A small taste of what I have been working on

This week I have been revising the opening chapters of my novel, a ghost story for Middle Grade readers, set in London during World War Two. When I first started the novel several years ago, it was in the first person present, to get a sense of immediacy. However, I was advised to switch to third person and tried that in the present tense, but it didn’t turn out as expected. After changing the perspective and tense in the whole of the novel, I set out to improve the viewpoint and plot. Once of the approaches that helped me focus was to include a prologue. I want to share it with you and would appreciate any comments. 

PROLOGUE

August 1939

Joe clutched Mum’s hand, his palm hot and sticky against her cool fingers. He skipped and tripped over his feet, trying to keep up with her, his gas mask knocking against his ribs.

‘Why couldn’t I take the plane Dad made for me? I don’t have anything else to play with,’ Joe said.

‘It’s not on the list I got from your teacher,’ said Mum, ‘and it won’t fit in the suitcase. You can’t carry it in your hand and it don’t half weigh a lot. Anyway, someone might take it. I promise I’ll keep it safe at home.’

He looked down at the paper name tag attached to his coat with a safety pin. Mum had made him put on extra clothes that didn’t fit in the small cardboard suitcase that she carried in her other hand. He was so hot from trying to keep up with her, and from the extra vests and sweater, that his face burned and the drips from his hair ran down the back of his neck, soaking his collar. He wriggled from the itchiness of it all and trembled at the thought of the long journey on a steam train all on his own. Leaning back to peer at the vaulted roof of the station, he felt like he was shrinking and gripped Mum’s hand even tighter. Her wedding ring was smooth and hard.

‘Can’t you come too, Mum?’ he asked.

‘Only children are being evacuated, Joe. We want to keep you safe, and I have to look after the house for when Dad comes home.’

‘But what if I don’t like Wales? What if there are giants or dragons that want to eat me? I want to stay here with you.’

‘There are lots of other children going on the train,’ Mum said. ‘Some of them are younger than you. You’re a big boy now. You’re seven years old.’

Joe looked around. There were hundreds of children, all being sent to the country, miles away from their families and homes. Even his best friend, Nelly, who lived next door, was there with her mum, pale and sobbing quietly into a handkerchief.

‘Maybe you’ll be billeted with Nelly,’ said Mum, as she helped him up the step into a carriage and guided him into an empty seat. She lifted the suitcase onto the overhead rack and bent down to kiss him. He felt the creaminess of her lipstick leave a mark on his cheek.

‘Remember to write, behave yourself and always mind your manners,’ she said. And then she was gone.

Joe looked out of the window. A lady with a clipboard was trying to drag Nelly onto the train but she wouldn’t budge. She held tight to her mum’s skirt. As the doors slammed and the train pulled away from the station, he watched through a blur of tears as Mum joined them, dabbing her eyes with a hanky. Before he could wave goodbye, the train reached the end of the platform. Would he ever see any of them again? What was going to happen to him when he arrived in Wales?