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Ivy Claret meets an mysterious uncle for the first time at her fathers funeral.

The room swirled with people. How sorry they were, they said. How tragic it all was, they said. How I could go to them if I needed anything, they said.

They were all just ghosts to me. It didn't matter. They didn't matter. It occurred to me after my father’s death how fleeting life is. One minute you exist and the next your corpse rots in the ground for maggots to feast upon. Decomposition gases consume your body and are expelled with blood from your mouth. Your skin will tear and turn green, infected by the gases and the vital organs will be eaten by bacteria or parasites. What does any kind of life mean when this is what happens to us all? Death the great leveller. When I die I will be cremated.

I sat on the old white chair, that one mother called an ‘ornament’, never to be sat on. It was her décor, you see. She used it as a design statement, that we were grand and rich and 'old-timely'; other worldly to the fast paced modern cosmos outside our door. It all meant nothing to me, so I sat on it. The room was too bright and there was too much black in the clothes they all wore. Why black? Why should black be considered a colour of mourning? Or evil for that matter. If it was because it lacked any colour or substance, white should be equally linked with such stereotypes. Why do things mean something when everything means nothing?

“Darling? Ivy, come and meet your Uncle Nicolas.” I looked up from the floor to see her standing there, my mother. She had even blonder hair than me, although hers was dyed. An almost yellow tinge now consumed it. My hair was much ruddier. Darker, like a dirty kind of blonde, almost ginger even, but not. My face was plain and unaffected by make-up of any kind. My skin wasn't bad so there was no need, I felt. Mother disagreed. She wore make-up out of propriety. A dark red lipstick coating her lips and her eyelashes gently lengthened and darkened by some designer mascara she bought on one of her trips. Her hairstyle was short and old fashioned, yet another statement I presumed. Mine had no style, it just sort of hung there, long and useless; soft and unedited; as it had always been.

“Ivy. I asked you to come here. And I have told you about sitting there.” I still didn't move. I just remained expressionless and blinked.

“Don’t do this today, come on.” I stood slowly, clasping my hands lethargically in front of me. I followed her through the crowds of ghosts to meet a very different man than I had ever seen. He was much taller than father had ever been, but resembled his features greatly. He had the same dark tousled hair, the same jaw and the same dark eyes enveloped by dark lashes, but he was considerably leaner. Father had put on ‘daddy’ weight, as most middle aged men did. Nicolas hadn't. He looked as young and fit as any man at a gym on a Saturday morning. His eyes widened a little as he saw me and he smiled. His body was relaxed and he clutched a glass of champagne in one hand while the other was settled in his trouser pocket. He wore a suit, a black suit with a white shirt and no tie. There was something so much more relaxed and cool about him than everyone else here.

“Ivy, this is your Uncle Nicolas. He’s come to visit from Paris, he’ll be staying here until he returns next week.”

“A pleasure, Miss Ivy.” He spoke with the same accent as us, American. I had heard that my father was born in France, but I never knew he had a brother.” I said nothing, merely nodded. Mother left us to speak with one of her friends.

“I didn't know I had an Uncle.” I said calmly.

“Well I knew you existed. It is a real shame your father never brought you to Paris. I should have loved to show you around. le goût des paris est le meilleur dans le monde.” His sudden burst into such fluent French startled me. It suited him. He had the voice for it, the accent was perfect. I suppose he was bi-lingual. Father hadn't remembered much French from his childhood.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t know French? How has your father raised you?” he chuckled. “It means, dear one, the taste of Paris is the best in the world. Your blood is important, Ivy, never forget that whilst you may have grown up here, your real heritage lies in France. You must visit there some time. Perhaps I could take you and your mother.” I said nothing, just slighted my head to the right.

“What a curious niece I have.” He smiled and chuckled to himself. “So strange to never have met you before now.” My eyes wandered as his gaze was intent. I let them stray for no more than a millisecond to the piano, noticing some young woman, a friend of my mothers, leaning on it.

“Do you play?” he asked, looking around at the piano. I nodded.

“Not well.”

“I play. While I am here you should have to let me hear you. Music is one of the few things a man could live for. Are you thirsty?” He asked, as I had no glass in my hand. I shook my head slowly. He smiled.

“Well…” He leaned in, “What do you say we split away from the rabble?” I smiled slowly in agreement. He placed a hand on my back and we walked through the rabble as he called them all out into the garden. He set his glass on the window sill and headed towards the pond, seeming to know his way. He sat on the bench. He looked at me as I stood there.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He asked.

“Why do you sit down?” He smiled and chuckled briefly.

“You are very smart, Miss Ivy.” He sat and I stood, and we looked at each other for a moment. I took of my shoes and rolled my stockings of my legs from under my dress discretely before sitting on the edge of the pond and dipping my feet into the water, gently heated by the midday sun. The fish swam around my feet, gently stroking them like a cat would. My black dress sat gently about my legs and the sun beat down upon what bare skin there was of me. Nicolas leaned on his legs, clasping his hands together.

“You are, very much, a Claret, Miss Ivy.”

“How so?”

“You have the qualities. Untraceable qualities, but I can see them in you. The qualities of a Claret. Your father had always been one to pull away from the family. When we moved over here as boys, he was more than happy. I missed France too much. But you, you have only some of your father’s qualities in you. The one’s I remember from our early childhood in Paris.” There was a silence. I closed my eyes and lay back on the grass, my feet still dangling in the pond. I could feel his eyes with the sun on my skin, but ignored the former and focused on the heat from the latter.

“You know you even look like her. My mother. The same hair, the same eyes. I should have to show you a picture some time.” I liked to listen to his voice. There was something soothing in its deep fluidity. I wished deeply for him to speak in French again, it suited him so completely. I found myself lying there quite happy, really. I was surprised he had not much mentioned the fact that my father was dead, that his brother was dead.

“Ivy! For goodness sake, stop being so ridiculous and get out of the pond. Come back inside and give Marie a hand in the kitchen. I have been looking everywhere for you.” That I highly doubted. I sat up, but Nicolas placed a hand on my shoulder as he got up to greet my mother.

“Forgive me Helena, I suggested we come out into the garden, get a bit of air you know. You have such a lovely garden here too, it would be a shame for it to be neglected while the guests stay inside.”

“Oh. Oh well, nonetheless Ivy will you please go and help Marie?” Her tone had changed from exasperation to delusion. I had a feeling mother fancied my uncle. I got up and walked barefoot across the grass back into the house, only putting my shoes on at the door.

“Thank you for keeping an eye on her. She is such a strange little girl.” I heard mother say.

“Not at all.” Nicolas said. I kept walking and went into the kitchen, before Marie told me to get out and stay out of her way. With that I escaped to the staircase. Sitting on the window seat in the middle of it, watching Nicolas and my mother from the window. I hugged a small green cushion to my legs, letting it soak any water that remained, and warm what was now turning cold from the shade of the big house I now sat in. I wondered just then, why neither mother nor father had mentioned my uncle. Nicolas’ hand rested on my mother’s back as he walked closer to the building again. He looked up at me briefly, meeting my eyes. I wasn't sure whether to look away or not. I stayed frozen and he smiled at me before turning his attentions back to my mother who was giggling like a little school girl. Typical mother, oh how darling Helena could giggle.

Author's Note

The tale is a very dark story of 'bad blood'. It is based largely on an idea I got from 'A Dolls house' a play by Henrik Ibsen. The play suggests an idea, the idea that moral traits can be passed through a bloodline the same way that physical ones can. The story is basically that a girl looses her father in a car accident which she knows nothing about, and at the funeral meets a mysterious uncle who she has never known about. She is very distant from her mother who seems to be finding comfort in the attention of Uncle Nicolas, but he has other things on his agenda. Throughout the story there are elements of violence, displacement from reality and a form of existentialism. This is only the first draft of the very first chapter, and it is written in a 'stream of consciousness' style. I understand this can be challenging at times as I have read such things as 'The Butcher Boy' by Patrick McCabe and do find it tough going to read, so I guess I am asking if it is readable, is it interesting and mysterious, is there enough of an atmosphere to make you interested, or is the style just a little too cold?

Reviews

[TLK]

You wait until the second paragraph to really grab the reader (well, hell, let's just admit it: to grab ME -- this is all my own interpretation). Why not say "the room swirled with ghosts"? That is what I feel you mean. And perhaps even "just as dead as my father". Then you could draw us into your imagery of death by applying it to the present scene: it would have more force.
Apologies, I will now stop writing your story for you. I'm a teacher, so I have a strong tendency to do this.
The last two sentences of your second paragraph are immensely important for understanding the narrator, but they do not feel linked. Perhaps death is a leveller, but being cremated makes you more equal than others?

The start of paragraph three is definitely overlong. I am sure you can cut it down into one sentence, which will retain the psychological power of the narrator's difference to the mother and, through condensing, hit the reader harder. It also takes a while for you to bring us back to the narrator being at the funeral.
In four, the comparison between child and mother seem unecessary. If they are both wearing black, than a natural thought would be one of differentiation, e.g. there are much fewer differences without the obvious ones of styles and trends. (I'm bluffing here, I know nothing about clothes apart from that wearing them reduces my reoffending rate).
"I followed her through the crowds of ghosts to meet a very different man than I had ever seen" doesn't quite read correctly for me. The 'than' should be a 'to', I believe, but also a man against ghosts needs to be made more clearly oppositional. (Also, could you go through the 'bodies' or 'forms' of the ghosts? I do write prose poetry, so I'm always ready to make things ridiculously impossible).
I also wonder whether you can map more closely the comparison of narrator-to-mother and Nicolas-to-Father. There is a deep theme of family resemblance coming out, which is especially fascinating as the narrator belies a massive lack of knowledge of Father in the next paragraph.
The meeting is very unsettling, as Nicolas seems quite other-worldly. I enjoy that.

You mention Ibsen in your Author's note, and I wonder if you can add some more foreshadowing. I feel that this meeting is creepy, but I would like to feel the narrator be pulled through some alienating feel of oddness to respond with the Uncle. Perhaps he could show some gross narscissism which, on reflection, doesn't shock the narrator as much as she expects.


Overall, this is shaping up to be very interesting. I don't write anything longer than a short story myself, so I can't give advice on how to take the next step. For detailed critiques of longer writing, I would point out the scribophile.com is set up for that purpose in a way that this 'site is not.

[Emery]

Thank you very much for the review, i am glad you like the idea. I am also glad you feel a sense of disconnection as this is what the style is intended to do. if you haven't read 'The Butcher Boy' by Patrick McCabe and enjoying reading novels (even if you don't write them) it is a fabulously interesting book, horrific and incredibly dark, but it brings up a lot of important ideas and criticisms, not to mention the style of writing which is my personal favourite. it is a little heavy going if you are not used to it, though. Thank you for the advice on the initial paragraphs, I can definitely work on that and I really appreciate the review. I have some other chapters drafted but they still need a little work I think before I will post them. I am also glad you picked up on the importance of the theme of family and I am glad you are interested. Thanks again for the review and the website recommendation!
Emery x

[TLK]

No problem, Emery.

[hippityhoppitybippitybo..]

One thing that stood out for me here is the dialogue: Lovin' it. If there's one thing I enjoy reading, it's good, natural dialogue, though I'd like to say that the whole piece seemed natural aside from a few grammatical hitches here and there; natural as in not awkward or forced. I actually sometimes wish I could pay no mind to all the mistakes that show up in my work because it really becomes something annoying when you haven't proofread your own paper after several pages. Also, about what TLK said below me; I personally disagree about him mentioning that it would be better to catch the reader's attention by the first paragraph, at least in this case. I feel like doing that would just take away from the narrative, as I find the second paragraph to be a nice follow up. Always nice to have characterization right off the bat and I'm digging the style on this, though the hyper/modernistic side of me would certainly say that something was lacking. But I guess not everyone enjoys stories with fast-paced development.

Gonna be blunt here: Despite all the positive things that I've said, the passive tone of the story makes it difficult to feel anticipation for the next part, although that's not really something to be 'fixed' since it's ingrained into the tone and storyline; well, in the beginning, anyway. I didn't see any problems with this so far (not mentioning the few, easily fixable typos), but it's hard to judge something something still in such early stages so I might come back to you on the second chapter and give you a more detailed response regarding style and storyline later.

[Emery]

Thanks for the advice, I really appreciate your help and opinions. As you say yourself it is early days yet, but I am glad you have some positive things to say about it, thanks for the review :)