by Nina Allan
On War is a peculiar work. Lodged halfway between fact and fiction, it has aroused some interest among scholars of World War Two literature because it appears to predict the nuclear destruction of Hiroshima. I remember where I was when they told me, states the unnamed narrator. I have never before felt able to speak my feelings aloud, but what I wanted, when I heard, was simply to be there. To be not guilty of this thing, to help one person up from the rubble, even if such an action brought about my own destruction. I yearned to haul myself across bleeding Europe with my coat in tatters and no money in my purse. You will say that these feelings were selfish and I would not blame you for saying so. Some crimes are so huge there can be no recompense.
On War is dedicated to Ellen’s daughter, Isobel Elsa, who was eleven years old at the time of its publication.
* * *
I knew Ray’s mother was called Isobel, but she was old, and living in Paris, and I never met her. She died three years ago. I know that Ray sent her photos of you when you were born. I imagine they were there beside her bed on the day she died.
Ray was always meaning to take you over there, so she could get to know you. It’s too late now, but that’s Ray all over. He loses track of time.
Dearest Clio. We can only cheat time for so long, and I knew when I went back to Milliver Street that final time it should be the last.
Your great-grandmother, though: Ellen Tuglas, whose name was once Helen Bostall. I should have guessed she would find a means of letting me know our escape plan succeeded, and that her name would be Clio. Clio, the daughter of memory, the muse of history. I should have known that – through you, Clio – Helen and I would one day meet again.
* * *
I carried on writing the book, of course I did, my account of Helen Bostall and how she was hanged for a crime she didn’t commit. I’d come so far with my research I didn’t feel like giving up – and as a story, as I say, it had everything: bomb plots, political feuding, affairs of the heart, as many double crosses as you might find in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. My editor at History Recollected even thinks she’s found a publisher for it. I doubt it’ll make me rich but it should do all right.
* * *
You can read the book when you’re older. Make of it what you will. Godmothers can be boring, can’t they, especially godmothers who also happen to be lawyers? At least you can tell yourself that your boring lawyer godmother once changed the world. A little bit, anyway. I don’t imagine you’ll be telling anyone else.
acknowledgements
My original research for The Silver Wind included a great deal of reading on the subject of clocks and watches, and particular mention should be made of M. Cutmore’s Watches 1850 – 1980 (David & Charles 1989) and David Thompson’s Watches in the Ashmolean Museum (Ashmolean Museum 2007) and Watches (British Museum Press 2008). The story ‘Darkroom’ was originally published in 2008 in the anthology Subtle Edens, edited by Allen Ashley for Elastic Press. The story ‘Ten Days’ first appeared in 2016 in Now We Are Ten, edited by Ian Whates for NewCon Press. My thanks to those editors and publishers, and also of course to David Rix of Eibonvale Press, who first gave a home to the earlier version of The Silver Wind in 2011. My heartfelt gratitude to Gary Budden, Cath Trechman and the whole inspiring crew at Titan Books for offering me the opportunity to substantially revise the text, and to bring these characters and their stories to a wider readership. Thanks as always to my remarkable agent, Anna Webber, of United Agents.
about the author
Nina Allan is the recipient of the British Science Fiction Award, the Novella Award and the Kitschies Red Tentacle. Her story ‘The Art of Space Travel’ was a Hugo finalist in 2017 and the original version of The Silver Wind was awarded the Grand Prix de L’imaginaire in 2014. Her most recent novel is The Dollmaker. Nina lives and works in Scotland, on the Isle of Bute.