Re: Jane
 

On second thoughts, here's a slightly longer quotation of the draft ending, setting it more in context (I hope):

“It’ll be Lisa-Louise, Modesty, Diqui, Barguin, me – and you two as well, if you’d like to join us.”

“Nicola,” I warned, “don’t make your joke about glue.”

“All right,” she said, chuckling at the quip she might have made, “we’re on for it.”

“Excellent – it’s going to be a good night out!”

Jane Armstrong was correct – it was an exceptionally good night out. We went to the Lundin Follies – a show of bright lights, glitter, high kicking dancers and song. Having, on the last night of Lifenbud, seen Sarah James in her drab street wear, it was difficult to believe that Glitzy Gloria Glitter is the same person. The Surrey Girls proved a show-stopper. As Sarah sang – I would like to be one, but I’m just a Lundin drab – bright light, amplified by an arrangement of mirrors, played upon her glittering costume. In tights and snugly-fitting sequinned body, she stood transformed into a lambent silver beacon, her head topped with tall white feathers. Every throat in the audience roared its approval. It seemed to take a long time before sufficient quiet returned for her to continue:

In spite all me glitter I’m not so ####ing fab
Then when I’m feeling dowdy, a Surrey girl picks up the tab
I’ll get me coat, call me a cab!
Oh those Surrey girls!

Reaching out into the dimness of the auditorium, I squeezed the hand of Nicola, the Surrey girl in the next seat. She returned my pressure.

“That,” said Nicola as we emerged from the theatre, “is the finest show I’ve ever seen.”

“Life,” I replied, “is a fine show.”

We stepped out into the street, illuminated by many flambeaux, light reflected in puddles left by a recent shower. Heavily laden, an omnibus trundled past, freighted with revellers – laughing, singing. A pair of fine ladies in exquisite evening gowns and plumed headdresses clambered into a cab. The driver flicked the reins and the wheels clattered upon the cobbles. Onions, frying on a street trader’s brazier filled the air with a heavy scent. Barguin handed round the last of her honeycake candies. Placing one on my tongue, its perfumed sweetness filled my mouth.

The sweet seemed a metaphor for what life might be, and perhaps would be. I smiled at the reflection – and at my reflection, in a puddle. Daughters – I hope that your lives will be filled with such joy as was mine at that moment.

Re: Jane
 

Today, I've given the final chapter of Jane a silent read-through. Proper polishing will probably have to wait till Thursday. I'm really pleased with the chapter.

But that's not the main reason for this post. The following passage, had it been included in Odalisque, would certainly have included coarse elided dialogue. This may be taken as a sample of one of the ways in which Odalisque is set to change. I'd welcome any opinions on it.

The teahouse was crowded and noisy, with everyone dishevelled – customers and serving staff alike. Presumably they’d all fought their way to the front, before being swept back to the rear. Laughter filled the air, a good natured holiday atmosphere prevailed. Two girls on a bench seat shifted up to make room for us.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Yes, thank you,” Nicola added.

“No problem, ducks,” one of them replied. “You both look like you need to sit. What a scrimmage out there, eh?”

“Worth it, though,” her companion said, “to see our Empress.”

“And her little girl – bless! Where are my manners? I’m Angie, ducks.” She held out her hand for us to shake.

“And I’m Gillie,” said the other making the same friendly gesture.

“I’m Jane,” I said, taking first one hand and then the other.

“And I’m Nicola.”

“Come far?” Angie asked. “We live not far from the Old Gate. If we’d been just a couple of stops nearer, we wouldn’t have made it on to the bus. Packed! Not half!”

“We’re from Surrey,” Nicola said. “Staying in the Palace Victoria, just round the corner.”

“Surrey girls!” Gillie said. “There’s a song about you.” She giggled.

“That waitress is taking her time, when there’s thirsty Surrey girls,” Angie said. Then, raising her voice – “Hoi! Service!”

“All right, all right,” a waitress said, bustling up. “I’ve only got one pair of feet, same as anyone else. And if you’re friends of these two,” she gave Gillie and Angie a meaningful look, “we don’t take old Lundin coins – only imperial.”

“That’s all right,” I said, “we’re from Surrey – imperial coins are all we have.”

“Oh, Surrey girls, eh? With Skirt City open, now, it’s getting harder to tell who’s who. Besides, you two look like you’ve been dragged through the bushes, round the park and back again. But we could do with more custom from your sort, and that’s a fact. What will it be? Tea for two?”

Looking at Nicola, I could see the justice of the waitress’ remark about our appearance. Scarcely a hint remained from her neat turnout of a few hours before. The battered remains of Nicola’s picture hat had retreated to the nape of her neck. A once pressed white blouse had become a mass of stained crumples. Her face was covered in dust, with a blood streak on one cheek. Wondering at my own transformation, I reached into my bag for a mirror, then changed my mind. It was probably better not to know.

“Rosehip,” Nicola said. “Lots of honey for her.”

“Bringing the jar’s a penny ha’penny extra.”

“No problem,” I said. “Bring it – please.”

“Ooh!” said Angie. “Lady Bustain!”

“She’s only kidding,” Gillie added.

“Who’s Lady Bustain?” I asked.

“Lord Bustain’s a dealer in horses,” Angie told us. “Supposed to have made a fortune. Down our way, whenever someone’s splashing cash about, we call them Lord or Lady Bustain. No offence.”

“None taken,” I said.

“You might take offence,” the waitress observed, “if it weren’t a holiday. It may go down all right around the Old Gate, but now that there’s imperial justice, Lord Bustain needs to be pretty fly if he’s not to be nabbed for stealing horses.”

“Blooming serve him right, too,” Gillie said. “Enslavement would soon work off a bit of his blubber.”

Re: Jane
 

I think that I now have the last chapter in its final form, and have gone back to the start. The title page and Chapter 1 may also be in their final forms. The title page is almost completely different. The epigram has changed from this:

The Empress and Her Realm are one – we strive that She so continues

– motto of the Imperial Ministry on Warrior Square, Berenice


To this:

Dearest Jane,

You say you’ve been wondering, recently, why Lisa-Louise called us the warriors of love. I would tell you that the love had to do both – with our objectives – and with the love between us. But I’m not sure that what we felt for one another is separate from what we set out to do. There is a oneness to life. We become what we do. We do what we become. In a sense, you and Nicola are as much warriors of love as we who fought to reunite lovers, to save a child’s life.

– A letter from Colonel Modesty Clay to Jane Brewster

Re: Jane
 

The ending has changed a little since I posted it three days ago. It now reads:

“It’ll be Lisa-Louise, Modesty, Diqui, Barguin, me – and you two as well – if you’d like to join us. I’d like you to come – really. I joined the warriors of love long after the others, and still feel a bit of an outsider.”

“Nicola,” I warned, “don’t make your joke about glue… joining them.”

“All right,” she said, chuckling at the quip she might have made, “we’re on for it.”

“Excellent – it’s going to be a good night out!”

Jane Armstrong was correct – it was an exceptionally good night out. We went to the Lundin Follies – a show of bright lights, glitter, high kicking dancers and song. Having, on the last night of Lifenbud, seen Sarah James in her drab street wear, it was difficult to believe that Glitzy Gloria Glitter is the same person. The Surrey Girls proved a show-stopper. As Sarah sang – I would like to be one, but I’m just a Lundin drab – bright light, amplified by an arrangement of mirrors, played upon her glittering costume. In tights and snugly-fitting sequinned body, she stood transformed into a lambent silver beacon, her head topped with tall white feathers. Every throat in the audience roared its approval. It seemed to take a long time before sufficient quiet returned for her to continue:

In spite all me glitter I’m not so ####ing fab
Then when I’m feeling dowdy, a Surrey girl picks up the tab
I’ll get me coat, call me a cab!
Oh those Surrey girls!

Reaching out into the dimness of the auditorium, I squeezed the hand of Nicola, the Surrey girl in the next seat. She returned my pressure.

“That,” said Nicola as we emerged from the theatre, “is the finest show I’ve ever seen.”

“Life,” I replied, “is a fine show.”

We stepped out into the street, illuminated by many flambeaux, light reflected in puddles left by a recent shower. Heavily laden, an omnibus trundled past, freighted with revellers – laughing, singing. A pair of fine ladies in exquisite evening gowns and plumed headdresses clambered into a cab. The driver flicked the reins and the wheels clattered upon the cobbles. Onions, frying on a street trader’s brazier filled the air with a heavy scent. Barguin handed round the last of her honeycake candies. Placing one on my tongue, its perfumed sweetness filled my mouth.

The sweet seemed a metaphor for what life might be, and perhaps would be. I smiled at the reflection – and at my reflection, in a puddle. Daughters – I hope that your lives will be filled with such joy as was mine at that moment.

It was a Valday night in mid Cornsprout of Her Majesty’s sixth regnal year.

I'm pleased with the final sentence. In a sense, by stating when this was, it brings the text down to earth, grounds it. In a different sense, it conveys a sense of the alien. Our calendar includes neither Valday nor Cornsprout. We do not even date events to Her Majesty's regnal years.

Re: Jane
 

The date (in the final sentence) also links back to the start which now reads:

Modesty Clay and I were lovers, although I never really knew her.

Flocking gulls squawked over the marshland. Chill breezes blew, tossing the reed bed into motion, almost like breaking waves out at sea. Sunshine, dodging its way through a rift in the cloud bank, did little to warm the air. A cold blast assailed me, fiercer than the preceding gust. Against this fresh onslaught, I wrapped my cloak tighter about my person. My chiffon scarf having worked loose – a turquoise flag flapping in the wind – I tucked it back into place. As I did so, my fingers brushed the golden goddess image about my neck, its associations reassuring to the touch. Thick salty mud, an enemy of leather, spattered my boots. Spending unaccustomed time in the saddle, my bottom hurt. After a sea voyage, my belly weighed heavily. Lingering in my mouth, and settled uneasily in my stomach – leaving me feeling bloated – lay an early lunch of beans and sausages.

It was a Valday afternoon in late Glarehaze of Her Majesty’s fifth regnal year.

The narrative is contained within a timeframe. (A little less than ten months, as readers may be able to work out for themselves in subsequent volumes of The Warriors of Love.)

Re: Jane
 

Today, I've been adding additional material to the third chapter. Without wishing to post any spoilers for those who will one day read it, the third chapter features a battle. I've realised that there was no mention of eating. The cooks were involved in nursing duties. And girls surely work up an appetite slaughtering the troops of wicked kings. Did the heroes of the fight return to a cold dinner? Or did they have something hot? If they had something hot, how was it prepared (with the cooks busy with wounded soldiers)? These questions needed answering. And now they have been answered.

The world of "Jane" steps a few inches closer to being perfectly realised. :)

Re: Jane
 

Today, I may have finally put the third chapter to bed, and have done some more work or Chapter four. Here's some new material from Chapter 4, to do with a yellow chiffon scarf:

My yellow chiffon scarf still fluttered from the tent post. Examining it carefully, I was much relieved to find the scarf unbloodied and undamaged. This yellow one was the oldest of my chiffon scarves, and I had an especial attachment to it.

Five years earlier, or a thereabouts, the place where the centre of Berenice now stood had been little more than a village. Nevertheless, it had a bustling Comday market. One evening, Nicola and I had hurried there after school, delighted to find that each of us had enough money in her purse to buy a scarf. My choice had been this yellow one, still wearing its age well in Modesty’s camp – Nicola’s had been red. Stephanie Miles, at school next day, had taunted me: Jane the pain, bad speller in yeller. Cheek! I’d replied, my spelling’s better than yours any day. Her friend, Rachel Stevens, had added: Nicola the fickler, good as dead in red. She was probably hoping that Nicola would slap her, triggering retribution from the headmistress – fortunately, my friend kept her temper. In spite of this, or because of it, Nicola and I had, for two or three years, adopted red and yellow as our colours. When she had a new red cardigan or skirt, mine was sure to be yellow.

With trembling fingers, and a little difficulty, I unknotted the fine fabric from the tent post. Draped about my neck, it felt a little clammy. Morning dew, perhaps.

Re: Jane
 

In the pasasage quoted in my last post, I've now ammended the place where the centre of Berenice now stood to read the place where the centre of Berenice now stands. A small change. I'm wondering whether I'll make any more big changes. Maybe not.

Re: Jane
 

Here's a page from my most recent letter to Des Lewis, including several thoughts about Jane.

http://www.ligotti.net/picture.php?a...pictureid=1343

Re: Jane
 

Crumbs! I've been re-working chapters today, now making only small changes as I approach the end of the book. And, to my surprise, in this single day I've managed to complete my work on three chapters. Only another three remain. Another day as productive as today, and I'll be done.