Day 5 of NaNoWriMo/ NaBloPoMo and I was behind by 1000 words yesterday but made it up today plus a few (wordcount 8664), on track for Blog Posts (5 for 5).
Although I’m on track as of yesterday through day today (day 5), I need to keep banking extra words for those days during the coming holiday parties when I won’t be able to manage many words at all.
It was a long time ago and perhaps the life of a Brat took me so many places that while some memories burn bright, others are so dim as to be non-existent, less than the mists that shrouded the woods at the edge of the Wadenhoe estate many days and made of it a titillating place for me to explore. Perusing the pictures stirs the memory but my NaNo Novel is based part in truth as seen by my 6-year-old self, stories of recollection from my mom and dad and my own imaginings - hence Novel not Memoir.
I still don’t have a good feel for my POV, but I’m letting the story take me where it will for now. Write in haste, edit at leisure, and even the title doesn't quite feel right.
Excerpt – Chapter One
We arrived after dark. I felt like we were in a scary movie. This huge castle loomed in the night and the fog rolled along the ground all around us as we got out of the cab. Daddy, ever the practical joker, pointed at the head carved above the entrance and said, “That is the ghost of Wadenhoe.” Mother told him to cut it out - I had to pee too bad to be scared.
A maid opened the door and showed us up the stairs to our flat (English for apartment); told us what time breakfast was served in the kitchen and left.
There were some white bread sandwiches on the coffee table. They were butter with cucumber and butter with ham; cut into fours with the crusts neatly trimmed away; and neatly stacked on a beautiful old plate.
We devoured them all, and Mom put us too bed. I could hardly sleep, and when she left the room, I crept to the window to look out. As I look back on that night, I know now why I liked that shot in the first Harry Potter film so much - the one where he sits looking out the frosted window of his new home high in the castle.
The next morning I was ready to go before anyone and waiting impatiently at the door. We went down the rickety stairs to the better stairs and found our way to the kitchen, where the maids were scurrying around the long table delivering breakfast to our house mates.
At that time Wadenhoe House was managed by Mrs. Boothroyd (Mrs. B) and with two exceptions, all the rooms and suites were let out to Air Force families. The exceptions were a two men, one from Scotland, one from Poland. They were always referred to as the Scot and the Pole – I never knew their names. The Scot, when in his cups, would change into kilts and march down the main staircase serenading the whole house with his bagpipes whether they liked it or not. The Pole was quiet, but with a ready smile, and always had a book in his hand.
Mrs. B introduced us around the breakfast table, and asked how we liked our eggs. I watched as the cook cracked these huge eggs into a bowl, added milk and beat them with a fork. She put them into the large iron pan on the old wood burning stove that occupied half the wall at the end of the kitchen.
Later when Mom found out they were goose eggs, she never ate them again.