Category: Fiction

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

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Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 4

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

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Setting Sail for Adventure: Decorum and Debauchery in Second Class, 1914

The modern cruise ship, with its all-you-can-eat buffets and poolside revelry, often conjures images of an exuberant, perhaps even uninhibited, youth. It’s easy to imagine young adults embracing a spirit of “live for the moment” on a contemporary voyage. But what about their ancestors, embarking on a similar, albeit far more arduous, journey a century ago? Specifically, what were the acceptable social norms for young people travelling in second class from England to Australia in 1914, and how might they have comported themselves, a world away from today’s cruise ship scene?

The very idea of “acceptable social norms” in 1914 is a stark contrast to our contemporary understanding. Society was far more rigid, with deeply ingrained expectations regarding behaviour, dress, and social interaction, especially for young, unmarried individuals. The journey from England to Australia, often a voyage lasting weeks and involving significant time in close quarters, would have been a microcosm of these societal standards.

Second Class in 1914: A Different Kind of Journey

First class, of course, was the domain of the wealthy and aristocratic, with its own set of gilded rules. But second class, while not as opulent, still offered a degree of comfort and privacy that distinguished it from steerage. Passengers in second class were generally of the middle and upper-middle classes – professionals, skilled tradespeople, and those with respectable means. The expectation was that they would carry themselves with a degree of decorum befitting their social standing.

For young women, the norms were particularly stringent:

  • Chaperonage: Unmarried young women were rarely expected to travel unaccompanied. If they were travelling alone, it was usually for a specific, respectable purpose, like joining family or taking up employment as a governess. Even then, they would have been expected to be discreet and avoid drawing undue attention. If travelling with friends of a similar age, a more senior female relative or acquaintance would ideally be present to offer guidance and supervision.
  • Dress: Modesty was paramount. Dresses would be long-sleeved and ankle-length, with high necklines. Even for leisure, elaborate hats and gloves might be worn for meals or time spent on deck. Casual wear as we know it simply didn’t exist.
  • Social Interaction: Interactions with young men would have been carefully managed. Polite conversation was acceptable, but prolonged or overly familiar interactions would have been frowned upon. Any hint of romantic entanglement would have been a serious matter, potentially impacting a young woman’s reputation and future prospects. Flirtation, if it occurred, would have been subtle and masked by propriety.
  • Activities: While there would have been opportunities for socialising on deck, activities would have been more sedate. Reading, embroidery, letter writing, and quiet conversation would have been common. Group card games or board games might have been played, but always with an air of polite engagement.

For young men, the expectations, while perhaps slightly less restrictive than for women, were still substantial:

  • Respect and Deference: Young men were expected to show respect to their elders and to ladies. Overt displays of bravado or boisterous behaviour would have been considered ill-mannered.
  • Dress: Formal attire was often the norm for dinner, even in second class. Suits, ties, and smart shoes would be expected.
  • Activities: While they might have engaged in more active pursuits on deck, such as deck quoits or walking, they would still have maintained a civil demeanour. Engaging in gambling or heavy drinking would have been seen as unsavoury.
  • Interactions with Women: As with young women, interactions would have been governed by politeness. Overtures towards unmarried women would have been inappropriate and could have led to social ostracisation for both parties.

A Hypothetical Voyage: England to Australia in 1914

So, if those same young people who might now be “perpetually drunk and promiscuous” on a modern cruise were instead on a 1914 voyage from England to Australia in second class, what would their experience likely have been?

Instead of loud music and raucous parties, imagine:

  • Quiet Evenings on Deck: Young women might be found seated with their companions, perhaps engaged in conversation or a quiet game of cards, while young men stroll nearby, exchanging polite greetings.
  • Respectful Pursuits: Reading novels, writing letters home detailing the voyage, or perhaps learning a new skill like sketching the passing scenery. Evenings might involve listening to a fellow passenger play the piano or attending a small, organised lecture.
  • Carefully Navigated Social Circles: Any developing friendships would be nurtured within the watchful gaze of chaperones or the implicit understanding of societal expectations. A stolen glance or a whispered conversation might be the extent of any budding romance.
  • A Sense of Purpose: This was not a holiday for most. Many were emigrating for a new life, seeking opportunities, or reuniting with family. The journey itself was a significant undertaking, often involving a considerable financial and emotional investment. This inherent seriousness would have tempered any inclination towards frivolous behaviour.

What about the “drunk and promiscuous” aspect?

While alcohol was certainly available and consumed, the levels of public intoxication seen on some modern cruises would have been highly scandalous. Drunkenness would have been seen as a sign of poor breeding and lack of self-control. Promiscuity would have been even more damaging, carrying severe social repercussions for all involved. The fear of gossip and the potential ruin of one’s reputation would have been a powerful deterrent.

In essence, the young passengers of 1914, second class, were confined by a much stricter social contract. Their interactions would have been characterised by restraint, politeness, and a keen awareness of their social standing and future prospects. While a spark of youthful exuberance might have still flickered, it would have been expressed through more subtle means – perhaps a shared laugh during a formal dinner, a spirited debate on deck, or the shy exchange of a dance card at a rare shipboard social event. It was a world where decorum reigned, and the consequences of transgressing those norms were far more severe than a few disapproving glances on a modern cruise.

Writing about writing a book – Research – 11

Background material used in researching the Vietnam war and various other aspects of that period

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Agent Orange

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Agent Orange: The Poisonous Legacy of Environmental Warfare in Vietnam

The Vietnam War was a conflict defined by brutal jungle warfare, unconventional tactics, and an enemy often indistinguishable from the dense landscape. As the war escalated, the U.S. military faced a massive tactical roadblock: the triple-canopy jungle provided impenetrable concealment for Viet Cong forces, allowing ambushes and safeguarding critical supply routes like the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

In response, the U.S. authorized a controversial initiative known as Operation Ranch Hand (1962–1971), a large-scale program of chemical warfare—specifically, the deployment of toxic herbicides designed to strip the jungle bare. At the peak of this effort stood a compound with lasting, devastating consequences: Agent Orange.

This post explores precisely what Agent Orange was, how it was deployed, and the indelible mark it left on both the soldiers who sprayed it and the people whose homeland was poisoned.

1. What Was Agent Orange?

Agent Orange was not a typical battlefield weapon designed to kill immediately. It was a tactical herbicide, an effort in environmental warfare designed to achieve two strategic goals:

  1. Defoliation: Stripping the jungle canopy to deny the Viet Cong cover and increase visibility for aerial surveillance and ground patrols.
  2. Crop Destruction: Eliminating enemy food sources in rural areas to disrupt supply chains and pressure the civilian population.

The Chemical Composition

The compound was a fifty-fifty mix of two powerful, commercially available herbicides: 2,4-D and 2,4,5-T. It was named “Agent Orange” simply because of the distinctive orange stripe painted on the 55-gallon drums used for storage.

The true source of its lethal long-term danger, however, was a byproduct of the manufacturing process for 2,4,5-T: TCDD Dioxin (2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzo-p-dioxin). Dioxin is one of the most toxic substances known to man. Even trace amounts are highly carcinogenic and teratogenic (capable of causing birth defects).

Crucially, when Agent Orange was first deployed, many U.S. personnel were told the chemical was harmless, simply a strong form of weed killer.

2. Deployment: Operation Ranch Hand

The goal of Operation Ranch Hand was summarized chillingly by its crews: “Only you can prevent forests.”

Deployment required a massive, coordinated logistical effort across South Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.

Methods of Application

The vast majority of Agent Orange—over 11 million gallons—was deployed via aerial spraying from 1965 to 1970.

  • Fixed-Wing Aircraft: The primary spray platform was the C-123 Provider transport plane. These planes were modified with large tanks and external spray booms, flying low (often just 150 feet above the canopy) and at slow speeds to ensure maximum coverage.
  • Helicopters and Ground Vehicles: Smaller quantities were sprayed by helicopters and applied from backpacks and trucks around base perimeters, supply depots, and waterways.
  • Massive Quantities: The spraying was not targeted or precise. To achieve the required defoliation, the herbicide was often applied at concentrations 6 to 25 times higher than the levels recommended by the manufacturers for ordinary use.

The chemicals soaked the vegetation, the soil, the waterways, and, inevitably, the people and animals caught below.

Environmental Impact

The operational scope resulted in catastrophic ecological damage. Over 10% of South Vietnam’s territory—including vast tracts of dense mangrove forests and inland forests—was sprayed, often multiple times. This not only destroyed the existing ecosystem but contaminated the food chain and rendered countless acres of land useless for agriculture for decades.

3. The Hidden Wound: Effects on Those Deploying It

For U.S. servicemen—whether pilots flying the C-123s, ground crews mixing and loading the drums, or infantry patrolling recently sprayed areas—exposure was unavoidable. They breathed the mist, swam in contaminated rivers, and handled leaking barrels.

The tragic revelation for these veterans was that the “harmless weed killer” they were exposed to led to devastating, delayed-onset health crises decades later.

Recognized Health Conditions

The Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) now recognizes a long list of presumptive illnesses linked to Agent Orange exposure. These include:

  • Cancers: Prostate cancer, respiratory cancers, multiple myeloma, Hodgkin’s and non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
  • Systemic Diseases: Parkinson’s disease, Type 2 diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, and ischemic heart disease.
  • Chloracne: A severe, persistent skin disorder caused by dioxin exposure.

Intergenerational Tragedy

Perhaps the most heartbreaking effect on American veterans was the impact on their children and grandchildren. The VA recognizes that veterans’ children may suffer from certain birth defects, particularly Spina Bifida. This realization transformed Agent Orange from a personal battle into an intergenerational health crisis for thousands of American families.

Recognition and compensation for these illnesses were slow, often requiring decades of legal battles and scientific research to confirm the painful connection between their service and their sickness.

4. The Lasting Scars: Effects on the Enemy and Local Population

While U.S. personnel suffered delayed exposure, Vietnamese citizens—especially those living in heavily sprayed areas or near former U.S. bases where chemicals were stored—suffered direct and sustained exposure, leading to environmental disaster and a profound humanitarian crisis that continues today.

Human Health Catastrophe

The effects of high-level dioxin exposure in Vietnam were immediate and catastrophic. Generations have been born with severe and debilitating birth defects, resulting in conditions often referred to collectively as Agent Orange Defects (AO-related disabilities). These include severe cognitive and physical disabilities, missing limbs, profound intellectual impairment, and complex medical issues.

Estimates suggest that up to three million Vietnamese people have been affected by Agent Orange, including hundreds of thousands of children born with birth defects. The physical and economic burden on families caring for severely disabled relatives is immense.

Contamination Hotspots

The dioxin contaminant is highly persistent, bonding closely with soil and sediment. Even decades after the war, high concentrations of dioxin remain in certain “hotspots,” primarily former U.S. airbases (like Bien Hoa and Da Nang) where barrels were handled, spilled, and often buried. These areas continue to poison the local environment and population, contaminating fish, poultry, and crops.

The Enduring Poison

Agent Orange represented a radical departure in modern warfare, relying not on explosions but on systematic environmental destruction. It was intended to be a swift tactical solution to end a jungle war. Instead, it created an enduring humanitarian crisis that continues to plague Vietnam and the U.S. veteran community.

The legacy of Agent Orange serves as a dark reminder that some weapons continue to inflict wounds long after the final shots are fired, forcing governments and societies to reckon with the profound, catastrophic cost of environmental warfare.

The 2am Rant: A blank look means you’re in another world

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.  That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

Writing a book in 365 days – 321

Day 321

What will happen to the hero?

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The Novelist’s Secret: We’re Just As Curious As You Are

We all know the feeling. It’s midnight, the house is dark, and you are gripping the latest thriller, utterly unable to put it down. Your heart pounds, palms sweat, and the only certainty in the universe is the desperate need to know: Will the hero survive?

This is the glorious, undeniable suspense of the reader. We assume this thrill is exclusive to us—the consumers of the story.

But what if I told you that, sitting across the desk, hunched over a lukewarm cup of coffee and a blinking cursor, the person crafting the plot is often experiencing the very same, stomach-dropping curiosity?

The prevailing image of the novelist is that of an omniscient deity, a master architect meticulously placing every brick, knowing how the structure must inevitably fall. While some writers certainly embody this role—the celebrated “plotters”—the deepest, most resonant stories often emerge when the creator surrenders control and becomes, quite simply, the hero’s most dedicated and most anxious first reader.

The suspense of a novel is not only in the reader but also in the novelist, who is equally curious about what will happen to the hero. This is the great secret of discovery writing: The story is not written; it is uncovered.

The Myth of the Master Plan

For those who write by “discovery” (often affectionately termed “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants), the process is less like following a blueprint and more like exploring a vast, uncharted cave. You have a flashlight (your protagonist’s core motivation) and a general direction, but you have no idea if the path ahead leads to a treasure chamber or a sudden, terrifying drop.

When a writer starts a story this way, the suspense is inherent in every word. Every time the protagonist is confronted with a choice, the author holds their breath, asking:

Will he take the risk, or play it safe?
Will she finally tell the truth, even though it ruins everything?
Is this conflict a dead end, or a pivot point?
This is not simple intellectual curiosity; it is a genuine, existential stake in the outcome. The novelist is betting their time, their craft, and the integrity of the entire manuscript on the hero making an organic, believable next move—a move the novelist themselves must wait to witness.

When Characters Take the Wheel

The moment a character truly comes alive is the moment they cease being a puppet for the writer’s agenda and become an autonomous force.

This is the thrilling, terrifying point of no return for the author. The character stops doing what the outline demands and starts doing what they would logically do, given their history, flaws, and desires.

Many authors describe this sensation. Characters rebel. They refuse to fall in love with the intended partner. They walked out of the room when they were supposed to deliver a crucial monologue. They exhibit an inconvenient, but utterly truthful, streak of self-sabotage that the author never planned.

When this happens, the novelist’s job shifts from creator to witness. We are no longer designing the journey; we are scrambling to keep up, racing down the page just to see how our heroes will resolve the mess they’ve just made.

This is the purest form of writerly suspense. We are tied to the narrative not just by obligation, but by a sudden, intense fear for our creation. Will this impulsive decision ruin the story? Or will it, astonishingly, unlock the one perfect plot twist we never saw coming?

The Unique Burden of the Author’s Suspense

The reader’s suspense is passive; it is the anticipation of consumption. The author’s suspense, however, is active; it is the anxiety of creation and execution.

An author’s curiosity isn’t just about what happens, but about how they are going to manage to write it convincingly.

If the hero is trapped in a burning building, the reader wonders: How will he get out?

The novelist wonders: How will he get out, and can I write that scene with enough detail, tension, and structural integrity that the whole book doesn’t collapse at this crucial moment?

The novelist’s curiosity is perpetually interwoven with the demands of craft. We are curious about the outcome, but we are also desperately curious about our own ability to deliver that outcome flawlessly. We are thrilled by the uncertainty, but burdened by the knowledge that we are responsible for making that uncertainty pay off.

The Beautiful Surrender

To create genuine suspense for the reader, the writer must first allow themselves to feel it. The greatest narratives are not those where the author is in total control, but those where the author has surrendered enough control to be genuinely surprised.

If the author already knows every character beat, every twist, and every final line, the writing process can become mechanical and stale—and that flatness will invariably translate to the finished page.

The writer who is slightly nervous, slightly unsure, and deeply invested in the fate of their protagonist is the writer who is pouring genuine, fresh energy into the text.

So the next time you are lost in a book, turning pages in a fever pitch of excitement, remember the person who wrote it. They may have been turning those internal pages just as quickly, hoping, fearing, and discovering the story right alongside you.

This shared curiosity—this simultaneous suspense binding creator and consumer—is perhaps the purest magic of the human-authored novel. It is the moment we realise that writing is not the act of manufacturing an inevitability, but the wondrous challenge of documenting a life that insists on being lived.

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

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Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

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whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 321

Day 321

What will happen to the hero?

…

The Novelist’s Secret: We’re Just As Curious As You Are

We all know the feeling. It’s midnight, the house is dark, and you are gripping the latest thriller, utterly unable to put it down. Your heart pounds, palms sweat, and the only certainty in the universe is the desperate need to know: Will the hero survive?

This is the glorious, undeniable suspense of the reader. We assume this thrill is exclusive to us—the consumers of the story.

But what if I told you that, sitting across the desk, hunched over a lukewarm cup of coffee and a blinking cursor, the person crafting the plot is often experiencing the very same, stomach-dropping curiosity?

The prevailing image of the novelist is that of an omniscient deity, a master architect meticulously placing every brick, knowing how the structure must inevitably fall. While some writers certainly embody this role—the celebrated “plotters”—the deepest, most resonant stories often emerge when the creator surrenders control and becomes, quite simply, the hero’s most dedicated and most anxious first reader.

The suspense of a novel is not only in the reader but also in the novelist, who is equally curious about what will happen to the hero. This is the great secret of discovery writing: The story is not written; it is uncovered.

The Myth of the Master Plan

For those who write by “discovery” (often affectionately termed “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants), the process is less like following a blueprint and more like exploring a vast, uncharted cave. You have a flashlight (your protagonist’s core motivation) and a general direction, but you have no idea if the path ahead leads to a treasure chamber or a sudden, terrifying drop.

When a writer starts a story this way, the suspense is inherent in every word. Every time the protagonist is confronted with a choice, the author holds their breath, asking:

Will he take the risk, or play it safe?
Will she finally tell the truth, even though it ruins everything?
Is this conflict a dead end, or a pivot point?
This is not simple intellectual curiosity; it is a genuine, existential stake in the outcome. The novelist is betting their time, their craft, and the integrity of the entire manuscript on the hero making an organic, believable next move—a move the novelist themselves must wait to witness.

When Characters Take the Wheel

The moment a character truly comes alive is the moment they cease being a puppet for the writer’s agenda and become an autonomous force.

This is the thrilling, terrifying point of no return for the author. The character stops doing what the outline demands and starts doing what they would logically do, given their history, flaws, and desires.

Many authors describe this sensation. Characters rebel. They refuse to fall in love with the intended partner. They walked out of the room when they were supposed to deliver a crucial monologue. They exhibit an inconvenient, but utterly truthful, streak of self-sabotage that the author never planned.

When this happens, the novelist’s job shifts from creator to witness. We are no longer designing the journey; we are scrambling to keep up, racing down the page just to see how our heroes will resolve the mess they’ve just made.

This is the purest form of writerly suspense. We are tied to the narrative not just by obligation, but by a sudden, intense fear for our creation. Will this impulsive decision ruin the story? Or will it, astonishingly, unlock the one perfect plot twist we never saw coming?

The Unique Burden of the Author’s Suspense

The reader’s suspense is passive; it is the anticipation of consumption. The author’s suspense, however, is active; it is the anxiety of creation and execution.

An author’s curiosity isn’t just about what happens, but about how they are going to manage to write it convincingly.

If the hero is trapped in a burning building, the reader wonders: How will he get out?

The novelist wonders: How will he get out, and can I write that scene with enough detail, tension, and structural integrity that the whole book doesn’t collapse at this crucial moment?

The novelist’s curiosity is perpetually interwoven with the demands of craft. We are curious about the outcome, but we are also desperately curious about our own ability to deliver that outcome flawlessly. We are thrilled by the uncertainty, but burdened by the knowledge that we are responsible for making that uncertainty pay off.

The Beautiful Surrender

To create genuine suspense for the reader, the writer must first allow themselves to feel it. The greatest narratives are not those where the author is in total control, but those where the author has surrendered enough control to be genuinely surprised.

If the author already knows every character beat, every twist, and every final line, the writing process can become mechanical and stale—and that flatness will invariably translate to the finished page.

The writer who is slightly nervous, slightly unsure, and deeply invested in the fate of their protagonist is the writer who is pouring genuine, fresh energy into the text.

So the next time you are lost in a book, turning pages in a fever pitch of excitement, remember the person who wrote it. They may have been turning those internal pages just as quickly, hoping, fearing, and discovering the story right alongside you.

This shared curiosity—this simultaneous suspense binding creator and consumer—is perhaps the purest magic of the human-authored novel. It is the moment we realise that writing is not the act of manufacturing an inevitability, but the wondrous challenge of documenting a life that insists on being lived.

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me,  you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 3

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

…

The Unravelling Threads: Class, Gender, and the Dawn of a New Social Order in Edwardian England (Pre-1913 to Women’s Suffrage)

Abstract

This paper examines the profound social transformations occurring in England leading up to 1913 and culminating in women’s suffrage. It argues that the rigid, tripartite class structure (First, Second, Third) was in an advanced state of disintegration, driven by increased education, improved economic prospects for many, and a challenge to traditional hierarchies. Concurrently, women, empowered by growing educational and employment opportunities and frustrated by their subordinate legal and political status, increasingly rejected the confines of the domestic sphere. This paper charts the interconnected shifts: the erosion of aristocratic power, the rise of the educated and organised working man, and the burgeoning feminist consciousness that relentlessly pushed for political inclusion, ultimately securing the vote as a symbol of a fundamentally altered social landscape.

Introduction

By the autumn of 1913, England, seemingly secure in its imperial grandeur, was in fact undergoing a profound and irreversible social metamorphosis. The Victorian certainties of a hierarchical, class-driven society were fraying under the weight of economic change, educational advancement, and an increasingly vocal demand for social and political justice. The notion of a strictly defined “first, second, and third class” was disintegrating, giving way to a more fluid, complex, and contested social order. Concomitantly, the traditional role of women, once confined almost exclusively to the domestic realm, was being vigorously challenged. Education, employment, and a growing consciousness of their disenfranchisement spurred women to demand more than just children, hearth, and husband. This paper will explore these parallel and often intersecting trajectories, charting the general shift from a static, class-driven society before 1913 to the pivotal moment when women finally secured the parliamentary vote, demonstrating how these societal changes irrevocably altered the fabric of British life.

The Erosion of the First Class: Nobility in Decline

Throughout the 19th century, the British social hierarchy was ostensibly topped by the aristocracy and landed gentry – the “First Class.” Their power derived from inherited land, wealth, and a virtual monopoly on political office in both Houses of Parliament. However, by the late Victorian and Edwardian periods, their pre-eminence was under severe strain. The agricultural depression of the late 19th century drastically reduced rental incomes, diminishing the economic foundation of their power. Concurrently, the rise of industrial and commercial wealth created a new plutocracy that could rival, if not surpass, the traditional landed elites. New money, often earned through manufacturing, finance, or colonial ventures, began to infiltrate the upper echelons, sometimes through strategic marriages with impoverished gentry, further blurring the lines of inherited status.

Moreover, death duties, introduced and increased by Liberal governments (notably the “People’s Budget” of 1909), systematically eroded inherited wealth, forcing the sale of ancestral lands and estates. The burgeoning meritocracy, fuelled by expanding educational opportunities, also challenged the notion of inherited privilege as the sole determinant of leadership. While titles and social prestige still held currency, the aristocracy’s direct political power was diminished, especially in the House of Commons, and their social authority increasingly rested on an image of continuity rather than actual economic or political dominance. The shift was palpable: old wealth was struggling to maintain its footing against the surging tide of new wealth and new ideas.

The Diminished Ruling Classes and the Ascent of the Middle and Working Man

The “ruling classes” – traditionally comprising the aristocracy and the upper echelons of the gentry and clergy – found their influence diluted not only by the decline of old money but also by the rise of an expanded and increasingly professionalised middle class. This “Second Class,” encompassing industrialists, merchants, bankers, doctors, lawyers, and civil servants, derived its power from expertise, capital, and administrative competence rather than land. With the expansion of the empire and the burgeoning complexities of modern governance and economy, their practical and intellectual contributions became indispensable. They filled the ranks of local councils, managed vast commercial enterprises, and staffed the burgeoning bureaucracy, effectively taking over many of the administrative and professional functions once loosely held by the gentry.

Crucially, below them, the “working man” – historically considered the “Third Class” – was indeed forging ahead. The Elementary Education Act of 1870, followed by subsequent legislation, made education compulsory for all children, significantly raising literacy rates and opening doors to better-paid, skilled employment. This created a more knowledgeable and politically conscious populace. Improved wages, particularly for skilled workers in growing industries, meant a higher standard of living for many. The rise of powerful trade unions, such as the Amalgamated Society of Engineers and the Miners’ Federation of Great Britain, provided collective bargaining power that challenged the absolute authority of employers. Landmark legal victories, like the Trades Disputes Act of 1906, solidified their right to strike and organise.

Politically, the extension of the franchise through the Reform Acts of 1867 and 1884 enfranchised a significant proportion of working-class men, fundamentally altering the electoral landscape. This paved the way for the emergence of the Labour Party in 1900, which provided a distinct political voice for the working class, advocating for social welfare, workers’ rights, and a more equitable distribution of wealth. By 1913, the working man was no longer a silent, passive force; he was increasingly educated, organised, and politically assertive, demanding a greater share in the nation’s prosperity and governance. This shift from deference to demand was a cornerstone of the unravelling class system.

The Awakening of Women: Education, Aspiration, and Discontent

Parallel to these shifts in class structure, an equally profound transformation was occurring in the social expectations and aspirations of women. For centuries, the ideal of the “Angel in the House” confined middle and upper-class women to the domestic sphere, while working-class women often toiled in arduous, low-paid labour simply to survive. However, by 1913, this paradigm was collapsing under the weight of new opportunities and growing discontent.

The expansion of girls’ education was a primary catalyst. Institutions like the Girls’ Public Day School Trust, established in 1872, offered rigorous academic curricula, moving beyond mere accomplishments to genuine intellectual training. Crucially, the establishment of women’s colleges at Oxford (Lady Margaret Hall, Somerville) and Cambridge (Girton, Newnham) in the late 19th century, along with the admission of women to London University degrees, provided pathways to higher education previously unimaginable. Girls, increasingly, wanted better education prospects and the opportunity to go to university, not merely to become more accomplished wives, but to pursue professions and intellectual lives.

This educational revolution coincided with new employment opportunities. The late 19th and early 20th centuries saw the growth of “feminised” professions like teaching and nursing, as well as the burgeoning fields of clerical work (typists, secretaries) and retail. While these jobs were often lower-paid and carried less prestige than male-dominated professions, they offered financial independence and a public role beyond the home. Women were no longer content to have children, stay at home, and tend to their husbands; they wanted careers, intellectual stimulation, and a life of purpose that transcended domesticity.

Legal reforms also facilitated this shift. The Married Women’s Property Acts of 1870 and 1882 were revolutionary, granting married women the right to own and control their own earnings and property, rather than having them automatically revert to their husbands. This significantly improved their economic autonomy and legal standing, laying the groundwork for greater independence.

The Fight for Political Agency: From Social Reform to Suffrage

The growing educational and economic empowerment of women inevitably led to demands for political inclusion. Women, increasingly involved in social reform movements (temperance, poverty relief, public health), recognised the intrinsic link between their lack of political power and their inability to effect meaningful change. They observed that while male factory workers, coal miners, and agricultural labourers had been granted the vote, educated, tax-paying women remained disenfranchised.

The suffrage movement, which had roots in the mid-19th century, gained significant momentum in the period leading up to 1913. It is divided broadly into two wings:

  1. The National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies (NUWSS): Led by Millicent Garrett Fawcett, the “Suffragists” employed constitutional and peaceful methods – petitions, lobbying MPs, public meetings, and propaganda. Their arguments centred on equality, justice, and the idea that women’s unique moral insights were necessary for good governance.
  2. The Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU): Founded by Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters Christabel and Sylvia, the “Suffragettes” adopted more militant tactics from 1905 onwards. Frustrated by the slow pace of constitutional change, they engaged in civil disobedience, property damage (window smashing, arson), hunger strikes, and public disruption, famously employing the slogan “Deeds, not Words.” While controversial, their actions brought unprecedented publicity to the cause, forcing it onto the national political agenda.

By 1913, the suffrage movement was a powerful, albeit divided, force, having successfully articulated the fundamental injustice of female political exclusion. The arguments against women’s suffrage — that women were too emotional, intellectually inferior, or that their participation would corrupt politics and abandon the home — were increasingly seen as outdated and indefensible in the face of women’s demonstrated capabilities and contributions to society.

The Catalyst of War and the Culmination of Change (1914-1918)

The outbreak of the First World War in August 1914 temporarily halted the militant suffrage campaign, as the WSPU, in particular, threw its weight behind the war effort. This proved to be a pivotal moment. With millions of men going to the front, women stepped into roles previously deemed exclusively male: working in munitions factories (the “munitionettes”), driving ambulances, working on farms, conducting clerical work, and taking on jobs in public transport. Their indispensable contribution to the war effort shattered any remaining arguments about their physical and mental incapacity. The war demonstrated, unequivocally, that women were capable, patriotic citizens, essential to the nation’s survival.

The war also highlighted the practical absurdity of the existing franchise laws. Many soldiers at the front, having been away from home for extended periods, no longer met the property qualifications to vote. There was a political consensus that a new franchise act was necessary to enfranchise these returning servicemen. The opportunity arose to include women within this reform. The selfless service of women during the war, coupled with the strategic abandonment of militancy by the suffragettes, created an undeniable moral and political imperative for reform.

Finally, in 1918, the Representation of the People Act was passed. This landmark legislation granted the vote to women over 30 who met minimum property qualifications (either as householders or wives of householders, or as university graduates), and simultaneously enfranchised all men over 21. While not full universal suffrage (which would come in 1928, granting women the vote on the same terms as men), the 1918 Act represented a monumental victory. It was a recognition not just of women’s war effort, but also of the decades of growing educational attainment, economic independence, and persistent political agitation that had preceded it. The “first class” was largely gone, the “ruling classes” diffused, the working man empowered, and now, a significant portion of women had also gained a direct voice in shaping their nation’s future.

Conclusion

The period leading up to 1913 and culminating in the 1918 Representation of the People Act witnessed a seismic shift in English society. The rigid, inherited class structure, which had defined social and political life for centuries, was indeed disintegrating. The nobility struggled under economic pressures and a rising meritocracy, while the traditional “ruling classes” found their influence diluted by an expanding professional middle class. Concurrently, the working man, empowered by education, trade unionism, and the franchise, was forging ahead, demanding greater social and economic justice.

Crucially, these changes did not occur in isolation from the burgeoning aspirations of women. As girls gained unprecedented access to education and women increasingly entered the workforce, they rejected the narrow confines of the domestic sphere. This collective awakening, coupled with legal reforms and decades of organised political activism, laid the groundwork for the suffrage movement. The First World War acted as a powerful accelerant, decisively demonstrating women’s indispensable role in national life and making their continued political disenfranchisement untenable.

The granting of the vote to women in 1918 was not merely a legislative act; it was a profound symbol of a new social contract. It marked the formal acknowledgment that the old order, based on inherited privilege, patriarchal authority, and rigid class divisions, had irrevocably passed. England, by 1918, had moved significantly towards a more inclusive, albeit still imperfect, society – one where education, economic contribution, and gender, rather than simply birthright, increasingly defined an individual’s place and political agency. The threads of the old class system had unravelled, paving the way for a more complex tapestry of social and political identities, forever changing the landscape of British democracy.