I’ve taken part in many painting courses over the years. And for years I’ve thought what an enticing subject for a comedy or even tragedy - let’s call it black comedy. A group of strangers are gathered together in daily intimacy in some beauty spot round the world. ‘Illusion’ is a novella, set in a villa among the hills of Tuscany. Up in the woods the boars are bellowing and down in the Villa Cinghiale, a very odd collection of people gather to be inspired by Inigo, the artist in resident. The artist in residence is not exactly ordinary himself with his dangling silver curls and his huge sandals but he has to compete with an ex-prisoner, an undercover policeman occasionally in drag, a sybilline Japanese professor, a sleek Texan looking for a third husband - to mention only a few of the cast of characters. It all starts, as these things will, when the young girl cook disappears, and continues when a body - whose body? - is found.
I wrote Illusion on a brief sabbatical from writing Whirligig, my WW11 follow-up to Glory. Whirligig will be finished soon. Meanwhile Illusion is published online by Endeavour Press available from Amazon Kindle and other eBook retailers. In December a paperback will also be available, printed on demand.
‘They’ve found a body,’ repeated Ludo for the third time.
‘Flying buttresses! The cook?’
‘They’ve only found the feet so far so far but village gossip believes they belong to a young woman.’
‘How frightful!’ Inigo sat down on a chair. ‘Has someone chopped off her feet?’
‘You’re so literal.’ Lido poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite Inigo. ‘The rest of the body’s hidden in the undergrowth.’
- ‘But I was stopped in the street. A huge furry thing thrust in my face. Polly paused. ‘It was embarrassing.’… Read more
- It can start in all sorts of strange places: in a pram, up a climbing frame, over a desk, in hospital, unde… Read more
- A Year in My Life
- Can I have really made so many decisions in one year? Looking back, it seems almost impossible. In April I l… Read more
- The Man who tried to Kill his Wife with a Goose
- Christmas Eve started early for Lawrence. Daisy, given special permission to club till midnight, arrived ba… Read more
- The Wild Cherry Tree
- The cuckoo loved with true passion the Cherry tree’s silky pink-purplish trunk, its cascade of wedding-white fl… Read more
WHIRLIGIG is my followup to Glory. It’s daring to write publicly about work in progress, particularly when it includes Spitfires. Many people, mostly men, not necessarily of a certain age, know a lot about Spitfire aeroplanes. Some make them their lives, discovering them, renovating them, even flying them. So far I’ve only sat in one at Biggin Hill and even that was an amazing experience. My best moment recently was the discovery that a friend called Merlin was named after the famous Supermarine Rolls-Royce Merlin 12 cylinder liquid-cooled engine. My study has taken on a Boy’s Own aspect, with Spitfires pasted onto every wall and, failing Spitfires, other flying things such as birds and butterflies. One day soon I shall find a way of flying in one - a Spitfire, that is.
It all began with my decision to follow up my last novel, GLORY - about the WWI Gallipoli campaign, with a story set during WWII, using some of the same characters. But what part of WWII? My decision to write GLORY arose out of my grandfather’s life which, tragically (and pointlessly unless heroism gives it point) ended at Gallipoli, leaving behind a distraught widow and six children. But I had apparently no links with WWII nor aeroplanes indeed, except for a few brief months when my father was Minister of Aviation (another story for another time). On other hand the two youngest of my four brothers spent most of our shared childhood drawing Battle of Britain ‘dogfights’. Paul Nash did it rather better but with no more passion. Perhaps it got into my subconscious. Or could it be Biggles? Squadron Leader Flying Ace James Bigglesworth, as created by Captain W.E. Johns. I did read a lot of Biggles books in the Fifties.
Whatever the reason, the moment my research took me into the orbit of the Spitfire, I realised I had to write a story about a pilot. Not new territory, certainly, although usually written by men, but now my own. At halfway through the book, I take off most mornings with Bertie (orginally Gilbert) and fly up to 16,000 feet or higher to get above the enemy, making sure my back’s to the sun, my R/T’s working, my oxygen’s flowing and my fuel gauge at the right level. Doesn’t do to run out of fuel over the channel. I didn’t expect to write about war and death again but there is love too, and not just for the Spitfire.