PRIDE AND PUBLICATION

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a person in the process of writing a historical novel, must be in want of a Retreat. Which is how I found my niche. I provide a service clamoured after by historical novelists. It must be successful – the waiting list is so long that the bookings stretch out for a year in advance, despite their being a week long and at two-week intervals.

Problems? Certainly. Fitting together the wants and needs of the multiplicity of types of historical novelist would be a huge issue if I hadn’t managed to categorise my retreats by subject and time period. American Civil War is hugely popular, and I only have to make sure I keep the pro-Confederate writers separated from the pro-Yankees. And the ‘if-only’ crowd. If only Robert E. Lee hadn’t sent Pickett forward, if only Jeb Stuart had not been impossible to find. And then there’s the nit-pickers – ‘The Union Army didn’t have that type of weapon/uniform/you name it at that time/in that theater.’ Which swiftly degenerates into screaming arguments, production of documents which are then dismissed as inaccurate, biassed or just plain wrong – I get ‘shabby scholarship’ thrown around a fair bit. And then both combatants storming off in a huff and refusing to talk to anyone for the rest of the retreat and insisting on their meals being served to them in their rooms.

And then there are the ‘Histromance’ novelists, bless their little cotton socks. Their Goddesses are Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland. Heaving bosoms, firm erect heroes, drama, insult, gorgeous costumes, duels.

But it wasn’t always that way. When I first started out, I didn’t discriminate between all these different sub-species. And the first Retreat was like World War III.

It had started out so well. A gathering of historical writers, all to polish their trade and learn from each other. What could possibly go wrong? We were out in the countryside, a beautiful forest location with a chuckling stream running nearby, a magnificent rambling old house with comfortable rooms with views out to the forest, soft beds, all the modern conveniences including the fastest wi-fi money could buy.

The writers began arriving early, from all over the country. All ages, all genders. Grey-haired men smoking pipes (which were forbidden inside the building, so they had to go into the forest to smoke), red and blue-haired women of a certain age, young people of indeterminate gender with hairstyles of various grades of outrageousness and clothing to match – we were all there. It fell to me to assign rooms and announce the program of seminars and workshops.

I suppose I should have spotted the first red flag when two of the pipe-smoking grey-haired men eyed each other off as though they were rival bulls with designs on the same paddock. ‘You’re here,’ said one. ‘I didn’t think you’d dare show your face in a place like this.’ ‘I never expected to see you at this thing,’ said the other. ‘I didn’t know they accepted hacks.’ The first man snorted and pointedly turned his back, strolling over to a group of women who were having a spirited conversation on the relative merits of Jane Austen versus the Bronte sisters. He stayed a moment, hoping to be noticed, then retired baffled. They seemed to be talking a foreign language.

In a corner was a group of mediaeval novelists. ‘No! That couldn’t have happened! They didn’t wear plate mail in the thirteenth century!’

‘Plate mail? Plate mail? What are you talking about? It’s either chain mail or plate, there’s no such thing as plate mail!’

‘Chain mail? Where have you been for the last forty years? It hasn’t been called chain mail for decades! Back in the day they just called it mail. And they spelled it maille!’

‘Are you talking about a hauberk or a haubergeon?’

‘No, you idiot! A byrnie!’

‘You mean brnja, surely!’

‘Not among the Saxons! That’s a Viking word!’

‘Saxons? Surely you mean Anglo-Saxons!’

‘You’re both wrong. They called themselves the Englisc Folc, or the Angelcynn.’

I walked away. This could go on for hours, and I needed to arrange accommodation and take numbers for the workshops and seminars.

Then I discovered who was not prepared to share a room with whom. Old rivalries surfaced, and I had to hastily re-arrange my arrangements.

And then there were the seminars. I discovered that both of the pipe-smoking men I had encountered were genuine historians, both Professors, both highly respected, but with totally opposing views on the Wars of the Roses and Richard the Third. And both were giving seminars on different days.

At the first seminar, Prof. Parkinson stated that King Richard had been an evil murderer, that he had killed his brother and his nephews. And a large number of the audience members were carried away with his certainty and enthusiasm. And the next day Professor Atkins told the same people the direct opposite. The audience became confused - very few of them had studied this period. A question from the audience about King Richard’s spine simply confused the issue further. The audience left shaking their heads and muttering amongst themselves. I got a lot of complaints from some very angry people.

Then one of the Regency ladies of a certain age – a Mrs Hoskins – makes eyes at Professor Parkinson. ‘La, Professor! Fie upon you, sir!’ And then at Professor Atkins. And aged testosterone supplements professional rivalry. And all of a sudden – I think it must have been at Mrs Hoskins’ suggestion – the two silver-haired Professors are engaged in a full-scale duel. Admittedly the weapons of choice are Professor Parkinson’s gold-handled cane and Professor Atkins’ ivory (antique, I assure you!) handled stick. You know the term hammer and tongs? A bit dated, but it’s certainly apt. Well, it’s even odds that one will either brain the other or they’ll just run out of steam. In the long run, Professor Atkins’ pacemaker starts acting up and he has to retire from the combat.

But it got worse. Next day Professor Parkinson was looking very sheepish. Apparently friendship from Mrs Hoskins did not extend to the bedroom overnight. And she had regaled all her Regency girlfriends with how she had told him that he was a cad and a bounder, and not a true gentleman at all, at all.

Well, the Regency ladies ‘cut’ the Professors – both of them - from that point on. They refused to talk to them or have anything to do with them. Atkins was apparently included through guilt by association.

Then as word got around, one of the World War II novelists made a smart remark and both Parkinson and Atkins banded together against him. The trouble spread, bringing in the Napoleonics – the Napoleonists on one side, the Wellingtoneans on the other.

Next thing I know there are food fights in the meal rooms, people are having eggs thrown at them and toilet paper (this was before Covid!) clogging up the toilet pans in their ensuites, even beds being short sheeted – I’d never come across this tactic, but it was still vivid in the minds of some of the older ones.

In the long run, I barely covered costs, what with reparations for damage to the premises, cleaning bills, you name it. And I barely escaped several lawsuits.

So now I restrict my retreats to specific time-periods. That’s exciting enough in its own right, but nowhere near as life-threatening as mixed ones.

It’s a profitable enterprise, but I’ve gained a lot of grey hairs. I hope to sell it soon as a going concern and retire on my profits. And I learnt a lot. I’d thought writers were so dignified, so cultured. I know better now. Next time I start a business, maybe I’ll take up lion-taming. I’m more likely to enjoy it.