My name is Katrina Watson. I’m a retired doctor and a writer. Yes, truly, I am Dr Watson.
My name has another literary association: I was named Katrina after Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel of that name, although my father got the spelling wrong when he went to the registry office. Certain people – headmistresses and the like – make a point of calling me Catri-ona, which makes me feel a little bit Scottish, and I have always loved Robert Louis Stevenson.
I live in Narrm, or Melbourne, on Wurundjeri country. My short fiction and creative non-fiction pieces have been commended in international and national prizes. My first novel, The Bones (Busybird Publishing, 2023), was well received, and, as it concerns graverobbers and bodysnatchers, I claim it was inspired by Edinburgh, the home of graverobbing, and those first murderer-bodysnatchers, William Burke and William Hare. I am told that William Burke’s skeleton still hangs in the Anatomical Museum of Edinburgh Medical School.
I’ve now completed my second novel, which has a working title of Tsunami. Again, there is an RLS connection, because this novel is set in Samoa, where RLS spent the last four years of his life, and where I was a volunteer doctor for twelve months. “Tusitala” (Storyteller) was dearly loved and deeply respected by the Samoans, and his grave and epitaph are visited daily by locals and tourists alike. I’ve used RLS quotations throughout my Tsunami novel, an what a joy it has been for me to do that.
Melbourne has buildings and byways with a clearly colonial European past, and in particular, there are reminders of Scottish colonialism wherever you look. A short walk at the top end of Elizabeth Street, together with sharp eyes, will reveal a sign for the Lallan Society and maybe one for the Caledonian. A walk through one of our parks may be rewarded with a statue of Robert Burns unveiled by the Burns Society in 1904. (It is said that every Scot in Melbourne contributed to the cost of the sculpture.) Some reminders are not so happy – for example certain Scottish settlers in country Victoriawere responsible for massacres of Indigenous people (Angus McMillan of Bairnsdale, 1810-1865, was one such).
Let me tell you about my secret writing location in Melbourne -the Atheneum Library. This is an old private library established in 1842, in the heart of the Melbourne CBD, and is marked only by a small brass plate outside. If you dare – go through the glass doors and cross the threadbare Victorian carpet, up two flights of stairs, past an old theatre with phantoms galore, past more brass plates and a huge century-old engraved foundation stone. You may start to wonder if you will come out alive.
Finally, enter a beautiful quiet old library, filled with great books, and more brass signs: “Room reserved for Country Members”; “Tea and Coffee – donation please”; “Forthcoming Events”. The walls are duck-egg blue; there are original telephones; and views of historic trams in leafy Collins Street.
My membership of this library came as a part of a prize I won in a competition for crime fiction – the Scarlet Stiletto prize, which is run by Sisters-in-Crime, an Australian organisation, (Melbourne-based of course). All attendees at the award ceremony, most especially the prize winners, are encouraged to wear red or black, along with their scarlet stilettos. Subsequently I was also asked to speak on crime writing at the Ath. I dressed for the occasion: Dr Watson in drag, deer-stalker, scarlet stilettos and all.
“The Ath”, as the devotees call their beloved library, is one place where I am guaranteed to be able to borrow my favourite Melbourne books. Melbourne is the beating (or even non-beating!) heart of crime-writing in Australia. One of Australia’s oldest crime stories, “The Mystery of a Hansom Cab” was written in Melbourne in 1886 by Fergus Hume. It is a gripping tale which will take you back to the seamy days of Madame and her brothel at the top of Little Lonsdale Street, society murders, and of course horse-drawn carriages.
Descriptions of Melbourne people: be they Helen Garner’s heroin-addicted lover, Javo; Shane Maloney’s apparatchik Murray Whelan; or Eliot Perlman’s impecunious Eddie. Each character is so authentic we feel we know them. Is credit due to the city or the writers? I say both. Melbourne is the city of and for Everyman and Everywoman, of and for great writers and unlimited settings.
So – let’s do Melbourne! There is no lack of inspiration here for writing.
