helen Macdonald's own story is one of gradually re-learning how to function after her father's death. Like White, she describes her training of the goshawk with a kind of clarity-of-madness, that this -this- is the only way to cope with her world right now,  through taming this fierce,wild "person who was not human, but a bird".

Macdonald's writing also echoes that of White's - whether consciously or unconsciously. Compare this description of summer, "When the rain stopped the heat began. Dogs panted flat in the black shade under the limes, and the lawns in front of the house paled and burned to hay..." with White's portrayal of the hay-making in The Sword in the Stone: "Half of the right-hand field was fenced off for hay [...]The dogs moved about with their tongues hanging out, or lay panting in bits of shade."

For me, little moments jump out of the printed page and become sharp reality - such as when she takes her copy of White's The Goshawk off the shelf ("Red cloth. Silver-lettered spine.") and I realise that I have the same copy. When she goes to the doctor and finally says that she thinks she might be depressed, she says to herself, "It doesn't sound convincing." and I find myself nodding because I too, have sat in a doctor's office, my face scrunched up with tears and thought, 'Why am I here? I can't have depression, not really, I'm just pretending, aren't I?'

The main difference between Macdonald and White is in the way they view their respective goshawks. For White, Gos is something savage to be tamed; something to be conquered as early explorers conquered mountains. Macdonald  comes to view her training of Mabel as a form of partnership - accepting and embracing the goshawk's wildness, whereas White is frustrated and confused by his inability to tame Gos.

Macdonald, attempting to describe her searing grief, resorts to Old English (my reason for pointing this out will become clear later on): " 'Bereaved. Bereft. It's from the Old English bereafian, meaning 'to deprive of, take away, seize, rob.' " She sees her grief as wounds that will not heal, that she can't imagine ever healing. Yet at the end of the book she returns to her earlier metaphor, and turns it on its head, seeing scars on her hands - cuts that have at last healed over.

The goshawk's world that Macdonald describes is a visual, visceral one - peppered with gut-wrenching descriptions of hunting with the hawk: "Now the rabbit is dead...blood upwells as she breaks into its chest, and I cannot stop watching it."

The landscape descriptions are such that you can smell the rain and feel the uncomfortable prickle of twigs, whether it's a hard, flinty, pine-studded forest, or a field in the cool dampness of the early morning. You know that this is an author writing about places she loves, with an eye for small details.

Read this book if you've ever read The Sword in the Stone, or The Goshawk, or if you like falconry, or nature books. It's about a hawk called Mabel, what's not to like?

***

The rich, intensity of the natural world is also present in Kingsnorth's The Wake. But it's a world that is separated from the reader by a language barrier (now here's where the significance of the Old English comes in). The Wake is written in what Kingsnorth calls "a shadow tongue" - a synthetic version of Old English updated so that it's not (completely) incomprehensible to the reader. I realise that this may put many people off before they've even started. But in a way, that doesn't matter, because the book has been published by 'Unbound - a sort of fundraiser for books that authors want published, and that readers want to read. A 21st century form of 18th century subscription writing. So over 390 people pledged to buy this book before it was even written, and their names are included at the end of the book, along with a description of how Unbound works. I hadn't heard of the website before I read the book, and I was fascinated by the idea - I'm a big fan of webcomics, and many webcomic artists employ similar methods to publish hardcopies of their work, and I'd often wondered why no one seemed to be providing a place for writers to do the same.

I'm a bit of a word geek, and I love language, so I had no problems with tackling a book that is allergic to capitals, has a severe dislike of punctuation, and that starts like this: 'the night was clere though i slept i seen it. though i slept i seen the calm hierde naht only the still. when i gan down to sleep all was clere in the land and my dreams was full of stillness but my dreams did not cepe me still'.

Fear not, there is a glossary at the back, although really the best way to tackle this is just to keep reading (reading aloud helps immensely) and let the words sort of swim around in your head until your perception changes and it makes sense. Some of the words are impossible to guess at, it's true, but most of the time everything sounds familiar, but different, if that makes sense. Kingsnorth has also included a note at the end, explaining how he set about developing the language he used.

This use of a language that is both "alien and familiar" (Kingsnorth is here referring to the landscape of the novel, but it works equally well for commenting on the text) allows us to really get into the head of the narrator - Buccmaster. Buccmaster is a 'socman' - a free farmer, with four oxen, around 60 acres of land, and two tenant farmers to work for him - as he constantly keeps reminding the reader. He has a seat on the local wapentac (shire court), a wife whose only fault is that of not always listening, and two fine sons. He inherited a sword from his grandfather, and something else too - a belief in the old gods, who sleep in a deep, dark pool of water hidden in the forest.

1066 - Battle of Hastings. It rattles off the tongue: Normans, Harald with an arrow in his eye, the Bayeux Tapestry...Bang, start of English history. But what was it like? And what happened afterwards? Kingsnorth's book gives us an idea of what life might have been like: confusing, scary and brutal. There's no way around it - Buccmaster is a brute: he beats his wife (although not as much as other husbands, he claims), he's proud, cruel, capricious and stubborn. I can't actually think of a single redeeming quality. Yet despite this, I couldn't stop reading. Once I got used to the language, it made me feel like I'd torn my way through a veil into this other world with my fingernails, and everything was very bright, and strange, and vivid. It's not an easy book to read, but it is worth reading, especially for passages like this one, where Buccmaster is remembering a time in his childhood when his grandfather took him to see the place of the old gods: 

'what is this grandfather i saes what is this holt under the water what world is this. i was thincan many things that afeart me then i was thincan this was the land where aelfs cums from or that ents or dweorgs or even that it was the hall under the mere in what grendel was lifan and that his mother was cuman for me under my lytel boat.'

The old gods, his grandfather tells him, are gods of the trees and the water - they are found in the forests and the fens. And it's these places, and these old gods, that Buccmaster turns to when his world collapses. A conquering army is ravaging through the land, and Buccmaster fiercely rebels against...everything, it feels like. I was prepared to feel sorry for Buccmaster, despite his (many) flaws, but he'd probably call me a 'fuccan ingenga' before slitting my throat and stealing my food. What becomes of Buccmaster? Well, you'll have to take a trip to Norman occupied England to find out.

I want to tell you of beautiful things

I want to tell you of beautiful things

like how the leaves on the cherry trees hang in the autumn air as if they've been pasted on to the sky

or the way she jumps in puddles with both red gum boots.

The days are colder now that we're nearing winter but in the morning the sun hits the treetops and I think

we'll go to the park today. She goes so high on the climbing frame

I get scared but I don't let her know.

s'like flying

she says on the swings

i can kick the clouds with my red boots.

The well at the end of the world

The river went deeper than Brim's head, and wider than he could swim. Mam had taught him in the shallows when he grew big enough to collect the water by himself. The river mud felt squidgy between his toes, and little dark fish darted away from his thrashing feet as he churned up the silt and gravel at the bottom. 

In the hot months, clouds of insects hung above the brown water. The shallows became a dry bed of river-pebbles with mud in-between and lank green grass. During the cold months, the river was a roaring black streak against the hoar-frost spikes that coated the bank. At all times it stretched out beyond sight on either side of the well-trodden path from the cottage. The river, the dead forest and the endless cliffs - all three were boundaries that marked the edge of the world. 

That morning, the well was dry.  Brim put his whole weight on the pump handle, swinging his feet free from the ground, but not a drop came from the spout, only a horrible sucking gurgle from far below.

'Oh leave off, Brim...' Mam called from the cottage door. 'Take the buckets and run to the river instead.'

 It was hot. The tall grass moved listlessly in the light breeze and his feet thudded on the dusty path. It would be cooler at the river. He could fill the buckets first and go for a swim after. He could swim first and wait for the water to settle before dipping the buckets into the water. There would be fish to guddle for, and maybe a dragonfly. 

The last bit of the path crossed the ghost track. He jumped over the marker and touched the post for luck. Now he was definitely going to catch a fish, he felt sure of it; something was different about today. Just a few more steps and he'd be at the river.

But the river was gone. The hollowed out scoop of the land where the river had been was there, but nothing else. He shaded his eyes and squinted at the emptiness. No, it wasn't all empty. The fish were the same colour as the dried out mud. They looked like the stone fish he had dug up out of the endless cliffs - grey, shrunken, and dead.

He ran all the way back to the cottage, the chains that held the empty buckets jangling fiercely.

***

As Brim clambered into bed that night he could hear the wind batter around the cottage. The outer door creaked on its hinges with the force of the storm, but the shutters on the windows were strong, and the blankets stopped any dust from blowing through the cracks. Really bad storms were rare, maybe two or three a year, but it was best to be prepared. This one had whipped up just after he'd got back from the river. He had seen it coming over the dead forest - a grey cloud that swarmed like insects, growing larger as it neared the endless cliffs.

He was used to the wind. Sometimes he would crawl to the edge of the cliffs and lie on his stomach, stretching his hand over the side to push against the updraught. If he closed his eyes it was like he was flying. Scraps of bark or dead leaves would be tugged from his hands and whisked away into the nothingness. He watched them fall and wondered what was at the bottom.

Every year since he could remember, the winds had been increasing. The cliff was crumbling away, and with each inch that it vanished, the nothingness crept closer to the cottage. The winds that came from the cliffs were strong and cold and clean - they dried the clothes on the line and blew the dust from the roof, and sang Brim to sleep as he lay on the other side of the wall.

The winds that came from the dead forest brought dust that settled on the garden, turning everything grey, and making Mam and Brim cough if they breathed it in. Sometimes the two winds met each other overhead, and then there was nothing to do but sit in the house until it passed.

***

It was quiet when Brim woke. Mam was still sleeping in the bed opposite, the sheet tangled around her legs. He pulled the blanket away from the bottom of the door and slid the bolts back. Sunlight and warmth poured into the dark cottage from outside. He curled his toes back from the pile of dust that fell over the threshold. His boots were right by the door and he shoved his feet inside. As an afterthought he grabbed the broom from the cupboard and carefully swept the chalky dust away from the door, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his pajamas.

After he'd finished sweeping the area around the door he stopped to rest. The dust from the dead forest covered the area around the house, sitting in clumps on top of the tarp draped over the vegetable patch and piled up in little heaps and drifts on the other side of the fence. Everything was very still. When he glanced over at the dead forest he could see the haze spreading out from the trees, tendrils reaching towards the cottage. He shivered, despite the heat.

'Work before breakfast?' Mam joined him, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close for a hug.

He pointed at the dead forest, 'I don't think we've got time for breakfast - look.'

She squinted at the haze, putting up her hand to shield her eyes. 'Nah, it'll be fine. Them old ghosts won't bother us in this sunlight.'

'But...'

She clapped him on the shoulder, ' Come on - there's blueberry pancakes.'

***

After breakfast they both began the regular garden clear-up. All the dust had to be swept up and taken outside of the garden boundary. Normally they would take it as far as the dead forest, but with the ghosts so close they just tipped it in a heap on the other side of the fence.

Brim swept the area around the well. This wasn't strictly in the garden boundary, but it was safest to keep the well clean too - even if it had run dry.

He heard a noise from inside the well, under the heavy wooden boards. The pump came up through the middle of the boards, which meant that the water that wasn't there now never had to be exposed to the dust. The noise came again. It sounded like something knocking on the side of the metal pipe that ran right down to the water level. He looked over to where Mam was adding more dust to the heap, and walked across to the well-cover. It was still securely fastened and the padlock on it was strong.

Bang, bang, bang! BANG.

He jumped back. Even Mam had heard that.

'You OK?'

'There's something in the well!' he shouted back.

'Water -- I hope.'

Mam fetched the key from inside the cottage. When they hauled the boards off the stone base the knocking stopped. They both gazed down the dark hole in silence.

'Some help would be nice.' The voice was old and cross. Brim peered over the side of the well. He could see some sort of hunched-over figure clutching onto the pipe.

***

Brim sat on the bed, hands clasped round his knees.  Mam was fussing over the old lady; draping her in blankets and offering her hot soup.

'Is there anything else I can get you?'

The old lady shook her head, and let her eyes wander all over the inside of the cottage: looking at the faded labels on the seed drawers, the battered pans hung up by the stove, and the trapdoor leading down to the food store. Finally she turned her gaze to Brim. He raised his chin slightly and tried to out stare her. She raised one arm from out of the bundle of blankets and crooked a finger at him. Brim glanced at Mam. She nodded, and he reluctantly unfolded his legs from the bed and slumped over to the stove.

'You have a strong young man for a son. Looks a mite sulky though.'

Mam looked up from stirring the soup, 'We don't...we don't get many visitors. He's just shy.'

'Hmph.' said the visitor, looking Brim up and down as if she could see right through to where his heart thudded in his rib-cage, as if it was a frightened bird trapped under the tarp. 'More like we don't get ANY visitors. Who are you? Mam - why did you let her in? She could be from the forest for all we know.'

Mam shushed Brim and sent him down to the food store to fetch the wheat crackers for sprinkling on the soup.

The old lady chuckled to herself. 'I like this one. He'll do.'

'But don't let it go to your head, mind,' she continued,raising her voice. 'I'm only choosing you because I got no one else.'

Mam shoved a bowl of soup and a spoon into the old lady's lap. 'Boy's got a point. Eat.' She stood between Brim and the visitor, arms folded, still holding the soup ladle. 'I've given you food and shelter, and that's all I've a mind to give you until you explain. What were you doing in our well? And what's all this talk of choosing?'

The old lady nodded her head appreciatively, 'That's good soup. Any more?' She rattled her spoon against the side of the empty bowl.

Brim, helping himself from the pot, curved a protective arm around his soup and shook his head quickly.

Mam brandished the ladle at him, and glared at the visitor. 'Brim, give her your bowl.'

'Aw, but...'

'Don't argue.' She poked the lady with the ladle. 'Talk. Now. Or I open that door, push you out, and let the ghosts get you.'

The visitor cackled again. 'Ghosts! Is that what you call them? Them's not ghosts, dearie me, no. Them's memories.' The spoon clattered in another empty bowl. 'Soup finished? Got anything else?'

***

[tbc]

international translation day

The 30th of September is International Translation Day. It's also the feast day of St Jerome, who translated the Bible and is the patron saint of translators. I thought I would honour this by reading a translated book, which also happens to be one that has been sitting on my TBR pile for quite some time. I've chosen The Summer Book by Tove Jansson, translated from the Swedish by Thomas Teal in 1974. The original title was Sommerboken.

Thomas Teal has translated at least four of Jansson's works into English, and has even won awards for doing so (2009, Best Translated Book Award; 2011, Bernard Shaw Prize for translation from the Swedish). So it shouldn't really be surprising that his work is described in the Acknowledgements as a 'flawless translation'. I just thought it was odd that they went out of their way to add the 'flawless', as I've never seen that before. It's usually just a standard 'Translated by ...' or sometimes, 'Translated by ... and ...'

Publishing digressions aside - and without intending to disparage the work of Teal -  can any translation be described as 'flawless'? Surely something is always lost when words are picked apart, analysed and set down again in a foreign tongue. Perhaps you could argue that something is gained too - the perspective of a different culture, or the clarity that comes with hindsight, when a work is translated many years after being written. Whatever comes of this give and take, the words are not the same as those set down by the author. This is why we have Definitive Editions, either where the author can approve the translation as as accurate as possible, or where a panel of subject experts (in the case of classic works of fiction) can agree that the meaning has been  conveyed accurately.

Returning to the book I've chosen, my copy is a modern paperback, published by Sort Of Books in 2003. It's a slim book, not even two hundred pages long. The front cover has a colour photograph of an island, which is the actual island in the book: flat, rocky and covered with pine trees. Prior to the text there is a black and white photograph of the 'real' Sophia and Grandmother - looking at each other, oblivious to (or ignoring) the photographer, absorbed in their own world.

And there you have the main characters of the novel. Others may come and go - the father is always napping, or appears as Sophia is on the edge of sleep to add more wood to the stove. The mother is dead, and this is why Sophia and her father have returned to the island for the summer. This is a book about many things, but to me this is a book about being a child, and about seeing the world the way a child does. It's as if someone has cut a window into the past and through it I can feel the wind from the sea whipping onto my face. And because this is Tove Jansson, each word has an isolated beauty to it - a feeling of realness that makes you feel that, yes, this is how it is.

The rain during the summer nights that dries up in the morning, swimming in icy cold water on a hot day, the way the seaweed looks when it's floating, the ground under pine trees being 'shiny with brown needles'...these are all things that make me think of childhood holidays Up North (always Up North, even when sometimes it really should have been Out West or Away East) with aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents - a sort of organised chaos that is quite different to the world inhabited by Sophia and Grandmother (but not so different from the world of the Moomins).

I can't write about Tove Jansson without mentioning the Moomins, and I don't need to - bits of them are scattered throughout The Summer Book, which is Jansson's first book for adults. There is a bit where Sophia imagines that 'all their luggage floated out in the river of moonlight' that brings to mind The Moomins and The Great Flood (written in 1945 and only translated into English in 2005) or the flood in Moominsummer Madness. Driftwood and bones and bits of ship are found along the shore, just as in Finn Family Moomintroll when the Moomins and friends are shipwrecked on the Island of the Hattifatteners. Grandmother even makes bark boats while sitting on the veranda, just like Moominmamma does.

There is no plot. Nothing much happens, apart from the sort of ordinary things that make up each day. Grandmother loses her false teeth, Sophia is still scared of swimming in deep water, Berenice is scared of everything. There is moss that mustn't be walked upon, the magic forest, and visitors to hide from. Grandmother and Sophia talk about Hell, and Venice sinking, and the Latin names of plants. It's about love, for people and places, and about seeing the beauty in sea-weathered tree roots and blades of grass. It's the story of a summer spent on an island by the sea - a window cut into a different world.

Bibliography: The Summer Book, Tove Jansson; Sort Of Books, 2003
Thomas Teal -  http://www.nybooks.com/books/authors/thomas-teal
International Translation Day -  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Translation_Day

blog link-up, beautiful people, villains

So this is September's BP link-up, and it's question time for a villain. For this one, I have chosen Mirren Jones, also known as Doctor Mirren Scott, who is a villain to half of my main characters. She's not your typical 'villain' - but Dee, Kay, Zed, Abe and Ade would disagree...

1. What is their motive?
Creating a strong society and protecting her family.
2. What do they want, and what are they prepared to do to get it?
She wants her family to be together, happy and healthy. To do this, she is prepared to: kidnap and isolate children, work for an organisation with somewhat dodgy aims and morals, destroy a way of life because she doesn't understand it, and then possibly commit an act of terrorism.
3. How do they deal with conflict?
Not violently. With words and conversation - when that doesn't work, then she sends someone else to deal with it. Probably violently, but she doesn't ask, and doesn't want to know.
4. Describe their current place of residence.
It's a two-level house in Residential Sector 3 of Garden City. Bedrooms upstairs, kitchen and washroom on the ground floor. The kitchen is large, and has a stove that heats the house and the water, as well as being used for cooking. At the back of the house there is a plot of land used for growing food, and the front door leads out onto the bridge over the canal.
5. If they were writing this story, how would it end?
She'd be living in Garden City with her husband and two children, continuing her work at the hospital, and would be able to keep her collection of Outsider objects on display. Her husband would be able to keep working on the new train line, and Garden City would become an Exchange rather than a Terminus.
6. What habits, speech patterns, etc. are unique to them?
She's very precise, and quite self-effacing, in a way. She'll gesture with her graphite stylus while she's working, or use it to scratch an itch, which leaves marks that her husband Ander will wipe away with his thumb.
7. How do they show love? What do they like to do with/for people they love?
She kisses her daughters on the top of the head in the morning before they go off to school. She likes to give people little bundles of flowers that she's grown around the outside of her vegetable patch. Even though she doesn't like cooking, she discovered Ander's favourite food and will cook it for him sometimes (it's a spicy tomato soup with pickles and sour cream).
8. Do they have any pets?
No. No one in the Cities has pets. Here is Mirren when faced with a dog: "The dog is with him too – a large bitch with a brindle coat and ears that come to a point. Before coming Outside I’d only ever seen a dog in the testing facility, and before that, only in books. I suppose out here they are useful for hunting and guarding. Garm seems to have the animal well-trained, but it still makes me nervous."
9. Where would they go to relax/think?
Her garden. Mirren loves gardening - she has to grow most of the vegetables that they eat, but she also grows flowers just because she loves them. For appearances sake they are 'useful' flowers too - such as dill flowers, lavender, or marigolds.
10. What is their weapon of choice? 
She doesn't use violence as a rule, but she threw a chair at someone once. Also, I reckon she'd be pretty comfortable with swinging a garden spade if she felt threatened.

blog link-up, beautiful people, questions

This is a link-up to notebook-sisters blog:



The character we are getting to know in this interview is Hester Bliss.

1) What does your character regret the most in their life?

That she is forgetting what her mother was like. 

 2) What is your character's happiest memory? Most sorrowful memory?

Happiest - sitting in her mother's lap and being taught how to hold and thread a needle. Sorrowful - when her mother was taken away.

3) What majorly gets on your character’s nerves?

Mess. And messy people. Hester likes things to be neat and tidy.

4) Do they act differently when they're around people as opposed to being alone? If so, how?

Yes - she likes being alone and is happiest when there is no one else around. When there are people she prefers to blend into the background. She is striving to behave better and to not look so startled when people speak to her.

5) What are their beliefs and superstitions? 

She believes that mending clothes while they are being worn will bring sorrow, and also that new-born babies should never first be dressed in something new-made or new-bought.

6) What are their catchphrases, or things they say frequently?

Hester doesn't speak. Ever. But if she did it would be something like 'a place for everything and everything in its place.'

7) Would they be more prone to facing fears or running from them?

Definitely running from them! Although this is not always possible, particularly when Mr Corbie disappears and leaves her to manage the business.

8) Do they have a good self image?

No - she thinks she is too shy and awkward, and is a constant trial to Mrs Grimble. She is often told she is too skinny, or that she's 'a funny wee thing.'

9) Do they turn to people when they're upset, or do they isolate themselves?

She isolates herself. When she is upset she would rather go into the garden or up into the attics to be alone. Grief is a very private thing for her.

10) If they were standing next to you would it make you laugh or cry?

Probably neither, because both would distress Hester. I'd settle for making eye-contact.