A Good Job

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Florence liked routines. On the fortieth floor she had staked out her territory: two conference rooms, four executive suites, and six offices. The other women she worked with didn’t seem to care or notice the spaces they were cleaning.

“Start with the thirty-fourth floor tonight, Flo.” Her supervisor, Anna, marked her name off the assignment list. “The office manager of True North just called. He told Jovack, he wants it done first.” Anna looked up to make sure that the rest of the women were listening. “When you’re finished with thirty-four, you and Sophia can join the others on forty. Work your way down as usual.”

Florence started to take her supplies. Placing them in the caddy attached to the large garbage bin on wheels, she checked her vacuum and made sure that the waste bag was new. Anna handed her the keys to the offices on thirty-four.

“What’s the change for?”

“Big party last night—big mess. They requested special attention.” Anna looked at Sophia and Carmen; they had already put on headphones and were shaking out black plastic garbage bags.

“I’ll page you when I’m finished thirty-four.” Florence told Anna as she pushed her bin to the service elevator where five women were waiting for the doors to open.

Big mess, big party—damn, these people are spoiled. They can’t even hit the garbage can, let alone recycle.” Sophia said.

“Yeah, it’s a joke to them.” Carmen added.

“They have their minds on other things, important stuff we wouldn’t understand,” Florence said.

“And we, we have our minds on their garbage.” Sophia laughed and pushed her cart into the elevator.

The five women followed her into the massive elevator car that was used for moving furniture and large deliveries. She looked over at Sophia who was assigned to join her.

“How do you want to split the floor up?” Florence said.

Sophia took off her headphones. “What?”

Florence repeated herself.

“I don’t care, Flo. You decide.”

The elevator started to climb and at twenty Florence felt her ears pop.

“Let’s see how bad it is first,” she smiled.

The doors opened on thirty-four and the women going to forty acknowledge the others departure.

“Where do you think they had the party? Anna didn’t say.” Sophia turned to Florence as she held the swinging door of the service entrance open for her.

“Let’s check out the large conference room first and then maybe the reception area.”

“I bet the bathrooms are going to be fill with vómito. Que va a hacer que me enferme.”

“Sophia, English…please.”

Sophia gave Florence a look. “You should know what vómito means, Flo. We are going to be up to our elbows in it tonight.”

“You’re right, mierda too.”

Florence didn’t really mind when some of the women spoke Spanish. To her the language was music; it reminded her of her late husband Nat. A few hours of cleaning and she stopped hearing them.

“I wonder how you say mierda in Serbian?” Sophia said.

Both women started to laugh. Russians owned their company, JVB Cleaning. Anna and Jovack were Serbs; when Anna had her boss on the phone, she never spoke English.

As they pushed their carts along one of the halls the automated lights, programed to sensors slowly lit the corridor ahead of them.

“I think I can smell cigarette smoke.”

“That’s not going to be easy to get out of the air by Monday.” Florence said.

“I think I have some air freshener in here.” Sophia looked inside her bin and pulled out an aerosol can.

Florence picked up some plastic cups and napkins as she walked down the hall. The main conference room was in the center of the thirty-fourth floor. It had a sliding wall. When the wall was pulled open, it enlarged the space by half. The windows faced the Chrysler Building. The mahogany table still held plates of uneaten food. The sideboard had empty bottles of wine, a few were tipped over and there were several stains on the rug.

As Carmen had predicted the empty plastic glasses were on the floor next to the garbage. The empty cans and bottles were mixed in with the paper.

The two women separated and worked at opposite ends of the large room.

“You know they weren’t going to hire you, Flo.” Sophia had finished vacuuming and was watching Florence finish polishing the conference table. “Yeah, now they only hired Latinas with thick accents.”

Florence ran her cloth one last time across the table checking for streaks.

“They assume that we don’t speak English well enough to understand them.”

“And…” Florence stopped and looked up at Sophia.

“Well, they never hire Blacks, too much trouble and they’re always late or never show up.”

“And why are you telling me this, Sophia?” Florence started to pull the sliding wall closed.

“My grandmother always told me that if I had something good to say, I should speak and not hold it in. I like you Flo, and I think you do a good job.”

“You mean for a Black person?”

“No, for any kind of a person. Do you have any kids, Flo?”

Florence took a deep breath. She didn’t want to cut Sophia off. It was hard for people to speak from their heart and when they did it should be appreciated.

“Thanks, Sophia. Yes, I have a daughter. She ran off with a Dominican,” Florence said.

“You don’t see her anymore?”

“She left me her daughter to take care of. I see my daughter everyday in my granddaughter’s face.”

“Oh dios mío, estoy tan triste por ti.” Sophia said.

“Let’s keep up our pace. We just started. We can take a break after we finish this floor. The bathrooms are next. Okay?”

“Ugh…you’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

The two women finished the bathrooms and then went in opposite directions. Sophia took the North side of the floor. It was a maze of grey cubicles. Florence could see her head bobbing up and down as she finished one cubicle and moved on to the next.

Florence had just finished two offices. She could see a light through the opaque glass in the door of the next office. She knocked on the door and twisted the knob; it was locked from the inside. Florence was hunting through her ring of service keys when the door opened and a young woman stood facing her. She was dressed in a navy blue business suit and her face was streaked with mascara.

“Sorry.” She looked away and continued to speak. “I came in to do some work and I guess I fell asleep at my desk. Go ahead and take the garbage, I’ll just get my things and be out of your way in a second.” The woman tucked in her blouse and buttoned her jacket.

Anna had told Florence on her first day that she might run into people working late. This was an advertising agency and they had deadlines. Anna told her not to make eye contact, take the garbage and work around them. If she couldn’t clean the office, she should make a mental note of the number and come back to it before she left for another floor. Florence took the small basket filled with shredded paper and dumped it into the green recycle bags. As she left, she noted the room number under the nameplate: Susan Miller VP, 3410.

Florence moved down the hall to the next office. She looked across the floor and saw Sophia stand up and arch her back. She waved at Florence, took off her headphones and yelled: “twenty minutes and I’m finished.”

Florence had just given the thumbs-up when 3410 walked by her. The woman tried to throw a crumbled piece of paper, but missed the bag.

Florence went back to the office; it was empty, she hadn’t notice before that there was no computer or phone. There were no pictures on the wall, no books.

“Are you finished?” Sophia stuck her head into the room. “What’s this,” she looked around, “it’s empty?”

Anna had instructed Florence on her first night to just put the garbage in the black or green bags. “You want to get home? Right? So do I. You’re on a timer and so am I. Remember that.”

Florence must have looked confused.

“Don’t waste your time being nosey. Remember Flo: we need to keep to the schedule. If you don’t, Jovack will find someone else for the job.”

Florence looked at her watch and then looked at the green recycle bag.

“Yes, the office is empty,” she said to Sophia. “I did it in two minutes. I’m right behind you, let’s go up to forty now.”

Sophia pushed her cart ahead to the service elevators. Florence reached in the green plastic bag, pulling out the paper on top; she smoothed it open, folded it and put it into her pocket.

Once they reached the fortieth floor Sofia turned to Florence. “See you when we clock out.” She smiled and put on her headphones.

Florence went straight to the large office suite. It was usually spotless. All it needed was a little dusting and vacuuming. The first time she saw the bathroom that belonged to this office she thought it was just like one in a fancy magazine. It was usually clean unless he had taken a shower; then there were towels all over the floor and shaving cream on the sink.

When she opened the door she thought she heard someone. The door to the bathroom was slightly open and the light went off.

“Buenas noches señor,” Florence said quietly.

“Buenas noches,” said the man.

His face was pale, almost ashen. The hair near his neck was wet and his shirt had a red stain on the left shoulder. When he saw her staring at him, he took the towel that was in his right hand and covered the mark.

“Afeitar, señora. Afeitar,” he said as he walked over to the leather sofa and picked up his jacket.

Shaving, thought Florence? How do you cut your arm shaving? She turned from him and said: “me clean” in a thick accent.

He walked past her without saying anything. Then he pointed to the blood stained towel on the sofa. “Por favor ponga las toallas en el basura, gracias.”

Florence nodded her head and he smiled.

Florence had learned to speak Spanish from her late husband, Nat, who was Dominican. All his friends and relatives called him Nasterio. Her granddaughter, Claudia, called him Nest. Florence smiled and picked up the towel off the sofa, pushing it into the black plastic bag as the man asked her to.

When she turned on the light in the bathroom, her eyes adjusted to the brightness. First she saw the red footprints on the floor and then the towels that had been thrown all over. The sink was filled with smears of blood. All the cabinet doors were open, bottles had their tops off and there was a box of medical adhesive tape that had unrolled across the toilet tank.

“Anna, you need to get up to forty, corner office right now. That’s right, 4000… that’s the number, something has happened here.” Florence spoke into the crackling pager. “I don’t know there is blood all over the bathroom.” She had backed out of the bathroom without touching anything. She stood in the office, waiting for Anna, staring at her reflection in the wall of glass overlooking the city. She looked transparent, almost invisible, against the lights.

When Anna opened the door to the bathroom she gasped. “Did you see anything?”

“He was still here when I walked in, said he cut himself shaving and told me to throw all the towels in the black bags when I had finished cleaning the bathroom.”

“Was he bleeding?”

“Yes, from his arm, I think we need to call the police, Anna.”

“First Jovack, then the cops, Flo.” She took out her cell phone and called her boss.

Anna started speaking in Serbian while she paced back and forth.

“Jovack said he will call the cops and that you shouldn’t say anything. Just finish the rest of the offices on this floor and then go to thirty-nine.”

“There was an awful lot of blood, Anna. Do you think that someone else was in here with him?”

“I don’t know. It is not up to us to think about anything but cleaning. You saw him and he looked like he was okay? Right?”

“Yes, but all this blood. He was very pale.”

“You spoke to him in Spanish like I told you to?

“Yes, Anna, he spoke to me in Spanish too.”

“Good.” Anna’s phone rang and she started talking to Jovack again. She turned her back to Florence and then looked over her shoulder. “What are you staring at? Do what I just told you to. I’ll call you if we need anything else.”

Florence left the room and wiped down one of the two desks that were in an alcove outside of office 4000. As she was reaching for the trash basket under the desk, she saw a framed photograph of the man with two women. The picture was of a celebration; the three people were raising their glasses in a toast. The frame had an inscription: 2013-Most Valuable Employee.

After another six offices and the conference room on forty. Florence checked her watch. It was almost two. She started toward the service elevator and looked at her pager to make sure it was working.

At the second ten minute break nothing was said about the party mess on thirty-four. The women talked about Sophia’s boyfriend; no one said anything about what Florence saw. By five the next three floors had been cleaned and emptied of trash. Anna never called her.

Florence swiped her electronic key card and turned toward the service doors that led to the street.

“Flo!” Anna called after her.

“I’m glad I caught you before you left. Jovack took care of everything.”

“What did the police say?”

Anna looked down at the floor. “They laughed at him, told him that there wasn’t enough blood for a dead bird in the bathroom. Jovack is really pissed Flo; he told me to keep my eye on you and that there better not be a next time.” Anna looked up. “I had to clean that mess up. Next time, do as you’re told…understand?”

Anna was visible shaken. Maybe she could have been fired for what Florence had gotten her into.

“I’m so sorry, it’s just that I never saw anything like that and….”

“Forget what you saw and who you saw.”

“Yes, Anna.”

At five thirty the city looked haunted: the light took another hour to fully expose the street and the buildings in Manhattan.

Florence walked past a few early commuters with their ties loosened. The small brown bag and paper cup of hot coffee identified those who would soon fill the offices she had cleaned.

The subway entrance was across the street. As she descended the steps the heat surrounded her and only when the doors to the subway car opened did she feel revived. Maybe she had imagined everything; maybe she had been watching too many stories on television. Yes, his face was pale, she thought…but they all have pale faces.

The subway car held a few people in uniform: nurses and hospital workers. There were the other cleaners, like her; those were the people that looked like they had been up all night; most of them had their eyes closed. The old man in the corner seat near the door was asleep with his mouth open, snoring as loud as a jackhammer. Florence smiled and thought of Nat snoring, her Nasterio. She told Nat when they first met that she had never heard of his name; it sounded like the flower, Nasturtium. He laughed.

Florence looked at the window across from her and saw her fifty-eight year old reflection. It was then that she felt the papers she had stuffed into her pocket the night before. Not going to ruin my day. Rather read today’s message, she thought.

Poetry in Motion was the title on the small turquoise placard above the subway door. Florence got up, held on to the metal pole and read the poem: Grand Central by Billy Collins. It made sense, she thought; she was a part a “moving hive”.

The return trip from Manhattan to Hart Street took almost an hour. After the subway Florence waited for an express bus and then walked the remaining four blocks home. She believed the last blocks were the best part of her routine. By 6:30 in the summer, the sun was rising across the neighborhood. The sealed storefronts and brownstones were quite; most people were still asleep. The peacefulness gave Florence a hint of what this place must have been like in the old days. That’s what Poppy Daniels called them; he had lived in his house longer than anyone else on Hart Street. His mother owned the house before him. One Saturday night they were sitting on the front stoop trying to catch a cool breeze and he told her how cornfields grew on DeKalb Avenue.

“Imagine that…imagine that,” Florence said, as she climbed her steps and opened her front door.   Florence put her purse on the front table and walked back to the kitchen. She could hear her granddaughter, Claudia, in the bathroom. She surveyed the kitchen, looking for traces of what Claudia might have made herself for dinner the night before. Florence opened the refrigerator door and took out the last piece of cod, milk, and one egg. The rest of what she needed: flour and spices, for her personal fish fry, as she called her dinner-breakfast, was in the cupboard.

She leaned into the back staircase and shouted up to her granddaughter. “What time is your appointment, hon?”.

Claudia was singing along with a pop tune that her grandmother couldn’t understand.

“I said: What time is your appointment, Claudia.”

The music was lowered and she heard the sounds of small heels click to the top of the stairs.

“Ten-thirty, Grandma Wren. I think it will take me ninety minutes.” Claudia paused, and Florence heard papers being rustled. “Don’t make me a big breakfast—please. Only cereal. I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not the way to start such an important day, hon. You need to be fortified for that kind of journey.”

Florence poured a half-inch of cooking oil into a black iron skillet and turned the gas up to high. There was no further response from Claudia so she set the table. During the bus ride she had decided not to tell her what happened the night before on the fortieth floor. Florence felt the side of her dress with the papers in her pocket. She turned the flame off on the stove.

“What are you reading?”

“Nothing, child, just some papers I found in an empty office.”

“Why did you take them home? Isn’t that just trash?”

“I guess so, but you know sometimes I get curious. Right? Just like you. You know I’ve always told you that you take after me.”

“And not my mom?”

“No, Lord. You do not take after her. Look at you child, all dressed and polished to get to the city.” Florence looked away.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to mention her. Let’s not ruin the day; it’s going to be a good one for me. I can just feel it.” Claudia looked at her watch. “Oh—it’s already late. I need to do a little reading for my Tuesday night class.” Claudia went back up the stairs. Florence heard her bedroom door close.

“So Susan Miller, 3410, had been fired,” Florence said. She reread the memo addressed to Ms. Miller that stated she had become redundant. Florence went into the living room to find her dictionary. When she returned to the kitchen with the dictionary and her newspaper, she was ready to make her breakfast.

The man’s photo was on page six. He was grinning at the camera and had a young woman on his arm. The caption under the photo read: Donny Palmer, CEO True North, with guest, leaving the Met Gala, in happier times. Florence held the photo closer…the woman was Susan Miller. Florence opened the dictionary and read the definition of redundant: “no longer needed or useful; superfluous. Synonyms: unnecessary, not required, inessential, unessential, needless, unneeded.”

“You be careful out there today, Claudia. The world is complicated and not always what it seems.”

“It’s a job interview, Grandma Wren. Don’t fuss over every little thing, you’ll make yourself sick.” Claudia finished her cereal and rinsed out the bowl.

“Come back to me.” Florence said before the front door closed behind her granddaughter.

Florence’s favorite program The View had started. Starr Jones introduced today’s topic: Sexual Harassment. “When Will It End?” Starr turned to the audience. Behind the five women seated around a table a screen filled with photos of seven young female faces.

“It seems that something happened to Donny Palmer last night.” Meredith almost laughed when a woman in the audience yelled out skewered. “It appears that Donny Palmer…” The screen behind the women changed to a large photo of Palmer, hands in front of his face, trying to hide from the cameras that were blinding him, as he exited the Lenox Hill Hospital. “…may have been stabbed last night. There were no clues and he had no comments on how it might have happened.”

“Shaving.” Florence said as she took a bite of her fish.

End

This story appeared in  – WORK Literary Magazine – in October 217

Photo credit: Ronan Shenhav

 

On The Street Where She Lived

A character is born in Christchurch, NZ. I know her, but where does she live? What is the address? What is the view from the front window?

The house, imagined from a combination of old photos found in the archives of the  National Library of New Zealand (collections), comes to life. The newspapers of the day report the daily sports events, petty crimes, and news from London; this becomes the morning breakfast chatter between mother and daughter. And then, of course, there is a need to walk out the front door, turn onto a street. Her mission is to buy a dress, but where? Ballantyne’s. And then a photo falls from google-space and you find a place rich in detail to build a believable encounter.

Chapter 4, Caroline Light, Christchurch, New Zealand – 1895.

unknown

For another journey through the streets of a London, this interactive link, on Charles Dickens Oliver Twist written in the New York Times last week is exactly the trip I like to take.

 

The End Is Where We Start From

“The end is where we start from.” T.S. Eliot Little Gidding

As a writer of fiction I am invested in the belief that time travel is possible.

Going backward or forward—or any combination of actions—in story telling is critical to engage the reader. But time can also be an abstraction, even if it is an anchor to the most important moments of our lives.

I first became aware of the effervescence of time while dozing in the front row of a London theatre. My late mother, at my side, also doing a head-nod—after a too heavy English dinner—was equally unimpressed by the play being performed two feet in front of us.

Copenhagen by Michael Frayn had won a Tony and was the hot ticket that year. Unfortunately a discourse on quantum mechanics was too much after a long day of visiting with Mom’s old friends.

Embarrassed? Yes. So I bought the script and continued my examination of time. Reading In Search of Schrödinger’s Cat was also sleep inducing, but the thought of something (a cat in this example) existing in two different states of existence at the same time was more than an interesting time bending story, and, I was already down the rabbit hole. (Illustration above by Lisbeth Zwerger for a special edition of Alice in Wonderland )

Of course, time travel and the notion of other levels of existence have been around for a long time. More reading for me here:  brain pickings.

And it continues…. the movie Arrival is another tour de force on the subject.

 

Johnny Heart’s Tattoo

Maude had to wait for ten minutes so Johnny Heart could live forever on her arm.

Johnny had tattoos, he had plenty of them, but then he could: he was with the circus. It was almost required to have them there. Everyone she met at Morris Brother’s Circus had them, even women. Maude started to think about the ones on Johnny’s chest. She remembered the night when she counted twenty, each was in the shape of a heart with ribbons threading through them. Inside the wavy bands a name or a word was written. Her favorite was the rose bud that looked as if it was about to open. Curling from below his right elbow over his left shoulder, a snake twisted, green scaled with a red split tongue extending its length with a small v behind Johnny’s neck. Maude had never seen such a handsome man; his salty smell reminded her of the ocean.

“Okay, girly, it’s been ten minutes. Have you decided?”

“Yes, I’m ready. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Since my friend is here, I’m going to do it now.”

The man stepped back and looked at Jewel, making her feel uncomfortable.

“Do I know you, girly?”

“No, I just have one of those familiar faces.”

“Humph, look at theses stencils. Here are the letters and size I suggest, but if you want to look around and pick out your own be my guest. As you’re coming in here and I’m the expert, these here are what I’d call lady sizes and what I’d recommend. Take em or pick your own.”

Looking around the shop, Maude viewed the stencils hanging all over the walls, pictures of animals, women and almost anything a customer could imagine. Stacked carelessly on a shelf, stained with black circles and drips, pots of colored inks waited. Two swiveling chairs and one lone table, where more complicated work was done, filled the floor space. Maude thumbed through the tablet, agreeing to go with what was offered.

Continue reading “Johnny Heart’s Tattoo”

Have I Been Here Before?

At what point did it look familiar? Maybe this was one of those dreams that disappear the moment you open your eyes.  Certainly, I never climbed to the top of Mount Major before, never been to New Hampshire, never wanted to go. But now I’m here, looking out at the view, afraid of getting too close to the edge and falling off. When I pick up the scent of a past moment, I have my feet on the ground, but I’m flying. If I just raise my arms and tip into the air stream, I will be soaring. Flying dreams are the best.

“If I had ever been here before I would probably know just what to do. Don’t you?”- Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young – Déjà Vu

One of the themes of my novel, The Last Daughter of Elizabeth Light, is Eternal Return. Because my story goes backward in time, the present hints at the past. We know the results of actions before they take place. This was easier than it sounds because I was telling a familiar story: a family saga whose story unfolded like an origami bird.

From The Last Daughter of Elizabeth Light-  Frances Baker, 1990 dreaming of San Francisco 1942 :

‘Frances cringed; Milton, the manager, was standing six inches away from her face. Smelling his stale cigarette breath, she tried looking at his yellow teeth but it confused him, so she pretended to be nervous and looked at the floor.

“You know there are many girls I could have hired, Frances, but I chose you, you know why?”

Frances thought this was a question and she started to open her mouth.

“You know why, Frances, you were the prettiest one. Yes, the prettiest one of all of them. You, with your blonde hair. You had the best eyes and legs. You have legs just like Lana Turner.”

Frances managed to step backwards a few inches but he was pressing in. Reaching forward, he slid his hand from her waist to her thigh. Frances jumped and hit the wall with the back of her shoes and head. Her eyes narrowed as she moved out of his way. He tried to block her by putting one arm out to the wall.

“Frances, this is a really good job.”

Milton looked around the lobby with the glow of the concession stand at the end of the hall. The ticket booth had closed, the last show was almost over and they were alone with the muffled sound of a movie playing in the theatre.

“It would be a shame if you spoiled things for yourself. I’m going to be watching you very closely. I better not catch you doing anything wrong. You know what I mean, don’t you, Frances? I mean I better not catch you letting your mother in here for free. Everything has a price. You know we are at war now, everything has a price including this job. Where do you think you’re going? Don’t walk away from me.”

Running, Frances heard him yelling behind her. She turned down one hall, and it led to another. The door was not where it was supposed to be. She felt the wall for knobs in the darkness and realized they were all missing. Suddenly she heard the noise of planes, the building vibrated as though there was an earthquake. The theatre wall began to crumble. Frances started to climb over a slab of cement when a plane appeared to come straight at her.

Droning in some far off room, a vacuum cleaner saved her.’

Finding Your Place

The story takes place in your town; the streets and houses are as familiar as the little wrinkle near your eye. You know where the bus stops, and when the kids from the local high school invade the coffee shop on Elm Street. Maybe your children went to that school, it might be more than likely that you did too. So to write about how it feels to walk down a street, choose the sunny side and smell the freshly baked bread coming out of Greta’s Bakery is easy.

If your place is the city, you jaywalk and nearly get hit by a taxi as you rush to cross to the shady side of the street. The pavement is melting in August; you want to be some place else, so you hurry like everyone around you. You never notice the man with a briefcase staring at you. You stop and check your reflection in the window of Barney’s and when a stranger starts a conversation you’re startled. No one talks to each other in the city.

What happens when the place you are writing about is on the other side of the world and your story begins in 1859. Researching the country, the city, and the era is part of finding the place. Reading journals and letters from public figures are a more intimate glimpse into the daily life of the population. Archives in libraries are often online and reading old newspapers give you the color of events the way they were seen. I found that looking at historic photos of people and streets in my place made it come to life.

How fortunate for me that one of my characters, James Light, took the same ship, The Roman Empire, as Samuel Butler. (How fortunate indeed!) Using Samuel Butler’s life and diaries I had grist for conversations during the long voyage. I found a description of the The Roman Empire and how it sailed into Lyttleton Harbor NZ in 1860. (Time and place recorded in the Lyttleton Times 1860). Somewhere in my digging through the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, I read that a Judge Gresson, lost all his law books on Sumner sand bar (anecdote for character to use). James brought twenty-one boxes of books with him from London (of course he did and none of his books were lost).

When you have done your research putting your characters in a place is like finding a briar patch.

Part of a conversation between James Light and Samuel Butler in The Last Daughter of Elizabeth Light:

They pushed themselves away from the table and pulled out their pipes and small sacks of tobacco. Going out on the deck to catch the night air and enjoy their habit, they rejoiced in the kindness of the weather: the still wind, the calm sea, and the light from the universe allowing them to see each other clearly.

“My mother was born on a large estate in Sussex, her mother was a nursery maid and my great-grandmother was the head housekeeper.”

James looked out over the endless black swells of water.

“I will not pry, as all families have their histories. I am of the belief that what has made us evolve is the struggle and cunning of the individual. This is passed down through the generations by way of unconscious memories and habits. So I am more interested in your daily life and communication with your mother. We all too often tell of the big events and leave out the subtle details that make us who we truly are; what was happening every day is more important. What did you discuss over your evening meal?”

 

 

 

Name Game

`Don’t stand chattering to yourself like that,’ Humpty Dumpty said, looking at her for the first time, `but tell me your name and your business.’

`My name is Alice, but –‘

`It’s a stupid name enough!’ Humpty Dumpty interrupted impatiently. `What does it mean?’

`Must a name mean something?’ Alice asked doubtfully.

`Of course it must,’ Humpty Dumpty said with a short laugh: `my name means the shape I am — and a good handsome shape it is, too. With a name like yours, you might be any shape, almost.’”

—– Lewis Carroll, Through The Looking Glass, Chapter VI,
Humpty Dumpty

John Forster wrote that Dickens made his “characters real existences, not by describing them, but by letting them describe themselves”.

Because my novel, The Last Daughter of Elizabeth Light, is based on some threads of family history, I invented names for my characters, whose lives reminded me of what little I knew about them.  Keeping the continuity of the surname Light, which, strangely enough, was an ancestral name that appeared in England in the 1700’s on my family tree, turned out to be one of those wonderful coincidences.

I had too much fun with secondary characters. Here we are introduced to Harold Hollows the first time:

“Taking a closer look at the young man, Elizabeth noticed the splotches of youth still visible on his face and his somewhat fleshy figure. He had small hands and his nails were bitten away.

“I am planning on being a butler for the family, once I gain the experience, that is.  I have a plan—I will return to London in a few years and be able to run the household of any family I choose. What is your plan, Elizabeth?”

Looking down at her, he had already made up his mind that she had somehow ruined whatever chances she might have had. Her baggage—the baby—had sealed her fortune.

“I really don’t have one—do you think it’s necessary?”

The Last Daughter of Elizabeth Light

Some insight to picking names for your characters can be found from Elizabeth Sims