Pattern of Shadows was my first novel, the sequel, Changing Patterns was published in May 2013. The last of the trilogy, Living in the Shadows was published July 2015. In August 2017, the prequel to the trilogy, A Hundred Tiny Threads,was published. In March 2010, The Memory was published by Honno, a contemporary family saga. I also have an eBook, Silent Trauma, a fiction built on fact novel, published as an eBook. I have an MA in Creative Writing, B.A. (Hons.) in Literature, and a Diploma in Drama and Script Writing. I've had short stories, poems, plays, reviews and articles published throughout the British Isles, notably in several Honno anthologies. I am also a Creative Writing tutor and run workshops on all genres and available for talks and workshops.My blogs are on my website: https://judithbarrowblog.com/ where I review,interview other authors, and generally write about walks & photographs. At the moment I'm running a series of posts called Places in our memories, where writers talk about somewhere that brings back a memory. Always happy to hear from anyone who would like to join in with that. When I'm not writing or teaching creative writing I spend time researching for my writing, painting or walking the Pembrokeshire coastline
A home is a safe haven, a place we live with our families. A place to build memories as well as a basis to build a future. A place where we can just be ourselves.
But what if it’s not?
What happens when there is a family disaster and one member of that family is seen to be at fault? Tension inevitably builds, judgements are made. Whether it’s a total catastrophe or an avoidable misfortune, ifthe finger is pointed, estrangement can follow.
Some of these rifts develop over long periods of time, following a series of mistakes and carelessness, whilst others are brought about by a sudden, unexpected tragedy. Often, when it’s the latter, when it’s something so dreadful, so unforgivable, that the hurt within the family is too great, there seems to be no choice but to expel that member off, to disown them. They are denied a voice, become vilified.The estrangement widens and over the years layers of resentful memories build up.
The misery is more palpable when the alienation is between children. Sibling relationships can be one of the most enduring connections we have in our lives. Usually they are the first people we bond with, after our parents. When that bond is forcibly broken it can lead to unimagineable heartbreak.
Families can be complicated. That’s an obvious statement. And where there are families, there are quarrels, and there are often estrangements. And there are stories. And these are the stories that are threaded through all my books.
None more so than in Sisters, a story built around one of the most devastating tragedies a family can endure.
Sisters is on promotion at 99p ” A moving study of the deep feelings – jealousy, love, anger, and revenge – that can break a family apart”
Readers have asked what was the inspiration for Sisters. I can only answer that it was an incident that I witnessed as a child. An event that tore in two a family that lived nearby. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.
I’ve had some wonderful reviews for Sisters. This is one of my favourite
I’m going to borrow some words I used when I reviewed The Memory – “absolutely compelling, a story superbly told, and an entirely unforgettable emotional experience”. I used the word “stunning” a few times too – and although this is a very different book, the words seem equally appropriate. With this book, the author has produced another that packs a considerable emotional punch, coupled with an original story that had me pinned to the seat as I read it from cover to cover in one sitting.
A short prologue hints at what is to come, but the book opens in 1970 – with a family who will be torn apart by a tragic accident, where the blame settles with young Mandy, and its consequences are devastating. Sent to live with her uncle and aunt in Wales, they uncover the truth about what happened – that she was unable to share with her parents – and show her the love she needs to move on, to build a new life as Lisa, and to rebuild her relationship with her mother. Meanwhile her older sister Angie, wracked with guilt after setting up an alibi to escape any consequences for her own actions, flees her home and her life follows a difficult path that will prove hard to escape. The narrative resumes in 1983 – when Lisa returns for her mother’s funeral, she finds that her estranged sister’s earlier actions and later life choices have trapped her in a marriage fraught with abuse, both physical and emotional, with no means of escape. Angie’s husband has an agenda all of his own – and, along with a friend from their shared past, the sisters need to work together to bring down a man capable of appalling acts and cruelty who has become a most unlikely pillar of the community.
My goodness, the author’s telling is so much better than that – but this book is far more than its story. Mandy’s voice – that of a confused child, torn between her own grief, her sense of right and wrong, and her love for her family – tears at your heart. We hear Angie’s voice too – the way she deals with her own guilt and justifies her actions – and any sympathy is, at first, difficult to find. The father who rejects his own child, and the mother who condones it – that’s even more complex. But when Mandy – now Lisa – achieves some redemption, we see Angie’s life heading in a different direction. And while there might be some possibility that she reaps what she deserves, the reader’s compassion builds when we see what a mess she’s made of her life. Her husband is the truly evil one, who will stop at nothing to get what he wants – but the strength of character that Lisa has developed, and that really emerges through the writing, means that there might just be some possibility of him being stopped in his tracks.
And I’m back telling the story again – and I really don’t mean to. The character development is tremendously strong – but so is the story’s backdrop, the community that closed ranks against a small child bullied mercilessly and driven from her home, and the differences once thirteen years have passed. And there are the small background details that capture the context and era for both the past and present story – so subtle you barely notice, and really cleverly done. But the most unforgettable thing about this book is the way it makes you feel, by skilfully telling a story that can’t fail to engage the full range of your emotions. And it never feels like manipulation – these are real people who you grow to care deeply for through the course of their experiences. The book’s conclusion is satisfying in every possible way – and this is the point when I really won’t tell you the story, because that would be entirely unforgivable.
A family drama, perhaps a thriller in parts – perfectly structured and beautifully written, tender and gritty, this is a book that defies placing within one genre, and is all the better for it. All I can say is that I entirely loved it – one of my books of the year, and I couldn’t recommend it more highly.
Sample:
Part Four June 1981
Chapter Forty-Three
I’m holding the rail at the top of the steps of the bus and peering through the window. It doesn’t help that it’s dirty and smeared with rain. But I can see Micklethwaite is run-down. Shabby.
Though the doors squeal open I can’t make my legs move. I don’t look at him, but I can sense the driver’s impatience and curiosity, and worry for a moment that he’s recognised me. He’s older, but I know he’s the man who used to be the school caretaker. Can’t remember his name but I wait for him to speak. The old familiar fear prickles my skin, I gulp against the sudden tears thick in my throat.
But all he says is, ’On or off, miss?’
I don’t look round at him when I go down the steps clutching my only luggage, my small, blue suitcase. I’m not intending to stay in Micklethwaite long. Standing on the edge of the flagged square, I look around at what used to be the new shops and flats. It’s depressing, exactly as Mum described it last time she was in Ponthallen. She’d said it had deteriorated beyond recognition and she was right. Most of the shop fronts are boarded up, the windows of the flats above covered in yellowed net curtains or wrecked blinds hanging lopsided. Empty crisp packets and torn greasy chip cartons wrap themselves around the iron railings once fixed to protect the young saplings, now fragmented twigs.
Except for a group of hooded youths slouched in front of an off-licence, the windows plastered in red and orange posters to entice customers in with offers of knocked down beer and wine prices, there’s no one around. What had been there before?
I can’t remember. Then it comes to me; it was the hairdressers, Mavis’s Waves and Curls. Mum used to come out of there once a month with the same tight perm that all the other women had. And each time, red-faced with an embedded line from a hairnet across her forehead, Mum swore she’d find a different hairdresser. Each time it had taken until the evening for that line to fade.
Angie and I used to tease Mum about it.
The thought makes me feel wretched, broken. Broken was how I felt the last time I was in Micklethwaite, carrying a burden that would be with me all my life. I didn’t think of it in that way then; after all I was just a kid. But I do know no one wanted me here at the time. The sideways glances of hatred and recrimination drove away that feeling of belonging. It’s odd; I haven’t thought of it as home for a long time. I belong in Ponthallen now.
And as for Angie ‒ Angela, I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I see her. It’ll be the first time in over eleven years. The first time I’ll speak to her after my life altered completely because of her.
We’d wanted to go to New Zealand for years. And one of us had wanted to go in a helicoptor for … well… for a long time. So, when the opportunity came, and finances allowed, we went. What I didn’t know was that someone had booked a trip to the summit of Mount Cook.
The New Zealand Southern Alps are a range of mountains formed millions of years ago by the clashing of the Pacific and Indo-Australian tectonic plates. Mount Cook (also called Aoraki – Cloud Piercer) at 3753 metres is the highest peak. And the highest place I’ve ever been – and most probably ever will go. It was truly spectacular. And, if I’m honest, rather Intimidating. But, if we’d gone before 1991, it would have been even more nail-biting. In that year a mighty avalanche sent millions of tons of debris crashing onto the glacier below, losing ten metres from the summit and completely changing the eastern face of the mountain.
Mount Cook is bordered by two glaciers: the Tasman Glacier to the east and the Hooker Glacier towards the west coast.I think, at this stage I was just hoping we could land safely… and not on a glacier.
Mount Cook, helped Sir Edmund Hillary to develop his climbing skills in preparation for the conquest of Everest at the age of thirty-three.On the twenty-ninth of May 1953, at around 11:30am he and his Sherpa mountain guide Tenzing Norgay successfully reached the summit of Mount Everest (8844.43m), becoming the first man to stand on the top of the highest mountain in the world.
The first recorded ascent of Mount Cook is by the New Zealand climbing trio of Jack Clarke, Tom Fyfe and George Graham, who reached the top of the mountain on Christmas day in 1894.
According to Māori (Ngāi Tahu) legend, Aoraki and his three brothers were the sons of Rakinui (the Sky Father). While on a sea voyage around the Papatūānuku, (the Earth Mother) their canoe became stranded on a reef. Aoraki and his brothers climbed onto the top side of their canoe when it overturned. The freezing south wind turned them to stone.
Those tiny figures are us, together with the other passenger and the pilot. As I’d glued the photographer to my side when we first got out of the helicopter, I haven’t a clue who took this photo! Whoever it was, they didn’t get back in the helicopter with us.There could be a story somewhere in that!
It was rather bright… and cold… and windy. The photographer clutched tight hold of his camera. And, as I said, I clutched tight hold to him.
I think by the time he’d finished we had about fifty photographs of the summit and surrounding mountain peaks. He does like to take every angle from all accessible places. I did get a little worriedat times at his definition of accessible.
Back safe! It occurred to me afterwards, when I looked back on some of the more difficult hikes we’ve done, how different it is being in control of where your feet go on rocky trails, and how nervous I was actually standing on top of Mount Cook when I knew there was only one way down!
I think this is his “we did it” stance. And let’s go again!
ButI was happy to go to the Aoraki Mount Cook village (known mostly for being the top South Island basecamp for climbers, where about only two hundred and fifty people live and there are only around ten pupils in the local school; New Zealand’s only school inside a national park) for some much needed refreshments.
And, anyway, the clouds had descended once more and all flights were off for the day. Phew!!
Twenty years ago we went to Crete. Enticed by the write up in brochure in a cafe we decided to walk the Samaria Gorge. The entrance to the Gorge is from Xyloscalo, near the village of Omalos, leads past the old village of Samaria and (sixteen kilometres, that’s ten miles in old money) later eventually ends at Agia Rouméli, a small pretty coastal village with glorious views of the Mediterranean Sea. And tavernas under canopies of eucalyptus and cypress trees. I have to say it was the thought of this last description that persuaded me.
Last week, much to his excitement, husband (the photographer) found some of his photographs taken with one of his old cameras. These reminded me that this was the very first long walk that we actually did together.
Shades of things to come!
When I say “together” I actually mean that, if I didn’t keep an eye on what he was doing, I’d often be walking for ages before realising I’d been talking to myself and he was nowhere in sight. Since then I’ve learned to take a notebook and pen on these excursions so I can sit and write while he takes dozens of different photographs of the same scene, but from different angles, with different lenses, and all that technical stuff.
Armed with strong hiking boots, sunhats, sun cream, bottles of water and snacks we caught the bus at Chania to take us to Xiloskalo at five in the morning. By the end of the hike I was glad we’d started so early; it was sweltering. But I must admit that, at first, I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as the photographer to be getting up at that time on holiday.
How wrong I was. This is one hike I will never forget.
Declared a National Park in 1962, mainly to protect the endangered Cretan goats (Kri-Kri) which live in the area, the gorge has a rich history dating back to ancient times. Inhabited by people who worshipped the goddess Samaria. It also served as a refuge for Cretan rebels and freedom fighters during various periods of oppression and occupation by foreign powers such as the Turks, the Germans, and the British.
It also is home to the most exquisite plant life…
The Cretan ebony is found only in Crete, with purple flowers that adorn the Cretan mountains. Other endemic Cretan plant species are the Cretan crocus, the beautiful Cretan bell several aromatic herbs that thrive on the island. ( N.B. This is not one of husband’s photographs but courtesy of CRETA MARIS.I couldn’t resist showing this gorgeous plant, which wasn’t flowering at the time we went – otherwise you would definitely be seeing various angles and shots of it courtesy of husband)
The above is the narrowest and most famous section of the gorge – called Portes or The Iron Gates. It’s thirteen foot wide and one thousand six hundred and forty foot high. This was the most rocky part to walk – though as far as I remember we did much clambering over and around boulders all the way.I was very glad of the stout boots.
It took us six hours before we reached Agia Roumeli and relaxed outside a taverna with a cold glass of water and a dakos ( a hard barley rusk soaked in olive oil with coriander seeds, chopped tomatoes, oregano and cheese). I asked how this was made but I’ve never quite managed to achieve that special flavour we tasted that day)
The gorge is only open from May to October; in the first and last few weeks of that period it may close if there’s a danger of flash floods.
And I was glad that I wasn’t told before we set off that the gorge is home tofour different snakes, the Balkan whip snake, the dice snake, the cat snake and the leopard snake. Although not dangerous I’m relieved i didn’t see one.
Now husband has discovered photographs from his old camera I’m hoping he can find more from other walks we’ve done over the years. They’ve brought back many memories.
Trust is the one thing that families should be able to take for granted. Trust born from love, from the belief that each member knows the other because they have lived together, seen the weakness and strength of each other. Having faith in each other means there is trust in theirselves, in their judgements, in the confidence that they are implicitly correct in that conclusion. But of course trusting can be the automatic option, the unquestionable. It also avoids any confrontation between siblings, parents, relatives. It means that every one can get on with their lives, not having to think too hard about the actions of everyone else in the family. It’s taken for granted that each believes whatever they are told. Don’t question. In turn it’s accepted that each can also reveal whatever they want to disclose about themselves, their thoughts, their actions. And take for granted that they are believed.
There is only one problem with that premise. Everyone is on their own in their heads. No one (whatever anyone believes to the opposite) can read minds. What we present to the world, the façade we choose to show is our decision.
And that is where the secrecy comes in. Although it’s undeniable that every family has its secrets, it’s the substance of them that count. Of course secrets can also be trivial, small, kept in a loving way (a celebratory surprise, a present) or as a kindness, hiding something that is better kept under wraps if the person keeping it believes that.
On the other hand, harrowing, life-changing secrets can damage an entire family for some time. Even forever. Those kinds of secrets break that instinctive trust, that belief that those closest to us, who we love and respect, are truthful. Are not lying.
Families can be complicated. That’s an obvious statement. And where there are families with secrets, there are stories. And these are the stories that are at the root of all my books.
None more so than in The Memory.A story built around one of the biggest secrets a family can have.
****
Runner up in the Wales Book of the Year 2021: The Rhys Davies Trust Fiction Award.
Many readers have asked what was the inspiration for The Memory and my answer is always memories: memories of being a carer for two of my aunts who lived with us for a long time, memories of a friend dying in my childhood; a friend who, although at the time I didn’t realise, was a Downs’ Syndrome child. But why I actually started to write the story, I can’t remember. Because it was something I’d begun years ago and was based around the journal I’d kept during that decade of looking after my relatives so we could talk about what we’d done during the day – revive the memories of that day.But years afterwards I discovered something I’d not known – a secret kept from meby one aunt.
I’ve had some wonderful reviews for The Memory. This is one of my favourite
Review:
“The Memory is quite possibly Judith Barrow’s masterpiece. The dual timeline structure is ideally suited to bring us to that critical moment in the past. What exactly did Irene see? She’s an unreliable narrator, a child trying to understand a single memory that redefines her life in one timeline, while in the other timeline she’s a woman who has lost everything she ever loved except for the memory of the sister who haunts her.
The writing is spare and elegant, with just enough detail to create a picture of Irene’s world. Told in the first person, we see Irene as she grows from a bewildered child determined to care for her ‘special’ little sister to a woman who sacrifices her own hopes and dreams to care for her family. Those who’ve been caretakers to parents suffering from alzheimer’s and dementia will also recognize the sheer exhaustion and thankless effort demanded.
But the other thing I enjoyed in what could have been a desperately dark tale was that Irene knew love along the way. She remembered her childhood days with loving parents, she cherished the love of her grandmother, and she accepted the bedrock certainty of her husband Sam’s love. Most of all, she had the memory of loving little Rose…”
There’s a chink of light from the street lamp coming through the vertical blinds. It spreads across the duvet on my mother’s bed and onto the pillow next to her head. I reach up and pull the curtains closer together. The faint line of light is still there, but blurred around the edges.
Which is how I feel. Blurred around the edges. Except, for me, there is no light.
I move around the bed, straightening the corners, making the inner softness of the duvet match the shape of the outer material; trying to make the cover lie flat but of course I can’t. The small round lump in the middle is my mother. However heavily her head lies on the pillow, however precisely her arms are down by her sides, her feet are never still. The cover twitches until centimetre by centimetre it slides to one side towards the floor like the pink, satin eiderdown used to do on my bed as a child.
In the end I yank her feet up and tuck the duvet underneath. Tonight I want her to look tidy. I want everything to be right.
She doesn’t like that and opens her eyes, giving up the pretence of being asleep. Lying face upwards, the skin falling back on her cheekbones, her flesh is extraordinarily smooth, pale. Translucent almost. Her eyes are vague under the thick lines of white brows drawn together.
I ignore her; I’m bone weary. That was one of my father’s phrases; he’d come in from working in the bank in the village and say it.
‘I’m bone weary, Lil.’ He’d rub at the lines on his forehead. ‘We had to stay behind for half an hour all because that silly woman’s till didn’t add up.’ Or ‘… because old Watkins insisted I show the new lad twice how I leave my books at night; just so he knows, as though I might not go in tomorrow.’ Old Watkins was the manager, a job my father said he could do standing on his head but never got the chance.
And then, one day, he didn’t go into the bank. Or the day after that. Or ever again.
I wait by the bed. I move into her line of vision and it’s as though we’re watching one another, my mother and me; two women – trapped.
‘I can’t go on, Mum.’ I lift my arms from my side, let them drop; my hands too substantial, too solid to hold up. They’re strong – dependable, Sam, my husband, always says. I just think they’re like shovels and I’ve always been resentful that I didn’t inherit my mother’s slender fingers. After all I got her fat arse and thick thighs, why not the nice bits?
I’ve been awake for over a day. I glance at the clock with the extra large numbers, bought when she could still tell the time. Now it’s just something else for her to stare at, to puzzle over. It’s actually twenty-seven hours since I slept, and for a lot of them I’ve been on my feet. Not that this is out of the ordinary. This has been going on for the last year; long days, longer nights.
‘Just another phase she’s going through,’ the Irish doctor says, patting me on the shoulder as she leaves. ‘You’re doing a grand job.’ While all the time I know she’s wondering why – why I didn’t give up the first time she suggested that I should; why, by now, I’ve not admitted it’s all too much and ‘please, please take her away, just for a week, a day, a night. An hour.’
But I don’t. Because I have no choice. Mum told me years ago she’d sorted it out with her solicitor; there was no way she’d agree to our selling this house; as a joint owner with Sam and me she would block any attempt we made. There’s no way we could afford to put her into care; over the years, we’ve ploughed most of Sam’s earnings into the renovation and upkeep of the place. So here I am. Here we are.
But there is another reason; a more precious reason that means I can’t – won’t leave this house. Rose, is here. It’s over thirty years since she left us. But I still sense her next to me, hear her voice sometimes, feel her trying to comfort me. I won’t leave her on her own again. I did it once before–I won’t do it a second time. Not like that anyway.
So, ‘I can’t go on, Mum,’ I repeat. My head swims with tiredness and I’m so cold inside.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to do most of the time; I’ve learned to interpret the noises; the tones of each wail, yell and cry. Even the sniffs. She was always good on the sniffs. She had a whole language of sniffs: contempt, short and sharp, lips pursed: utter displeasure, long drawn out, lip corners pulled in tight: anger, almost silent, nostrils flaring. And then there was her pleased sniff (not used very often) a long spluttering drawing in of breath accompanied by a rare smile.
She watches me. Or is that my imagination? Because as I move, her eyes don’t; unfocussed, they’re settled on the photograph of the three of us on the beach at Morecambe. I was six, in the picture I’m sitting on Dad’s lap. The time it was taken as distant as the vague shoreline behind us. The grey sea as misty and as unattainable, as far away, as yesterday’s thoughts. At least to her.
Or is she seeing something else? A memory? That memory? I’m hoping that of all the recollections that linger, if any do linger in that blankness that has been her mind for so long, of all the memories, it’s that one. The one that makes hate battle with pity and reluctant love. If nothing else I hope she remembers that.
I feel quite calm. I don’t speak; it’s all been said.
And now her eyes move from my face, past me. It’s as though she knows. I’m so close I see the crisscross of fine red lines across the whites, the tiny yellow blobs of sleep in the inner corners, the slight stutter of a nerve on the eyelid that moves the sparse lashes.
And then she speaks. ‘Rose?’ she says. Clearly. ‘Rose’. Just like that.
1963 Irene age eight
When I was eight I came home from school to find Rose had been born. I was surprised and pleased to see Nanna in the kitchen waiting for me. She didn’t visit often; her and Mum didn’t get on that well, even though they were mother and daughter. And, even better, she’d made jam tarts and had brought a bottle of Dandelion and Burdock with her.
‘Calm down, wash your hands and finish this lot first.’ She put the plate and glass in front of me, her hand lingering on top of my head.
I grinned up at her, jigging about in my chair so much that the pop went up my nose and I spluttered crumbs everywhere. I laughed and so did she, but there was something about her eyes that made me hesitate.
‘You okay, Nanna?’
‘I’m fine love.’
Later, when I look back into that moment, I see her hands trembling, hear the catch in her voice but right then I was too excited.
I raced upstairs to their room, calling, ‘Mum, I’m home.’ Even though she’d become so grumpy lately I’d still have a hug and a kiss from her when I got back from school. But not that day.
Mum was in bed, hunched under the clothes. She didn’t move. Or speak. Perhaps she was tired; she’d been tired a lot lately. I patted the bedclothes where I thought her shoulders were and went round the other side of the bed.
The baby was in the old blue carrycot that had been mine and stored in the attic. I’d helped Dad to clean it up ages ago.
‘What’s she called?’ Mum didn’t answer. When I glanced at her she’d come out of the covers and was looking away from me, staring towards the window. Her fingers plucked at the cotton pillowcase. ‘Is she okay?’ I asked. The baby was so small; even though I could only see her head I could tell she was really little. I leaned over the carrycot. ‘Can I hold her?’
‘No,’ Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder, warm, gentle. ‘She’s too tiny.’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘And she’s not well, I’m afraid.’
That frightened me. I studied my sister carefully; tiny flat nose between long eyes that sloped upwards at the outer corners. A small crooked mouth pursed as though she was a bit cross about something. I could see the tip of her tongue between her lips. ‘She doesn’t look poorly.’ I tilted my head one way and another, studying her from different angles. Nope, except for the little twist in her top lip, which was cute, she looked fine. ‘What’s she called?’ I asked again, watching her little face tighten and then relax as she yawned, then sighed.
Turning on her back, Mum slid down under the eiderdown. ‘Take it away,’ she mumbled.
At first I thought she was she talking about me. Had I done something to upset her or the baby? But then I thought perhaps having a baby made you cross so I decided to forgive her. In the silent moment that followed I heard the raucous cry of a crow as it landed, thump, on the flat roof of the kitchen outside the bedroom window.
‘What’s she called?’ I whispered to Dad, determined one of them would tell me. When there was still no reply I looked up at him and then back at my sister. ‘I’m going to call her Rose, ’cos that’s what her mouth looks like; a little rosebud, like my dolly’s.’
Dad gathered both handles of the carrycot and lifted it from the stand. ‘I’ll take her,’ he said, and cocked his head at me to follow.
‘Do what you want.’ Mum’s voice was harsh. ‘I don’t want that thing near me.’
Then I knew she meant the baby; my baby sister. I was scared again. Something was happening I didn’t understand. But I knew it was wrong to call your baby ‘it’. It made me feel sick inside.
‘That’s mean,’ I whispered.
Mum held her hand above the covers. ‘Irene, you can stay. Tell me what you’ve been doing in school today.’ She pointed to the hairbrush on the dressing table, pushing herself up in the bed. ‘Fetch the brush; I’ll do your hair.’
The words were familiar; it was something she said every day. But her voice was different. It was as though she was trying to persuade me to do it. Like in school when one of your friends had fallen out with another girl and she was trying to get you on her side. It didn’t seem right; it didn’t seem like the mum I knew.
‘No, I’ll go with Dad.’ Suddenly I couldn’t bear to be anywhere near my mother. I held the end of the carrycot, willing Rose to wake up. And then she opened her eyes. And, even though I know now it would have been impossible, I would have sworn at that moment she looked right at me and her little mouth puckered into a smile.
That was the first time I understood you could fall in love with a stranger, even though that stranger is a baby who can’t yet talk.
And that you could hate somebody even though you were supposed to love them.
Welcome to the Outer Circles beyond Jupiter, where enterprise is free, law non-existent and mega-corporation Ragnox Inc. rules—or did. Director Jordan Pascal has lost his power base on Triton, but Commandant DeWitter intends to take it back, and more. Much more. First, however, he needs to deal with the man he replaced, Commandant Smith, who is dead… or is he? Former Commandant Smith has other plans for Ragnox. Plans that involve wiping the corporation off the map and returning the Outer Circles to those for whom it is home. But before Arkadia can be restored, the monstrous war machine that DeWitter is creating must be neutralized. Force will never be enough to defeat overwhelming military might. It requires something more powerful: words.
My Review:
By the Book is the last of the Salvage trilogy and is gripping science fiction by Thorne Moore. One aspect about all this author’s stories, whatever genre she writes in, is that they are all character led. Characters who all, to quote a well-worn cliché (though nevertheless so true here) come to life on the page. The reader follows them from the first book of the series, Inside Out (my review here: https://tinyurl.com/59k74arp), along their chosen path, a journey which takes them into a into an unknown harsh environment. A place they endure. And where some adapt and triumph more than others.
This setting, far beyond the world we know, is the background to the series, and described with such detail that it’s possible to believe such places exist. And that such places have their own codes of behaviour, their own social systems. Especially their own lawlessness. All based on the flaws, the weaknesses, and the strengths of human nature.
The plots in each novel are intricate and fascinating: tales of good versus evil throughout, a true refection of humanity that is portrayed so realistically that I was engrossed from the start and was often surprised by the twists and turns in every story. I reviewed the second book, Making Waves here: https://tinyurl.com/375f9ccs.By the Book, successfully rounds of the whole story of this world and these characters – they’ve come a long way… well, most of them anyway.
With themes of justice and corruption, love and hatred, courage and cowardness, triumph and failure, humour and tragedy threaded throughout,By the Bookbrings this trilogy to a magnificent end. I have admired all of Thorne Moore’s books, and this is no exception. I have no hesitation in recommending it to any reader who enjoys a brilliant story narrated in a wonderfully distinctive style.And with totally believable characters!
Thorne was born in Luton and graduated from Aberystwyth University (history) and from the Open University (Law). She set up a restaurant with her sister and made miniature furniture for collectors. She lives in Pembrokeshire, which forms a background for much of her writing, as does Luton.
She writes psychological mysteries, or “domestic noir,” exploring the reason for crimes and their consequences, rather than the details of the crimes themselves. and her first novel, “A Time For Silence,” was published by Honno in 2012, with its prequel, “The Covenant,” published in 2020. “Motherlove” and “The Unravelling” were also published by Honno. “Shadows,” published by Lume, is set in an old mansion in Pembrokeshire and is paired with “Long Shadows,” also published by Lume, which explains the history and mysteries of the same old house. She’s a member of Crime Cymru. Her latest crime novel, “Fatal Collision is published by Diamond Crime (2022)
She also writes Science Fiction, including “Inside Out” (2021) and “Making Waves” (2022) And now “By the Book” 2023
Judith Barrow 