What We're Writing--Debs in the Ivory Tower

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Most of us writers perpetually wish that we could escape to a proverbial ivory tower where we could write undisturbed. We even pay to go on writing retreats, where we have no interruptions and no responsibilities other than turning out those pages as our deadlines loom. But so far the only retreats I've managed have consisted of booking myself into hotel rooms for a few days, although I daydream about one in which I stay in beautiful cottage in the woods, and delicious baskets of food are delivered to me several times a day while I tap out page after brilliant page... 

Unfortunately, that one hasn't come true.

I've never been very good at sticking to schedules, I have to admit. One outing can throw me off my writing stride for days, and a trip can set me back for weeks, so I suppose it's natural that I've fantasized about having loads of uninterrupted time. I never imagined I would actually get my wish.

But here I am, almost four months into lockdown. No trips, no conferences, no book signings, no speaking events. No lunches out, no shopping expeditions with my daughter, no babysitting, no movies, no concerts, no having friends over for wine-time in my kitchen.

It's just me and my laptop, day after day. We'll see in a couple of months whether or not there's magic in a forced retreat. My deadline is inching nearer.

Here's a snippet from Kincaid/James #19.

And for a  little scene setting, here's a view of the cafe in Russell Square, in Bloomsbury, not far from the British Museum.

And here's the fountain in its center, on a damp and chilly November night.

“Mummy.” Trevor tugged at the hem of her coat.

Lesley Banks gave a sigh of exasperation and kept her eyes fixed on the screen of her mobile. “Honestly, Trev,” she snapped. “Amuse yourself for one minute, can’t you? You’re a big boy now.” One of her staff at the hotel had just sent her a text saying she couldn’t come in for evening shift and Lesley had got to sort it out straight away. The walk across the square was the only time she didn’t have to keep her eye—and her hand—firmly fixed on her five-year-old.

“But, Mummy—”

“Trev, just look at the pretty fountain, okay?” she said, scrolling through her contacts for someone who might be willing to fill a shift at short notice.

Mummy.” Trevor’s tug was more insistent. Something in his voice made her look away from her screen. “Mummy, I think that lady isn’t well.”

“What lady is that, love?”

Trevor pointed. “That lady over there, by the tree.”

Lesley made out a dark shape beneath the trees just beyond the illumination cast by the fountain’s lights. She shook her head. “Not our business, love.”

“But Mummy.” Trevor scuffed at the leaves. “She walked funny. And then she fell down.”

“Look, baby, it’s probably someone who’s just had a bit too much—” Lesley stopped. That wasn’t the best path to go down with a kid, she supposed. And why teach your children to be kind if you weren’t prepared to be bothered yourself? With a grimace, she pocketed her mobile and grasped Trevor’s hand. “Okay, let's have a look.” Taking a few steps closer, she called out, “Miss? Are you okay, miss?”

There was no movement from the shape, but her eyes had adjusted and now she could make out legs, and the outline of a boot. Lesley hesitated. There was something about that stillness that struck her as wrong. Even drunks weren’t usually completely unresponsive. She glanced round, suddenly hoping for a supportive fellow Samaritan, but the crowd had thinned while she’d been dithering.

She could just call 999, of course, but she’d look an idiot if it was a rough sleeper merely the worse for wear. And if the woman really was ill, well, she’d had first aid training—you had to these days in the hotel business, didn’t you?—and the ambulance service could take forever.

Loosening Trevor’s hand, she put him behind her and said, “You stay right here, baby, while Mummy checks on the lady.”

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the intervening ground and knelt. “Miss,” she said.

When there was no reply, Lesley put tentative fingers on the woman’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. The figure, loose as a jelly, rolled face up. The flopping arm brushed Lesley’s knees.

Lesley jerked back, her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Christ,” she breathed. Behind her, Trevor began to cry.

Reds and readers, have you had a fantasy come true in a totally unexpected way? And fellow REDS, have you ever done a proper writer's retreat?