Diversity in Romancelandia

Towards a more diverse population in Romancelandia. An aspiring writer’s perspective.

Harlequin Mills & Boon are running a Historical Heroes tournament at present which is a wonderful thing and a great opportunity. But the limited range of heroes suggested by the competition opened up an interesting billy of worms. The question was asked - Where were the opportunities for ethnic heroes when the competition seemed to be asking for British Gentlemen, Knights and Tudor Lords, Vikings and Warriors? Warriors might encompass a broader demographic. But what of Chinese Scholars and Black Businessmen? Are they not heroic enough or are there supposedly none out there?

There has long been a perception that romance is dominated by “white” sensibilities. Looking back over my decades of Harlequin Mills & Boon reading, I have to say they are not entirely wrong. The most exotic of reading might bring a sheikh or even a Turk. But often this alien culture was softened by a French or British mother and frequently an education received at a fine British institution.

Modern contemporary romances are stretching the boundaries. We have Indian heroes and heroines and even a black Frenchman in the Presents lines. Brenda Jackson, a long established author and also a POC (Person of Colour-this is the term being used in the on-line discussion) has a series of romances in the Desire line featuring African-American protagonists but they seem to be a niche even within the mainstream. Sarah M. Anderson is writing Desire romances and others featuring First Nation heroes (Please excuse me if I get the current designation wrong). Special Edition have a few interracial romances. Harlequin even have a dedicated line for interracial and POC romance. I’ve read the Kimani line and as a Aussi with minimal daily contact with American POC I did notice differences in language but otherwise, not much different.

I’ve been puzzling about interracial romance for some time. Because I’m white and I want to write about POC in my romances. Not deliberately as some kind of crusade, but because characters just come that way. The hero in the romance I put up for the Harlequin Sold Blog first page critique is not entirely white. But he isn’t entirely a POC either. With an unknown black father and brought up by a white mother in Australia, his experience would be different to a POC brought up in a family in the US or even England. I feel comfortable in writing about him because his experience is not so far from my own.

What I didn’t feel sure about was where he could be published as he doesn’t fit standard category lines. I looked at a range of digital publishers, mostly US based, wondering if I should try submitting the story to one of them. But when I look at their offerings I noticed something that made me as an Australian, very uncomfortable. Several of the digital publishers have a category “Interracial Romance”. I hadn’t ever considered it as a “thing”.  Without being aware of it, I wrote an interracial romance. In fact I have written several. I have written a story about a Chinese-Australian girl who falls in love with an Italian-Australian boy.

Now I’m worried. Because I wonder if people will look at my stories as some kind of statement. Will they look at my Chinese-Australian girl and see racial stereotypes. Am I a racist because my heroine does Martial Arts? Should I have made her a surfing groupie or something typically “white” just to prove I don’t see her as “different”? Should I not make my Chinese-Australian hero so enigmatic in case it plays into the stereotype of the “inscrutable Oriental”? Should my Italian avoid Pizza and Pasta? Where do I draw the line?

I recently went to see the Georgian era romance “Belle” at the cinemas. (Twice actually, cos I loved it so much.) It is a beautiful romance with such a positive heroine, the illegitimate daughter of a well-born sea captain and a black slave. The slave trade was in the background through her guardian, Lord Mansfield, who as Lord Justice had to pronounce on a significant legal issue with a slave ship, but it was not the primary story. The romance came first and it was lovely, if a little enhanced for the sake of the story. But at that time, in 1783, Lord Mansfield estimated there were 15,000 POC in England, slaves and free in a population of 7.5 million. I suspect many people would say that constitutes only a handful.

Where is the Black Hero?

In the Castonbury Park series published in 2012, Marguerite Kaye, a historical author has written a romance between a white woman and a black former slave set in 1816. I have come across the odd historical romance with a half Indian heroine, but they are rare. Jeannie Lin has a fascinating series of Chinese historical romances in the Harlequin line. In the broader romance community, Beverley Jenkins writes romances with African-American protagonists and First Nation heroes are found more often in American historical romances. I’m sure there are others but they seem to be very much a niche market.

I suppose to be truly diverse, no-one should feel the need to comment when there is a hero or heroine of a difference ethnicity in a mainstream romance. Somehow I can’t see that happening for a while.

I haven't been very opinionated lately. Must be the Christmas Season...all that good will. To tide you over I'll post a short I did for the Writing Challenge on the Harlequin Boards. The theme was...it had to start with "This past year hadn't been what he'd expected. If only" and there had to be a kiss.  This was my entry which scraped into the winning spot by .4 of a point.

I like to think it is a Presents story told in 1000 words.

Sunset over Princess Royal Harbour, Albany, WA where I attended a wedding last week.

Coming Home

This past year hadn't been what he'd expected. If only he hadn’t walked away, leaving Lily alone. At the time, with his anger threatening to overthrow his control it had been the obvious thing to do. Go away and cool down. Then go back and sort things out with Lily.

Only Lily had been gone. Their room, usually so immaculate, looked like a bomb exploded. There were clothes everywhere. The contents of her jewellery box scattered over the bed. She hadn’t taken a single thing he’d given her.

Twelve months later and he was no nearer finding her. The bedroom was immaculate once more, all her things restored to cupboards and drawers. Her scent had faded, only a whisper of lavender and vanilla when he stirred the clothes in the walk in robe. Soon it would be as if she’d never been a part of his life.

Lily halted the car at the entrance of the Belliconi mansion. Would Nick have changed the codes? Winding down the window, she pressed the keys of the security panel. With a buzz the heavy gates parted. Odd that security conscious Nick hadn’t ordered new codes after she left.

The paved driveway curved up to the portico, the pillars faintly reminiscent of an antebellum plantation house. The double doors loomed impressively and she hesitated. She owed this to Nick…and to Lucas who looked so like his father.  Even if Nick didn’t believe her.

The past year hadn’t been what she expected. If only… She shook her head. When Nick asked her to move in with him eighteen months ago, the only fly in the ointment was his spoiled younger brother. Danny, who Nick felt responsible for, so he had him living with him in the ocean front property he called home. He had been in rehab when she and Nick first met at her gallery. It had only taken six weeks for him to destroy everything.

The door chime echoed through the empty rooms, pulling Nick out of his absorption. The latest reports from the private detective were promising. He had tracked Lily to Adelaide, Melbourne and then Sydney through the gallery’s that showed her paintings. Post Office boxes weren’t much help, but they indicated the direction she was moving. Closer to home. He allowed himself to hope.

Striding across the foyer to the door, he quashed it. There was still the issue of the child. How would she explain that small aberration? Dragging open the heavy door, he froze, his heart stopping and then thumping hard. Lily…and the child. A boy, all black curls and bright blue eyes. A Belliconi through and through. It should have been his. Would have been if fate had not thrown his charming brother in Lily’s path just when he needed to be out of the country on business.

“Lily. What can I do for you?” Just the right tone, he congratulated himself. Cool and a little distant.

“I’ve come to see you about Lucas. My son.” Her son. Well the boy was as good as fatherless with Danny back in rehab.

“I suppose you want some financial arrangement. Unfortunate that Danny is unavailable. Perhaps you could come back another time.” In about six months, going on his brother’s usual pattern.

“I know he’s not here. I wouldn’t set foot in this house if he was here.”

“That’s a different story from the last time you were here.”

She sighed, adjusting the child on her hip. He was a solid child and she was so slightly built. Skinny, she called it. Not his usual type certainly. His past women had been tall blondes with plenty up top, and he didn’t mean above the neck. She looked tired.

“You’d better come inside.”

She should have known better than to come back. Nick wasn’t interested in his son. He’d barely glanced at Lucas and his voice, usually so warm, was putting off arctic chill. Seems like he’d believed Danny’s drunken ramblings. Well either way, he would believe Lucas was a Belliconi and that meant he was entitled.

Following Nick to his study, she had an opportunity to study him. He seemed thinner but it was hard to remember after a year apart. The Tee and jeans clung lovingly to his muscular torso and hugged his butt. What was wrong with her?

She was glad to sit down, resting Lucas on her knees while Nick fiddled with papers on his desk.

“I want you to move back in.”

Not quite believing her ears she stared at him.

“I said I want you back. Danny will never be a father to the boy. I can offer that at least. The child will need a father. A proper family.”

“You want me back? Even though you believe I had an affair with your brother, had a child by him?”

He looked uncomfortable, his eyes lowered, avoiding hers. “Yes.”

“What if I said no?”

That brought his face up, the intense blue eyes wide. “Why would you refuse? It’s a good deal. We were good together.”

Lily stood up, letting the anger out. “Because I couldn’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me. Who believes his lying brother before he believes me. I can’t live like that. All I want is financial assistance for Lucas. He should have the chance for a good education.”

“I didn’t believe it once I had a moment to think. But you didn’t come back, so I thought it must be true. I thought you were afraid to come back. I’ve been searching for you all year.”

“Even though you believed that of me?”

“Don’t you know I would forgive you anything? I need you.”

“You never said. I thought it was just about the sex.”

“It was never just that.” He smiled crookedly. “Though it helped.”

He was around the desk in an instant. “My son?”

“Our son.”

His arms wrapped around them both. “I love you, Lily.” His lips met hers, soft and tender. She was home.

The End

When Good Heroes Go Bad

Some people were upset that Superman kills
the bad guy in his latest incarnation
"Man of Steel" staring Henry Cavill

Today has been the sort of day that I wonder if I'm really meant to be a romance writer.

Which is funny because I was notified that I was one of six people chosen to pitch to eHarlequin (Contemporary) so I should be feeling on top of the world. Especially coming after making the top 50 in the SYTYCW2013 competition. The quality was exceptionally high this year so even making it to the top 50 out of over 700 entries is pretty special.

"So how can this be?" you ask. It comes because I was reading one of the top ten entries and absolutely loving it. Beautifully written and a wonderful emotive story. And then the hero, after being sort of jealous about the possibility that the heroine had been with other men, casually drops the information that he'd been with other women during the two years of the separation.

Apparently his ego took such a beating when the heroine said she didn't love him, it was necessary to go and have meaningless sex with nameless women. After all men have needs and he also needed to forget this woman he loved passionately.

In the interests of realism, this is now quite acceptable behaviour for a hero. One, going out and sleeping with women while separated but still married to the heroine (who he supposedly loved). Two, using nameless women to relieve his sexual frustration (and try to forget the heroine).

So in Romancelandia we accept that heroes will have sex with someone other than the heroine even when still married to her. We also accept that it is perfectly acceptable for a hero to have meaningless sex with nameless women. I can only hope the nameless women enjoyed the one night stands and didn't develop an emotional attachment to the hero. Probably they did simply enjoy the sex because in this new world, women don't develop feelings for their one night stand unless they are in a romance novel with that trope. Confused? I certainly am. There has to be some kind of feminist logic in there somewhere.

It's not that I object to stories being written with those happenings. I know many, probably most people, don't have my skewed view on what is desirable behaviour for a romance hero.

But now and then I get the feeling that somehow, by stating out loud that I would prefer it if a hero had not behaved in such a way, I am seen as betraying the sisterhood. A sort of "love me love my dog" equation. Surely if I feel so emotional about a characters behaviour (I cried real tears) it means I really care about them and so it becomes a complement to the writer. But it always seems to be taken as a criticism.

So what has all this to do with me doubting my place in the Romancelandia world?  

The least thing I can imagine happening to an unfaithful hero

Every one trying their hand at writing has doubts of course. My doubts mostly consist of whether anything I write will be commercially publishable in the modern world. If the trend in romances is any indication, we are living in a world where sexual fidelity does not have the significance it did in past decades.

When I look at all this, I wonder if this "realism" that is permeating even the last bastion of "Pleasant" reads, the Harlequin, Mills & Boon, will forever close it's doors to someone like myself who cannot bear to have my hero betray his married vows even under the direst of marital breakdowns. Because no-one in the real world would believe a hero can keep his pants zipped for any length of time.

A Short Story to tide you over...

Last week I went and did my CPR update and was chatting on twitter afterwards.  I mentioned that if a gorgeous guy were to fall at my feet I was prepared.  I was due to write a 1k short for the Harlequin boards so this is the result.   It came second incidentally.  Not enough romance.  For those not in Australia, we dial 000 triple zero instead of 911.

Be Careful What You Wish For.

God, he was beautiful.

From the corner of her eye, Suvati scanned the stranger seated along from her in the waiting room.  The white-blond hair over a golden, classically beautiful face, the broad shoulders, narrow hips and legs long enough to… Don’t even think about it.

She dropped her gaze back to the magazine, trying to focus on the latest gossip about some actress or other but her eyes were drawn to him again and again.  He seemed indifferent, the vivid blue eyes staring straight ahead at the blank wall.  Suvati couldn’t help wondering what brought the frown to his face?  What brought him here today? He looked healthy enough, his body well developed and muscular, like an athlete.

What she wouldn’t do to have a man like that at her feet.  What was a man like him doing in this small rural town?  She’d have seen him before.  Unless he was the new CEO of the Moncrieff Mining Consortium due to arrive this week?

His eyes shut briefly giving her the opportunity to take a really good look.  Her first impression of his face hadn’t lied.  He really was beautiful.  The high cheekbones, the long straight nose between heavy lidded eyes, and his mouth.  Full, well shaped lips with the tuck in the corners that suggested humour despite his frown.  To have that mouth under hers...it would be worth dying to be kissed by him just once.

Fingering her grandmother’s jade pendant, Suvati smiled wryly at her thoughts.  Wishing wouldn’t bring a gorgeous stranger to her feet, desperate for her kisses.  But she wished anyway, comforted by the warmth of the stone under her fingers.

A murmur of sound brought her back from thoughts of Grandma Aditi.  A choking gurgle came from the strangers throat.  One hand pressed to his chest as the other flailed in the air, the long fingers splayed before they clenched tightly in a fist.  As she watched, he slid to the ground in a heap, his face white as chalk.

Leaping to her feet, Suvati glanced over at the receptionist who sat gaping.  ‘Call the ambulance.  Dial Triple Zero.’

The dark head ducked down behind the counter, followed by the clatter of the phone as the girl fumbled with the receiver.

Looking down at the man at her feet, Suvati tried to remember what she’d learned at her First Aid classes only a few weeks ago.

 

Check for Danger.  Okay.

Moving the chair away from his head, she knelt down.  What came next? Check for Response.  ‘Can you hear me?  Open your eyes.’  Taking his limp hand, she leaned over, assessing his condition. ‘Can you hear me?  Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’  It lay flaccid in hers.  Please don’t die. 

‘Is the ambulance coming?’

The Receptionist nodded. ‘It’s on the way.  They said to start CPR.’

‘Can you help?’

‘No…no way.’ The girl backed away. ‘I’ll wait at the door to show the paramedics in.’

Looking down at the stranger’s pale face Suvati knew she had no choice.  He wasn’t breathing.  Releasing his hand, she gripped his jaw and the back of his head, tilting it back.  She couldn’t see any rise and fall of the chest and no whisper of air from mouth and nose. Open Airway. Done.

Resting the heel of her hand on his chest, trying not to notice how good the muscle felt under her touch, she found the right spot.  Thirty Compressions ‘One and two and three and four…’ She counted carefully as she pushed down with both hands.  Now two breaths.  She sucked in a deep breath.  This was not how she imagined kissing this man.  It certainly wasn’t what she wished for…was it?  An awful suspicion clouded her thoughts for a second.  Stop it.  He could die while you debate the question.

Gripping his nose and chin Suvati lowered her mouth over his, careful to form a seal as she breathed, turning her head to watch the chest rise.  All good.  A second breath and his body convulsed beneath her.  Coughing and spluttering he pushed her away roughly, just as the paramedics burst into the room.

Sidelined, she watched as the two uniformed men dealt with the patient.  They hardly seemed to notice her as they placed the blonde stranger onto a trolley to wheel him away.  He may be conscious but they had no intention of letting him go under his own steam.

She didn’t even know his name.

The hospital corridors were busy at this time of day, visitors hurrying to greet loved ones burdened with flowers and mysterious packages.  Probably food or clothing items.  Nervously Suvati stopped at the door of the room the nurse had indicated.  Would he resent her interest?  She just wanted to see he was okay.  A simple question and then she would leave

.

He lay in the bed with the sheet at his waist, a hospital gown covering that broad chest, staring out the window.

‘Um…excuse me.’

Those eyes were just as blue as she remembered.  His sandy brows rose slightly, in a question.

‘I’m Suvati.  I was in the waiting room at the Radiologists when you…’

‘Collapsed at your feet?’

His voice was luscious, deep and slow with a faint accent. ‘Yes.’  She thrust her parcel at him.  ‘I brought you some fruit…grapes.  They grow them here.’

His strong sinewy hand reached for the gift.  ‘Thank you. That is most kind.’

Standing awkwardly, she wondered what to say.  He didn’t seem inclined to talk, choosing a grape and popping it into his mouth.  His mouth.  Oh Gosh, she was staring.

Licking his fingers, he returned her look narrowly.  ‘So I fell at your feet and you gave me the kiss of life.  How was it for you?’

How was it?  ‘Probably better for me than you?’

‘Perhaps we should try again some time.  When I’m conscious.’

His warm gaze sent prickles of awareness all over.

‘Perhaps we should.’

The End

I went to a conference, a Romance Writer's Conference.

I suppose you are all expecting me to talk about the fabulous Seminar by Kim Hudson.  A workshop entitled Virgin on the Half Shell was bound to get me to attend though I would have liked the Georgette Heyer workshops at the academic conference.

There were lots of fabulous workshops to help my writing and of course I put my name down to pitch with a couple of the publishers.  Probably the less said about that the better *mumble mumble* total stuff-up.  Whatever.

What I want to talk about is my fan-girl moments.  You may have somehow received the impression I'm a Mills and Boon fan from the dawn of time.  Near enough.  I read my first Mill's and Boon Romance in 1976 when I went to Brisbane to go to boarding school.  Now there is a stressful environment that requires total escapism.

Susan Stephens and Carole Mortimer

Anyway...this being said I've read lots of Mill's and Boon romances, from my three a day addiction while trying to forget my imprisonment *cough* educational institution to my current, never without a book at hand life.  This blog is mostly about the Harlequin Mills and Boon authors I met at the conference.  I met lots of fantastic and lovely authors of all different romance genres
but it would take a book rather than a blog to list them all.

Around the same time I started reading romance, Carole Mortimer started writing them.  She had her first book accepted in 1978 and has been writing ever since.  Needless to say I've been reading them ever since and have a large plastic box full to overflowing as she's written over 200 books.

So when I found she was coming to the RWAus13 conference in Perth with another English Mills and Boon author I've read over the years, Susan Stephens, I was naturally excited. (Understatement)  I only walked past them three times before I got up the courage to ask for a picture.  And being the lovely ladies they are they obliged.

 Of course one of my major motivations for booking for the Perth conference (apart from the very educational workshops) was that Maisey Yates was coming from her home near Seattle in the U.S.A.  Maisey is at the other end of the spectrum from Carole, a new author with Harlequin, Mills and Boon who writes stories I really love. (including a virgin hero)

With her is Jackie Ashenden from New Zealand, another new author who writes for *shhh* Samhain and Entangled with some frabulous heroes.  She just announced a new series with St. Martin's Press.

I stalked them all the way to Rottnest Island, the ARRA signing and pictured here at the costume party on the Friday night of the conference.

Caitlin Crews, Me looking smug and fangirly and Maisey Yates

Special Bonus Author from US was Caitlin Crews

Nicole Flockton

Another lovely author I met on line who writes for Crimson Romance and Escape Publishing is Nicole Flockton.  She writes lovely Mills and Boon style romances with classic alpha males and a series with a medical slant.  This is Nicole at the Awards Night on the Saturday night of the conference.  An Australian living in the U.S. she came home to visit family and attend the conference.






It was also great to meet Paula Roe, a Harlequin Mills and Boon Desire series author who I met last year and also at ARRA13 in Brisbane.  Following the Nautical and Nice theme, she came as an island complete with Palm Tree and Parrot.  Sunbaking on her golden sands is Seal, Rachael John's, who writes great Rural Romance published by Harlequin Australia.

Here we have a Medical Contingent with Fiona McArthur, Emily Forbes (Ruby Winner) and Amy Andrews.  With them is Mills and Boon Medical (and other things) Editor Sheila Hodgson who will hate me forever for this picture but she wasn't fussed on my story pitch anyway so it's all good really.






I also met Sarah Wendell from SmartBitchesTrashyBooks blog site.  Most embarrassing fangirl moment.  Uh...you...*flails*  Yeah me speechless.  Hard to imagine but it happened.  Naturally she was thrilled to meet me.


I've run out of pictures of people I met.  My iPhone battery always died at the inconvenient moment.  Instead here is a selection of books I brought home written by authors I met at the conference.  They include Emmie Dark,  Michelle Douglas, Melanie Milburne (we shook hands), Rachel Bailey and Annie West as well as authors mentioned above.  I'm also pretty sure I saw Leah Ashton in a Nice Biscuit.

When is an Alpha Hero not an Alpha hero....

When he's a Cowboy who is also an Indian

Are you confused yet?

I read romance for the heroes.  Yup.  Oh I know there has to be a heroine in there somewhere but really she is just a place card for me...

I've been reading romance for close on forty years and through most of that time, the Alpha hero has ruled the pages.  I remember the ones from the seventies, who used their power and influence to force the heroine into marriage, who were not above a little forced seduction.  These days, the feminists among us call them jerks and I nod sagely and slide my stash of vintage alpha jerks out of sight.

The modern Alpha is usually distinguishable by his revolving bedroom door, his billionaire status (inflation has effected more than the size of their manhood.) and usually some childhood trauma that is his excuse for being a jerk.  Seriously, they are mostly still jerks but they are too PC to actually rape their heroines.  Now their virility seduces the heroine into bed faster than you can say internal conflict.  (Same result but the feminists are happy because the heroine is ready, willing and able.)

So why am I burbling on about Alpha's.  It's because I've discovered a new kind of hero.  Shall we call him a Gamma hero.  Has the power of the Alpha but the sensitivity of the Beta.  They are subtle and sexy in the best way.

Sarah M. Anderson's Men of the White Sandy series are just the most amazing heroes.  They are...indescribably gorgeous.  Most of us wouldn't really want to live with an Alpha hero...but these guys are ready and packaged to take home for a Happy Ever After you would die for.  I've just finished Masked Cowboy, following on from Mystic Cowboy and I'm already hanging out for the next one.  It probably helps that I'm a sucker for an American Indian from way back.

I've reviewed both the books and include the reviews here.

Mystic Cowboy  *****

Sooo. Just dragging myself away from contemplation of the cover. Rebel Runs Fast is some hot cowboy, even if he happens to be an Indian. And he is just as hot, just as gorgeous inside the covers.

Rebel is no alpha male, but he is something else, in the best possible way. He is the kind of hero that makes you want to...well in Australia it's totally impractical to go looking.

Madeline is the closest you could get to an alpha female, a driven doctor with money, used to power but searching for something more than the life she'd been destined for.

They both have something the other needs, but with lives so different, expectations so far apart it could be an impossible task. 

I love the way Rebel 'gets' Madeline and oh so gently draws her into his world. Uptight Madeline reveals a whole different side under the gentle handling of a mystic cowboy.

The painting of the Lakota Reservation, the people, the struggles, the history is all very well done without being heavy handed.

I look forward to seeing more of the Men of the White Sandy.

Masked Cowboy  ****'

4 1/2 stars. What can I say about Jacob Plenty Holes? He is just fascinating. What else can you call a man who each Summer evening does a Flashdance style semi-strip with a glass of water in front of every woman in the small town of Faith Ridge, South Dakota. This is the same guy who wears a mask to cover scarring on half his face.

The heroine,veterinarian Dr Mary Beth Hofstetter took me a little longer to warm up to. I prefer to keep my modern sexually liberated women in the real world. Mary Beth has a bit of a mouth to her which contrasted sharply with the lack of chattiness from Jacob. As I got to know her better I liked her more. But it is Jacob that kept me reading.

Like Mystic Cowboy, this book has a fairly strong mystery element dating from three years ago when Jacob received the injury to his face. He also became the sole carer to a small girl. Kip is an albino, so stands out dramaticly on the reservation among the Lakota tribe. She doesn't speak and Jacob is extremely protective.

The action of the story takes place over quite a few months, allowing Jacob and Mary Beth to get to know each other realisticly so that when things develop it's a logical progression to the relationship.

The ending was extremely dramatic and the aftermath really sweet. It got me all emotional.

We get to see Mystic Cowboy, Rebel and Doc Madeline along with Nobody and I'm still looking forward to his book. 

Strangers on a Train.

Trains have always held a fascination for me.  And I suspect the rest of the world.

 How many children grow up with Thomas the Tank Engine and move onto the Hogwarts Express?   Does anyone remember The Little Engine That Could and The Railway Children?

How many mysteries and thrillers take place on a train?  How many romances do they meet on a train?
Maybe not so many these days but back in the day trains featured prominently in Mills & Boon romances.

Trains still have that fascination.  Who could forget the climactic scene in Mission:Impossible with the helicopter following the train into the Channel Tunnel.

Just recently I read a lovely story by Ruthie Knox called Big Boy where a couple meet in a train museum.  It will be released in an anthology next February with the other talented authors in the Strangers on a Train series of novellas.

So railway stories are by no means dead.

Westlander at the railway station in Cunnamulla

I first travelled in a train as a small child from Cunnamulla in far south west Queensland to Brisbane.  It took close on 24 hours leaving on Sunday and Thursday morning and arriving in Brisbane the next morning.  The trip home left on Friday evening and Tuesday evening.  I can remember going up to the station, which was the end of the line, to watch the train come in for entertainment.  We didn't have television until 1974.




When I moved to Brisbane the late 70's I travelled on trains quite regularly.  The old wooden carriages with individual compartments inspired my Writer's Challenge story which I am posting below.

Strangers on a Train - A romantic short

Bridget smoothed her hair complacently.  The Jackie Onassis style shoulder length bob suited her thick blonde tresses, the ends flicking up with only a tweak once she took out the rollers.  The train lurched as it started to move and she checked her beauty case, sitting on the ornate metal luggage rack.  Pink, to match her two piece suit. She looked just right for her interview.  As long as she could remember, Bridget wanted to be an Air Hostess.  Today would be her big chance.

These trains still ran in the 70's when I was in Brisbane

A bang jolted her from her happy dream as the door of the compartment opened and a  battered guitar case landed on the floor, closely followed by the owner.

‘Are you insane?  The train was already moving.  You could have been killed.’

The young man straightened up to an impressive height and pulled the door closed.  ‘I’m cool with it, babe.’  For in spite of long, glossy dark locks, he was most assuredly a man.

His lean face with the high cheek bones looked like one of the paintings she’d seen at the National Gallery, the neat moustache and goatee framing a half-smile on a beautifully shaped mouth.  She was being observed by melting brown eyes with long black lashes.

Flustered, she tried to assert herself again.  ‘Do you make a habit of leaping on and off trains?’

‘Not usually.  I just happened to want to catch this one.  I’m on my way to Roma Street.’

 So he would be with her almost the whole trip.  ‘I’m going to Central Station. Do you have an appointment in the City too?’

King George Square back in the day

‘You might say that.  We’re having a sit in at King George Square.  Peace, love and all that.’

‘You’re a protester?’

He looked at her sharply, no doubt recognising the distaste in her tone.  ‘You might call me that.’

‘My brother is serving in Vietnam.  He’s been there for two months.  We're very proud of him, serving his country.’

‘I’m sure you are.  I hope you never have to see him come home injured, or worse.’  His response was mild, the expression in his eyes sincere.  She’d expected a rant against the war.

Bridget watched him seat himself in the corner of the compartment, stretching his long legs at an angle.  His guitar case rested on the overhead rack beside her beauty case.  ‘Do you know someone who was hurt?’

‘A few of my mates.’

‘I’m sorry.  I don’t know anyone who’s been fighting in Vietnam.  Apart from my brother.’

‘Then today is your lucky day.’

She stared at his long hair and beard, the psychedelic t-shirt.  ‘You were a soldier?  Why aren’t you still over there?’

‘They sent me home.’

‘Why?  Did you do something wrong?’

He laughed.  ‘So it’s true what they say.  You are some dumb blonde aren’t you?’

‘I’m not dumb.’  She watched horrified as he tugged the shirt out of his well worn jeans, revealing tanned flesh with a sprinkling of dark hair across his chest.  ‘What are you doing.  You can’t undress here…it’s…it’s a public place.’

‘Cool it, Princess.  I’m just showing you why I’m back home.’

Roma Street Station - Clock tower is at King George Square

Trying not to stare at the ripple of muscled chest, the even pattern of lines and bumps down his stomach, Bridget sat primly in her seat.  ‘I can’t see that showing off your…body is proving anything except that you are some kind of exhibitionist, or lunatic.’

Standing up, he gripped the baggage rack to steady himself.  ‘Whatever you say.’  She watched him twist on the spot, revealing the long length of his spine below the wavy brown hair that came to just below his broad shoulders.

‘Oh…my…’  Her throat closed, swallowing the words as she stared at the crinkled mess of red and white scarring that covered most of his back, vanishing below the waistband of his jeans.

Tears prickled and she blinked to try and force them back.  The stranger slumped back onto the seat, pulling the shirt back over his head and shoulders, smoothing it down over his stomach.  ‘If your brother is as pretty as you, Princess, you don’t want to see him messed up like me.  Not for a pointless war that no-one is going to win.’

Bridget had to stop herself from asking him if he really thought she was pretty.  There were more serious issues at stake.  ‘Of course we’ll win.  America and Australia together will defeat the communists.  Daddy says so.  He was an officer in the last war.’

‘Ah.  So you’re a Daddy’s girl.  I bet you have the kind of job to mark time until Mr. Right comes along to marry you.’

‘Of course not.  I’m going for a job interview today.’

‘Really.  Selling perfume at David Jones I suppose.’

‘No.  I want to be an Air Hostess.’

The silence in the compartment was deafening.  She could hear the rhythm of the wheels on the train as he stared at her.  As if she were some kind of strange beetle.

‘What’s wrong with being an Air Hostess?’

‘It’s exactly the sort of job I was talking about.  Are you planning to marry a pilot and have lots of little pilots in suburbia.’

‘I’m not planning on marrying anyone.  It’s 1971 and I’m a liberated woman.’

His eyes scanned her body.  ‘You don’t look very liberated in that outfit.’

‘I don’t mean that kind of liberated.  I mean…I’m going to be a career woman and travel and be independent.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather come with me and make a real difference to the world, Princess.’

Central Station- the far clock tower is King George Square

The train was pulling into Roma Street and he stood up to get his guitar case.  He looked at her appealingly.  ‘If you come, I promise you won’t regret it.’

Stubbornly she shook her head.  With a shrug he jumped from the train and she watched him walk away.

Emerging onto Ann Street, Bridget hesitated, remembering melting brown eyes, a soft appeal.  Her interview was to the left, King George Square to her right.  After a moment, she turned right.

Waiting for a train to go by in Stanthorpe a couple of weekends ago
Steam trains come to Stanthorpe regularly and are very popular.