I am in Charleston, South Carolina, whither we fly to escape the northern winter, which so far has not been too frigid. Charleston is anything but frigid. Last week we attended a cocktail party and I overheard two elegant ladies who were discussing a gentleman glimpsed across the candlelit courtyard. One remarked on his good looks, whereupon the other replied: ‘I think I was married to him once.’ Pure Charleston.
But our dog, Vicky, has been severely disappointed by the winter. The rest of the USA seems to be buried in snow, but on Cape Cod we have seen scarcely three inches, and Victoria adores the snow, believing it to be sent for her particular pleasure. By the time we fled south our harbour, which normally freezes over in January, remained stubbornly unfrozen, while our lawn was a galaxy of snowdrops.
Snowdrops once prompted the angriest letter I think I have ever received as an author. In 1995 I published The Winter King, the first of a trilogy about ‘King’ Arthur. In the book, which was set in the 6th century, I mentioned snowdrops. ‘You fool!’ my correspondent wrote, ‘Everyone knows snowdrops were not introduced to Britain till the 12th century!’ Well, I did not know, but it often amazes me how a trivial error will prompt letters of seething rage.
Or letters of touching credulity. The Winter King (which I’m delighted to say is coming to television later this year) prompted a surprising number of letters which began in similar ways: ‘I have read your book and regret to tell you it is mistaken. I was Guinevere in a previous existence…’ By the time I had written the second book of the trilogy I had collected 17 Guineveres, a mere six Lancelots and a handful of other characters.
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