bradfield – A. L. Lester

#SampleSunday… The Quid Pro Quo

I’m jumping on the #SampleSunday hashtag on twitter this week, with an excerpt from The Quid Pro Quo for you…

The Quid Pro Quo is a romantic historical paranormal murder-mystery set in 1920s rural England where nearly everyone is queer and the main couple is m/transm. Think Agatha Christie, but queer! With monsters! It’s the sequel to The Fog of War, but it works as a standalone set in the Border Magic universe.

Simon pressed the heel of his hand down onto the place the pain was radiating from. That usually helped. He sometimes wondered if there was anything still left in there. He should probably get it looked at. X-rayed, they called it, didn’t they? The hospital in Taunton had a machine, he knew.
He sighed. “Look, I didn’t just come up to show off my weaknesses to you.”
Kennett made a harrumphing sound that could have been a laugh.
“I came to ask about two things. Her alibi. And the way she describes what happened at the seance.”
“Look,” Kennett drew a breath and said in a firm voice, “she didn’t do it.”
Simon glared up at him, not quite ready to get up off the bench and fall over into the other man’s arms again. “That’s all very well. But you can’t just say that and then tell me you can’t say why you know!”
Kennett screwed up his face. “I just can’t, Mr Frost. And that’s all there is to it.”
Simon managed to stand. For all Kennett was small, he was intimidating. He scowled furiously up at Simon, face creased with anger. There was no trace of the sardonic wit about him now.
“Was she with you that night?” Simon asked quietly. It seemed unlikely, a girl like Miss Hall-Bridges and Kennett, who was a good twenty years older than her if he was a day and a lowly ex-soldier to boot. But he’d seen stranger relationships.
Kennett choked. “Bloody hell, no!” he said, almost with a shudder. “Absolutely definitely the wrong tree, Detective Frost!” There! He did return Simon’s interest, else Simon was a Dutchman.
Simon took another wobbling step forward and Kennett stepped back. Simon finally felt as if he was getting somewhere. There was something there. Why were they all protecting the woman? It was clear she was the best suspect—on paper, she had reason. But it was also clear that despite the evidence, nobody thought she’d done it. Including Simon.
Not that a lot of other people didn’t have reason to dislike the victim as well by the sound of it. His take-away from speaking to people who knew her painted a picture of the deceased as an entitled, arrogant woman who expected people to jump to her tune. He stopped that train of thought. There was never a reason to kill anyone. Never. Just because most of the people he knew had spent the last few years seeing that as the solution to all their problems didn’t mean it was right.
He drew a breath. “Then point me toward the right tree for goodness sake! If you have evidence that it wasn’t her, you’re morally obliged to let me have it!” he said, finally after a moment of silence.
Kennett shook his head again. “No, Detective Frost. I can’t. It’s not my place.”
Simon eyed him narrowly. He was backed up against the wall of the hallway, calm and not at all intimidated by Simon’s greater height.
“Do you know who killed her?” Simon asked him.
Kennett’s eyes flicked away and back again. He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” He knew something though. He finally sighed and stepped forward, putting him chest to chest with Simon and Simon had no alternative but to step to one side and let him past unless he wanted to make something of it. And he didn’t. He really didn’t. He moved aside.
Simon was left looking after him as he went down the hall to the kitchen, the door propped open against the building heat of the day. He followed him into the room, watching him fill the kettle and put it on, helplessly standing there with his hands fisted in frustration at his sides, hot with irritation in the warmth of the morning and the lit range.
“We’re done here,” Kennett said, sliding the kettle onto the hotplate and turning to face him. “You should leave, before Dr Marks gets home.”
“What, so you can sort out an alibi for Miss Hall-Bridges between you?” Simon said snarkily.
There was quite a long pause and then, from behind him, Dr Marks’ voice, deep and calm and very, very flat said, “No need, Detective Frost. Lucy and I share a bed. She didn’t go anywhere, all night.”
The silence was as absolute as if a shell had gone off and deafened him.
`

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#SampleSunday: An Irregular Arrangement

For #SampleSunday this week I’ve got the first chapter of An Irregular Arrangement for you. It’s free when you subscribe to my newsletter.

An Irregular Arrangement: Chapter 1 : Val

“I do not think,” announced the vicar’s wife from the lane with some gravitas, “that you should be up there, young man.”
Val peered down from the top of the crumbling orchard wall where she was balanced, reaching over to get the very last apple. “Blast!” she exclaimed quietly and aloud said, “Just one more? It’s the last one. Mr Scott’s only going to let them all drop and then turn the pigs in, I heard him say.”
Mrs Downs sighed. “Oh, it’s you, Miss Wilkinson. Hurry up, so I can pretend you’d already finished by the time I saw you.”
Val flinched at being called Miss Wilkinson but did as she was bid and carefully scrambled down the way she’d climbed up. The apples were gathered in her cap and she passed them to Mrs Downs as she took a moment to brush her clothes free from dust. Mrs Downs observed quietly as she straightened her trousers and pulled down her waistcoat. Val eyed her cautiously. The vicar and his wife had only been in the village a few months and although everyone seemed to think they were decent sorts; decent sorts generally didn’t have much truck with people running round in unsuitable clothing and stealing apples.
“Flora Downs, by the way,” the woman offered a hand to shake, and Val took it. “Do call me Flora, please. I’m very pleased to meet you properly, we’ve only seen each other in passing. Would you like to come for breakfast?” Flora said, after a moment contemplating each other. “The vicar is away today…I’ve just walked him to the station, actually…and it would be nice to have some company.”
Val looked at her. She didn’t look much older than Val. Val was twenty-one but probably appeared younger with her hair cropped short and masculine clothing. “Valentine Wilkinson. Val. Hello. I’d love to,” she said in a burst of honesty, finally shaking the hand she was still holding. “But I need to drop the apples into Mrs Porter behind the smithy first. She’s not doing well since the new baby came and the other two young ones are hungry all the time. I said I’d see what I could do help.”
Flora gave Val an assessing look. “Come on then,” she said. “We can do that and then go and have some porridge at the vicarage. I’ve met most people by now, but I haven’t managed to pin you down.”
Val made a muffled yelping sound and juggled the apples to avoid answering. She’d made a categorical mistake in being noticed at all. Fading into the background was one of her special skills. She pulled energy from the border and thought herself small and people seemed to ignore her. She’d been so focused on the apples though, that she’d forgotten to keep it up when Flora spoke to her and now she was stuck. Although… Val glanced sideways to the small woman striding along beside her, skirts kicking around at a modest length above her ankles in the dust of the road, boots and dress pretty but practical, long hair turned up sensibly under a neat cloche hat, clear skin, pretty smile…it perhaps wasn’t the disaster it could have been.
“Have you met Mrs Porter?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t. I was told she probably wouldn’t appreciate a visit because she goes to the chapel, not the church.”
Val nodded. “That’s true. But none of them are talking to her because they realised she caught for the baby after her husband had died.” She grimaced. “No-one asked her what happened, they just judged her. I found out what was going on yesterday.”
“Well,” said Flora. “We need to get that sorted out as soon as possible, then. I’ll talk to the vicar when he gets home. We can help her if she’ll allow it.”
Val nodded. “I brought some bread and things this morning and dropped in and then I remembered the apples and thought I’d get them before the pigs. The children aren’t very old.”
****
It wasn’t long before they were in the vicarage kitchen. The ancient range was lit and Lily Richards, who came in every day to look after the house, was taking off her coat. “Morning, Missus, morning Miss Wilkinson,” she said. She didn’t quite meet Val’s eye. Quite a few of the more respectable villagers wouldn’t, these days. They didn’t like the trousers and they couldn’t see Val as a man, in the way that people who hadn’t know them growing up usually did if they met her dressed as she liked to dress.
“Good morning, Lily,” Flora said. “Are you going to get on with the bedrooms this morning?”
“Yes, Missus. I was going to strip the sheets from yours; and Sally’s coming to do the laundry in a couple of hours. I’m just going to light the copper for her.”
Flora nodded. “Wonderful, thank you. I’ll make a cup of tea and give you a shout when it’s brewed, shall I?”
“Lovely, thank you, Missus.”
“Take a seat,” Flora gestured to the long, scrubbed kitchen table. “We eat in here unless we’ve got company. The dining room is like something out of Dickens, it’s so gloomy. We get the sun in here.”
The room was on the corner of the house and faced both south and east. The early autumn sun was pouring in. It shot the soft brown of Mrs Downs’ hair through with red highlights, like a fox’s coat glinting russet against a hedgerow.
Val sat whilst Flora pottered about putting porridge in a pan and boiling the kettle.
“Don’t you have servants for this?” Val asked.
“Only Lily. I don’t much like having people in and out of the house, to be honest. I grew up keeping house for my father, so I’m happy taking it on for Tim and me.”
Val nodded. One of the reasons she spent so much time out of the house was that it was always flooded with people. The servants, then Mama, and their brothers’ friends. Val didn’t like the crowds and she didn’t like the way it felt, dressed up in girl’s clothes as Mama insisted, with the young men all looking at her like dogs eyeing a biscuit.

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#AMA: Dinner and a Show

Today’s #AMA question comes from Liz Welch: Which of your characters would you most like to have dinner with, and why? And what would they make for you to eat?

I thought this would be an easy one to write about and actually I’ve sat here for ages thinking about it. There are so many characters and so many different things we could talk about over a meal.

Finally though, I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m going for Rob and Matty from Inheritance of Shadows.

Character Sketch of Rob & Matty from Inheritance of Shadows

Webber’s Farm

Sitting with Rob and Matty at the scrubbed wooden table on the battered oak chairs in the kitchen at Webber’s Farm would definitely be my first choice. Rob would cook something like sausages and mash. Straightforward, plain food. The range would be fired up hot to cook on and the kitchen would be warm and cosy.

We’d eat with our elbows on the table and to follow, because it would be Saturday and no-one had to rush back out to work afterwards, we’d have big slabs of the fruitcake Anne Beelock had baked that morning along with slices of sharp cheddar from the larder, and drink cups of tea out of the cups and saucers with roses round the rim—Matty would have got out his mother’s china for my visit—and talk about how the cattle were doing and whether the harvest was going to be a good one this year.

The Webber’s of my mind is a dim, warm, welcoming place, with slightly fraying thatch and a muddy track with the pot-holes filled in as and when they’re needed. It has a yard surrounded by low, ancient barns filled with machinery dating back a couple of hundred years, dusted with the red soil of the hills. The back door is always ajar to let the dogs in and out and the kettle is always almost-boiling on the range.
As you knock on the door and go on in—the back door, no-one uses the front unless it’s a wedding or a funeral, or they’re a stranger—Rob looks up from the kitchen table where he’s standing next to a pile of potatoes, peering down at the newspaper he’s supposed to be using to peel them on, wire-framed glasses perched incongruously on the bridge of his nose.
“Ah,” he says. “It’s you. There’s tea in the pot.” And he looks down again to finish whatever he’s reading. Something about the football, probably.
“Where’s Matty?” you ask him, poking at the kettle.
“Gone to town,” he says, taking off his glasses and folding them carefully in to their case beside him on the table. “Picking up the seed potatoes.”
“Oh, yes, it’s Saturday,” you say.
“Nothing for the market today,” Rob tells you, to explain why he’s at home and Matty’s gone by himself. “And I needed to get on with one or two things here. He’ll be back shortly though. Are you staying for dinner? He was going to the butcher. Sausages.” He grins and raises his eyebrows. He’s a big fan of sausages.
“That would be lovely, if you have enough,” you say. “Shall I help you peel the potatoes?” You gesture to the pile.
“No, no,” he says. “You sit down and pour us some tea and I’ll get on with this. There’s no rush. I just thought I’d get it done. Annie’s gone off to see her sister.”
So you sit and make small-talk. Nothing big. Nothing of moment. Who’s working where. Who’s walking out with who. Whether Flo the big plough horse is in foal or not.
And when Matty comes home it’s more of the same, all through the meal and into the afternoon.

That’s what I like about Webber’s and the stories I’ve set there. Both Inheritance and Taking Stock are about people finding a home. Inheritance has a paranormal element. But it’s still mostly about both Matty and Rob finding a way to be happy with themselves and exploring how they might fit together. I guess in these troubled times I need that security and if I can only get it by going back fifty or a hundred years then so be it!

Rob is the most reassuring of my characters I think. He’s so steady. You’re not going to get cordon-bleu cuisine or conversation about philosophy with your meal. But you’ll get nourishing, comforting food, insightful local gossip and some national political discussion. And maybe a bit of chat about what he’s been reading. He likes to read, but not a lot of fiction—biographies, that sort of thing.

Callum has narrated Inheritance of Shadows for me. You can listen to the first (long) chapter for free at Bookfunnel and hear his interpretation of Rob and Matty. I love them both, he’s got them exactly as I pictured them—Rob’s depth and steadiness really come through.

I hope this answer’s Liz’s question! I’m really enjoying having these thrown at me and I hope you’re enjoying reading them. If you’d like the chance to ask me something yourself, please pop in to my Facebook Group or join my newsletter–I will be regularly asking for questions!

Thanks for reading!

#AMA: Resonating with your characters

This time’s topic is a question from Fee. Which of your characters, if any, do you resonate with most?

I suppose the easiest way to fudge this is to say well there’s something of myself in all my characters and be all highbrow about it. However, there are definitely characters I resonate with more than others. It tends to be the people who are lost that I find I chime with most, or the people who are unhappy with themselves. What does that say about me? I don’t know*. None of my characters are me, but a few of them have quite a few elements of me in them…so, I’m going to pick two. Laurie from Taking Stock and Walter from The Quid Pro Quo.

Laurie from Taking Stock

Laurie Henshaw, farmer. Recovering from a stroke. Age 33. Brown hair, brown eyes, sheepdogs Nell and Fly. Came to Webber's Farm in 1954. Taking Stock.

Laurie is in his mid-thirties and has had a stroke, which means he can’t work his own farm any more. Yeah, okay, I wrote this just after my Mama had her stroke, but actually Laurie’s emotions and feelings of powerlessness are right out of the Ally Lester Playbook. My own chronic disability is a seizure disorder paired with fibromyalgia and I loathe not being able to drive, or even go shopping alone in case I keel over. I hate not being able to have animals any more—I use to run the egg stall at the local farmers market and teach poultry-keeping courses and generally heave bags of animal feed and animals and animal housing around and I am now dependent on Mr AL and Talking Child to even take care of the handful of hens we keep ourselves. I put a lot of that frustration into Laurie—his feeling of losing his livelihood and his anger at the universe and I think it comes through. Bits of him were very therapeutic to write and bits of him were very upsetting.

Walter from The Quid Pro Quo

The same with Walter. Walter’s happy enough. He’s got his friends and his work and his travelogues. But he’s hiding his big secret from the world and no-one but his very closest friends know it. So he keeps that bit of distance from everyone else to protect himself. I am not out as non-binary or pan to the little village I live in. Some people know—I don’t make a secret of it exactly, but it’s not something that comes up in the village jubilee committee meetings. I present as a short, round, grumpy, middle-aged, straight married lady. And so I feel quite a bit of kinship with Walter. He’s short, soft around the middle and a bit grumpy…and he hides his gender and sexuality. It’s not the same. But there’s elements of me in there and that resonates.

Walter Kennet. Born 1880, East End of London. Profession, army nurse (orderly). Smokes a pipe. Appearance. Small, running a little bit to fat, dark brown hair and eyes, London accent. Personality, sarcastic, loyal, competent. Pansexual, transgender. Can cook. Reads travelogues for pleasure. The Quid Pro Quo.

The fact I was able to give both characters happy endings means a lot to me. A lot of what I write is about people finding a home in other people—found family as well as a romantic happy ending—and I guess that’s what I desire for myself. I do have a large and supportive family of choice, so I draw from that in the real world and hope my characters can have that too. But these characters also carry the sense of dislocation I still sometimes feel when the world gets out of whack and that also makes them close to my heart.

Thank you, Fee, for asking the question and making me think about it!

*Dear Reader, ALLY DOES KNOW

#AMA: Blending real people and fictional characters

I’ve been having a bit of blog-block recently, so I asked in my facebook group for suggestions and a lot of lovely people gave me questions to answer and topics to write about. To start with today, I picked Anabela’s…Are there any real people or personalities you’d like to turn into fictional characters? (I’ll also be asking this regularly in my newsletter if you don’t do facebook).

Well…

It’s a tricksy subject, because I think as a writer no-one would ever speak to you again if they thought you spent every interaction making mental notes about them to slide them in to a novel. Also…it’s a bit rude, I think? As if you’re using real people for other people’s entertainment. It seems immoral to me to pinch someone wholesale from real life and stick them in a work of fiction for other people’s entertainment, particularly if it’s painful situations or trauma that one’s writing about or putting the character through. It just doesn’t seem right.

So the broad answer to that is no, there aren’t.

But then we get to the narrow answer, of which there are two!

Firstly, my the development of my main characters is sometimes sparked by real-life people. For example, Edie in the The Flowers of Time was inspired by the artist Marianne North, a British woman who travelled all over the world painting flowers in the second half of the nineteenth century. She was remarkable both for her travels and for her talent. And a lot of Edie and Jones’ travels are based on those of Isabella Bird, another Victorian woman from Britain who travelled widely and wrote travelogues. (She was casually racist in the standard manner of the British at that time, so do be aware of that if you want to explore her work further. I took some of her travels as inspiration and I left her personality well behind.)

The Fog of War by A. L. Lester, First in the Bradfield Trilogy, part of the Border Magic Universe

Sylvia Marks in The Fog of War was sparked by an Edwardian lady doctor I remember my grandmother telling me about in Wellington in Somerset during her childhood. I know nothing about her personality apart from her nephew’s wife, a friend of mine, reporting that ‘she was a game old bird who smoked like a chimney’ when he knew her in the 1960s. Granny was struck by the fact that she’d come to visit her mother and sit on the kitchen table and swing her legs and smoke. So that was where Sylvia began. I jumped off from those two things and went and researched women doctors of that era.

For main characters like this I begin with a glimmer from somewhere and the character then grows on their own. Sometimes it doesn’t work…I have an abandoned post-apocalyptic-plague thing I began six months before covid where the MC is based on a dear friend and I made them too alike—even talking to him about it to check whether it freaked him out too much—and I can’t write it. That’s possibly for covid reasons but also because I don’t want to think about him naked (sorry about that, P, if you’re reading this!). And for my upcoming May release, the one for Naked Gardening Day, I got stuck when I realised I’d drawn heavily on my memories of my father for George, one of the protagonists. It made things just a tad awkward until I realised and could rewrite him so it didn’t make me need therapy.

So that’s the main character bit. I sometimes start with a snapshot of a real person and develop a main character from there. If I try and make them too like a real person, then it doesn’t work.

Jimmy, age 84. Extremely elderly farmhand from Inheritance of Shadows. Married. Lots of children and grandchildren.

Secondly though, there are definitely aspects of people I’ve met that I make a part of my supporting cast. Of necessity supporting cast members tend to be more caricatures, I think? So they have one or two traits that make them useful in the story, to move it along or provide comic relief or pathos or even just background depth. I’m thinking in particular of Jimmy from Taking Stock, who acts a bit like a local chap I know who used to help my Mama with her sheep. His appearances are third-party, we only ever see him through the eyes of the main characters. We never know what he’s thinking or what his feelings are. He’s just a foil for my main characters and the story and I don’t ascribe him any motivations.

Similarly in Out of Focus (out on 26^th March, pre-order now etc etc!) some of the supporting cast have traits of people I’ve met on my travels. Things like the way they swear, or something someone said…that sort of thing. But again…nothing that is actually them, if that makes sense? Nothing about what they might be thinking or feeling.

I think that’s the crux of it, Anabela! I sometimes use a real-life situation as a spring-board for character development. And I sometimes attribute something I remember someone doing or saying as part of a minor character. The idea of taking a real person wholesale and making them in to a fictional character doesn’t ring my bell at all—quite the opposite.

Next time…a New Thing I’m doing with some author friends…Reading Around the Rainbow!