Every setting in a story is important as each place adds a sensory value. Descriptions of where dialogue or action takes place, draws readers in to a story, adds depth and makes it easier to visualise.
In my book, Arlette's Story, Oradour was a beautiful small town in south-west France. It was peacefully isolated in the Charente countryside and even during WW2 it remained relatively untouched by the horrors of war, until June 1944.
Oradour had schools, two hotels, a hairdresser, a baker, a butcher, a garage, a doctor’s surgery and cafés. It even had a tram system that carried townspeople to nearby Limoges. I list these things to clarify the scale of Oradour. This wasn’t a small hamlet; it was a thriving community as you can see from these old photographs.
I’ve walked the roads of this once quaint town many times in order to absorb the atmosphere and to witness first-hand the place I’m writing about in Arlette’s Story. What I discovered were crumbling, rusting, burnt out homes where ovens, bed frames, sewing machines, cars in garages and personal items were slowly weathering and disintegrating.
The setting of a story is like a stage for a play. A writer must take their readers in to their characters' world in order to bring a novel to life. Setting is one of the most important elements of a story, creating mood, revealing insights into the theme, reflecting on characters and anchoring the writer's plot.
Spring Breeze is set in Paris during WW2, so I visited the capital for research. My protagonist, Matilde, lives in the city so many famous landmarks appear in the story. She buys seed potatoes from a wagon beneath the Sacre Couer.
A German soldier in my story visits the Moulin Rouge. I went inside to make notes on the decor, spoke to people about its history as well discussing the numerous Germans that were entertained there. I had no idea that a statue of a huge elephant stood in the Moulin Rouge's garden in the 1940's. Germans climbed stairs inside the elephant's leg to discover a cocktail bar inside its body.
A large swastika blew in the breeze at the top of the Eiffel tower during WW2. Hitler visited the tower shortly after invading Paris, but the French had disabled the lift so he never made it to the top. Nothing can beat personally exploring a certain place that will feature in a book.
I explored deep beneath the city in the miles of catacombs and caves. I knew some of my characters would need a good hiding place from the Germans and were going to spend a lot of time down there, so I needed to visit for myself.
No amount of reading about the catacombs would have made me write as authentically about life underground if I hadn’t touched, smelled, heard, seen and absorbed the atmosphere for myself.
I’d read about the macabre displays of bones piled high, walls built of femurs, arches built from skulls and domes patterned with skeletons, but seeing them for myself made describing them so much more realistic. Here are a few of my photographs.
By researching in person, I discovered that the air in the catacombs was fresh, the temperature was an ambient 14 degrees all year, that tunnels widened into large spaces but also narrowed significantly so visitors had to turn sideways to continue their journey. I saw what my protagonist would see, albeit without the overhead electric lighting! I imagined how I would feel if I was down there with a dim torch and without a map.
I hope you enjoy this short excerpt from Spring Breeze where Matilde is taken down into the catacombs for the first time. I couldn't have known these small yet interesting facts, if I hadn't climbed down inside the maze of tunnels myself.
Skulls and bones were arranged into towers, crosses, arches and rows over two metres high and five metres deep on both sides of the path. There was a bizarre symmetry and style to the whole scene as if it were an art exhibition. Matilde shone light on disassembled femur bones stacked like cordwood alongside lines of skulls, their empty eye sockets gaping blindly ahead. Some skulls were caked in sediment while others revealed the history of a violent end with bullet holes and broken craniums. All anonymous. All individually forgotten.
‘Imagine having to hide down here. It must be awful.’ Matilde shivered.
Henri turned from examining a skull and walked towards her carrying it. He held it in front of his body, a palm on each temple. ‘More awful than up there?’
Henri rotated the skull so its gaping orifices faced her. Small chippings of bone and dust fell from its jagged nasal opening. He handed it to her and she took it without thinking. It sat in the palms of her hands, her fingers not moving, not wanting to feel its texture. A film of limestone dust lay on its surface. [ … ]
The weight of the skull in Matilde’s hands revolted her. She hadn’t moved since Henri had placed it there and was finding it difficult to concentrate.
He turned his attention back to the cranium and pointed to an eroded area. ‘See this pitted area of bone? That’s a sign of leprosy. Nothing changes. Centuries later and here we are with groups of society still being ostracised and segregated.’
Matilde’s breath quickened. Everything seemed surreal and dreamlike to her. Thirty metres above them, people were walking through sun-drenched parks, Germans patrolled streets, and cafés bustled with customers. Here she stood holding the head of a leper while Henri was discussing prejudice. She stretched out her arms, willing Henri to take the skull.
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