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, if the 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
Review: http://tinyurl.com/3yjkz7ku
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.
Links:
Amazon UK: http://tinyurl.com/2r2bu3z4
Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/7cw4ss8b
Amazon.com aus: http://tinyurl.com/4rh35v6d
Social Media links:
https://twitter.com/judithbarrow77
https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3
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 worried at 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!
But I 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 to four 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 alone 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.
Links:
Social Media links
https://twitter.com/judithbarrow77
https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3
Life in Kana-text (er... CONtext)
Vague Meanderings of the Broke and Obscure
Writer & Author
SHORTS, NOVELS, AND OTHER THINGS
Hello and welcome to my blog where I hope you will enjoy my snippets from women's history
Fiction Writer in Poet's Clothing
Blog magazine for lovers of health, food, books, music, humour and life in general
Patricia's Pen: 'Writing with Grace'
Everything you always wanted to know about proofreading but were afraid to ask!
"Perspectives wrapped in stories that challenge your belief system, and how you see others."
Historical Fiction with a touch of Romance
Retired, not expired: words from the after(work)life. And music. Lots of music!
Mystery and Suspense, Folklore and Legends
novels and bookish thoughts
Exploring the World of Writing
A place for me to share my musings on the books that I read across all genres great and small.
Sharing The Book Love Since 2016
The Welsh Crime Writing Collective
Judith Barrow 