Category: Creative Writing

What I learned about writing – Writing with accuracy of detail

I guess this means don’t write badly, but whether your writing is bad or not is subjective.

But there is such a thing as bad writing. There are rules, and as long as you try not to break any, or more than a few, then everything’s OK.

Of course, there’s always the fallback, sending the manuscript to an editor and paying for them to iron out all the spelling, grammatical and other errors. It will cost you, but it is worth it.

The last thing you want to do is offend the reader charged with deciding whether the publishing house will publish your novel or not.

Then there’s that other problem, especially if you do not have a comprehensive time scale and extensive character definitions, such as family trees with dates that make sense and continuity.

I am guilty of that, starting a character with one name and ending with another, forgetting the names of other characters, getting plot points out of order, having things happen before they’re supposed to, and even worse, weaving an actual event into the story and getting it wrong.

Even very expensive Hollywood productions sometimes get things wrong, and the research on what’s available, like a 1920s Rolls-Royce Phantom, a particular watch, or a certain item of clothing.

There’s no substitute for meticulous research.

If I only had one day to stop over in – Dublin – what would I do?

One Day in Dublin? There’s Only One Place to Start.

You have a single day. A fleeting stopover in a city with a thousand stories. You want it to be memorable, not a whirlwind of checklist tourism. You want to feel Dublin, not just see it.

Forget the rush. Forget trying to cram in ten sights. There is one anchor point that will give you the essence of the city—its history, its soul, its stunning beauty—and set the perfect tone for everything else you might discover.

That place is Trinity College Dublin. And more specifically, the Old Library and the Book of Kells.

Why This? It’s Not Just a Library.

Standing in the heart of the 16th-century college, you’re stepping into the very womb of Dublin’s intellectual and cultural identity. This is where Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, and Samuel Beckett walked. But the true magic is the Long Room.

You walk through a hushed, majestic corridor. Two levels of dark oak bookshelves stretch 65 meters before you, holding over 200,000 of the library’s oldest volumes. The vaulted ceiling, the marble busts of philosophers, the scent of aged paper—it’s a scene of profound, cinematic beauty that feels both ancient and alive. It’s one of the most breathtaking rooms in the world, and it’s right here in the middle of a bustling city.

And at the very heart of it, the centrepiece: the Book of Kells. This isn’t just an old book. It’s a 9th-century masterpiece of insular art, a luminous gospel where every page is an explosion of intricate symbols, mythic beasts, and dazzling swirls of colour. Seeing it in person—the sheer artistry and devotion it represents—connects you to an Ireland of monks and scholars, a profound creative spirit that has endured through centuries.

How to Make That Day Unforgettable:

  1. Go First Thing (Book Online!): Get your timed ticket for the Book of Kells exhibition and the Old Library for as soon as it opens (usually 9:30/10 AM). This is non-negotiable for a one-day visit. Do not wait in line. Book in advance on the Trinity College website.
  2. Take Your Time (90 Minutes): Don’t rush. Read the panels explaining the Book of Kells’ history. Stand in the middle of the Long Room and just breathe. Find the oldest book in Ireland (the Book of Durrow). Let the awe sink in.
  3. Wander the Grounds: After your library visit, stroll through the beautiful, tranquil Trinity College grounds. See the beautiful Campanile bell tower, the quieter Parliament Square, and the serene Fellows’ Square. It’s a peaceful, green oasis that feels worlds away from the city outside.
  4. Let It Anchor Your Day: From here, you are perfectly positioned. The college borders Grafton Street (for shopping and buskers) and the Temple Bar area (for cobblestones, galleries, and a true taste of the city’s vibrant energy). Have your classic Irish coffee or a pint in a pub nearby, but you’ll do it with the weight and wonder of Irish history fresh in your mind.

The Real Secret:

This experience gives you context. Yes, you’ll see the Guinness Storehouse or the Guinness Storehouse, but you’ll understand the why. Dublin’s famously literary pub culture, its love of debate and storytelling, its resilience—it all grows from roots like those found in the Old Library. You’ll step out onto the street not just having seen a famous attraction, but having connected with the founding story of the city itself.

So, for your one precious day: Do not miss the Old Library. See the Book of Kells. Stand in the Long Room.

It’s the one place that turns a stopover into a story you’ll carry home. It’s the key that unlocks the rest of your day, and the real meaning of Dublin.

P.S. – Afterward, find a traditional pub with a roaring fire (like The Palace Bar on Fleet Street, a Trinity favourite). Order a simple half-pint of Guinness, sit quietly, and listen to the murmur of conversation. You’ll hear echoes of every writer, scholar, and ordinary Dubliner who ever walked out of those library doors. That’s your memorable day, complete.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 40

Day 40 – Reusing the same old words

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Re‑Spinning the Same Old Words: How to Make Familiar Language Feel Fresh

“The same words have been used over and over, and each writer puts a different spin on them… Has it all been said before? Probably, but not exactly. How do we reuse the words and make them stand out, or use words no one else has?”

If that line ever appeared on a sticky note in your notebook, you’re not alone. Every writer, from the teenage poet scribbling in a cafeteria to the seasoned novelist polishing a bestseller, wrestles with the same paradox: language is finite, but the stories we want to tell feel infinite.

In this post, we’ll unpack why repetition is inevitable, why it’s actually a good thing, and—most importantly—how you can give tired phrases a brand‑new coat of paint without inventing a secret dictionary. Grab a coffee, take a deep breath, and let’s turn the ordinary into the extraordinary.

1. Why “Everything’s Been Said” Is a Myth (And a Helpful Reminder)

1.1 The Illusion of Originality

If you Google “love is…”, you’ll find an endless stream of metaphors: love is a battlefield, love is a rose, love is a hurricane. The truth is, we all pull from the same cultural wellspring—myths, movies, news headlines, memes. That doesn’t mean you can’t say something new; it means you have to re-contextualise the familiar.

1.2 The Power of Constraints

Ironically, limits can spark creativity. Poets have written entire collections using a single word (“The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot includes “sea” 19 times). Constraints force you to explore angles you’d otherwise ignore.

1.3 The Brain’s Pattern‑Seeking Bias

Our minds love patterns, so when we hear a phrase we recognise, we automatically categorise it as “old”. By breaking that pattern—changing cadence, tempo, or point of view—you reset the mental shortcut and force the reader to engage again.

Bottom line: The fact that a phrase has been used before isn’t a death sentence. It’s a starting line.

2. The Six “Spin” Techniques Every Writer Can Master

Below are the most reliable ways to give a well‑trodden expression a fresh spin, illustrated with concrete examples.

TechniqueWhat It DoesQuick Example
Change the LensShift perspective (who is speaking, who is listening, who is observing).Original: “The city was a jungle.”
Spin: “From the rooftop, the city unfolded like a tangled canopy, each neon vine pulsing with sirens.”
Swap the MetaphorReplace the old metaphor with a new concrete image from a different domain.Original: “Time is a thief.”
Spin: “Time is a silent librarian, slipping a new card into the checkout slot before you notice the overdue notice.”
Flip the SyntaxPlay with sentence structure—start with a verb, end with a noun, use an inversion.Original: “She walked alone through the rain.”
Spin: “Alone, she walked, rain stitching silver threads across her shoulders.”
Inject Sensory DetailsAdd smell, taste, touch, sound—make the abstract tangible.Original: “He felt nervous.”
Spin: “His stomach churned like a washing machine, the metallic tang of fear licking his tongue.”
Use Unexpected JuxtapositionPair two incongruous ideas to shock the brain into paying attention.Original: “The meeting was boring.”
Spin: “The meeting droned on, a marathon of beige wallpaper that could have been narrated by a sloth on a caffeine break.”
Borrow from Another DisciplineSlip a term from science, sport, cooking, etc., into your prose.Original: “She was determined.”
Spin: “She set her will like a GPS waypoint—no reroute could deter her.”

Mini‑Exercise: Spin a Cliché in 60 Seconds

Pick a cliché you love (or hate). Pick one of the six techniques above and rewrite it on a sticky note. You’ll be surprised how fast the magic appears.

3. Going Beyond Spin: When to Create New Words

Sometimes a spin isn’t enough—your story demands a term that simply doesn’t exist. Here’s how to coin responsibly.

3.1 Identify the Gap

Ask yourself: What am I trying to convey that no existing word captures? If it’s a nuance of feeling, technology, or culture, you’ve found a candidate.

3.2 Keep It Intuitive

A good neologism feels like it should be a word. Use familiar morphemes (roots, prefixes, suffixes).

ExampleBreakdown
GlowsomeGlow + awesome → “Radiantly impressive.”
Techno‑soulTechno + soul → “A personality shaped by digital culture.”

3.3 Test It in Context

Write a short paragraph using the coined term. If the surrounding sentences make its meaning clear without a dictionary, you’ve succeeded.

3.4 Beware of Over‑Coining

Even J.K. Rowling, who invented Muggles and Quidditch, kept the list short. Overloading your prose with invented vocabulary can alienate readers.

4. Real‑World Case Studies: Authors Who Mastered Reuse

4.1 Ernest Hemingway – “Iceberg Theory”

Hemingway repeated simple, declarative sentences but made each one feel new by omitting—letting the subtext do the heavy lifting. His reuse of plain language was a spin on the minimalist tradition.

4.2 Margaret Atwood – “Speculative Metaphors”

In The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood repurposes biblical language for a dystopia. She re‑contexts ancient phrasing, turning “Blessed be the fruit of thy womb” into a chilling political slogan.

4.3 Ta-Nehisi Coates – “Historical Collage”

Coates blends modern slang with historical speech patterns, creating a juxtaposition that feels both familiar and revolutionary. His sentence “The dream of the past is a nightmare we keep trying to remember” twists the classic “American Dream” into something personal and urgent.

5. Practical Toolbox: How to Turn the “Same Old Words” into Your Signature

ToolDescriptionWhen to Use
Voice JournalRecord a 5‑minute monologue in different moods (angry, wistful, sarcastic). Listen for words that feel uniquely yours.Early drafts, developing a distinct narrative voice.
Word‑Swap MapWrite a list of common adjectives (big, small, bright). Next to each, write 3 unconventional synonyms or sensory equivalents.When you notice you’re leaning on “big” a lot.
Constraint SprintSet a timer for 15 minutes and write a scene using only 10 different nouns.To force creative substitution and reduce reliance on clichés.
Cross‑Domain ReadingRead a cookbook, a physics textbook, a comic strip. Highlight any jargon that strikes you as evocative.When you need fresh metaphors that feel authentic.
Feedback LoopPass a paragraph to a trusted beta reader and ask: “What word feels stale?”After you think you’ve nailed a spin, but want external validation.

6. The Bottom Line: Embrace the Echo, But Change the Tune

The truth is simple: language is a shared resource, and no one owns a phrase forever. What makes a piece of writing memorable isn’t whether a word has been used before—it’s how it’s used. By mastering the six spin techniques, learning to coin responsibly, and building a disciplined creative toolkit, you’ll turn even the most overused expression into a signature flourish.

So the next time you catch yourself thinking, “Has it all been said before?” pause, smile, and answer: “Maybe, but not exactly. And I’ve got a new way to say it.”

Happy rewriting!

Further Reading & Resources

  1. Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin – a deep dive into sentence-level innovation.
  2. The Sense of Style by Steven Pinker – scientific insights into why some phrasing feels “new”.
  3. Wordnik (website) – a treasure trove of obscure synonyms and neologisms.
  4. The “Snowball” Writing Exercise – start with a single cliché and let each rewrite add a layer of spin.

Got a favorite spin technique or a newly coined word you’re proud of? Drop a comment below; let’s keep the conversation spinning!

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

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© Charles Heath 2019-2024

In a word: Dog

Yes, it’s that little or big furry thing that’s also known as man’s best friend, a dog.

But the word has a number of other meanings, like a lot of three-letter words.

It can also mean to follow someone closely.

If you are going to the greyhound racing, you could say you’re going to the dogs, or it could mean something entirely different, like deteriorating in manner and ethics.

Then there are those employers who make their workers work very hard, and therefore could be described as making them work like a dog.

Some might even say that it is a dog of a thing, i.e. of poor quality.

There’s a dogleg, which could aptly name some of those monstrous golf course holes that sometimes present the challenge of going through the wood rather than around it.

Tried that and failed many times!

A dog man used to ride the crane load from the ground to the top, an occupation that would not stand the test of occupational health and safety anymore.

And of course, in a battle to the death, it’s really dog eat dog, isn’t it?

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

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Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 7

It’s not like you can pull over to the side of the road…

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In space, it’s a little difficult to just suddenly stop.

But, given several hundred thousand kilometers, anything is possible.

Especially when there’s a request to divert to Venus.

You can’t always tell when the ship drops out of cruise speed to what could be considered a dead stop, not that a dead stop is necessarily achievable.

I was down in the mess hall when the call came from the officer of the deck for me to return. I was halfway through a half decent cup of coffee, and had just had the donut delivered.

Both now had to be sacrificed.

I looked out the window into the inky blackness of space and it was difficult to say if we were in idle mode. There was, however, another ship just off the port bow, a old cargo ship that had seen better days, and we both looked like we were drifting together.

I suspect that meant we were keeping station, much the same as we would if we were visiting a planet.

I took the elevator and arrived on the bridge where the captain was in earnest conversation with the chief engineer and chief scientist.

He looked up when he saw me approach.

“Ah, number one, there’s a team waiting down on the transport deck. The Aloysius 5 has some vital equipment and personnel on board for repairs at the mining colony on Venus, and we’ve been diverted to pick them up and take them there post haste.”

“Is the other ship out of commission?”

“A temporary issue with the drive. We’re sending an engineering team over to help with the repairs and will check their progress on the way back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Should be simple, I thought. Take one of the shuttle craft over, load up, drop the engineers, get back, head for Venus, about 5 hours from our current position. Much the same as a pleasant drive in the country.

And I needed more shuttle time.

In the elevator I was joined by one of the security staff, a gung-ho type lieutenant named Andrews. A man always looking for trouble, the sort who would shoot first and ask questions later.

Maybe it was not going to be a pleasant outing after all.

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© Charles Heath 2021

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 45

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

“Silly question, what were you doing in the hotel with this ‘operative’?”

Yes, it sounded odd the moment I said it, and, if it was the other way around, I’d be thinking the same.

“We joined forces, thinking we were in danger, at the time, not knowing that she was working with Dobbin.  I discovered that later, by chance.  She doesn’t know I know.”

“And she’ll be waiting at the hotel?”

“Dobbin wants the USB.  She believes we’re collaborating, after telling me she works for MI5, on a different mission involving O’Connell.  She had apparently been undercover as a fellow resident at the block where O’Connell had a flat, and a cat.  The cat, of course, had no idea his owner was a secret agent.  The flat was sparsely furnished and didn’t look lived in, so it may have been a safe house.”

“Wheels within wheels.”

“That’s the nature of the job.  Lies, lies, and more lies, nothing is as it seems, and trust no one.”

“Including you?”

“Including me, but keep an open mind, and try not to shoot me.  I’m as all at sea as you are.  And, just to be clear, I’m not sure I believe Quigley that the information is lost.  People like him, and especially his contact, if he was a journalist, tend to have two copies, just in case.  And the explosion might have killed the messenger, but not the information.  Lesson number one, anything is possible, nothing is impossible, and the truth, it really is stranger than fiction.”

“Great.”

A half-hour later I’d parked the car in a parking lot near Charing Cross station.  The plan, if it could be called that, was for me to go back to the room, and for Jennifer to remain in the foyer, and wait.  If anything went wrong she was to leave and wait for a call.  For all intents and purposes, no one knew of her, except perhaps for Severin and Maury, but I wasn’t expecting them to be lurking in the hotel foyer, waiting for me.

As for Dobbin, that was a different story.  It would depend on how impatient he was in getting information on the whereabouts of the USB, and whether he trusted Jan to find out.

I’d soon find out.

The elevator had three others in it, all of who had disembarked floors below mine.   As the last stepped out and the doors closed, it allayed fears of being attacked before I reached the room.

As the doors closed behind me, the silence of the hallway was working on my nerves, until a few steps towards my room I could hear the hissing of an air conditioning intake, and suddenly the starting up of a vacuum cleaner back in the direction I’d just come.

 A cleaner or….

Remember the training for going into confined spaces…

The room was at the end of the passage, a corner room, with two exits after exiting the front door.  I thought about knocking, but, it was my room too, so I used the key and went in.

Lying tied up on the bed was a very dead Maury, three shots to the heart.

And, over the sound of my heart beating very loudly, I could hear the sound of people out in the corridor, followed by pounding on the door.

Then, “Police.”

A second or two after that the door crashed open and six men came into the room, brandishing weapons and shouting for me to get on the floor and show my hands or I would be shot,”

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© Charles Heath 2020-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 38/39

Days 38 and 39 – Write a story that is difficult to write

I am trying to create a narrative that includes what I believe to be my grandmother’s manner

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Now, it was back to cruising, heading for Toulon, and then Naples, and I’d spent a few hours on deck watching the Mediterranean go by, as well as other ships, and a fair number of naval vessels.

It was going to get very hot if war broke out, with the dreadnoughts and battleships facing off against each other.  It would make Nelson’s battle of Trafalgar look very tame indeed.

There was another chair near, and I heard it scrape softly across the floor, then stop.  I glanced over at the girl as she sat down.  She had a magazine in hand, perhaps bought at the railway station to read on the train down to Tilbury.  She glanced around, taking in the situation and appeared to have also assessed the relative peacefulness of the corner.

“Miss Rose, oops, sorry, Rosalie.”

She frowned, then smiled, perhaps accepting that my upbringing would get in the way for a while yet.  We had already decided on first names, though I usually forgot, and manners slipped in, adding a Miss before it.  I should have correctly addressed her as Miss Willshire, but that seemed too formal.

“Privately, like this, I shall call you David.”

“Of course, and I agree with you.  I believe we can blame Debrett’s for the naming protocol.”

She looked puzzled

“Sorry, again.  There’s a book issued every year with all the titled people from the king down.  My father is in there, and unfortunately, so am I.”

“I’ll have to find one.  What does it say about you?”

“Third son, no chance of becoming the Duke, and unmarried.  I don’t know why that would be significant.”

She smiled.  Clearly, she knew something I didn’t.  She said, with a half grin, “To some, you would make an excellent match.  I’m sure there are mothers with plans for their daughters to marry into nobility.  Even some on this ship.”

Again, there was that knowing expression, and I wondered if any of the other girls had said anything.  I hoped I wasn’t giving them or anyone else the wrong impression.

“The eligibles would be in first class.  It’s why I travel second. I’m not worth anything, despite having a job.  Bills to pay, lifestyle to maintain, it’s ridiculous that I have to maintain a standard so the rest of the family can keep up appearances.  You’re lucky.  I understand your father was a well-respected businessman.”

“He was.  Builder of mostly terraces, I think.  Sometimes he worked on specific public buildings.  There’s stonework of his on display in Abergavenny.  I mean to go there one day and see it.”

“Unlike my family, who have no claim to have created a lasting reminder of our existence.”  It often bothered me that we were not making a difference, not in a manner that anyone in a hundred years would look back and see evidence of it.

“What do your parents think of you going to Australia, of all places?”

“My father died about six years back, and my mother, five.  But if they were alive, perhaps they would be a little pensive.  But I am going to visit my uncle’s son, Henry, and his daughter Emma, who is two years older than me.  We have been corresponding for quite some years, and she suggested I might come out, especially now I’m an orphan, of sorts.”

“No brothers and sisters?”

“I would have had another older brother, but he died 17 months after being born.  I know my mother took a while to get over that.  And father, given he was a son.”

It was not spoken with rancour, but there was that undercurrent of how different boys were treated.

“But I have a few stepbrothers and sisters, so I’m not alone.  I get to see them as well as my uncles and aunts from time to time.  But enough about me, you are far more interesting.  Tell me about your family.”

I would have said the opposite was true, but I gave her my usual spiel without glorifying the aristocracy like my brothers would, without making it sound better or worse and with sensitivity to others’ situations.  Not everyone was lucky to have parents like mine; if it could be said, being mired in tradition and expectation was a blessing.

It was clear to me she was not rich but comfortable.  She had the education and manners of a girl who went to decent schools.  She spoke well and was knowledgeable enough to hold her own in a conversation.  She was, however, a little shy or perhaps reserved, and I found that a quality rather than a problem.

And best of all, she made pleasant company of the sort that a companionable silence would not be seen as awkward.

“So,” she said at the end of it, “all children are the same. They just live in different houses.”

“I wish I could say that for some of the children in first class.  Proper little spoilt brats they are.”

I could see from her expression that she agreed but remained silent on the subject.  Those children had nannies travelling with them, but that didn’t guarantee obedience.  In our class, there were no nannies, and the mother coped.  By and large, they were well behaved, and now that the ship school had kicked in, there weren’t so many running around.

“They probably don’t get to see their parents as often,” she said, “with nannies and servants looking after them.  I was lucky my nanny cared, as did the domestic staff.  My father was away for business a lot, but my mother was always there.

“Then you were indeed lucky.  I’m not sure how I would categorise my experience other than that a lot of it was at boarding school.  My brothers loved it.  I hated it.”

“And yet here you are, and a lawyer as well.  My father always talked of sending me to University, but he died before I was of age, and my mother, bless her soul, didn’t believe in girls getting higher education, that our world was one of running a house and having children.  Can’t say the idea of that has appealed to me, but I’m sure that’s where I’ll end up, like it or lump it.”

“Do you work?”

A momentary flash of the eyes.  “Of course.  I have to support myself.  I have a great job in the drapery department at a large store in Gillingham.  Slade and Sons.  They allowed me to live there after my mother died, and the house we had wasn’t ours, so I couldn’t live there.  I’ve been at Gillingham almost since I turned sixteen.  I have been working towards becoming a milliner.”

Clearly, she could see that as a man, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I design and make hats for ladies, and sometimes they let me work on dresses.  I make all my own.”

For a confessed shop girl, she was so much more.  It explained the hat.  It explained her undeniable elegance, manner and self-confidence.

“Lady Penelope would absolutely love that blue hat you were wearing the day we boarded the ship.  It certainly stood out.”

She smiled.  “Thank you.”

Lady Penelope would like her dresses, too. “Perhaps if I give you an address, you could send a card.  I’m sure Lady Penelope would like to see what you can do for her.  She would definitely like your style.”

Understated but elegant, and yet I was sure Penelope would like to have a personal dress maker that wasn’t trying too hard to make a statement, the gist of her rant the last time she visited and bent my ear on a subject, there was no proper answer I could give to what I discovered was a rhetorical question.

I could see that the magazine she brought with her was about fashion.

“Again, thank you.  It is something I intend to explore when I go home.”

A steward appeared, and we ordered drinks.  I politely requested her to let me pay, but not in any way an obligation on her part for recompense.  I had an arrangement my father had set up, and why not lean on his generosity?

She accepted graciously, but I knew she would find a way to repay me.  It was going to make the voyage all the more interesting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026