h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Entry: Evacuees - A39606311
Author: Plotinlaois - U7843825

This is the first couple of pages of an autobiographical novel about life in a remote part of the border between England and Wales in the 1940's and '50's.
I'd welcome comments and constructive criticism.
Is it worth proceeding with?

Welcome to the AWW, if this is your first visit.

You have established a great sense of place in this piece.

However, I think that you will need to build up the characters of Ivy and her mother more. Maybe some physical description would be useful, and you may want to expand on Ivy's experiences in wartime London at some point. (Not necessarily here, as the arival in a new place is a good starting point.)

Really interesting beginning to a story. I love the use of dialect. I want to know what happens to these people. And I can see the farmhouse - my sympathies are with the lady in the farmhouse, being an old hillbilly myself. They hung hams where I come from...I agree, the chickens are de trop, shame on them.

Two suggestions: Don't explain the dialect, it's clear. Just say it bothered Ivy. The reader can figure out what 'gwine' means.

( Gwine to run all night, gwine to run all day...')

>>You know that she has threatened to turn us out because of the baby’s crying keeping them awake at night.<<

This is what scriptwriters call 'idiot dialogue' - that is, you need to get a factoid into the story, so you make the characters say it, even though it sounds stilted.

The giveaway is, the speakers start using more complicated sentence structure than is normal in a conversation with someone you know well.

The way to get around it:

'Mother, shh. You know we can't stay at Mrs Smith's. I can't keep Johnny here from crying, and the old biddy just doesn't understand about children.' (Something in this vein, sez you...)

Hope this helps as feedback. I wonder what happens next...?

Thanks both of you for your kind comments and practical suggestions.
If you really want to see more I could post more here. How much space am I permitted to use? Would it be best to post a couple more pages from the beginning and then jump to an extract from later?
Regards,
PiL

Space is no problem in cyberspace.

But for the sake of those of us pressed for time, a page or two at a time would be appreciated...

The next to pages:
When Frank did come he couldn’t wait to tell Ivy and her mother about his new role.
“We’ve all been saying for months that we need a better way to mark the targets. Well they’ve finally listened. It was Harris that kept blocking it – or that’s what all the chaps are saying. But he’s been over-ruled by the high command. They’ve given this Australian fellow the job. Our squadron is going to be one of the first. Path Finders they call us. And they’re giving us some fancy new kit the boffins have come up with. GEE they call it.”
As an Engineer Frank was, at 22, like most young men, always excited by technical innovations and the war was certainly throwing up plenty to keep his interest alive. In July 1942 he’d been granted a few extra days leave before going on a crash course of training for the new Path Finder role that had been assigned to his squadron.
And it was as an Engineer that, despite his youth, he saw the possibilities for improvement in his wife’s new home.
“Those waterfalls could be used to drive a small turbine,” he mused. “Big enough to provide electric heat and lighting. And with electric power available it would be easy to install a pump so you no longer had to carry water.”
These were pipe dreams, of course. Nothing would happen until after the war. And Frank had no illusions that the war would end anytime soon. He knew that the bombing raids he and his fellow airmen had been undertaking had not been as successful as the civilian population had been told. It was because they’d been failing to hit their targets that pressure had built up to create the new Path Finder squadrons.
As for Ivy, she was getting used to life at The Gate. For the first time in almost 2 years she was getting a good night’s sleep on a regular basis. The bombing raids in London throughout 1941 had left all who were not killed or injured drained from lack of sleep and hours of hard work tending to the injured and clearing away rubble. Like all babies Frank Junior, or Sonny as she and Frank had decided to call him to avoid confusion, required attention at all hours of the day and night for the first few months of his life. Now though he was sleeping right through and Ivy and her mother were able to get some well earned rest.
Tucked away in their country cottage it was almost possible to forget the war. When they’d arrived, in April, the apple and plum trees in the garden were in bloom. Those had been followed by laburnum and lilac with its wonderful perfume. Now they were picking blackcurrants and Ivy was making jam. She’d also sown seeds of radish and lettuce, carrots and parsnips, cabbage, sprouts and broccoli. Soon the first peas and potatoes would be ready to harvest.
But she’d found preparing the ground harder than she’d expected. After the first day’s digging in the heavy red clay her back and shoulders ached and she had blisters on her hands. Now she seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the many weeds that were threatening to destroy the results of her endeavours.
In fact country living was very far from easy. It wasn’t just that they had to carry water or the need to keep a fire going in the ancient grate in order to boil it to make tea or cook vegetables. The rooms were impossibly small. At least the thick stone walls were keeping them cool on hot summer days. Their ability to keep out the cold in winter would be countered by the drafts from the ill-fitting windows.
They’d just about managed to squeeze in their few bits of furniture once they’d been able to extract them from storage in London. But the green lino they’d bought in Hereford to cover the floor of the middle room on the ground floor – the only room remotely able to be used for daily living - was already showing signs of cracking and wear because of the unevenness of the stone flag floor.
To get anything from the village involved a 6 mile round trip on foot as did a journey to Hereford as it was necessary to go to the village to get the bus. To keep in touch with life in the outside world they had a battery powered portable wireless receiver. This had two circuits one of which was powered by an “accumulator”, actually a lead-acid battery encased in a heavy glass container. This needed frequent recharging which was achieved by carrying it into the village where the garage would exchange it for a fully charged one. The postman brought a daily paper every day but as he travelled around the parish on a bicycle he was unable to carry accumulators back and forth. And Ivy had, in any case, to visit the village to pay the paper bill.

It's probably best to make each few pages a new entry. Then people can comment on each entry in turn.

OK.
So, starting tomorrow I'll put up a new instalment every day until people scream "STOPPPP!!"