Browsing through the letters page of next week’s Radio Times I see that some correspondents are objecting to the anachronistic language in the recent series of the period drama Downton Abbey. Examples quoted include ‘allergy’, ‘hung parliament’ and colloquial expressions such as ‘Papa will hit the roof’, ‘The suspense is killing me’ and ‘just so I know’.
I guess these are accidental, unlike the deliberately modern style affected by youth-oriented period stuff like Robin Hood and Merlin. Should we get worked about it? I ask, having spent over two years on the ms of Mr Stephenson’s Regret, my novel about the Northumbrian railway pioneers. Leaving the research aside, I took longer on the actual writing process than I have ever done on previous work, not least because of my constant etymological checking; I wanted to avoid being faux-Georgian or faux-Victorian, but at the same time I challenged myself to use only vocabulary that would have been available at the time.
There is, of course, no sense in being a stickler for linguistic accuracy if by doing so you put your narrative in a strait-jacket or make your dialogue seem stilted even allowing for the restrained conventions of the time. Perhaps the risk is greater in these days when the classics are generally accessed through the modernising medium of television rather than through the words of the original novelists. The nineteenth century seems and perhaps sounds a long way away for many of today’s audience. For the contemporary author writing in a historical context, there is a delicate balance to be found between past and present, and it’s hard not to fall between the cracks.
I have reproduced the first few pages of my draft Stephenson novel below (just push the Show/hide button to reveal it). I would welcome any feedback on the sample.
Extract from Mr Stephenson's Regret
He could not apprehend this stillness before him.
Death, of course, had presented its calling card frequently enough - not so often or so rudely as in homes that knew children, but Robert had many friends and acquaintances - and thrice in six years he had worn deep mourning. For his stepmother, for his own dear Frances, and now, when most alone, for his father. The women had seemed graceful on the satin pillow, such calm repose a memory and a comfort; he had known them like this in health. George was never still. Not a year ago, prowling with boredom in Robert’s Westminster rooms, he had challenged Bidder to a wrestle and between them they broke so many of the chairs in the outer office that son was moved to send father the joiner’s repair bill. Paid promptly and with a cheerful accompanying note. Not a year ago.
The merest movement at his shoulder brought Robert back to the parlour where the coffin lay. Mr Eyre’s instinct for punctuality had trumped his carefully-cultivated discretion.
‘Of course, yes.’
Robert withdrew to give the cabinet-maker space and privacy to complete his duties, turned back at the door for one last glimpse of his father’s folded hands, and thus sent Eyre’s apprentice into a guilty spasm, caught in the act of positioning the lid for closure. The boy froze, held by his master’s glare until Robert quit the parlour.
In the hallway, Eyre’s business partner John Robinson waited, idly brushing the nap of his hat. Its weeper trailed almost to the floor. Robinson had a ruddy complexion that spoke more of butcher than draper. Red-skinned cheese to Mr Eyre’s chalk. No amount of black crape could solemnify this man’s demeanour, though he was not so much blithe as brash. He delivered solicitude with an air of familiarity that seemed to Robert inappropriate, and ultimately self-serving.
‘Ah, sir, your papa,’ he said as Robert came near. ‘What a man he was.’
It seemed an innocent enough remark, but Robert found himself provoked by it. ‘Forgive me, Mr Robinson,’ he said, ‘but I prefer to wait for my father’s interment before I discuss his character or achievements in the past tense. I still have him close about me.’
‘Of course, I could not agree more,’ said Robinson. He failed to repress his smile as he studied the effect of the polishing on his hat. ‘The sentiments of our town exactly. We all feel especially close to Mr Stephenson - I refer to the late lamented Mr Stephenson saving your presence, sir - very close indeed at this time.’
Robert wanted to say that was not what he meant at all, but the undertaker continued. ‘Remarkable how the whole of Chesterfield is closing for the duration, sir. Such is our respect.’
‘I saw some notices to the effect.’
‘Mmm. From twelve till two. Quite soon now.’
They fell silent, eyes averted, as if listening for the sounds of the town closing beyond the gates of Tapton House. What could be heard instead were the quiet murmurs of funeral guests gathered in the drawing room, waiting the summons to take their respective places in the cortège, and the tap of hammer on nail from the room behind them. Robert felt for his waistcoat pocket, recalled he had left his watch wrapped in a handkerchief in his dressing chamber, and looked across to check the time on the longcase clock in the hall. It was stopped, marking the time of his father’s death. A nerve quickened in Robert’s temple, and he looked quickly away again, to witness Robinson in a frank appraisal of his client’s mourning-clothes. Unabashed, the man smiled genially.
‘Black Peter’s?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I imagine they would be your supplier, sir.’
‘Jays’ of Regent Street.’
‘Ah, Jays’. A reputable firm, but I like to think we do as well, sir, in a provincial sort of way.’
‘No doubt.’
The undertaker straightened his own cuffs. ‘I’ll hazard the greater part of this afternoon’s procession will bear witness to that fact. I mean, as to their elegance, including the neighbourhood gentry and members of the corporation, not merely the town officers whom we have fitted, so to speak, in common, as becomes the pomp of the occasion.’
Robert winced on his father’s behalf at pomp, but had no time to voice an opinion before Robinson leaned in to him somewhat to say, ‘On which note, I have taken a certain liberty, sir, notwithstanding the letter of your instructions but, I’m sure you’ll agree, very much within the spirit of this sombre occasion, to employ a modest band of mutes to precede your father’s hearse in suitably sober fashion. Just four, to be precise. It is usual.’
This was the latest of the upstart’s repeated attempts to make the funeral more elaborate than his client believed necessary. Robert muttered testily. ‘I asked for no mutes.’
‘Which of course I noted, sir.’ Robinson was imperturbable. ‘But being privy to the arrangements made by the mayor and the corporation, I felt emboldened... Why, the procession is likely to be three hundred strong.’
‘Is that not pomp enough, without mutes?’
‘My further consideration was for the horses, sir. As you know, they are not so biddable as your locomotive engines. My fear is that the hearse may break off somewhat from the pedestrian traffic, should we not have our trained mourners marching in front to act by way of a check on the progress of the hearse. I believe your father used to do the same with men and flags, when the railways was new.’
Robert could not stop himself rising to the man’s impertinence. ‘Quite wrong, sir, except where appointed by interfering bodies who thought they knew better. My father dismissed them as entirely unnecessary. Such is the case with your mutes. You may stand them down; I neither wish to see them today, nor tomorrow as an item on my bill.’
‘Well, that is a loss,’ said Robinson, though whether he meant for the event or for the account was not clear until he risked a final throw. ‘I may be a little out of touch with London society, but I’m sure if your poor father could still be present with us he would turn a phrase often employed in our community. Expectation is duty. He appreciated more than most how Tapton and the great houses are looked upon to help define the better...’
‘Don’t...’ By now Robert was struggling to contain his emotions. ‘Do not, sir, presume to lecture me on my father’s opinions. It is clear you knew him very little. I can tell you now, Robinson, that these arguments you have laid before Mr Robert Stephenson... If indeed you had the chance to put them rather to Mr George Stephenson, there is every likelihood that you would have been knocked down to the floor. I do not speak metaphorically.’
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