A Winter's Night In Helsingør

Some of you may remember that two or three years ago, I wrote a post about writing stories on the back of postcards, the story being inspired by the picture on the front. This one was a bit of a cheat, because it came from a photograph I'd taken on a visit to Helsingør (Elsinore) in Denmark, and so I didn't write it on the back, and so it's probably a little bit longer than the postcard stories. I loved Helsingør, and I particularly loved this little street...

A Winter’s Night In Helsingør

The winter nights were long in Helsingør, and the wind from the sea whistled down the narrow alley ways. But in the little house with the timbered front and the small-paned windows, the fire on the hearth was warm, and its light flickered on the face of the grandmother as she sat on the old oak settle, made comfortable with cushions stuffed with goose feathers. On one side of her was her grandson, Henrik, and on the other was little Maya. It was the best time of the day for them; they had eaten fried fish and potatoes, and they were feeling warm and full and just a little bit sleepy.

            “So,” said the Grandmother. “You want a story, do you? Well, let me see what I can do.”

“Tell us about a troll!” said Henrik, his eyes shining. “A really fierce and nasty one!”

“Oh, no!” said Maya. “I don’t want to have bad dreams!”

Grandmother hugged her. “What kind of a story would you like then, my little cherub?”

Maya thought.

“She’s silly!” said Henrik, a little sulkily. “See, she can’t think of anything.”

“Yes I can! Just a minute now… a princess! Tell us a story about a princess!”

Henrik groaned. But Grandmother’s face softened, and her eyes turned a little misty.

“Ah!” she said. “Well, I can’t think right now of a story about a princess. But I can tell you one about a prince. A real one!”

That was good enough for both of them. They snuggled in close, and Grandmother began her tale.

“It was long, long ago, in this very town. I was just a girl then, and your grandfather and I hadn’t been married very long. He was a fisherman, of course, just like your father is, with his own boat, earning a good living.” She raised her head and listened for a moment. They all heard the wind howling outside, and the rain splattering on the windows. “But you know how bad the storms can be, and how cruel the sea. I came from a farm, and every time your Grandfather went out to sea on a bad night, my heart was in my mouth until he came safely home again.

“Well, it was a winter’s night, very like this one. I had expected Erik back the day before, and when he didn’t come, I was beside myself with worry. I tried to sleep, but all I could hear was the howling of the wind and the relentless racket of the rain. It never let up, and I couldn’t stop thinking of that little boat, tossing about on the waves. In the end, I’d had enough. I got up, wrapped myself in a warm shawl and my thick cloak, and went down to the quayside, flitting through the streets like a ghost. There was a little bit of light from the moon behind the clouds, and one or two windows had candles in them. I remember thinking that everyone should put a candle in their window, and then the town would be a beacon of light to bring Erik safely home.

“When I got down to the harbour, at first it seemed as if there was no-one else there. Nothing but the boats at anchor creaking restlessly, as if they wanted to be on the move. They were great ships, some of them, from as far away as England and Russia – just like now, they all have to pass through the sound and pay their dues to the King in his castle.

“But then, the moon suddenly broke through the clouds, and I saw a man standing gazing out to sea. He was dressed in a long black cloak, and he stood as still as a statue. In fact for a minute, I thought that’s what he was, until I saw his hair blowing back from his face in the wind.

            “Oh dear, his face! It was so pale – white as chalk. I don’t mind admitting, I felt frightened then – I thought perhaps he was a ghost – a real one!”

            “I’m not sure I like this story,” whispered Maya.

            “I do!” said Henrik.

            Grandmother laughed, and hugged Maya. “It’s all right. He wasn’t a ghost. He was a young man, and a handsome one too.”

            “Oh,” said Henrik, disappointed.

            The rain on the window sounded like fingers tapping, and Grandmother’s face went misty again as she remembered that winter’s night so long ago.

            “He looked sad,” she whispered. “So sad. I couldn’t bear it. For a moment I stopped thinking about your grandfather and I went across to the man and put my hand on his arm.

            “What is it?” I said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

            “I don’t think he’d noticed I was there. He looked down at me as if he was trying to work out who I could be. And then he smiled. It was such a sweet smile, but it was full of sadness. Even, I’d say, despair. I’d never seen an expression like it, and I hope I never will again.”

            Henrik and Maya looked at each other. Neither of them felt too sure about the way this story was going.

            Grandmother sighed. “He said – and I’ve never forgotten his words – he said: “No-one can help me with what I have to do. No-one can help me with what I have to be. But I thank you for trying.”

            “And then, he asked why I was there, and I told him about Erik. And we stood together and looked out to sea. We talked a little, and then suddenly he cried out, “There’s a light! Out there – do you see?”

            “And he was right, there was a light, and as the boat came nearer, I saw that it was Erik’s. He was safe! I was so happy, I hugged the stranger and danced him round, and when I let him go, he smiled that sweet smile again  and said, “I had better go. Your Erik might be jealous.” He turned to go, but then he came back again and slipped a ring off his finger. “Here,” he said. “Take this. Perhaps it will help you. And if Erik wants to know where it came from, tell him that Prince Hamlet gave it to you, and that I hope it will bring you more happiness than all the riches of Denmark have given me.” Then he bent and kissed my cheek, and he was gone.”

            “Prince Hamlet!” breathed Henrik.

The Grandmother nodded, touching his cheek gently. “Yes. It was him. And it was thanks to his ring that we have this beautiful house, with glass in the windows and rugs on the floor.”

She gazed sadly into the fire. “If only I could have helped him, as he helped me. I’ve never forgotten how sad he seemed.”

Maya hugged her grandmother. “Do you think Father will be home soon?” she whispered. Grandmother kissed the top of her head. “I’m sure of it,” she said.

           

The world within the book or the book within the world - Lily Hyde

My alternative title for this post was ‘to first-person or not to first-person?’ Not as grammatically pleasing as Hamlet, but a question I, as a YA (young adult) author, have to ask myself.

Why are so many YA books written in the first person? Or, if not, written from a single point of view? 

It might be just the fashion right now. But I tend to think it reflects a quite typical adolescent state of mind. Teenagers are just emerging from the self-centredness of childhood. The pressures of what to look like, how to behave, which group to belong to, to conform or not conform, increase when childhood becomes young adulthood.

It’s a time when most people start to actively construct their identity, their own story in opposition to, or at least differentiated from, the world of adult authority. And of course everyone wants to be the centre of their own story. I think this is why many YA books present a narrative through one person’s eyes; a world within a book.

And yet at the same time teenagers are curious. This is the age when people start asking big questions about the world and how it’s run, and where they might belong in it. It’s when they look around at all the options, and imagine their possible futures – if they have a choice of future, that is. Lots of young people, of course, do not. It’s a time when, perhaps, the curious really try to imagine what it would be like to be able to choose, or not to have a choice. One person’s experience will only ever be a single voice amid all the options and possibilities and realities, just one book in the much wider world.  

First person narrative is supposedly easier to read, and may be easier to write. I’m not personally a fan of it, unless it is exceptionally well done (and don’t get me started on first-person present tense…) but I do think that every story finds its own voice.

The novel I’m writing at the moment is a head-hopper – a third person narrative with multiple points of view. Does that make it unsuitable for a YA novel? I don’t believe so; I’m told publishers might be harder to convince. Instead I think it’s the only voice for this particular novel, in which I’m trying to create a book within a world of cross-currents and threads and secrets and intentions. I want my characters to feel lost and confused in it, and by extension, my readers too.

I think that’s the way a lot of young people feel – I know I did at that age. But I’d like to show in this book that it’s not just teenagers who feel this way. A key aspect of growing up is realising that adults are people too, in their own right, who never grow out of those confusions.

 

What do you prefer in your writing and reading – to first-person or not to first-person?

(To be or not to be: Hamlet is absolutely a YA author; musing on whether the only way to escape from inside his own point of view is to top himself...)

Teenage self-absorption...

www.lilyhyde.com

Othello and Hamlet on Hayling Island by Miriam Halahmy

 I must admit when I started to write my cycle of three novels set on Hayling Island ( off the south coast of England), Hidden, Illegal, Stuffed - I didn’t give a thought to Shakespeare, but somehow the Bard has presented himself on the Island in more ways than one. As a natural fan I have embraced it with open arms.

Hamlet appeared first. Perhaps I should say here that apart from being one of my favourite Shakespeare plays, as far as I’m concerned Hamlet is a teenager, about to be sent over to school in England and this is why he never really takes the plunge and avenges his father’s murder. When writing, Illegal, with the main character Lindy Bellows as a vulnerable lonely girl from a dysfunctional family, I decided that Hamlet is the play she’s studying in school. At the back of my mind I had a quote from an article written at the time Paul Schofield died, which described Hamlet as a ‘spiritual fugitive.’ But that altered in my mind to ‘spiritual refugee’ and my image was born. Lindy starts to think of herself as a spiritual refugee in the first chapter and this image continues throughout the book. When she teams up with fellow misfit Karl, who has been mute for two years, she tells him he’s also a spiritual refugee.

However, I am not keen on books which take  well known plays or books and put them centre stage. I kept a firm grip on the role of Hamlet  in Illegal. Lindy is not about to turn into a literary boffin. My point was that even the most unlikely of students can be captured by the greatest literature and find something which is significant to their own lives. This is what happens to Lindy. She doesn’t suddenly become an expert on Shakespeare, but throughout the novel there is a strand which moves to the foreground from time to time because Lindy has identified with this particular Shakespeare character in her own way.

Moving on and just as Illegal is published I am invited to come and speak to A Level students at the Haringey Sixth Form Centre for World Book Day 2012. They want me to talk about immigration, Othello and Hidden.

Yikes! I know almost nothing about Othello and have never given it a thought when writing Hidden, a novel about human rights, asylum seekers and immigration. I rush for Wikipedia and start to mug up some facts.

But in the end it worked out ok because of course Hidden deals with the Outsider in our society.  And you couldn’t get much more of an Outsider than Othello, a black man in seventeenth century Italy.

This what the English teacher, Krysta, gave me as feedback after the session.

It was wonderful to have Miriam in our A2 English Literature class to discuss themes in ‘Hidden’. We are studying Othello and talking to Miriam helped the class to explore the decisions the writer made in constructing the text. Students discussed why a writer might be interested in exploring the theme of immigration and a range of very different responses to this voiced by different characters. One student raised a question about whether genuine communication between two very different cultures was possible. Learning about the setting of ‘Hidden’ also helped students to re-evaluate the use of an island as a setting in ‘Othello’. The class explored different ways the writers had written about war and the difficulty of addressing such a complex subject in fiction. Students without a doubt benefited from having had contact with a writer who so bravely addresses a range of difficult issues young people of today experience.

Perhaps the lesson here is that we have to be prepared for just about anything on school visits – and Wikipedia might be part of the prep!

I have to say that I am very pleased that not one but two of Shakespeare’s plays have found a place in my Hayling cycle. But I do feel I need to get to a production of Othello a.s.a.p – just to be ready in case this comes up again!

 www.miriamhalahmy.com