So yesterday I am up early, assisted by my partner in crime, ready to empty the second half of the loft in preparation for the arrival of the loft insulating men the following day. We are just about to open the loft hatch when the phone rings. It is the loft insulating men who are parked nearby looking for the house. I can verify that a nearly seventy year old and a not much younger female with a heart condition can empty half a very full loft in less than an hour. What they feel like afterwards is another story.
I have promised to meet my friend to check a local graveyard for new memorials that have been erected since we indexed the churchyard a few years ago. The loft insulating van is parked right next to my front gate and insulating material is being pumped from it into my loft. I cannot get out of the gate. I do not have a back gate. In fact my house doesn’t have a back at all. Well, that is nonsense of course, it does have a back, I just can’t access it. Hmmm. My only method of escape is to clamber over a wall that divides my garden from my neighbours’ drive. I heave myself on to the top of the wall. Inevitably it has been raining. Sitting on a wet wall is not the most comfortable thing I have ever done. I leap into the unknown before the dampness can penetrate too far. I have had help getting on to the wall, I haven’t worked out how to accomplish the return journey.
After a day of ‘Why on earth am I keeping that?’ my evening was spent talking to a small but perfectly formed local history group. I always like December slots as they usually involve festive fare and sure enough there was restorative mulled wine on offer. I was talking about Remember Then: memories of 1946-1969 and the audience had brought in a lovely array of period toys for display. I also managed to sell books to 40% of the audience, even better!
Another genealogical mystery writer out of the advent box today. Again of course the books are set in the present but hark back to the past. So, let me introduce Steve Robinson. His anti-hero is American genealogist Jefferson Tayte, whose bumbling attempts at relationships echo through the series of books. I have to say that if genealogy was as dangerous a career as these books imply no one would be advised to take it up. Almost every one of Tayte’s cases results in threats to his life. Mind you, the phenomenal sums he seems to be paid may make up for this. Although there are unrealistic aspects to Tayte’s working life, this doesn’t matter. A ‘true’ account would not make good fiction. The first book In the Blood is set in Cornwall; Tayte’s enviable casebook takes him all over the world. A centuries old murder is solved thanks to his efforts. To the Grave sees Tayte in England again, unraveling a secret that has been kept since the days of World War II. In The Last Queen of England, fact and fiction are intertwined as Tayte solves a puzzle, set by members of The Royal Society, relating to the rightful heir to the throne. Then another change of time period, as, in The Lost Empress, he focuses on a 1914 shipwreck that has remained relatively unknown in the shadow of the Titanic and Lusitania. Kindred returns to a World War II backdrop and here we learn more of Tayte’s own search for his family, a thread that runs through all the books. I am eagerly awaiting the sixth book in the series, which is due out in May.
I need to be brief, lofts to empty, writing deadlines looming but I need to do justice to today’s historical novelist – Ariana Franklin and her Mistress of the Art of Death series. The heroine is Medieval anatomist Adelia Aguilar so another history/crime combination. To be an anatomist in the 1100s is unusual, to also be a female, adopted into a particularly free thinking family and hobnobbing with royalty does require a stretch of the imagination but not one that detracted from my enjoyment. Some anachronisms do creep into the twelfth century setting. This would normally annoy me beyond measure. The fact that it does not is a reflection of the other qualities of the writing. In The Death Maze Adelia becomes embroiled in royal intrigue as she investigates the poisoning of Henry II’s mistress Rosamund Clifford. The Assassin’s Prayer recounts another royal commission as she accompanies Princess Joanna on her way to a dynastic marriage in Sicily. Relics of the Dead sees Adelia trying to establish whether human remains are indeed those of King Arthur There are four books in the series, the last published posthumously and I am sad that there will be no more.
Ok, so I am going to cheat a little here. Give me a break it is hard working keeping this up on a daily basis in the season of
Today I should be making a guest appearance on 
A round up of historical novelists wouldn’t be complete without mentioning Jean Plaidy. Jean Plaidy’s novels formed a backdrop to my late teens as I read my way from her Norman saga to the Victorians, by way of the Plantagenets, Tudors, Stuarts and Georgians. I do still have my near complete collection of Plaidy books; they take up several feet of precious bookshelf. They are amongst the very few books that I still have that I will probably not re-read but I somehow can’t bring myself to part with them. Although I read each one several times when I was younger, I feel I have somehow outgrown them. Tales of the royals don’t hold my interest in they way that those focusing on more lowly characters do. Having said that, I do have to credit Jean Plaidy with giving me a far better grounding in British historical chronology than I could have acquired any other way. They are still in print, with jazzier covers than the ones I have and have now lost out to a certain extent to those by Phillipa Gregory but they still hold a special place in my heart.
Yes I know that it is now several hours after lunch. I have been succumbing to sales patter. I am officially barmy. I seem to have let myself in for helping a friend move house at the weekend and then emptying my loft between now and Tuesday in order to have it insulated. My loft contains more than my house, much of this is items like suits of armour that you can hardly pile on top of each other, oh and did I say I am not supposed to lift anything. I have a bad feeling that this could all go horribly wrong.
It would be strange if my advent historical novelists’ list did not contain several who have a genealogist as their protagonist. You might argue that these are not precisely historical novels and you would be right, as they are largely set in the present. They are however so bound up with the past that I am counting them – my advent ‘calendar’ my rules. These tend to combine an historical slant with crime, another of my favourite genres, so for me it is a two for the price of one scenario. The first for me to ‘unwrap’ is
A shorter post today, trees to decorate, cards to write, as the time of year catches up with me. We have just been to get the Christmas Tree. This is a hugely important activity. It has to be the right tree; I have been known to take one back! Based on my guiding principle that if it fits in the room it is too small, this one is probably too small but it makes up for the fact that there is at least six inches between the top of the tree and the ceiling by its bushiness. The tree came from a nearby farm where you can stomp your way through mud and fallen apples to select your own, which is then cut to order. Now Christmas begins. My Christmas decorating policy would have interiors experts cringing as colour co-ordinated it is not but each decoration has its own significance. I