Chapter 2 & the Passing of Titanic into History

I was awoken at a little after 6am with a phone call to inform me that Millvina Dean, the last survivor of RMS Titanic, had died in Southampton, England. I was saddened to hear about her passing as I had visited Southampton during the UK launch tour of 209 A Story. She was unwell at the time but I am fortunate to now count among my souveniers of the tour, a signed photograph of RMS Titanic. With her passing comes the last living connection to the great ship. I have also come to appreciate that many, many fans of Titanic will be moved by her passing. She was a very nice old lady whose life had been shaped by an event that she was too young to recall. May she now rest in peace.

Thank you to all of those people who have sent me email regarding the novel and telling me how much they have been enjoying it - but I will add, at this point, I am not upset when I receive email telling me that I have been the reason for several 'late nights' as those people who are reading 209 A Story, 'fall into the novel' and 'can't put it down'! (what a compliment!)

Have a nice week everyone.

Cheers Steven

Chapter 2

Valenciennes - Northern France 1918.


And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted - "Open then the Door!
You know how little time we have to stay,
And once departed, may return no more."
The Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyám 12th Century
…and often quoted by British Troops as they went into Battle during World War I



‘The name is Edward Parfett, but you can call me, Ned,’ he offered with a thick cockney accent and a forced smile
Ned saluted.
His smile was no longer the natural boyish grin that would usually accompany an introduction to someone. Here, late afternoon in a wet and muddy field, was an old man’s mind in the body of a younger man; and who was only a few years older than the turn of the century.
The spattering of rain ceased.
The relentless sound of shelling continued in the distance, the sound of which was both pernicious and horrifying.
The Western Front, in the autumn of 1918, was little more than fields upon fields of death. Hundreds of thousands of men had become heroes; dying in the most disgusting and brutal way possible. The many thousands who remained on the front line had now witnessed the true meaning of hell on earth. To the majority, the actuality of this war numbed their sensibility to the true horror that was present.
As the two men shook hands briefly, Joseph McGuire took one step back and stroked his somewhat protruding jaw; a habit he had only recently acquired.
‘I have met you before, Ned. Almost a year ago,’ said Joseph.
His twenty-five year old face was unfamiliar now.
It was another outcome of the war. It changed the men who had survived. The once healthy faces that shone with the ideals of the British Empire were beginning to fade. Eyes were greyed and dulled, features drawn and gaunt, and once full and proud moustaches had become similar to discarded, out of season, pine needles strewn across the ground.
Ned’s eyes searched his expression momentarily for some sign by which to identify Joseph McGuire …but still nothing.
‘The Captain wishes to see you immediately, Ned,’
That one directive generated recognition.
Two pigeons flew overhead.
Second-Lieutenant Joseph McGuire was acting as secretary to Captain James Roxbrough, who was in command of the Royal Artillery 126th Brigade, 37th Division, and based at, Valenciennes, in northern France. He had been at his post since the horrendous winter of the previous year. It had been forty winters since Europe had seen such conditions.
These meteorological elements affected both sides equally.
He had indeed met him on a previous occasion. Almost twelve months previous Gunner Parfett had been awarded a military medal for service and gallantry as a dispatch rider. Ned’s abilities during his brief military career had been flexible and varied with a soldierly persona, consistent and alert.
Knowing the drill, Ned stood to attention, and saluted again.
Both men walked off in different directions.
The falling of the rain recommenced.
The audible sounds of shelling in the distance remained… still as deadly and still as horrific.

A Sneak at the Unedited Version of 209 A Story

I have decided to include in my blog a snippet from each of the unedited chapters of 209 A Story... (which ended up being the first edition run of the novel - numbering only 500)... yes... it has been interesting getting the feedback becuase you have some who are SO happy to have a copy of the 'unedited' version... and others who are less than pleased. All I can do is make the most of the mistake and wish them well on ebay... tee hee... I hope u enjoy it... have a good week... Steve

Chapter 1

Balmoral Castle Scotland

15^th April 1865

‘Your Majesty’ said Charlotte as she lowered into a deep, respectful courtesy.

The Queen moved somewhat uncomfortably in her seat while appearing to look directly through the pale figure that stood three paces from the edge of her large, cluttered mahogany desk. The momentary silence broken with the crunching sound of the crinolines of the Queen’s black mourning dress as she regained her composure. Wafting pulses of lilac drew Charlotte’s attention to the porcelain vase on a table, off to one side and filled with spring flowers of daisies, early roses, laburnums and, of course, several sprigs of lilac.

‘After I became Queen in 1837, my first Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, suggested that it was impossible for a woman to stand alone for any time, in whatever position she may be.’ Raising her slender eyebrows alluded to the Queen’s opinion of such a statement and a slight dignified smile appeared on the sovereigns lips.

A wave of her right hand was the command for the slight twenty-five year-old to take a seat in the Royal Presence.

That late Saturday afternoon was uncharacteristically warm; especially for the north of Scotland. The pinkish clouds were visible from the large bay window and the manatee, opal coloured sky was a canvas on which the clouds floated without purpose, or direction.

Upon the grey and red tartan covered chair, Charlotte sat upright with her shoulders back. This was generally the way in which she sat but on this occasion she was overly conscious of her posture. Her petite hands nestled into the folds of her full skirt and her blue eyes did not move from the face of her Sovereign who continued to move things around on her desk. Typical of the fashion of the day, her long mouse coloured hair was rolled into the up-swept style and framed a pleasant rounded face, wearing no makeup, for it was forbidden in all Royal Households and the only jewellery being a small silver cross that was attached to a long, thin chain. While waiting for her audience to continue, Charlotte was conscious that her breathing had quickened the instant she walked into the room.

Across the table, lay several leaves of paper; a mixture of hand written and printed text and other thickened cards of various images. On one particular piece was an illustration of a grand celebration at Taymouth Castle; on another a small group of people rowing out across Loch Tay and, quite visible on the third, was an engraving of the novelist, Sir Walter Scott.

The large sitting room at Balmoral Castle in the Scottish Highlands was a welcomed retreat for the widowed Queen of four agonising years. The entire room was furnished in the same tartan; the design of which had been by the Consort himself. The ceiling mouldings were brightly coloured and on the wall were several paintings of stags and local landscapes; all in keeping with the ancient Scottish heritage. It was comfortable, for it was a place in which the Queen worked on her papers, corresponded with members of her growing family, and a place she would often listen to the readings of Dr Norman Macleod, the local minister at Crathie Church, while she would operate one of her several spinning wheels.

Continuing to shuffle papers, purposefully, Her Majesty wrote several times in the generous margins of each printed transcripts. The notes were edits for the first edition of her, 'Highland Journal'.

From left to right the large blotter rolled several times in her tiny hand before straining forward and returning it to its tamarind coloured leather stand.

Atop the fireplace the ticking from a wooden clock set the pace.

‘Charlotte, you have always been very special to me … and to Prince Albert.' she added reflectively. 'The day, on which you were born, was the very same day as our marriage,’ Her thoughts wondered fleetingly to the memory of a cupid writing the date on a scroll placed across its knees that adorned the Queen’s three hundred pound, multi-tiered wedding cake … ‘10^th February 1840’.

A brief and somewhat nervous smile now came to Charlotte’s face as she fiddled with a linen handkerchief trimmed with Honiton lace. It had once belonged to the consort of King George III, her namesake, and had been a gift from her own mother.

The Queen remained imperturbable.

‘I have decided that the time has come, Charlotte. That you have stood alone for long enough. I have had word that Baron Rominscov will be in attendance at Balmoral in June before the Court returns to London. The Baron currently holds the title of Colonel of the 1st Guards Cavalry Division of the Imperial Russian Guard and is coming as a Special Envoy to the Czar Alexander of Russia.’

Turning to her left and opening the desk drawer, Queen Victoria removed a dark green felt covered box. She lifted the lid unceremoniously and removed a small miniature from inside and handed it to Charlotte.

‘But, Your Majesty …’ Charlotte did not continue for she knew better than to question the expressed wish of the Queen. This was an asserted royal prerogative not a questionable opportunity.

A strident and somewhat discordant knock at the door interrupted the conversation.

‘Enter’ commanded the Queen loudly.

‘Your Majesty’ bowed the sole Minister of State who was in attendance to the Monarch at Balmoral Castle during Easter Court.

‘Yes, what is it?’ she asked – not at all impressed that her private conversation had been interrupted.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I need to inform you that we have just had a confirmed report, over the wire, that the President of the United States of America… Mr Abraham Lincoln… has died from bullet wounds he received from an assassination attempt.

USA - For the Love of Courtney...

A woman in a gold dress walked rather dramatically toward the front of the room. Several people moved uncomfortably in their seats and the man talking on the stage paused because he did not know what to do...

More about this later...

Once again, I found myself sitting in the departure lounge of Melbourne International Airport waiting to board QANTAS Flight 93. This time, I was heading for America. I don’t understand people who say they don’t enjoy airports or waiting around for a plane. I relish those few hours. I head to the bookstore and purchase magazines and catch up on what’s going on in the world. I bought TIME, Harper’s, National Geographic and Comos – current events, journal, geography and science – in that order. I sat down to read...

I have been so flat out since the launch of 209 A Story in Melbourne, that I had not prepared my paper for the Panel at Book Soup in Los Angeles set for Monday 4th May, 2009. It is not that I was uninterested in doing so – it was just lack of time and being so overly tired, that anything I may have written, I would have thrown immediately into the bin. I left this one up to the Gods – and they (thankfully) answered my question... what would I talk about?

I was asked to be part of a panel of Australian Authors by the American Australian Association. We: David Francis, Brian Castro and myself, were asked to share with participants how we work through the creative process when writing a novel. Also, to discuss our experiences in bringing an Australian-published novel to the U.S. market. Let me tell you from the outset – it is very difficult...

I leaned back in my seat at Gate 22 and opened to an article in the Harper’s Magazine – it was titled – ‘The Last Book Party’ – there before me was the answer... so well written and summarised my entire frustration with the publishing world. It read of how publishing has changed so much of the past ten years and how since time began in the publishing world – it has always been faced with the ‘relentlessness of the apocalypse’. By the time I had finished the article – I had, in my mind, prepared what I was going to say in support of my mission. A first time independently published writer from Australia who wanted to crack the American market...

The woman began making funny gestures with her hands and although she did not say a word to anyone, it was her antics that captured everyone’s attention.

I arrived in Los Angeles three hours before I left Melbourne... still makes me smile. I was driven to the Beverly Hilton and the sun was shining in all its glory. I am fortunate that this was not my first visit to Los Angeles. I had been there on a number of occasions – most memorably in 1993 – when I was Principal Performing Duties at the Jundah School in western Queensland – and we had won the Coles Apples for the Students competition – and our prize was a trip to LA to meet the stars of Beverly Hills 90210 and Aaron and Candy Spelling.

The Sunday was fun because I finally got a chance to visit the JP Getty Museum... the wait was worth it. For almost six hours I wandered the halls of that magnificent centre and then attended a lecture of Selected Short 2009 – A Celebration of the Short Story – Uncharted Territories. I was also able to get out and experience some night life of LA... all bars shut at 2am... interesting!

At 5pm on Monday I left my hotel and walked (YES – something that very few people do in LA!!) along Santa Monica Blvd to San Vicente Blvd and up a very steep hill to Sunset Blvd. I found the location of Book Soup – the legendary Bookstore of the City of Angels and I was taking a photograph of the front of the store when suddenly I froze. There in a window was a picture of... me! It must be up there with one of the strangest experiences of my life... Who was I? What was I doing here? I could do nothing but laugh ... and send a text message to my friends back in Australia to tell them of what I had just seen.

I met with Dan Levek – the representative of the American Australian Association – and the time had come for the Panel Discussion... David Francis spoke followed by Brian Castro – (I was humbled to be in such presence as I had admired their writing for some time.) Then it was my turn...

A woman in a gold dress walked rather dramatically toward the front of the room. Several people moved uncomfortably I paused because I did not know what to do... she looked directly at me... I looked across the room at Dan... and then just as quickly, Courtney Love moved off to my right, took a book from the shelf and started to read it...

As they say ... it can only happen in America.

Have a good week everyone...

Steven