Remembering Maggie McIntyre (1860-1877)

Aurora Australis

Aurora Australis. photo by Stephen Voss

On 16 February 1877 Maggie McIntyre started work as a servant to Mrs Reid in Dunedin; on 16 February 2015 I started a new job, also in Dunedin.  The difference between me and Maggie McIntyre is that 16 May finds me alive; Maggie died this day in 1877, starved, beaten, and lying filthy under a thin blanket on a flax-filled half mattress on the floor under a broken window through which a chill wind blew.  Today I have the fire going: it is 9ºC (49ºF), and we are heading into winter.

In my three months in my new job I have been paid 6 times; and I have had 29 days off.  No one has banned me from speaking to people, punched me, kicked me, pulled me by my hair across the floor, nor had me out in my bare feet to pick up stones and drag tree branches through the frosty night.  Maggie was not so lucky.  She was never paid one penny, nor allowed even one half day off.  She suffered and died as a direct result of the treatment received at the hands of Mrs Reid.

Mrs Reid was tried for manslaughter in the Dunedin Supreme Court.  Robert Stout defended her.  The jury acquitted her, and she walked free.  The people of Dunedin were incensed: those who know Maggie McIntyre’s story are still incensed.

Today on the 138th anniversary of her death, I remember Maggie McIntyre.

Your story is not forgotten Maggie; you are not forgotten.

Murder: 1877

writing the weather

Lawyers Bay

Smails Beach & Lawyers Head Dunedin, 29 Jan 2015.  Picture by Paul Le Comte

“It was a dark and stormy night” predisposes a reader to expect dark and stormy action within a story.  As writers, we manipulate the weather – and some might say, the reader – to suit our story.  It’s fiction after all: who is to say what patterns the weather follows in our make-believe world?

But in writing historical fiction, the weather may well be as important to our story as the landscape.  My stories are set in Dunedin in 1877.  Instead of manipulating the weather to suit the story, I made the decision to accommodate the actual weather into the story.  In doing so, I gained an important insight into the spread of Scarlet Fever; evidence to support the charges of cruelty against Martha Reid; and evidence of perjury committed by several individuals in another case before the Supreme Court.

I’d be interested to hear from other writers who have written through the weather rather than dictating it.

a basket for our dream readers

Basket of dreams

Basket of Dreams sculpture, on Queenstown Hill, New Zealand

Climb 500m up Queenstown Hill, and you’ll find this amazing Millennial sculpture by Caroline Robinson called Basket of Dreams.  It’s big: people can and do climb up into it to enjoy and photograph the spectacular views.  That’s Lake Wakatipu, with the Remarkables to the left and Cecil Peak to the right, (or as the locals say, Lake Wakatip and the Remarks).

The Basket of Dream‘s plaque reads:

BasketofDreams2

Basket of Dreams

The Basket’s spiral of steel follows you
inward
to reflect
to draw inspiration from the mountains,
lake and from those who are with you,
outward
to dream for the future.
Time flies, eternity waits,

Kia ora, and greetings from Middle-Earth = New Zealand

Lake Hayes panorama

Lake Hayes, just down the road from Queenstown, New Zealand

I’m a writer aiming to become an author this year.

Today I’ve turned my back on the beautiful scenery outside (see photo above) and edited the first four chapters of Fever: 1877, my historical novel set in Dunedin, New Zealand.  When I’ve finished editing the remaining chapters, the novel will go to a literary agent who has said they’re “very interested.”  I’m very excited.  And nervous.  And I’m putting together this blog as part of building an author platform to convince publishers that I’m in earnest.  And I am, hence signing up for Blogging 101.

This is my fifth post.  You can (please do!) visit https://fionaknox.wordpress.com/ and read the others: a shout-out welcome, a New Years greeting, a piece about my writing that is duplicated on the home page, and my favourite, a piece called “losing the last word: bloom where you are.”  I’m hoping to share the writing journey and promote my writing through my blog.

My biggest challenges will be to increase visitor/follower numbers and not to spend too much time reading everyone else’s blogs, which are fascinating.

Ka kite anō, Fiona

It all starts with…

I’m a New Zealand writer – a Dunedin writer.  The books I write are set squarely in Dunedin, and in 1877, and are told from the perspective of those in Dunedin’s Northern Cemetery.

Why the Northern Cemetery?  For the past nine years I’ve been volunteering in Dunedin’s Northern Cemetery, working with roses : planting, pruning, weeding, and most particularly, recording the 1,001 roses Heritage Roses Otago have planted there.  I know the Cemetery.  I know the roses, I know the people on whose graves those roses have been planted, and I know their headstones – the stories they tell in both text and symbol.

They – everyone – says to write about what you know.  It’s sound advice, though little of what you know often constitutes a story.  The story I wanted to tell was one that has haunted me for the past five years.  It is the story of Margaret McIntyre, and how she never received any justice for what happened to her.  In March of 2014 I began to write Maggie’s story, from the perspective of Adeline, a young Scots woman who unexpectedly died at sea off the Catlins coast, and Awakens in the Dunedin Northern Cemetery the day after she was buried there, to begin her New Life in a place where she knows nothing and no one.  At this point the story arced from 16 February 1877, the day that Maggie began working for Mrs Reid, to late November 1877.

By August it was clear that the story was bigger than expected, and the decision was made to split the book in two.  The first book was named Fever: 1877 and the second, Maggie’s story, Murder: 1877.   I began working exclusively on Fever: 1877, completing it in September, 2014.

‘Completing’ is a relative term.  Some people are born with a silver spoon; I swear I was born with a red pen.  In late November it dawned on me that it was possible to solve the problem of excessive word length by again splitting the book into Fever: 1877, covering twelve weeks, and Panic: 1877, taking the storyline to the end of April, 1877.

Murder: 1877 now begins in May 1877, and ends in mid-July, although we will find Maggie’s story continuing through…  Yes, there’s more.  Currently I have Unwanted: 1877 sketched out, which will lead into Outrage: 1877.  I’m hoping that will take us up to the end of 1877.

the Adeline books begin:

Some babies enter the world serenely, and some arrive screaming, full of protest at being expelled from the womb. I fear I was one of the latter, though Mother is not here to tell me. But there are plenty here that tell me that my entry into the world of the Dead was marked by more drama and protests than is deemed seemly in the recently Awakened.

Most of the Dead saw death approaching: some even welcomed it. But none were prepared to Awaken in the Cemetery following their burial. Those who first Awoke had no idea how to live their New Life. Perhaps in the old country there are old Dead to teach you, even as mothers teach babies how to live. But New Zealand is a young country: none have been in this Cemetery above five years. The Dead here are undaunted: they left the old country to build new lives in a new land. In their eyes they’ve done it once already.

But I am daunted. I boarded the Auckland in November. We celebrated Hogmanay at the Southern Tropic, and they tell me the ship berthed at Port Chalmers in February, after a fast voyage of eighty-three days, with a body in the hold that had once been me. The last thing I remember is the ship running along New Zealand’s southern coast. Wild weather whipped the surf and sent it crashing against the shore under an inky sky. The sound of waves and the sting of spray on my face are still fresh and vital memories, and with them comes a visceral memory of excitement coursing through my veins. I was alive – gloriously, wonderfully alive, and the future was all there before me. Pain shattered that moment, exploding through my head. Then came a falling, fresh pain, and then… nothing.

So ended my Life.

This is the story of finding myself Dead, and living in the Dunedin Northern Cemetery in 1877.