Introduction

Outlander meets Birdsong is this haunting debut timeslip novel, where a strange twist of fate connects a soldier fighting in the First World War and a young woman living in modern-day England.

*Shortlisted for the Eharmony/Orion Write Your Own Love Story Prize 2018/19

A strange twist of fate connects two troubled souls: a British soldier fighting in WW1 and a young woman wrongly consigned to a mental hospital in modern-day England. A timeslip love story, and at the same time an unflinching portrait of the futility and horrors of war – and the extremes human souls can endure. BTM is a meditation on the themes of mental illness, war, identity and art. But most of all it’s a sonnet to the transformative power of love.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Coldbrook Hall Military Hospital, Sussex, England, August 1916

Footsteps, then a rap at the door. Lying in bed, Robert jumped. Was there really someone there or was he dreaming? He could barely tell if he was asleep or awake any more.

There was a painful swell of yellow-grey light, and he felt his pupils contract. Ah, so he was definitely awake then. The light receded as the door closed behind whoever had come in. A doctor, by the sound of the brisk footfall and confident knock.

‘Good evening, lieutenant,’ a man said. ‘How are we this evening?’

‘Much the same, sir. I’m sorry, who is this? I’m not awfully good at telling voices apart.’

‘It’s Major Hughes, the neurologist. You’ll find it remarkable how your other senses learn to compensate over time. Some sightless people even come to know when an object is close by, through some extraordinary sixth sense they develop. But of course, we hope things will improve for you before it comes to anything like that.’

More footsteps – and another stab of pain as light spilled into his head once more. He screwed his eyes shut. A nurse bade him good evening. He could hear the hiss of the gas lamp on the landing outside. He said, ‘Could you push the door to, please? I find the light painful.’

‘Come now, Mr Lovett, you must get used to the light again eventually,’ the doctor said. ‘How do you expect to regain your sight lying here in the dark? Don’t you want to recover?’

‘More than anything,’ Robert responded fiercely. ‘It’s the only thing I want, to get better and return to France, to my men.’

‘Yes of course, of course,’ the doctor said quickly. ‘You are an officer recommended for the Military Cross. I didn’t mean to imply… I’m sorry; that was tactless of me. Push the door to, please, Sister. Leave it just a little ajar so I can see well enough to examine the lieutenant.’

Robert heard the stethoscope slip from the doctor’s neck. That sound, at least, was familiar.

‘Breathe in… and out. Again, please. Good. And hold out your hands in front of you. Still rather unsteady. Sister, would you please undo the lieutenant’s dressing, so I may examine his leg? And how are the headaches at night? Any improvement?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘And you’re still troubled by nightmares?’

‘Yes. When I finally manage to fall asleep. Or at least I think I’ve been asleep. I can’t always tell.’

‘It’s important that you try to sleep only at night, to help maintain the distinction between night and day – apart from a good hour’s nap after luncheon. I’m glad to say your wound is looking better, lieutenant. Very well, I think it best we continue with the same regimen: isolation, rest, a light invalid diet – beef tea, milk, calf’s-foot jelly – and daily massage to your injured leg.’

‘Please, no more jelly. I can’t bear it. And I’m so terribly bored. If I were to be allowed the occasional visitor…’

‘It really is quite the best thing for you. You mustn’t be overtaxed in any way. We may try bromides to help you sleep. And if your sight doesn’t improve in the next few weeks, we may consider faradism to the orbital ridge.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The application of an electrical current. It’s proved successful in some cases of hysterical blindness like yours, where there’s no organic cause for the sight loss.’

‘Then I should like it as soon as possible, sir.’

‘Patience, Mr Lovett; one step at a time. You’ve been through a harrowing experience. One must respect Mother Nature.’

‘Even when her processes are inscrutable? I simply want to be better.’

‘I know. I understand. But I’m afraid it doesn’t work quite like that. We’re not even sure of the mechanism of your sight loss. And as I’ve warned you before, there may be permanent damage; it may be that you won’t ever be able to paint again. You must try to be optimistic, but at the same time prepare yourself for any eventuality. Now I’ll let you get back to your rest. Good evening.’

They left, and the room brimmed with silence and anguish once more. Oh God, would he ever see again – well enough even to wash or feed himself, let alone paint birds and flowers, his favourite views of the South Downs? Or would he be shut up forever in this crypt of shadows, wretched, a prisoner in his own body, shirking his duty while the Somme campaign went from bad to worse, neglecting his men, gradually being erased from the world bit by bit? He couldn’t even see his own face in the mirror. He felt as if he was turning into a ghost or a spirit – a figment of his own imagination.

He would sacrifice his art, he promised now to whatever gods might be listening, if in return it meant he might see well enough to lead his men once more. That alone mattered. Painting belonged to another life – a higher, more rarefied existence, which no longer concerned him. He had fallen a long way from grace; he was a base, primitive creature now.

It began to rain. He liked rain. The patter on the stone terrace outside his room gave a sort of shape back to the world and made it familiar once more. A minute or two later, through the shutters, came the overwhelming scent of rain on grass. He took slow, deep breaths, and for the first time in weeks the commotion in his head seemed to quieten.

Some time later he jerked awake, his arms flailing at the darkness, as if he could somehow claw it away and reveal the world hidden behind it. He choked air back into his lungs and sat up. He was bathed in sweat. The same nightmare; always the same. The world created by his sleeping mind, a disturbing realm of chaotic images and colours, was so much more real than the physical world.

His room was soundless and still. With a shaking hand he felt for the bedstead. There it was, just behind him, solid and cool. Thank God. He put his hand between the metal rails and splayed his fingers across the smooth wall. His head throbbed.

He felt for the little clock they’d given him which allowed the blind to tell the time. It had a glass front which unclasped. He had to open it carefully or the tremor in his hands would cause him to drop it. Very slowly, he opened it and touched his fingers to the little metal hands and the symbolic bumps above them. Just after twenty to three in the morning.

He stumbled out of bed and, on hands and knees, his injured leg throbbing, managed to feel his way over to the far corner of the room. Even though he couldn’t see, he understood that this spot would command a good view of both the door and window. The enemy might come either way.

He wedged himself into the space between the chest of drawers and the armchair. The cabinet reminded him of the one in his mother’s dressing room – solid and heavy, with a scent of beeswax. A good smell. Smells scared him more than anything now – strong ones in particular, which might signify chemicals. The wall at his back was cool and hard. He let its solidity flow into him and gradually his breathing slowed.

He stayed there for a long time, until he felt calmer. Then he managed to haul himself to his feet – and realised that he didn’t have his stick. He staggered forward a few steps, lost his balance then keeled over into the blackness. He landed on his stomach, winding himself. He seemed to be tangled up in a chair. He tried to free himself, but found he was stuck fast.

For the first time since he’d awoken to find himself sightless, he wept – gulping, angry tears, the likes of which he hadn’t cried since he was a child. Over and over he called out for help, but no one answered, and he lay with his face pressed to the floor, his tears soaking into the wooden boards.

At last, perhaps hours later, he thought he heard a sound below. He called out once more.

‘Hello?’ He heard the taut anguish in his voice. ‘Is there someone there? Please, can you help me? I’ve fallen. Hello?’

Finally, miraculously, he heard a woman’s voice, muffled but distinct: ‘Just a minute, I’m coming!’

He began to cry again, this time with relief. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. How does the reality of Robert’s war experience compare with what he initially thought it would be?
2. Do you think young people from the 21st-century would be less likely to be swayed by ideas of duty and nationalism than the World War I generation, if there were to be a war now?
3. Do you believe that Louisa really met up with Robert and went back in time, or was she hallucinating?
4. How easy do you think it is for a psychiatrist to bring an objective scientific approach to bear on a patient undergoing a very subjective mental illness experience?
5. Do you think there is any truth in the concept of past lives and reincarnation?

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