Last day in the Big Smoke

Partly cloudy, cool, temps 13

Quite a nice day...and while I say cool it is, I believe, still considerably above normal. Michael spent an hour or more in the garden, doing a watercolour while I finished this edit on book 6 - Bury Your Dead.

I like it. In fact, I really like it. Can hardly wait to see what you think of it.

We headed off for breakfast to the Wolseley - Michael had an omelet and and I had stewed prunes in orange and ginger. Divine! And pots and pots of coffee. Then to Fortnum and Mason for gifts. We decided we really must buy a small flat in London if only to be able to furnish it with some of these great dishes and cutlery etc. Perhaps not the wisest use of our finances. Indeed, as I mentioned earlier, it will almost certainly never happen, but it is fun to dream. Besides, we have a fabulous life waiting for us in Canada - that includes Trudy. We miss her on our travels.

We're heading to an early dinner with Teresa Chris, my agent and her husband Charles...who also happens to be Lord Brudenell-Bruce, the son of a Marquess. And an actor. In fact, he's shooting the latest Harry Potter. Such interesting people we meet in London. Going around the corner to a place called Papillion. Hope it's good.

Robin and Jamie Agnew, who run Aunt Agatha's bookstore in Ann Arbor and are very influential in the mystery and crime writing community have chosen The Brutal Telling one of the years 10 best mystery novels. Wonderful!!! And Marian Misters, at Toronto's Sleuth of Baker street has given it a fabulous review in their latest newsletter.

So, good things keep happening.

Though I was sad to read of the death of Edward Woodward...I used to watch The Equalizer, and had a small crush on him. He was also in one of my favorite films, Breaker Morant. Fabulous.

Fly back to Montreal tomorrow...have an event noon Wednesday, speaking at the Royal Montreal Curling club luncheon. then Thursday I take a train to Quebec City for a talk and signing at a terrific bookstore there...La Maison Anglaise at 7pm. Home Friday and an event Saturday from 3-5 at the pointe Claire Library in Montreal. It's with Michael Blair, another Montreal crime writer and Mary Jane Maffini- who is coming down from Ottawa. It will be a panel discussion and the books will be for sale. signed books make a GREAT christmas gift.

Hope to see you there.

Then, home...home! Saturday night.

Death, thou shalt die.

Sunny, beautiful day, temps 13

Went to a tiny village called Tibenham yesterday for John Buxton's funeral. It was a beautiful event. Emotional, but didn't feel catastrophic. He was 75 and had seen his death coming, as had we all. And he talked about it easily, though admitted to Michael in private moments, that there were times he was afraid, and times he was in a rage about dying. And we felt that same way about losing him.

but finally, like with most death, it was a celebration of his life. And all the people he loved. And who loved him, including his wife Moira and children Jocelyn and Nigel and Dee and Patrick. And his grandchildren. And his friends and family. And Michael.

We sat at the back of the very old church. It's tiny and was crowded. The rafters and ceiling looked like the hull of a viking ship. It is a very simple, very clear church. Very lovely. And in the background were the bells John and Moira had had re-made a few years ago. The church was founded centuries ago by one of John's ancestors...another John Buxton. Many of his ancestors are buried beneath of the huge stones of the church floor. That wasn't possible for our John, but he did ask that he be allowed to lie there for one night, in his coffin, before being buried as close to the church as they could.

And so he did.

the service was simple as well, with his brother in law George doing a very lovely eulogy. And John's two sons reciting a Sonnet by John Donne - chosen by John. The one that begins, Death be not proud...

It was very moving to see his two boys, grown men now, so dignified.

Then the graveside service.

It was blowing a gale...the worst storms of the year for England. Rail service was disrupted, trees and electric lines down. Lashes of rain at the grave intermingled with huge leaves torn from trees.

It was very, very Gothic. I think we all appreciated how macabre and dramatic it was. Especially standing amid moss covered old tombstones beside the tiny church.

In fact, as we entered I noticed the marker commemorating the men of the parish who had died in the world wars. And I remembered that that was where I got the inspiration for the memorial window in the chapel in Three Pines. Beneath the list of names was written, simply, They Were Our Children.

After the service we went back to the Swan pub. Very old, half-timbered...small, comfortable rooms, each with an open fire. and out the leaded glass windows the storm continued. Then Peter, a friend of the family, who has helped us a great deal in the past two weeks on our visits to John and Moira, drove us to the train station. Thankfully our train wasn't disrupted. We made it back to Liverpool Street station, then home on the underground. By the time we emerged the storm was over. And today we awoke to a brilliant, sunny, new day.

Spent the morning on the last 20 pages...almost finished. Need to be so careful, so clear, at the end. We're off now for a Japanese lunch, then more editing this afternoon. I'm determined to be finished this draft by bedtime tonight.

Be well. Thank you for holding our hands through this, and coming to the funeral. We so appreciate it.

Afternoon Tea....again!?

cloudy, lots of rain, very mild temps 16

Teeming rain today. Poor Michael went out to get the papers while I edited and came back drenched.

Quiet day...decided to go back 200 pages and smooth out and read the delicate thread in Bury Your Dead. Very worthwhile. It also made it clear where to add the new scene. then moved forward.

Have 20 pages to go - hope to finish Sunday.

Went out for afternoon tea to a wonderful little hotel on Basil Street, behind Harrods. It's called the Capital Hotel...not, I think, a very promising name...but a beautiful hotel. The tea was a suggestion of Erika. The room where tea is served only has about five tables. It feels like a study, with bookcases...and silk lined walls. Very fresh feeling and intimate and comfortable.

Yummy tea. I had Rose Petal Gong Yu.

Actually skipped the sandwiches and pastry stage. Wasn't hungry. But am now so we have reservations at an oyster bar on Sloane Street in half an hour. Not a bad way, all in all, to spend a Friday.

Tomorrow we're off early to catch the train from Liverpool Street to take us to Norwich and John's funeral.

All in all not a great way to spend a day - but we're sure glad to be here for it.

Must head off...probably won't blog tomorrow...won't be home until late. But will speak to you on Sunday. Hope you have a good weekend.

Inspiration

mainly sunny, mild, temps 15

Really, this is stunningly beautiful weather...quite a surprise for London. Have only used the hot water bottles twice and Michael's used his long underwear once...and I haven't yet.

thank you so much Lee Ann for your very beautiful post yesterday. It was only last night when we were in bed that Michael turned to me and said, 'You know, you never did identify Lee Ann as the woman blogging today.' I thought about it and realized he was right. I am sorry if it has caused any confusion!

We had a lovely day yesterday. Breakfast around the corner at Jak's, on Walton street. Then home to edit some more. Another 50 pages. Paused at 11 for a minute's silence and quiet reflection...and, in the words of Bert Finney, to do my sums.

Not totally happy with what I'd done yesterday. It was right...but there seemed something missing. A layer. Last night Michael and I joined our friends Mike and Dom for dinner at a restaurant called Moro. A Spanish/Moroccan fusion. It had just been named the Observor's Restaurant of the Month. Packed...quite a scene. Wonderful to see the two of them again. Dom works in marketing...mostly perfumes and cosmetics. Very high end luxury goods and is brilliant. Creative and thoughtful. Mike is a senior editor at The Guardian. He used to be the host of the CBC Radio Montreal morning show. So it was a gas to get all caught up.

But getting to the dinner meant taking a bus (we could have taken the tube but we prefer busses) across London. Took an hour, as we expected. The number 10 from Knightsbridge, along Hyde Park and ending up at King's Cross. Took an hour. We sat upstairs on the double decker and stared out the windows at this dazzling city. At - great good fortune!! - at the Christmas lights that had just been put up. Harrods all outlined in season green lights. But the most spectacular was Oxford Street toward Oxford Circus. We really hadn't been expecting it and so were stunned at it's beauty. Apparently hovering over the brilliant street were all these Christmas gifts...huge and lit....and candy canes...and trees....for blocks. The department stores were dripping in cheerful lights. We felt like children...wide-eyed and giggly, pointing out one beautiful sight after another.

It also gave me time to gaze out the window and think, gently, about the edit...and find the solution. A few scenes I want to slip in. Short, but I believe crucial. Always amazes me when such inspiration visits. it never 'strikes' me. More like a kindly friend who I suddenly notice is sitting beside me.

This morning I slept in to about 9 then we hopped onto the number 22 bus on Sloane Street and it took us to Piccadilly, where we went, once more, to our new favorite breakfast spot in all the world. The Wolseley. this time we got a table in the huge main room...all white and black...art decco. Huge arched windows. Fabulous coffee in a silver pot. Warm, frothy milk also in a silver 'creamer'. I had french toast and bacon...Michael had Cumberland sausage.

We're going back Monday for breakfast. As I said in an earlier post, I realize that is just who I am. I find what I like and pretty much stick to it. Not very adventurous...but wow, does it ever give me pleasure.

Michael then took me to the Anish Kapoor show across Piccadilly at the Royal Academy. I loved it! Very, very modern. Scultpures. Seems at times serious, at times playful. Very dynamic. Indeed, for reasons that I can't possibly explain, there were times I was almost in tears. of delight. Joy. It just felt so alive. So compassionate and inclusive. Divine...way more divine than the scalding at of 1600's Spain we saw earlier.

Then over to Fortnum and Mason's - which also almost brought me to tears....candy, tea, chocolates, jams, cookies everywhere.

then home on the number 14...and now we're back. Quieter day tomorrow...editing. Hoping to finish this edit. Will start the next on Sunday. By then I think it will be more polishing than anything else.

Speak to you tomorrow...hope you're well. And Lee Ann, we thought of you yesterday. And today. Thank you again.

In Remembrance

Louise, bless her heart, has invited me to blog again on Remembrance Day, the anniversary of my son Thomas’s death. I’d like to talk a little about Thomas himself this time.

My own blog is titled “We Remember” which is a phrase that pops up everywhere once you start looking for it. Most of what I have remembered has to do with the way we have handled the time since Thomas’s death on November 11, 2004. It is hard for me to believe in some ways that it has already been five years since the day he died. It either feels like this has always been our reality, or like he was just here yesterday. He himself had a very sophisticated view of time, being the kind of kid who shut himself up in his room to secretly read St. Augustine’s Confessions. He understood Augustine’s concept of eternity as being all of time at once: hard for us mere humans to encompass. But it is a comfort to me in a way to think that in some sense at least he exists just as I remember him, as a chunky baby, as a thoughtful kindergartner, as a boy growing toward manhood.

People who did not know Thomas are always astounded to hear that he told us in July before he left for Iraq exactly what he wanted done if “anything happened.” (We could not bring ourselves to even say “If you don’t come back.”) He stood in the hallway while I clutched a basket of laundry and told me that he did not want to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery, that he wanted to be buried in civilian clothes, and that he had decided to pay for the higher level of life insurance available to soldiers, figuring that it was only a few dollars per month. I argued about the clothes but ultimately told him I’d do what he wanted, just don’t make me do it please. It was a gift in a way: when they came to tell us that he was gone, we knew precisely what we had to do.

And his view about time was also a gift: a few months later, his high school English teacher, Tom Tobin, was interviewed by the Washington Post as part of a series about the aftermath of soldiers’ deaths. Tom recounted a conversation in which Thomas revealed just what a remarkable kid he really was, how he had explained Augustine and eternity to his fellow students and teacher. Tom was amazed and impressed and it was the beginning of a friendship that lasted to the end of Thomas’s life.
It may be hard to believe that a kid who could contemplate his own death with equanimity and discuss St. Augustine with ease could also be described as a good soldier. But there they were: his Purple Heart, his Bronze Star, and his Good Conduct Medal all witnessing to his life as a professional soldier.

He had volunteered for his final mission, no surprise, in the end, to anyone who knew him.

A whole lot 'a nuttin' goin' on

overcast, cool, temps 11

though I haven't been out today at all! spent the day in my sweats, and you know what that means! Writing. Editing, actually. got almost 100 pages done - but difficult. Not much new, but tweaking and needing to make sure the edits are actually improvements. And of course when I change one thing, it affects other things later on...everything's connected. It's like tossing a pebble into a pond. Not a big splash - and quickly disappears unnoticed (I hope) but with consequences. A lot of editing is thinking, and staring, and imagining. Where the change might make a single scene better - by the end of the book the effect might be catastrophic.

So - as a result - I'm really tired and will not do a long post. Besides, nothing happened.

there - that was simple.

Dear Diary,

Tuesday, November 10th. London, England.

Nothing Happened.

Louise

Common ground

mainly sunny, cooler, temps 6

Chilly day, but very nice for walking. had breakfast at home - fruit and a piece of toast...and coffee of course. Then answered some emails. Very odd being here...feels like we've been flung five hours ahead of the 'rest' of the world. So used to being on Eastern Time - not UK time. Most of the people - friends, family, work - are in Canada or US. So they don't start stirring until after lunch here in London. But we get emails well into the night. So i wake up to quite a few.

After breakfast and emails we wandered down to sister Carol's place just off Sloane Square. Her husband is David Lloyd-Jones, an opera conductor. he helped establish Opera North and does a lot of recordings now. And writing. I remember the first time I met him, 15 years ago now. I'd heard so much about him, and of course I'm a complete opera dolt. Been to a few when i lived in Winnipeg and a lovely friend there - janet ringer - decided it was time this heathen was educated. So she took me to the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, the Symphony and the Opera. And it was thrilling. There were times I sat in my seat next to janet and felt my heart leave my chest and soar around the concert hall. sometimes it was on unexpectedly hearing music I knew...sometimes, like with Saint Saens organ concerto or Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, it was hearing stunning music for the very first time and falling in love. Janet has a great deal of tolerance. She hated smoking and I was a smoker at the time...and not just a smoker, but I smoked between courses. We'd go out for dinners before the concerts and she's have to suffer through me puffing away. I cringe now when I think how selfish that was. And how kind she was to tolerate it...and to introduce me to such amazing music. And performances. Some of the ballet left me speechless. Some - it must be said - left me snoozing. Indeed, I never did 'get' opera...though another wonderful friend in Winnipeg - Pat - adores it.

So when it came time to meet the famous David Lloyd-Jones I was quaking. I'd also heard he was quite formidable. And sure enough, we got off the train and he was there to meet us. Over six foot tall, athletic build, and a full head of dramatic white hair.

He was far too gracious to ever treat me like a moron...and I am not a moron, but it seemed everything he is passionate and knowledgeable about I know nothing about. Most of the names he said meant absolutely nothing to me. and so for ten years I smiled and nodded and buried my face in the canape tray. He must have thought, on top of being slightly idiotic, that I had an eating disorder. or at least a fascination with things on crackers.

And then, one visit, we were staying with them in their country home and loe and behold - David loves roses. And I love roses. And grow them at home. And suddenly he and I are burning bracken and comparing notes on old garden roses, on hardiness, on blights. And now we hardly ever speak about roses, but I suddenly see him as human and he sees me as human too.

Common ground. What a blessing to find.

So off we went to visit them and see how Carol is doing after her operation. She looks and moved a lot better than when I saw her last week. that's a relief...though she still has a bit of a way to go. The good news is, she can feel the improvements everyday.

Then home in time to meet Erika for lunch. She took us down Walton street to a new restaurant...small, crowded, vibrant. Very alive. And terrific food. Then she took us on a whirlwind spin around the neighborhood, showing us the best, hidden, restaurants. and some not hidden at all. Part of the problem in London - like paris or New York or any great city, is an embarrassment of riches. How to choose? And how do we know which ones are really good and which are just not worth the considerable amount of money for a meal? Happily, Erika has very definite opinions and we're happy to believe her. So now we have scouted out two Oyster bars and a sushi place. Yum.

tomorrow I'm hoping for a quiet day to write and edit. Dinner Wednesday night with Mike and Dom. Mike works at the Guardian and they are announcing quite large layoffs Wednesday...tense time. If you're among those cut you feel sick and frightened...if you survive you're relieved, but feel guilty. Still - better to survive. Mike is a fabulous journalist and a natural leader - I'd hope that would be enough to keep him on...but who knows how these things are decided?

So there you have it...another day in London-town. Cor.